"'But not from wooden spoons, gentlemen,' in a disguised voice from the lower end of the table.

"'Eh?—certainly not—certainly not—I thank my worthy brother for the hint. No, gentlemen, we unfortunately have wooden spoons up to the present day; but, gentlemen, if we work well together—if we be in earnest—if we draw the blade and throw away the scabbard, like our brothers, the glorious heroes of Scullabogue—there is as little doubt, gentlemen, as that the sun this moment—the moon, gentlemen; I beg pardon—shines this moment, that we will yet banish wooden spoons, as the great and good King William did Popery, brass money, and wooden shoes. Gentlemen, you will excuse me for this warmth; but I am not ashamed of it—it is the warmth, gentlemen, that keeps us cool in the moment—the glorious, pious and immortal moment of danger and true loyalty, and attachment to our Church, which we all love and practise on constitutional principles. I trust, gentlemen, you will excuse me for this historical account of my feelings—they are the principles, gentlemen, of a gentleman—of a man—of an officer of the Castle Cumber Cavalry—and lastly of him who has the honor—the glorious, pious, and immortal honor, I may say, to hold the honorable situation of Deputy-Master of this honorable Lodge. Gentlemen, I propose our charter toast, with nine times nine—the glorious, pious, and immortal memory. Take the time, gentlemen, from me—hip, hip, hurra.'

"'Brother M'Clutchy,' said a solemn-looking man, dressed in black, 'you are a little out of order—or if not out of order, you have, with great respect, travelled beyond the usages of the Lodge. In the first place—of course you will pardon me—I speak with great respect—but, in the first place, you have proposed the charter toast, before that of the King, Protestant Ascendancy, Church and State; and besides, have proposed it with nine times nine, though it is always drunk in solemn silence.'

"'In all truth and piety, I deny that,' replied little Bob Spaight. 'When I was in Lodge Eleventeen, eleven-teen—no, seventeen, ay, seventeen—we always, undher God, drank it with cheers. Some of them danced—but othes I won't name them, that were more graciously gifted, chorused it with that blessed air of 'Croppies lie Down,' and sometimes with the precious psalm of the 'Boyne Water.'

"'I'm obliged to Mr. Hintwell for his observations, for I'm sure they were well meant; but, gentlemen, with every respect for his—his greater and more tractable qualifications, I must say, that I acted from zeal, from zeal—zeal, gentlemen, what's an Orangeman without zeal? I'll tell you what he is—an Orangeman without zeal is a shadow without a light, a smoke without a fire,' or a Papist without treason. That's what he's like, and now, having answered him, I think I may sit down.'

"Phil, however, whose first night of office it happened to be, as Chairman of the Lodge, had still sense enough about him to go on with the toasts in their proper order. He accordingly commenced with the King, Protestant Ascendancy, the Gates of Bandon, with several other toasts peculiar to the time and place. At length he rose and said:—

"'Gentlemen, are you charged—fill high, gentlemen, for, though it's a low toast, we'll gloriously rise and drink it—are you all charged?'

"'All charged, hurra, captain!'

"'Here, gentlemen, another of our charter toast—The pope in the pillory, the pillory in hell, and the devils pelting him with priests! Gentlemen, I cannot let that—that beautiful toast pass without—out adding a few words to it. Gentlemen it presents a glorious sight, a glorious, pious, and immortal memory of the great and good—ha, beg pardon, gentlemen—a glorious, pious, and immortal sight—think of the pillory, gentlemen, isn't that in itself a glorious and pious sight? And think of the pope, gentlemen; isn't the pope also a glorious and pious sight?'

"'With all truth and piety, and undher God, I deny that,' said Bob Spaight.

"'And so do I,' said a second.

"'And I,' added a third.

"'What damned Popish doctrine is this?' said several others.

"'Brother Phil, be good enough to recollect yourself,' said Solomon, 'we feel, that as a Protestant and Orangeman, you are not doctrinally correct now; be steady, or rather steadfast—fast in the faith.'

"Phil, however, looked oracles, his whole face and person were literally being expanded, as it were, with the consciousness of some immediate triumph.

"'Gentlemen,' he proceeded, 'have a little patience—I say the pope is a glorious and pious sight—'

"'Undher God—'

"'Silence Bob.'

"'But I mean when he's in the pillory—ek; d—n my honor, I have you all there! ha, ha, ha!'

"'Hurra, hurra, three cheers more for the captain!'

"'Gentlemen,' he proceeded, 'please to fill again—I give you now the Castle Cumber press, the True Blue and Equivocal, with the healths of Messrs. Yellowboy and Cantwell.'

"'Hurra! Messrs. Yallowboy and Cant-well! hurra, Mr. Yellow, Mr. Yellow.'

"Mr. Yellowboy, who had not been able to come earlier, in consequence of the morrow being publishing day with him, now rose. He was a tall, thin, bony-looking person, who might very well have taken his name from his complexion.

"'Mr. Chairman, gentlemen, and brothers—I rise with great and powerful diffidence to speak, to express myself, and to utter my sentiments before this most respectable, and, what is more, truly loyal auditory—hem. In returning thanks, gentlemen, for the Castle Cumber True Blue (cheers), I am sure I am not actuated by any motive but that staunch and loyal one which stimulates us all—hem. The True Blue, gentlemen, is conducted—has been conducted—and shall be conducted to all eternity—should I continue to be so long at the head of it—so long I say, gentlemen'—here the speaker's eye began to roll—and he slapped the table with vehemence—'I shall, if at the head of it so long, conduct it to all eternity upon the self-same, identical, underivating principles that have identified me with it for the last six months. What's Pruddestantism, gentlemen, without a bold, straightforward press to take care of its pruvileges and interests? It's nothing, gentlemen.'

"'Undher God, sir, and with all piety and perseverance I deny—'

"'Silence, brother Bob, don't interrupt Mr. Yellowboy, he'll make himself plain by and by.'

"'I deny—'

"'Silence—I say.'

"'Nothing, gentlemen—a candle that's of no use unless it's lit—and the press is the match that lights it (hurra, cheers). But, as I said in defending Pruddestantism, we advocate civil and religious liberty all over the world—I say so boldly—for, gentlemen, whatever I say, I do say boldly'—here he glanced at the Equivocal—'I am not the man to present you with two faces—or I'm not the man rather to carry two faces—and only show you one of them—I'm not the man to make prutensions as a defender of civil and religious liberty, with a Protestant face to the front of my head, and a Popish face in my pocket—to be produced for the adversary of Popery and idolatry—whenever I can conciliate a clique by doing so.' Here there was a look of sarcastic defiance turned upon Cantwell—who, conscious of his own integrity—merely returned it with a meek and benignant smile, a la Solomon.

"'No, gentlemen, I am none of those things—but a bold, honest, uncompermising Pruddestant—who will support the church and Constitution for ever—who will uphold Pruddestant Ascendancy to the Day of Judgment—keep down Popery and treason—and support civil and religious liberty over the world to all eternity.'

"'Cheers—hurra—hurra—success brother Yellowboy.'

"'And now, gentlemen, before I sit down there is but one observation more that I wish to make. If it was only idontified with myself I would never notice it—but it's not only idontified with me but with you, gentlemen—for I am sorry to say there is a snake in the grass—a base, dangerous, Equivocal, crawling reptile among us—who, wherever truth and loyalty is concerned, never has a leg to stand upon, or can put a pen to paper but with a deceitful calumniating attention. He who can divulge the secrets of our Lodge'—(Here there was another furious look sent across which received a polite bow and smile as before)—'who can divulge, gentlemen, the secrets of our Lodge, and allude to those who have been there—I refer, gentlemen, to a paragraph that appeared in the Equivocal some time ago—in which a hint was thrown out that I was found by the editor of that paper lying-drunk in the channel of Castle Cumber Main-street, opposite his office—that he brought me in, recovered me, and then helped me home. Now, gentlemen, I'll just mention one circumstance that will disprove the whole base and calumnious charge—it is this—on rising next morning I found that I had eight and three halfpence safe in my pocket—and yet that reptile says that he carried me into his house!!! Having thus, gentlemen, triumphantly refuted that charge, I have the pleasure of drinking your healths—the healths of all honest men, and confusion to those who betray the secrets of an Orange Lodge!'

"As each paper had its party in the Lodge, it is not to be supposed that this attack upon the Editor of the Equivocal was at all received with unanimous approbation. Far from it. Several hisses were given, which again were met by cheers, and these by counter cheers. In this disorder Mr. Cantwell rose, his face beaming with mildness and benignity—sweetness and smiles—and having bowed, stood all meekness and patience until the cheering was over.

