In vain, therefore, did Father M'Cabe denounce and prophesy--in vain did he launch all the dogmas of the church--in vain did he warn, lecture, and threaten--Darby's private hint had gone abroad precisely a day or two before their encounter, and the consequence was what might be expected. Darby, in fact, overreached him, a circumstance of which, at the period of their meeting, he was ignorant; but he had just learned how "the word," as it was called, had spread, in so extraordinary a manner, maugre all his opposition a short time before they met; and our readers need not feel surprised at the tone and temper with which, after having heard such intelligence, he addressed Darby, nor at the treatment which that worthy personage received at his hands. Had he known that it was Darby's "word" which in point of fact had occasioned "the spread"
we speak of, he would have made that worthy missionary exhibit a much greater degree of alacrity than he did.
Before Darby arrives at Mr. Lucre's, however, we must take the liberty of anticipating him a little, in order to be present at a conversation which occurred on this very subject between the worthy Rector and the Rev. Mr. Clement, his curate. Mr. Clement, like the pious and excellent Father Roche, was one of those clergymen who feel that these unbecoming and useless exhibitions, called religious discussions, instead of promoting a liberal or enlarged view of religion, are only calculated to envenom the feelings, to extinguish charity, and to contract the heart. Nay, more, there never was a discussion, they said--and we join them--since the days of Ussher and the Jesuit, that did not terminate in a tumult of angry and unchristian recrimination, in which all the common courtesies of life, not to mention the professed duties of Christian men, were trampled on, and violated without scruple. In the preparations for the forthcoming discussion, therefore, neither of these worthy men took any part whatsoever. The severe duties of so large a parish, the calls of the sick, the poor, and the dying, together with the varied phases of human misery that pressed upon their notice as they toiled through the obscure and neglected paths of life, all in their opinion, and, in ours, too, constituted a sufficiently ample code of duty, without embroiling themselves in these loud and turbulent encounters.
Mr. Clement, who, on this same day, had received a message from Mr.
Lucre, found that gentleman in remarkably good spirits. He had just received a present of a fine haunch of venison from a fox-hunting nobleman in the neighborhood, and was gloating over it, ere its descent into the larder, with the ruddy fire of epicurism blazing in his eyes.
"Clement," said he, with a grave, subdued grunt of enjoyment, "come this way--turn up the venison, Francis--eh, what say you now, Clement? Look at the depth of the fat!--what a prime fellow that was!--see the flank he had!--six inches on the ribs at, least! As our countryman, Goldsmith, says, 'the lean was so white, and the fat was so ruddy.'"
Clement had often before witnessed this hot spirit of luxury, which becomes doubly carnal and gross in a minister of God. On this occasion he did not even smile, but replied gravely, "I am not a judge of venison, Mr. Lucre; but, I believe you have misquoted the poet, who, I think, says, 'the fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy.'"
"Well, that's not much, Clement; but, if you were a judge, this would both delight and astonish you. Now, Francis, I charge you, as you value your place, your reputation, your future welfare, to be cautious in dressing it. You know how I wish it done, and, besides, Lord Mountmorgage, Sir Harry Beevor, Lord ------, and a few clerical friends, are to dine with me. Come in Clement--Francis, you have heard what I said! If that haunch is spoiled, I shall discharge you without a character most positively, so look to it."
When they entered the library, the table of which was covered with religious magazines, missionary papers, and reports of religious societies, both at home and abroad, Mr. Lucre, after throwing himself into a rich cushioned arm-chair, motioned to his curate to take a seat.
"I have sent for you, Clement," said he, "to have your advice and assistance on a subject, in which, I feel confident, that as a sincere and zealous Protestant, you will take a warm interest. You have heard of the establishment of our New Reformation Society, of course."
"I believe it is pretty generally known," replied Clement.
"It is now," replied Lucre; "but our objects are admirable. We propose to carry controversy into all the strongholds of Popery--to enlighten both priest and people, and, if possible, to transfer the whole Popish population--_per satiram_--by the lump, as it were--"
"_Per saturum_, I believe," observed Clement, bowing, "if I may take the liberty."
"Sati, satu--well, you may be right; my memory, Clement, retains large passages best, and ever did--to transfer the whole Popish population to the Established Church. It is a noble, a glorious speculation, if it only can be accomplished. Think of the advantages it would confer upon us! What stability would it not give the Church."
"I cannot exactly see what peculiar stability it would give the Church,"
replied Clement, "with the exception of mere numbers alone."
"How so--what do you mean?"
"Why, sir," replied Clement, "if we had the numbers you speak of to-morrow, we would be certainly worse off than we are today. They could only pay us our tithes, and that they do as it is; if they formed a portion, and the largest portion they would form, of our church, think of the immense number of clergy they would require to look to their religious wants--the number of churches and chapels of ease that must be built--the number of livings that must be divided--nay, my dear sir, in addition to this, you may easily see, that for every one bishop now, we should have at least four, then, and that the incomes would diminish in proportion. As it is now, sir, we have the tithes without the trouble of laboring for them, but it would be a different case in your new position of affairs."
Mr. Lucre, who, in the heat of his zeal, had neither permitted himself to see matters in this light, nor to perceive that Clement's arguments concealed, under a grave aspect, something of irony and satire, looked upon his curate with dismay--the smooth and rosy cheek got pale, as did the whole purple face down to the third chin, each of which reminded one of the diminished rainbows in the sky, if we may be allowed to except that they were not so heavenly.
"Clement," said he, "you amaze me--that is a most exceedingly clear view of the matter. Transfer them! no such thing, it would be a most dreadful calamity, unless church property were proportionately increased; but, could not that be done, Clement? Yes," said he, exulting at the idea, as one of which he ought to feel proud, "that could and would be done--besides I relish the multiplication of the bishoprics, under any circumstances, and therefore we will proceed with the Reformation. At all events, it would be a great blessing to get rid of Popery, which we would do, if we could accomplish this glorious project."
"I must confess, sir," replied Mr. Clement gravely, "that I have never been anxious for a mere change of speculative opinions in any man, unless when accompanied by a corresponding improvement in his life and morals. With respect to the Reformation Society, I beg leave to observe that I think the plan for the present is unseasonable, and only calculated to fill the kingdom with religious dissention and hatred.
The people, sir, are not prepared to have their religion taken by storm; they are too shrewd for that; and I really think we have no just cause to feel anxious for the conversion of those who cannot appreciate the principles upon which they embrace our faith, as must be the case with ninety-nine out of every hundred of them. I have ever been of opinion that the policy pursued by England towards this country has been the bane of its happiness. She deprived the Irish Roman Catholics of the means of acquiring education, and then punished them for the crimes which proceeded from their ignorance. They were a dissatisfied, a