"'Brother Cantwell,' said Solomon, 'remember to discard self-reliance—let thy sup—support be from '—but before he could finish, brother Cantwell turned round, and blandly bowing to him, seemed to say—for-he did not speak—

"'My dear brother M'Slime, I follow your admirable advice; you see I do—I shall'

"'Mr. Chairman,' said he, 'gentlemen and dear brothers'—here he paused a moment, whilst calmly removing the tumbler out of his way that he might have room to place his hand upon the table and gently lean towards the chairman. He then serenely smoothed down the frill of his shirt, during which his friends cheered—and ere commencing he gave them another short, and, as it were, parenthetical bow. 'Mr. Chairman, gentlemen, and dear brothers, I do not rise upon this very unpleasant occasion—unpleasant to me it is, but not on my account—for the purpose of giving vent to the coarse effusions of an unlettered mind, that shapes its vulgar outpourings in bad language and worse feeling. No, I am incapable of the bad feeling, in the first place, and, thanks to my education, of illiterate language, in the second. It has pleased my friend Mr. Yellowboy—if he will still allow me to call him so—for I appeal to you all whether it becomes those who sit under this hallowed roof to disagree—it has pleased him, I say, to bring charges against me, to some of which I certainly must plead guilty—if guilt there be in it. It has pleased him to charge me with the unbrotherly crime, the unchristian crime, the un-orange crime'—here he smiled more blandly at every term, and then brought his smiling eye to bear on his antagonist—'of lifting him out of the channel about twelve o'clock at night, where he lay—I may say so among ourselves—in state of most comfortable, but un-orange-like intoxication.'

"The audience now being mostly drunk, were tickled with this compliment to their sobriety, and cheered and shouted for more than a minute. 'Go on Cantwell! By Japers, you're no blockhead!'

"'Under Providence, and with all piety I say it, he will vanquish the yallow sinner over there.'

"'Brother Cantwell,' observed Mr. M'Slime, 'go on—the gift is not withheld.'

"Another smiling bow to M'Slime, as much as to say, 'I know it's not—I feel it's not.'

"'This, gentlemen, and dear brothers, was my crime—I acted the good Samaritan towards him—that was my crime. May I often commit it!'

"'Is that your pretended charity, sir?' said Yellowboy, whose temper was sorely tried by the other's calmness; 'don't you know, sir, that you cannot become the Samaritan unless I become the drunkard? and yet you hope often to commit it!'

"No notice whatsoever taken of this.

"'—But perhaps there was still a greater crime in this affair. I allude to the crime of having, after the account of his frailty had taken wind through the whole country, ventured to defend it, or rather to place it in such a light as might enable the public to place it to the account of mere animal exhaustion, independent of the real cause. And I have reason to know, that to a very enlarged extent I succeeded—for many persons having heard of the circumstance in its worse and most offensive sense, actually came to my office—'

"'Yes, after you had made it public, as far as you could.'

"'—To my office, to inquire into it. And I assure you all, gentlemen, that from motives at once of the Christian and the Orangeman, I merely informed them that the gentleman had certainly had, about the time specified, a very severe fit—I did not add of intoxication—oh the contrary, I charitably stopped there, and now it would appear that this forbearance on my part is another crime. But even that is not all. The occasion which called forth the paragraph in the paper which I have honor to conduct, was one which I shall just allude to. Some time ago there was inserted in the True Blue a short article headed 'Susanna and the Elder,' in which certain vague and idle reports, fabricated by some person who bears enmity to a most respectable Christian gentleman, who honors us this moment with his presence—'

"Solomon here approached him, and grasping his hand, exclaimed—

"'Thank you, my dear brother Cantwell—thank you a hundred times; yours is the part of a true Christian; so go on, I entreat you—here is nothing to be ashamed of—I know it is good to be tried.'

"'Now it was really the charity contained in the article from the True Blue that struck me so forcibly—for it not only breathed the scandal so gently, as that it would scarcely stain a mirror—and it did not stain the mirror against which the report was directed—but it placed it as it were, before his eyes, that he might not be maligned without his knowledge, on taking steps to triumph over it, which our friend did—and great was his triumph and meekly was it borne on the occasion. With respect to my political creed, gentlemen, you all know it is my boast that I belong to no party. I advocate broad and general principles; and the more comprehensive they are, so does my love of kind take a wider range. I am a patriot, that is my boast—a moderate man—an educated man; I am, at least, a competent master of the English language, which I trust I can write and speak like a gentleman. I am not given to low and gross habits of life; I am never found in a state of beastly intoxication late at night, or early in the day; nor do I suffer my paper to become the vehicle of gratifying that private slander or personal resentment which I am not capable of writing myself, and have not the courage to acknowledge as a man. I am not a poor, kicked, horse-whipped, and degraded scoundrel, whose malignity is only surpassed by my cowardice—whose principal delight is to stab in the dark—a lurking assassin, but not an open murderer—a sneaking, skulking thief, without the manliness of the highwayman—a pitiful, servile—but, I believe, I have said enough. Well, gentlemen, I trust I am none of these; nor am I saying who is. Perhaps it would be impossible to find them all centred in the same man; but if it were, it would certainly be quite as extraordinary to find that man seated at an Orange Lodge. Brother Yellowboy, I have the pleasure of drinking your health.'

"Brother Yellowboy felt that he was no match at all for Cantwell; so in order to escape the further venom of his tongue, he drank his in return, and joined in the cheers with which his speech was received; for by this time the audience cared not a fig what was said by either party."



CHAPTER XX.—Sobriety and Loyalty

—A Checkered Dialogue—The Beauty and Necessity of Human Frailty —A Burning and Shining Light Going Home in the Dark—The Value of a Lanthorn.

"The character or forms of decency which had hitherto prevailed, now began to disappear. M'Clutchy's blood-hounds, or wreckers—for they were indiscriminately termed both—having drank a great deal of liquor, became quite violent, and nothing now was heard but party songs, loud talk, and offensive toasts, mingled with a good deal of personal abuse, and private jealousies of each other's influence with M'Clutchy.

"'D—n your blood, Grimes, I'm as loyal as ever you were. Wasn't my grandfather a Tory hunter, who houghed and hanged more bloody Papishes—'

"'Who's that,' said Bob, 'talking about hanging Papishes? Where—where are they to be hanged? Under God, I have seen more of the villains hanged than any other frail sinner in the province. Oh, it is a consoling—a sustaining sight!'

"'What's the reason, then, that the Protestant gentry of the country don't stand by their own? Why do they deal with Papishes? By Japers they don't daserve us to stand by them.'

"'I say, Fulton, it's a d—d lie. I was at the wrecking of the Ballygrass Threshers, when you shabbed sickness and wouldn't go.'

"'And I am glad I didn't. A purty business you made of it—to pull down the houses, and wreck the furniture about the ears of a set of women and children; I say such conduct is disgraceful to Orangemen.'

"'An' what the devil right have you to expect the sargeantship, then, when you won't perform its duties?'

"'I don't care a d—n about you or it. The Pope in the pillory, the pillory in h—l—'

"'—Sent the bullet through his palm, and kept his finger and thumb together ever since—

"'Lerolero lillibullero, lillibullerobuuenela.'—

'—Sleet or slaughter, holy water, Sprinkle the Catholics every one; Cut them asunder, and make them lie undher, The Protestant boys will carry their own.—.

"'They can never stand the guns—the lead makes them fly—and, by Japers, they'll get it.—'

"'What health, man? out with it; are we to sit here all night for it?—'

"'He gets half his bread from a d——d Papish, merely because, he's his tenant—instead of getting the whole of it from me, that's better than a tenant, a brother Orangeman—

"'King James he pitched his tents between The lines for to retire; But King William threw his bomb balls in, And set them all on fire.'—

"In fact the confusion of Babel was nothing to it now, every voice was loud, and what between singing, swearing, shouting, arguing, drinking toasts, and howling, of various descriptions, it would not be easy to to find anything in any other country that could be compared to it.

"Phil himself was by this time nearly as drunk as any of them, but in consequence of several hints from those who preserved their sobriety, and several of them did, he now got to his legs, and called silence.

"'Silence, sil-sil-silence, I say, d—n my honor if I'll bear this. Do you think (hiccup) we can separate without drinking the Castle Cu-Cumber toast. Fill, gentle-(hic-cup)-men, here's Lord Cumber and the Castle-Castle Cu-Cumber property, with the health of Sol-Sol-Solo-Solomon M'Slime, Esq.—

"'For God will be our king this day, And I'll be the general over—eh—over—no, no, under.'—

"'Under, I believe (hiccup)—'

"'Silence, there, I say.'

"'My friends—my dear friends,' said Solomon—'my brothers—Christian brethren, I should say, for you are Christian brethren—Lord Cumber's health is a good thing, and his property is a good thing; and I—I return you thanks for it, as I am bound to do, as a Christian. Am I Christian? Well—' (here he smiled, and laying his hand upon his heart, added,) 'well I know what I feel here, that is all. My dear friends, I said that Lord Cumber's health and property were good things, but I know a thing that's better, more valuable, richer—and what is that? It is here, in this poor frail—but not frail so long as that thing is here—that thing, what is it? Oh, if you had prayed for it, wrestled for it, fought for it, as I did, you would know what it is, and all the delightful and elevating consolations it brings along with it. Surely some one drank Lord Cumber's health! That was well; he sitteth in a high place, and deserveth honor. Let us drink his health, my friends—let us drink it, yea, abundantly, even unto rejoicing. But what is this thing? Why, it is the sense of inward support, a mild, sweet light, that diffuses pleasant thoughts through you, that multiplies every good gift about you, that makes one cup of pleasant liquor seem two. It is not to many that these things are vouchsafed; not, I believe, to any here, always with humility and fear be it spoken, excepting Bob Spaight and myself—

"'—July the first in Oldbridge town,

responded Bob,

"' There was a grievous battle, Where many a man lay on the ground, By the cannons that did rattle.'—

"'Yea,' pursued Bob, 'the gift is come, brother Solomon—the fifth cup always brings it—

—'King James he pitched his tents between'—

"'Aye, but, brother Bob,' resumed Solomon, 'the gift is a little too soon on this occasion. Let me give the words, and, Bob, if you could manage the 'Protestant Boys,' rather than 'Croppies lie Down,' it would suit it; and, indeed, it would be well if the whole congregation joined us in it. I shall give the words—let me see, long measure, eight lines, four nines, and four six-sixes;—

"'There's nought but care on every hand, In every hour that passes, oh, What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere not for the lasses, oh."

eh, let me see—am I right?'

"'Right,' they shouted, 'never were half so right, Solomon. We'll join you to a man,' and accordingly, with one voice, they gave the stanza at the top of their voices, little Bob leading them, to the air of 'Croppies lie Down,' in a style that was perfectly irresistible.

"Thus ended a night in an Orange Lodge, but not so out of it. Those who had to go any distance, were armed, and the consequence was, that when they got into the street, they commenced their usual courses: shots were fired in every direction, offensive songs were sung—any money for the face of a Papist—to hell with the Pope—Ram down Catholics, and so on. At length, by degrees these all ceased, the streets gradually grew quiet, then still, and another night closed upon the habits of a class of men, who, in the wantonness of their power, scarcely knew what they did.

"Having witnessed the scene just described—a scene that accounted very clearly for at least one important phase of Irish life—I deemed it full time to go to bed, this being the inn in which I stop. I accordingly was about to ascend the staircase, from the lobby, for we sat in the back drawing-room, when I thought I heard a voice that was not unfamiliar to me, giving expression to language—in which I could perceive there was a very peculiar blending of love and devotion; that is to say, it was exceedingly difficult, from the admirable tact with which he balanced the application of the two principles, whether Solomon, for it was he, loved the physical or the spiritual system of the barmaid, for it was she, with more earnestness and warmth. The family at this time had all retired for the night, with the exception of boots, and the barmaid in question, a well made, pretty Irish girl, with a pair of roguish eyes in her head, that beamed with fun and good humor. Solomon, instead of going home, had got into a little retired spot behind the bar, called the snuggery, and into which, of course, she attended him with a glass of liquor.

"'Eliza,' said Solomon, 'Eliza, I have often had an intention of asking you to allow me the privilege and the pleasure, Eliza, of some serious conversation with you. It is a trying world, a wicked world, and to—to a girl—so charming a girl as you are, Eliza—'

"'Charming, Mr. M'Slime; well, well!'

"'Charming, certainly, as regards your person, your external person—your person is indeed very charming, and verily, Eliza, this brandy and water is truly precious, so beautifully blended, that I cannot—now, Eliza, will you pardon me a small, but, I trust, not unedifying joke; yes, you will—I know—I see you will—very well, then, the little joke is pardoned—this brandy and water are so beautifully blended, that I cannot help thinking there is something in that sweet hand of yours that diffuses a delicious flavor upon it—I know that such things exist.'

"'Upon my word, Mr. M'Slime, from such a religious gentleman as you are, I didn't expect—'

"'Ah, my dear Eliza, that is coming to the root of the matter, and I am glad to find that you are not insensible to it. On that subject, my sweet girl, and you are a sweet girl—it is that I propose to speak with you—to commune with you—in a spirit, my dear Eliza, of love and affection. Will you then take a seat—a seat, my dear Eliza.'

"'I fear I cannot, sir; you know there is no one else to keep an eye to the bar.'

"'The business of the bar, my dear girl, is over for this night; but not, I trust—sincerely trust—that of the sweet barmaid; do sit, Eliza, pray be seated, and let me have a word with you in season; thank you, but not at such a distance, Eliza, such an inconvenient distance; I say inconvenient—because—ugh, ugh, I have caught a slight cold—as a trial it came—and I will receive it so, that has fallen for the time—ugh, ugh, ugh—upon my lungs, and renders it a good deal troublesome to me to speak loud; so that the nearer you sit—and it has affected my head a little, only with a slight deafness, though, which—were you speaking, my dear?'

"'No, sir.'

"'Yes, so I thought, you were saying something—will soon pass away.'

"I thought this dialogue, on the part of M'Slime, too characteristic to be lost. I accordingly stole somewhat near the snuggery, until I got into a position from whence I could see them clearly, without being seen myself. It was quite evident from the humor, which, in spite of a demure face glinted from her eye, that Eliza's object was to occasion M'Slime to assume his real character, for I could easily see that from time to time she felt very considerable difficulty in suppressing her laughter.

"'The deafness, Eliza, I feel particularly troublesome, though not painful; as while transacting business it f-forces me to sit so, very close to my clients.'

"'But I am not a client, Mr. M'Slime, and you need not draw your chair so close to me—there now, that will do.'

"'You are my sweet—sweet girl; you are my client—and you shall be my client—and upon a most important subject—the most important of all; verily, Eliza, this is a most delicious cup of refreshment. How did you flavor it—but, indeed, if I were, as I have been, before I was graciously called and chosen, I would have recourse to a harmless gallantry, and say that this most ambrosial beverage must have caught its sweetness from your lips—its fragrance from your breath—and its lustre from your eyes—I would say so—if I were as I have been—and, indeed, as I am—even yet, frail, Eliza, still frail, and very far, indeed, from perfection—but—still, even as I am I could scarcely scruple to relapse a little—yea, only a little, Eliza, for the sake of such lips—of such eyes—and such a fragrant breath. Alas! we are all frail.'

"'But, Mr. M'Slime, I surely didn't think that you who stand so high in the religious world, and that the people look upon as a saint, would talk as you do.'

"'Ah, Eliza, my dear girl, it is very natural for you in your hitherto darkened state to say so; but, sweet Eliza, if you had your privileges, you could understand me. For instance, in the indulgence of this precious little dialogue with you, I am only following up a duty that strengthens myself; for, Eliza, my precious creature, if more light were given you, you would be permitted to feel that an occasional lapse is for our good, by showing us our own weakness and how little we can do of ourselves. No—there is nothing which gives us so much confidence and strength as to know our own weakness; but, my sweet girl, of what use is it for us to know it, if we do not feel it; and why feel it—unless we suffer it for better purposes to teach us a practical lesson to humble us.'

"'That's queer doctrine, Mr. M'Slime, and I don't properly understand it.'

"'I know you don't, my darling girl; for it has not been given to you, as yet, to understand it. Nay, it seems, as it were, a stumbling block to you, in your present state.'

"'Why, do you think me so very great a sinner, sir?'

"'Not by acts, Eliza—and what a soft name is Eliza—soft as a pillow of down—but by condition. You are exalted now, upon pride—not personal pride, but the pride of position. You think you are incapable of error or infirmity, but you must be brought—down to a sense of your own frailty, as it were, for it is upon a consciousness of that, that you must build.'

"'That is to say, I must commit sin first, in order to know the grace of repentance afterwards.'

"'You put it too strongly, Eliza; but here is the illustration:—You know it is said 'there is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just men.' And I know many, Eliza, who go through a long course of virtuous iniquity, in order that their triumph in the end may be the greater. I have myself practised it on a small way, and found it refreshing. And now, Eliza, bring me another cup of brandy and water, even for my stomach's sake; and, Eliza, my charming girl, put it to those sweet lips—that it may catch the true fragrance—Christian fragrance I wish I could say—for they are fragrant lips—and a sweet arm—a full tapering arm you are gifted with. Ah! Eliza, if you could feel as I feel—nay, it was the chair that was unsteady—my my heart is dis—dissolving, Eliza. If you were only a little more frail, my sweet girl—we could feel this a kind of religious exercise. Oh! these precious little frailties—these precious little frailties!'

"'Mr. M'Slime you will excuse me, but I think you have got enough, and a little too much liquor. If you should be seen going home in an unsteady state your character would suffer.'

"'Another cup of refreshment, Eliza—but I am not perfection—no—nor would I be perfection. What would life be without these precious little frailties—that make us what we are.'

"'With all piety and undher———'

"'Who is that,' inquired the maid, evidently startled, if not affrighted by a strange voice.

"'I join—join you, brother M'Slime, for another cup of refreshment.'

"'Bob Spaight—brother Bob—I am glad you are here; Eliza, my darling—my dove—another cup for Bob, and after that we shall aid each other home—will render one another Christian and mutual assistance.'

"'Yes,' replied Bob, clearing his voice:—

(Both voices simultaneously:)

Bob—'King James he pitched his tents between

Solomon—'There's naught but care on every hand,

Bob—'The lines for to retire,

Solomon—'In every hour that passes, O

Bob—'But King William threw his bomb balls in,

Solomon—'What signifies the life o' man,

Bob—'And set them all on fire.'

Solomon—'An' 'twerna for the lasses, O!'

"Many thanks, sweet Eliza—oh! that I could say my frail Eliza; but I shall be able to say so yet, I trust; I shall be able to say so.'

"'God forbid,' she replied. 'This is not for you, Mr. M'Slime—I certainly will give you no more this night. But Bob here is a favorite of mine. Bob, you will see Mr. M'Slime home?'

"'In all piety and truth, I shall see that burning and shining light home,' returned Bob; 'in the meantime I will thank you for the loan of a lanthorn; the night is one of most unchristian darkness.'

"Solomon had now reclined his head upon the table as if for sleep, which he very probably would have indulged in, despite of all opposition; but just at this moment his horse, car, and servant most opportunely arrived, and with the aid of Bob, succeeded in getting him away, much against his own inclination; for it would appear by his language that he had no intention whatsoever of departing, if left to himself.

"'I shall not go,' said he; 'it is permitted to me to sojourn here this night. Where is Eliza? Oh! Eliza, my darling—these precious little frailties.'

"'Bring the little hypocrite home out of this,' said she, with a good deal of indignation; for, in truth, the worthy saint uttered the last words in so significant a voice, with such a confidential crow, as might have thrown out intimations not quite favorable to her sense of propriety on the occasion. He was literally forced out, therefore; but not until he had made several efforts to grasp Eliza's hand, and to get his arm around her.

"'She's a sweet creature—a delightful dove; but too innocent. Oh! Eliza, these precious little frailties!—these precious little frailties!'

"'It's a shame,' said Eliza, 'and a scandal to see any man making such pretensions to religion, in such a state.'

"'In all piety and truth,' said Bob, 'I say he's a burning and a shining light!'

"' King James he pitched his tents between Their lines for to retire,' &c., &c.

"And so they departed, very much to the satisfaction of Eliza and Boots, who were both obliged to sit up until his departure, although fatigued with a long day's hard and incessant labor. I also retired to my pillow, where I lay for a considerable time reflecting on the occurrences of the night, and the ease with which an ingenious hypocrite may turn the forms, but not the spirit of religion, to the worst and most iniquitous purpose."

* * * * *

And thus far our friend, Mr. Easel, whom we leave to follow up his examinations into the state of the Castle Cumber property, and its management, hoping that discoveries and disclosures may at some future day be of service to the tenantry on that fine estate, as well as to the country at large. In the meantime, we beg our readers to accompany us to the scene of many an act of gross corruption, where jobs, and jobbing, and selfishness in their worst shapes, aided by knavery, fraud, bigotry, party rancor, personal hate, and revenge long cherished—where active loyalty and high political Protestantism, assuming the name of religion, and all the other passions and prejudices that have been suffered to scourge the country so long—have often been in full operation, without check, restraint, or any wholesome responsibility, that might, or could, or ought to have protected the property of the people from rapine, and their persons from oppression. The scene we allude to is the Grand Jury Room of Castle Cumber.



CHAPTER XXI.—Darby's Piety Rewarded

—A Protestant Charger, with his Precious Burthen—A Disaffected Hack supporting a Pillar of the Church—A Political and Religious Discussion in a Friendly Way

The Assizes had now arrived, and the Grand Panel of the county met once more to transact their fiscal and criminal business. We omit the grand entry of the Judges, escorted, as they were, by a large military guard, and the posse comitatus of the county, not omitting to mention a goodly and imposing array of the gentry and squirearchy of the immediate and surrounding districts, many of Whom were pranked out in all the grandeur of their Orange robes. As, however, we are only yet upon our way there, we beg you to direct your attention to two gentlemen dressed in black, and mounted each in a peculiar and characteristic manner. One of them is a large, bloated, but rather handsome, and decidedly aristocratic looking man, with a vermilion face, mounted upon a splendid charger, whose blood and action must have been trained to that kind of subdued but elegant bearing that would seem to indicate, upon the part of the animal, a consciousness that he too owed a duty to the Church and Constitution, and had a just right to come within the category of a staunch and loyal Protestant horse, as being entrusted with the life, virtues, and dignity of no less a person than the Rev. Phineas Lucre—all of which are now on his back assembled, as they always are, in that reverend gentleman's precious person. Here we account at once for the animal's cautious sobriety of step, and pride and dignity of action, together with his devoted attachment to the Church and Constitution by which he lived, and owing to which he wore a coat quite as sleek, but by no means so black as his master's. The gentleman by whom he appears to be accompanied, much—if we can judge by their motions—against his will, seems to be quite as strongly contrasted to him, as the rough undressed hack upon which he is mounted is to the sanctified and aristocratic nag that is honored by bearing the Rev. Phineas Lucre. The hack in question is, nevertheless, a stout and desperate looking varmint, with a red vindictive eye, moving, ill-tempered ears, and a tail that seems to be the seat of intellect, if a person is to take its quick and furious whisking as being given in reply to Mr. Lucre's observations, or by way of corroboration of the truth uttered by the huge and able-bodied individual who is astride of him. That individual is no other than the Rev. Father M'Cabe, who is dressed in a coat and waistcoat of coarse black broadcloth, somewhat worse for the wear, a pair of black breeches, deprived of their original gloss, and a pair of boots well greased with honest hog's lard—the fact being, that the wonderful discovery of Day and Martin had not then come to light. Mr. M'Cabe has clearly an unsettled and dissatisfied seat, and does not sit his horse with the ease and dignity of his companion. In fact, he feels that matters are not proceeding as he could wish, neither does the hack at all appear to bear cordiality or affection to the state which keeps him on such short commons. They are, by no means, either of them in a state of peace or patience with the powers that be, and when the priest, at the conclusion of every sentence, gives the garran an angry dash of the spurs, as much as to say, was not that observation right, no man could mistake the venomous spirit in which the tail is whisked, and the head shaken, in reply.

It is scarcely necessary to say that either Mr. Lucre or Mr. M'Cabe were at all upon terms of intimacy. Mr. M'Cabe considered Mr. Lucre as a wealthy epicure, fat and heretical; whilst Mr. Lucre looked upon Father McCabe as vulgar and idolatrous. It was impossible, in fact, that with such an opinion of each other, they could for a moment agree in anything, or meet as men qualified by the virtues of their station to discharge on any one duty in common. On the day in question, Mr. Lucre was riding towards Castle Cumber, with the pious intention of getting Darby O'Drive's appointment to the under jailorship confirmed. This was one motive, but there was another still stronger, which was, to have an interview with the leading men of the Grand Jury, for the purpose of getting a new road run past his Glebe House, in the first place, and, in the next, to secure a good job for himself, as a magistrate. At all events he was proceeding towards Castle Cumber, apparently engaged in the contemplation of some important subject, but whether it was the new road to his glebe, or the old one to heaven, is beyond our penetration to determine. Be this as it may, such was his abstraction, that he noticed not the Rev. Father M'Cabe, who had ridden for some time along with him, until that gentleman thought proper to break the ice of ceremony, and address him.

"Sir, your most obedient," said the priest; "excuse my freedom—I am the Rev. Mr. M'Cabe, Catholic Curate of Castle Cumber; but as I reside in the parish it is very possible you don't know me."

Mr. Lucre felt much hurt at the insinuation thrown out against his long absence from the parish and replied:—

"I do not, sir, in the least regret our want of intimacy. The character of your ministry in the parish is such, that he who can congratulate himself on not being acquainted with you has something to boast of. Excuse me, sir, but I beg to assure you, that I am not at all solicitous of the honor of your company."

"Touching my ministry," said the priest, "which it pleases you to condemn, I'd have you to know, that I will teach my people how to resist oppression so long as I am able to teach them anything. I will not allow them to remain tame drudges under burthens that make you and such as you as fat and proud as Lucifer."

"I request you will be good enough, sir, to take some other way," said Mr. Lucre; "you are a rude and vulgar person whom I neither know nor wish to know. The pike and torch, sir, are congenial weapons to such a mind as yours; I do beg you will take some other way, and not continue to annoy me any longer."

"This way, man alive—"

"Man alive! To whom do you address such, a term?" said Mr. Lucre; "I really have never met so very vulgar a person; I am quite sickened, upon my honor. Man alive!! I trust I shall soon get rid of you."

"This way, man alive," responded the priest, "is as free to me, in spite of corrupt jobs and grand juries, as it is to you or any other tyrant, whether spiritual or temporal. If there are turbulence and disturbances in this parish, it is because bad laws, unjustly administered, drive the people, first, into poverty, and then into resistance. And, sir, you are not to tell me, for I will not believe it, that a bad law, dishonestly and partially administered, is not to be resisted by every legal means."

"Do you call noon-day murder, midnight assassination, and incendiarism, legal? Do you call schooling the people into rebellion, and familiarizing them with crime, legal? All this may be allegiance to your pope, but it deserves a halter from the king and laws, of England."

"The king and laws of England, sir, have ever been more liberal of halters to the Irish Catholics, than they have been of either common justice or fair play. What do the Catholic people get, or have ever got, from you and such as you, in return for the luxury which you draw, without thanks, from their sweat and labor, but gaols, and chains, and scourges, and halters. Hanging, and transportations, triangles, and drumhead verdicts, are admirable means to conciliate the Catholic people of Ireland."

"The Catholic people of Ireland may thank you, and such red hot intemperate men as you, for the hangings, and transportations which the violated laws of the country justly awarded them."

"And have you, sir, who wring the blood and sweat out of them, the audacity to use such language to me? Did not your English kings and your English laws make education a crime, and did you not then most inhumanly and cruelly punish us for the offences which want of education occasioned?"

"Yes; because you made such knowledge as you then acquired, the vehicle, as you are doing now, of spreading abroad disaffection against Church and State, and of disturbing the peace of the country."

"Because, proud parson, when the people become enlightened by education, they insist, and will insist upon their rights, and refuse to be pressed to death by such a bloated and blood-sucking incubus as your Established Church."

"If this be true, then, upon your own showing, you ought to be favorable to education among the people; but that, we know you are not. You have no schools; and you will not suffer us, who are willing, to educate them for you."

"Certainly not, we have no notion to sit tamely by and see you, and such as you, instil your own principles into our flocks. But in talking of education, in what state, let me ask you, is your own church in this blessed year of 1804, with all her wealth and splendor at her back? I tell you, sir, in every district where the population is equal, we can show two Catholic schools for your one. When you impute our poverty, sir, as a reluctance to educate our people, you utter a libel against the Catholic priesthood of Ireland for which you deserve to be prosecuted in a court of justice, and nailed snugly to the pillory afterwards."

"Nailed snugly to the pillory! I never felt myself so much degraded as by this conversation with you."

"Sir, the Catholic priesthood have always been at their duty at the bed of sickness, and sorrow, and death, among the poor and afflicted; where you, who live by their hard and slavish labor, have never been known to show your red nose."

"Red nose—ha—ha—dear me, how well bred, how admirably accomplished, and how finely polished. Red nose!"

"Faith, you did well to correct me, it is only a mulberry. Wasn't your Irish Establishment in a blessed torpor—dying like a plethoric parson after his venison or turtle, until ould Jack Wesley roused it? Then, indeed, when you saw your flocks running to barns and hedges after the black caps, and the high-cheeked disciples of sanctity and strong dinners—you yawned, rubbed your eyes, stroked your dewlaps, and waddled off to fight in your own defence against the long-winded invaders of your rounds and sirloins. Where was your love of education before that shock, my worthy Bible man? Faith, I'm peppering you!"

"Sir, if I could have anticipated such very vulgar insolence, I would have taken some other way. Why obtrude yourself thus upon me? I trust you have no notion of personal Violence?"

"Wesley nudged you."

"Nudged us! I do not understand your slang at all, my good sir. Those who are taken from the ditch to the college, and sent back from the college with the crust of their original prejudices hardened upon them, are not those from whom educated men are to expect refinement or good manners."

"From the ditch! We are taken from humble life, proud parson, to the college; and it is better to enter college from the simplicity of humble life, than to enter the church with the rank savor of fashionable profligacy strong upon us. Not a bad preparation for a carnal establishment, where every temptation is presented to glut every passion."

"You forget, sir, what a system of abomination your church was before the light of the Reformation came upon her; and what a mockery of religion she is to this day."

"Whatever I may forget, I cannot but remember the mockery of religion presented by your proud and bloated Bishops who roll in wealth, indolence, and sensuality; robbing the poor, whilst they themselves go to h—l worth hundreds of thousands. I cannot forget that your church is a market for venal and titled slaves, who are bought by the minister of the day to uphold his party—that it is a carcass thrown to the wolfish, sons and brothers of the English and Irish aristocracy—and that its bishops and dignitaries exceed in pride, violence of temper, and insolence of deportment, any other class of persons in society. Sure they have their chaplains to pray for them—but my soul to glory—those that pray by proxy will go to heaven by proxy—and so they ought. Eh—faith I'm peppering you."

"De te fabula narratur. Don't you live by praying for others? What are your masses?"

"Fabula, why, a fibula for your fabula, man alive. What is your new fangled creed, but a fabula from the beginning?"

"And are you yourself not a hireling in every sense of the word? Do you not make merchandise of the crimes and ignorance of your people?"

"Make merchandise! This from you who take away a tenth part of the poor man's labor without the consciousness of even professing his creed?"

"Do you ever worship the Lord aright, or address him in any language which the people can understand?"

"And do you ever seek salvation with half the zeal displayed when you lay your keen nostril to the trail of a fresh benefice or a fat mitre. Do you not, most of you, think more of your hounds and kennels, than you do of either your churches or your flocks?"

Mr. Lucre at length pulled up his horse and fixing his eyes on Father M'Cabe, inquired why he should have fastened upon him in so offensive a manner; and Mr. M'Cabe pulling up the hack we spoke of, fixed a pair of fiery orbs on him in return, and replied—

"I haven't done with you yet, my worthy parson. You needn't scowl, I say, for if you had as many chins upon you as there are articles in your creed, I wouldn't be prevented from bringing you to an account for interfering with my flock."

"Rude and wretched man, how?"

"By attempting to pervert Darby O'Drive, the bailiff, and seduce him over to your heresies."

"I would bring him over from his idolatry and superstition. But why do you, sir, tamper with a man—named—named—let me see—Bob—Bob Beatty, I think, who belongs to my congregation?"

"Simply because I wish to bring him over from a false church to the true one."

"It appears that because this simple person has been afflicted with epilepsy, you have attempted, through some pious juggling or other, to effect his cure, by enjoining him not to enter a church door or eat swine's flesh during his life. Are you not ashamed, sir, of such ungodly frauds as this?"

"Swine's flesh! Call it bacon, man alive, like a man. Yes, and I tell you moreover, that I have cured him—and with a blessing shall cure him better still, if that is any consolation to you. From being a purple Orangeman, I have him now hard at work every day at his Padderheen Partha. But I now caution you not to unsettle the religious principles of Darby O'Drive, the bailiff."

"Why, sir, the man has no religious opinion, nor ever had; thanks to Mr. M'Cabe."

"And I'm bound to say, that such a thickheaded villian in religious matters as Bob Beatty I never met. God knows I had a sore handful of him. So, now remember my caution, and good bye to you; I think you'll know me again when you meet me."

Lucre gave him a haughty scowl ere the priest turned off a bridle road, but made no other reply—not even by inclining his head to him; but, indeed, it was hardly to be expected that he should.

Such is the anxiety to snap up a convert in Ireland, it matters not from what church or to what church, that Mr. Lucre lost no time in securing the appointment of honest Darby to the office of Castle Cumber Deputy Goaler—an appointment to which both M'Clutchy and M'Slime strongly recommended him, not certainly from an excess of affection towards that simple and worthy man, but from a misgiving that an important portion of a certain correspondence in the shape of two letters was in his possession, and that so far they were prudent in declining to provoke his enmity.



CHAPTEK XXII.—-Castle Cumber Grand Jury Room

—A Concientious Hangman—Way to a Glebe House of More Importance than the Way to Heaven—Irish Method of Dispensing Justice—Short Debate on the Spy System—Genealogical Memoranda—Patriotic Presentments—A Riverless Bridge

We pass now, however, to the Grand Jury Room of the county, and truly as a subordinate tribunal for aiding the administration of justice, it was, at the time of which we write, one of the most anomalous exhibitions that could be witnessed. It was a long room, about thirty-six or forty feet in length, by thirty, with a fire-place at each end, and one or two at the sides. Above the chimney-piece was an oil painting of William the Third, together with a small bronze equestrian statue of the same prince, and another of George the Third. There were some other portraits of past and present jurors, presented by themselves or their friends. But there was certainly one which we cannot omit, although by whom presented, or on what occasion, we are wholly unable to inform the reader. We are inclined to think it must have been placed there by some satirical wag, who wished to ridicule the extent to which mere royalty was carried in those days, and the warmth of admiration with which its most besotted manifestations were received. The picture in question was the portrait of a pious hangman, who was too conscientious to hang any one but a Papist. They called him Jerry Giles; a little squat fellow, with a face like a triangle, a broken nose, and a pair of misplaced or ill-matched eye-brows, one of them being nearly an inch higher up the forehead than the other. Jerry, it seems, had his own opinions, one of which was, that there existed no law in the constitution for hanging a Protestant. He said that if he were to hang a Protestant felon, he would be forced to consider it in his conscience only another name for suicide; and that, with a blessing, he would string up none but such vile wretches as were out of the pale of the constitution, and consequently not entitled to any political grace or salvation whatever. And, indeed, upon the principles of the day, the portrait of Jerry was nearly as well entitled to be hung among the grand jurors as that of any one there.

Seated about a long table, covered with green baize, were a number of men, with papers before them; whilst grouped in different parts of the room were the younger persons, amusing themselves by the accidents of the last meet—if it happened to be the hunting season—or the last duel, or the last female victim to the corruption and profligacy of some of those from whom, the people were to expect justice, and their families protection. Others were whistling or humming some favorite air; and one of them, a poet, was reading a squib which he had prepared for the forthcoming election.

"Deaker, come here," said the Foreman, "you are up to everything. Here is Lucre, the parson, wants to have a presentment for a new line of road running through his glebe, or to his glebe—for I suppose it is the same thing."

"Well," replied Deaker, "and let him have it. Isn't he as well entitled to a job as any of us? What the devil—why not put a few feathers in his nest, man? The county has a broad back."

"His nest is better feathered than he deserves. He has two enormous livings, a good private fortune, and now, indeed, he must come to saddle himself upon the county in the shape of a job."

"He has rendered good service, Mr. Hartley," replied another of them; "good service to the government, sir, with every respect for your wonderful liberality and honesty."

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Hartley, sternly; "do you throw out any imputation against my honor or my honesty?"

"Oh, Lord, no—by no means; I have no relish at all for your cold lead, Mr. Hartley—only that I don't think you stand the best chance in the world of being returned for Castle Cumber, sir—that is all."

"Hartley," asked another, with a loud laugh, "is it true that your cousin, on bringing a message to young Phil M'Clutchy, pulled his nose, and kicked him a posteriore round the room?"

"Ask his father, Dick," said Hartley, smiling; "I have heard he was present, and, of course, he knows best."

"I say, Vulture," inquired the other, "is it true?"

"Ay," returned old Deaker, "as true as the nose on your face. That precious Phil, was a cowardly whelp all his life—so was his father. D—n you, sirra; where did you get your cowardice? I'm sure it was not from me; that is if you be mine, which is a rather problematical circumstance; for I take it you are as likely to be the descent of some rascally turnkey or hatchman, and be hanged to you, as mine."

"Is it true, Val," persisted the former querist, "that young Hartley pulled Phil's nose?"

"We have come here for other purposes, Dick," said Val. "Certainly Phil did not wish to strike the young man in his own house, and had more sense than to violate the peace in the presence of a magistrate, and that magistrate his own father."

"How the devil did he put his comether on M'Loughlin's pretty daughter, Val?" asked another from a different part of the room.

"That," said Deaker, "is the only spirited thing I ever knew him to manage. Is it true, Val, that he was found in her bedroom?"

"It is certainly true," replied Val, with a smile of peculiar meaning; "and with her own consent too."

"That's false, Val," replied Hartley; "and you know it. That he was in her room for a couple of minutes is true; but that he was there for any purpose prejudicial to her honor, that is, with her own consent, is false. The whole thing was a cowardly trick on the part of your son, concocted by the aid of old Poll Doolin, for the purpose of injuring the girl's reputation."

"Ay," said old Deaker, "I dare say you are right, Hartley, if Poll Doolin was in it; but, d—n her, she's dangerous, even at a distance, if all that's said of her be true. I say, Spavin"—this was a nickname given to the Foreman, in consequence of a slight halt or lameness for which he was remarkable—"are we not to find bills for something, against Harman, who is about to be married to that wench."

"What," said Hartley, laughing, "is it on that account? I think if you said so Deaker, you'd not be very far from the truth."

"He murdered one of my fellows," said M'Clutchy, "one of the staunchest Protestants and loyalest men that ever was in the country; and, what is more, he did it in cold blood."

"You were not present," said Hartley, "and consequently have no right to attempt to prejudice the minds of the jury against him."

"We shall find the bills for all that," said Spavin, "the interference of such fellows in the execution of the laws must be put a stop to."

"You are right, Spavin," said Sir William; "if we can't hang him, let us send him across. He had no business to touch the hair of a blood-hound's head. Gad, Hartley, this is pretty justice, isn't it? why didn't the disloyal rascal stand and let himself be shot in obedience to the spirit of the constitution, rather than molest a blood-hound. I tell you, my good friends, that this method of managing things will bring about its own remedy yet."

"Oh, Sir William, you and Hartley would run well in a chaise together—both always for the rebels."

"Whom do you call the rebels?"

"Why the Papists, to be sure."

"No more rebels, Moore, than you are," replied Hartley—"I find a Papist as good as another man, if he's as well and as fairly treated."

"Irwin," said a large gouty man, whose legs were wrapped in flannel, "of course you've heard of Sir William's method of dispensing justice. Will that too, sir, find its own remedy—eh? ha, ha, ha; d———e, it's the most novel thing going."

"No—how is it, Anderson?"

"Why, if two neighbors chance to fall out, or have a quarrel, and if it happens also that they come to take the law of one another, as they call it, what does the worthy baronet do, do you imagine? 'Well, my good fellow,' proceeds our justice, 'you want to take the law of this man?'

"'Yes, your honor.'

"'And you want to take the law of him,' addressing the other.

"'I do, the rascal.'

"'Very well, my good friends, if you wish to get law you have come to the wrong shop for it—we deal in nothing but justice here: so if you prefer justice to law, you shall have it.'

"'Whichever your honor thinks is best for us.'

"'Very well, then; are you able to fight this man?'

"'Ha, ha, is it there you are, Sir William?' says the fellow, brightening, 'able is it! ay, and willing too.'

"'And,' says the baronet, addressing the other again, 'are you a match for him, do you think?'

"'Say no more, Sir William; only it was surely the Lord put the words into your mouth.'

"'But,' proceeds Sir W., 'mark me, if you don't both abide by this battle—if either of you, no matter which is beaten, shall attempt to get law elsewhere, upon my honor and soul, I will prosecute you both.' The justice being well furnished with a sheaf of cudgels for the purpose, selects one for each, brings them quietly to the stable yard where he lets them fight it out, each having first solemnly promised to abide the result."

"Is that true, baronet?"

"Perfectly true," replied Sir William; "but I fear that like some of your wise and impartial proceedings here, it will soon work its own cure. The business has increased so damnably—this dispensation of justice I mean—on my hands, that my stable yard resembles a fives court rather than anything else I know. The method harmonizes with their habits so beautifully, that if there is an angry word between them it is only 'd—n you, are you for Sir W.?' 'Yes, you villain step out.' They accordingly come, and as they touch their hats, I ask, well, my good fellows, what do you want now? 'Not law Sir William, but justice—the cudgels, plase your honor.' In the beginning I was in the habit of making them relate the cause of quarrel first, and then fight it out afterwards, but experience soon taught me that all this was a mere waste of time. In general now, I pass all that by; the complainants have their comfortable fight, as they say, and go home perfectly satisfied."

"Here, you secretary, what the devil are you at there? Why d——-e, it wasn't to toss half crowns with that rascal of a treasurer you came here, sir; let us get through the business, and then you may both toss off to the devil, where you'll go at last."

"Why," said the secretary, "I placed the papers all arranged in proper order before you."

"Yes, sir; I suppose you did; but who the devil can keep anything or anybody in order, in such a Babel as this? Beevor, I'll thank you to postpone the singing of your squib for the election; or take to the street when our business is over, and give it to the crowd."

"You be d——d, Spavin," replied Beevor;

"I'll finish it, if the devil was at the back door."

"Darcy," said Deaker, addressing a thin, red-faced man beside him, "I saw a pretty bit of goods in Castle Cumber market on Thursday."

"Why, Deaker," replied the other, "is it possible that with one foot and more than half your body in the grave, and your shadow in h—l, you sinner, you have not yet given up your profligacy."

"Eat, drink, and be merry, Tom, for tomorrow we die; but about this pretty bit of goods—I tried to price her, but it wouldn't do; and when I pressed hard, what do you think of the little tit, but put herself under the protection of old Priest Roche, and told him I had insulted her."

"Who is she, Deaker?" inquired a young fellow with a good deal of libertine interest.

"Ah, Bob," replied Deaker, laughing; "there you are, one of the holy triad. Here, Baronet—did you ever hear what Mad Jolly-block, their father, the drinking parson of Mount Carnal, as some one christened his residence, said of his three sons?—and that chap there's one of them."

"No; let us hear it."

"'Dan,' said the father, speaking of the eldest, 'would eat the devil; Jack,' the second, 'would drink the devil; and Bob, this chap here, 'would both eat and drink him, in the first, place, and outwit him afterwards.' That's Bob, the youngest—he there with a lip like a dropsical sausage. He has sent him here to pick up a little honesty, and much loyalty."

"And a great deal of morality," replied Bob, laughing, "from Deaker the virtuous."

"No, no," replied Deaker; "you need never leave your Reverend father's wing for that."

"Deaker, do you fleece the poor as much as ever?" replied Bob.

"Ah, you are another sweet Agent, as times go. Do you touch them at the renewals as usual?"

"Egad, Bob, I was very good at that; but there's an unmatrimonial son of mine, Val the Vulture, there, and d—me, when I look back upon my life, and compare it with his, it's enough to make me repent of my humanity, to think of the opportunities I have neglected."

"Gentlemen," observed Hartley, "it strikes me, no matter what the multiplicity of other virtues we possess, there is somehow nothing like a superabundance of shame among us; we appear to glory in our vices."

"Why confound it, Hartley," replied Deaker, "where's the use of assuming what we do not and cannot feel? Would you have me preach honesty, who am as d——d a rogue as there is here? Indeed, with the exception of that whelp of mine, I believe the greatest—but that fellow's my master."

"Nobody can quarrel with your candor, Deaker, because it's all at your own expense," said the treasurer.

"Egad, and here it is at yours, Gilburne; with the exception always of myself and my son, you are the deepest rogue here—and I am very much afraid that your securities will be of my opinion when it is too late." He laughed heartily at this; and then, as usual, took to whistling his favorite tune of the Boyne Water.

Our readers may perceive that there was among them an open, hardy scorn not only of all shame, but of the very forms of common decency and self-respect. The feelings, the habits, the practices, the distribution of jobs and of jobbings, the exercise of petty authority, party spirit, and personal resentment, all went the same way, and took the same bent; because, in point of fact, there was in this little assembly of village tyrants, no such thing as an opposition—for three or four—were nothing—no balance of feeling—no division of opinion—and consequently no check upon the double profligacy of practice and principle, which went forward under circumstances where there existed a complete sense of security, and an utter absence of all responsibility.

"Gentlemen, we are losing a great deal of time unnecessarily," observed M'Clutchy, "let us first get through the business, and afterwards we will be more at leisure for this trifling. The bills for Harman are not yet found."

"Not found," replied Spavin, "why how soft you are, Val."

"Why they are not," reiterated Val.

"And why are they not?"

"Ask Counsellor Browbeater, the hard-faced barrister, that has the right of Black Trot in the Castle, and he will tell you."

"We all know that very well, Val, no thanks to your squeamishness," observed Deaker; "the truth is, he did not wish to let him out for a reason he has," he added, winking at the rest.

"Let us hear the calendar," said Hartley, "and got through the business as quickly as we can, secretary."

"Is that Browbeater," asked Sir William, "who was engaged in the spy system a little before I returned from England—a d——d scandalous transaction."

"The spy system, Sir William, is a very useful one to government," replied Val, "and they would be devilish fools if they did not encourage it."

"That may be your opinion, Mr. M'Clutchy," said Sir William, "and your practice, for aught I know; but, permit me to say, that it is not the opinion of a gentleman, a man of honor, nor of any honest man, however humble."

"I perfectly agree with you, Sir William," said Hartley, "and I despise the government which can stoop to such discreditable treachery, for it is nothing else. The government that could adopt such a tool as this Browbeater, would not scruple to violate the sanctity either of private life or public confidence, if it suited their interest—nay, I question whether they would not be guilty of a felony itself, and open the very letters in the post-office, which are placed there under the sacred seal of public faith. However, never mind; proceed with the calendar."

"Here is the case of some of your wreckers, M'Clutchy, charged here with illegally, maliciously, and violently pulling down several houses in the village of Crockaniska—assaulting and maltreating the unoffending inhabitants."

"Halt there a moment," said Val; "rebels, every man of the said inhabitants, which I can prove. My men, who are remarkable for their Protestantism and loyalty, went upon private information—"

"More of the spy system," said Hartley, smiling.

"Mr. Hartley, you may smile, but truth is truth," replied Val; "we had private information that they had arms and rebellious papers, and the latter we have got under the thatch of their cabins."

"Private information!—still more of the spy system," repeated Hartley, smiling again.

"But not the arms?" asked Sir William.

"No, Sir William, not the arms; the rebels were too quick for us there."

"Then, they expected you it seems," observed Hartley; "and, if so, when taking away the arms, I am anxious to know why they should have been such fools as to leave the papers behind them."

"I am not here to account for their conduct, sir," replied Val, "but to state the facts as they occurred—they may, for instance, not have had time to bring them. It is not a month, for instance, since my fellows in Still hunting—and talking of that, Mr. Hartley, will you allow me to send you a couple of kegs of such stuff as is not to be had on every hill head; I offer it from pure good will, for I really regret that there should be any want of cordiality between our families."

"Our families," asked Hartley, with a look of surprise and indignation, "our families, sir! what do you mean?"

"Oh, damn it, Hartley, don't explode; I mean nothing offensive between us—then, dropping the families," said Val, fawningly, for he saw the other's nostril begin to dilate—

"And, you cowardly hound, why should you drop the families," inquired Deaker, taking fire; "do you forget, sirra, who your father was?"

"And do you forget, sirra," resumed Hartley, "who your mother is?"

"Damn it," replied Val, still with fawning good-humor, "how am I accountable for their conduct before I had existence? I neither made them as they were, nor as they are."

"Then have the modesty," said Hartley, "to forbear any allusion to them, especially in the way of comparison."

"For one of them, Hartley, I reply," said Deaker, "that he is of a better family than yourself; and don't imagine, my worthy fellow, that however you may browbeat others, you will be permitted to bully or browbeat me. I say, sir, there is better blood in my veins than ever ran through yours."

"I had no intention of bullying or browbeating any man here," replied Hartley, "much less one whose age and virtues must prevent him—"

"Not from meeting you like a man," said Deaker; "old as I am, I can yet stand my ground, or if not, d—n me, I can tie a stake to my bottom, and you may take that as a proof that I won't run away."

"Nobody suspects you for that," said the other. "Out of the long catalogue of human virtues, courage is the only one loft you, or indeed, you ever had—unless, indeed, it be the shameless and diabolical honesty of glorying in your own vices."

"Why, Hartley!" replied Deaker, "you forget, that you had more vices, and,'hammers, too, in your family, and more brass, than ever I or mine could' boast of. If the memory of that successful old tinker, your grandfather, had not passed out of your mind, you would make no allusion to vices or screws, and take care, my good hot-brained young fellow, that you don't die in your family trade, and come to the pully yet."

Hartley, who was hasty, but exceedingly good-natured, although certainly a noted duelist, now burst out into a hearty laugh, as did most of the rest.

"Deaker," said he, "there is no use in being angry with you, nor in being ashamed that my fortune was created by industry and honesty, for both of which virtues I have reason heartily to thank my good old grandfather, the hardware man, as you have for thanking the sire of your father, the worthy tailor, who had the honor of being appointed one of Peg Nicholson's knights, ha, ha, ha!"

The laughter now became general and excessive; but not one of them enjoyed, or seemed at least, to enjoy it with more good-humor than Val; who, indeed, was never known to exhibit any want of temper to his equals during his life.

"Well," said he, "ha, ha, ha! now that that breeze has blown over—about the poteen, Hartley?"

"Thanks, Val; but no poteen, if you please."

"Then, gentlemen," said Val, "to resume business; I was alluding to the seizure of a Still about a month ago near Drum Dhu, where the parties just had time to secure the Still itself, but were forced to leave the head and worm behind them; now, that I give as a fair illustration of our getting the papers, and missing the arms. Besides," said he, in a wheedling and confidential tone, addressed to a clique of his friends, the jobbers, whom he joined at the lower end of the room, "you are all aware that my fellows are staunch Orangemen, every one of them, and the government itself feels, for I have reason to know it, that it is neither politic or prudent to check the spirit which is now abroad among them; so far from that, I can tell you it is expected that we should stimulate and increase it, until the times change. The bills against these men must, therefore, be thrown out."

"I'll agree to that," said a leading man of his own party, "only on one condition. There are three of my own tenants, Papists to be sure, in for distilling poteen. Now, we must have them out, Val, for one good turn deserves another.

"But why?" inquired Val and his friends.

"Why, simply, because the poor fellows were distilling for myself," he replied; "all the apparatus were mine, and I can't think of allowing them to be transported for my own act."

"Very well, then a bargain be it," said Val, "so out they go."

Whilst every man was thus working, either for his friends or against his enemies, or not unfrequently both, Hartley, who, in point of fact, felt always anxious to do as much good as he could, addressed Sir William:

"Have you no friends in difficulty, Sir William, or who require your advocacy now? I see the jobbers are hard at work. Some working heaven and earth to wreak the vengeance of law upon their enemies; others quite as anxious to turn aside justice from their friends."

"Eh! what's that!" said Sir William, starting up; "come, Hartley, you are right; there are four of my tenants in for a fray—the M'Caffreys, and the poor devils stand no chance with such a jury as they will have. I hear them named below there—so let us join the jobbers as you say, and see if we cannot get the Bills thrown out."

"Very well," said Val, as they approached him, "the M'Caffreys go to trial."

"Sir William, excuse me," said Hartley; "will you allow me to interfere, in the first instance?"

"My dear fellow, certainly, with great pleasure, and I shall aid you as far as I can."

"Val," said Hartley, in that kind of familiar tone which he knew would go far with such a man as M'Clutchy, and which was in such accordance with his own natural good-humor—"Val, my good fellow, and the best man of business here, by the way, notwithstanding the poteen affair, I want you to stand my friend and also Sir William's here."

"How is that, Hartley?"

"There are four men in from the Mountain Bar, named M'Caffrey. Now we want to have the Bills against them ignored; and simply for a plain reason—at this season of the year any lengthy imprisonment would ruin them. It was a faction fight or something of that kind, and of course there is no feeling of a religious or party nature in it. Am I not right, Sir William?"

"Perfectly; the thing took place during my absence in England for the last few months. Had I been at home, the matter would have been peaceably decided in my own stable-yard."

"Yes," observed Val, "but it appears there was a man's life in danger."

"Yes, but, sir, his life is now out of danger."

"Well, but does not this," rejoined Val in his most serious mood, "look very like obstructing the course of justice?"

"Why, you d——d scoundrel," said the Baronet, "what, in nineteen cases out of twenty, is done at every assizes where matters connected with religion or politics are concerned, that ought not to be called obstructing the course of justice?"

"We shall return true Bills, Sir William and that is the only reply I have to make, except to thank you for your courtesy."

"Mr. M'Clutchy," said Hartley, "I know your good sense and forbearance, both of which are so creditable to you. These poor fellows will be ruined, for both you and I know what kind of jury that is to try them."

"An honest jury, Mr. Hartley," said Mr, M'Clutchy, who was now beginning to feel a little of his power—"an honest jury, Mr. Hartley."

"I give you leave to say so, Val; but, in the meantime, I will accept one favor from you, if you grant me two."

"How is that sir?" asked Val.

"Send me that poteen you spoke of, and ignore the Bills against these M'Caffreys."

"No, sir," replied Val, looking with his own peculiar beetle-browed smile at Sir William, "I shall not; for by G—, we will find true Bills against the four M'Caffreys. We might do something for humanity, Mr. Hartley; but we are not to be made fools of before our own faces."

"I do not understand you," replied Hartley.

"He is nothing but a scoundrel, as I said," returned Sir William—"that is all; a low-born scoundrel; and it is a disgrace to see such a fellow's name upon any Grand Jury list."

"Hartley," replied Spavin, "we do not wish to refuse either Sir William or you in such a matter as this; but the fact is, M'Clutchy is right. This is at bottom a party matter—a political matter, and you know it is."

"No, sir; on my own part and on Sir William's I disclaim any such knowledge."

"You know, Hartley, you are canvassing the county."

"Yes, but what has that to do with these; men or their affairs?"

"What—why you know that if we ignore the Bills against them, they will be out and ready to vote for you at the forthcoming election."

Hartley looked at him with surprise but said nothing.

"Now," he proceeded, "I will tell you what we will do. If you and Sir William pledge your words, as men of honor, that you will not accept the votes of these men, the matter you wish shall be managed."

Sir William started to his feet.

"Great God," said he, "is it not monstrous that an oath of secrecy should bind us to conceal these inquiries?"

"It is monstrous, Sir William," replied his friend; "I do believe there is not such, a scene of shameless and hardened corruption on earth, as a Grand Jury Room at the present day."

This, however, they said rather aside to each other.

"No, sir," replied Hartley to the last proposal, "neither I nor Sir William shall enter into any such shameful compromise. I felt perfectly satisfied of the slight chance of justice which these poor men had, and will have from a jury so composed as theirs I know will be; and that was the reason why I did not hesitate to try, if I could, with any effect, save them from what I now perceive is designed for them—a political punishment independent of crime."

"Never mind," said Sir William, taking him aside, "never mind, Hartley; we will be able to defeat them yet. I shall send for the prosecuting parties; get them to withdraw proceedings, and immediately fight it out in my lawn or stable-yard."

After a great deal of similar squabbling and negotiation, the gentleman at length got through the criminal calendar for the county, and with still more startling honesty and disinterestedness, entered upon the transactions of its fiscal business. Beaker, whenever he took no part in the discussions that accompanied the settlement of each question, sat reading a newspaper to the air of the Boyne Water, which he whistled from habit in a low manner that was scarcely audible, unless to some one who felt anxious to derive amusement, as several did, from the originality of the performance.

"Gentlemen," said the secretary, "here is a list of the presentments. The first is—For two miles and a quarter of a new road, running from George Ganderwell's house at the Crooked Commons, out along Pat Donnellan's little farm of the Stripe, through which it runs longitudinally; then across Jemmy league's meadow, over the Muffin Burn, then through widow Doran's garden, bisecting Darby M'Lorrinan's three acre field, afterwards entering the Glebe, and passing close to the lodge of the Rev. Phineas Lucre's avenue."

"Is there any opposition to this?" inquired the chairman.

"Read the next," said M'Clutchy, "and then we shall be the better able to see."

No. 2. "For four miles of road, commencing at the Ban Ard river, which it crosses, running through Frank Fagan's croft, along Rogues Town, over Tom Magill's Long-shot meadow, across the Sally Slums, up Davy Aiken's Misery-meerin, by Parra Rakkan's haggard, up the Dumb Hill, into Lucky Lavery's Patch, and from that right ahead to Constitution Cottage, the residence of Valentine M'Clutchy, Esq., within two hundred yards of which it joins the high road to Castle Cumber."

"Now the question is," said Val, "can both these be passed during this term?"

"Val," replied young Jollyblock, "if ever a man was afflicted with modesty and disinterestedness you are he; and well becomes me the parson, too, in his share of the job; but it's all right, gentlemen. Work away, I Say. The Parson-magistrate, and the Agent-grand-juror have set us an excellent example—ha—-In.—ha! Deaker, drop whistling the Boyne Water there, and see what's going on here."

"No," said Deaker, "there never was such air composed as the Boyne Water; and my only request is, that I may die whistling it. Damn it, Jollyblock, unless a man is a good Protestant he's bad for everything else."

"But how the devil Deaker, can you call yourself a good Protestant, when you believe in nothing?"

"Why," said Deaker, "I believe that a certain set of political opinions are necessary for our safety and welfare in this world; and, I believe, that these are to be found in the Church, and that it is good Protestantism to abide by them, yes, and by the Church too, so long as she teaches nothing but politics, as she does, and acts up to them."

"And does your faith stop there?"

"How could it go farther with the lives of such men as your father and Lucre staring me in the face? Precept, Dick, is of little value when example is against it. For instance, where's the use of men's preaching up piety and religion, when their own conduct is a libel upon their doctrine? Suppose, now, there are two roads—and 'tis said there are: No. 1, leading to an imaginary region, placed above; No. 2, to another imaginary region, placed below—very good; the parson says to jon and to me, do so and so, and take the No. 1 road; but, in the meantime, he does himself the very reverse of this so and so, and takes the No. 2 road. Now, which are we to respect most, his advice or his example?"

"Let us go on," said Spavin, "perhaps there are others whose claims are as modest and disinterested; we shan't say anything about being as well founded. You secretary fellow, read away."

"Before you go any farther," said a droll-looking person named M'Small, "you must pass me a bridge over Lumlay's Leap. Our party voted you about thirty miles of roads to repair thoroughly, and you know that although you only veneered them, we said nothing."

"But," replied Val, "who ever heard of a bridge without water; and I know there's not a stream within three miles of you."

"Never mind that," replied M'Small, "let me have the bridge first, and we'll see what can be done about the water afterwards. If God in his mercy would send a wet winter next season, who knows but we might present for a new river at the January assizes."

"You must have it," said Deaker, "give M'Small the bridge, and, as he says, we'll see afterwards what can be done for a river for it."

"M'Small," said Hartley, "what if you'd get a presentment for a couple of mountain water spouts; who knows but it might answer the purpose?"

"I'm afraid," said M'Small, who, by the way, was a good deal of a humorist, "I fear, Hartley, that the jurisdiction of the grand panel would scarcely reach so high. In the meantime I shall think of it."

The bridge, however, was not only passed, but built, and actually stands to this day, an undeniable monument of the frugality and honesty of grand jurors, and the affection which they were then capable of bearing to each other, when their interests happened to be at stake, which was just four times in the year.

In the meantime, the tumultuous battle of jobs in all its noise, recrimination, and jangle of conflicting interests, and incredible selfishness commenced. There were strong mutual objections to pass the roads to Mr. Lucre and M'Clutehy, and a regular conflict between their respective partisans accordingly took place. M'Clutchy's party were absolutely shocked at the grossness and impiety of such a man as Mr. Lucre, a person of such great wealth, an absentee, a nonresident-rector, dipping his hand in the affairs of the county for the sake of a job.

His party, for he had a strong one, dwelt upon his rights as a civil officer, a magistrate, and justice of quorum—upon his sterling principles as a loyal Protestant, who had rendered very important services to the Church and the government. It was such as he, they said, who supported the true dignity and respectability of Protestantism, and it would be a scandal to refuse him a road to his glebe. Deaker groaned several times during this eulogium, and repeated his favorite text—let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die; but whether its application was designed for Lucre or himself, was not very easy—perhaps we should rather say difficult to determine.

"That is all very true," replied Val's party; "but in the meantime, it would be quite as creditable for him to pay some attention to the spiritual interests of his parish, and the condition of its tottering old church, as to be mulcting the county for a job."

"What can you know about his church," inquired Spavin, "who have never been seen in it, except on last Easter Monday, when you were candidate for the church wardenship? M'Clutehy," he added, "we all know you are a Protestant of your father's color; it's the best Protestantism that puts most into your pocket."

"And on what other principle is Lucre himself now proceeding, or has ever proceeded?" replied Val's friends—for Val himself had always a wholesome repugnance to personal discussion.

In fact, one would have imagined, on hearing Val's party declaiming against the selfishness of Lucre, that they themselves entertained a most virtuous horror against jobs and corruptions of all kinds, and had within them an actual bona fide regard for religion, in all its purity, spiritual beauty, and truth; whilst on the contrary, the Lucreites, who certainly had the worst cause, seemed to think that M'Clutchy, in preferring his own corruption to that of the parson, was guilty of a complete desertion of that sterling and mutually concessive Protestant feeling which they considered to constitute its highest principle, and absolutely to merge into the manifestation of something inimical to a Protestant government.

At length it was suggested by him of the bridge, that in order to meet the wishes of two such excellent men, and such admirable representatives of pure Protestant virtue and spirit, it would be best to pass both presentments on the present occasion, and drop or postpone some of the minor ones until next term—a suggestion which was eagerly received by both parties, inasmuch as it satisfied the rapacity of each, without giving a victory to either. This, however, was far from terminating either the business or the debates that arose out of the minor conflicting interests of the jurors. A good deal of hanging fire there was also, but given and returned in a better spirit, between. Val's friends and Lucre's.

"Why doesn't Lucre," said the former, "afford us a little more of his company in the parish?"

"Ah," replied the Lucreites, "we suppose if he gave you more of his venison and claret, he would experience less of your opposition."

"I really am afraid to go to church," said Val, who, now that the storm had passed, resumed his usual insinuating habit of light sarcasm: "I am afraid to go, lest the crazy old church, which really, between ourselves—I speak of course in a friendly way now—is in a most shameful and dangerous state, should fall upon me."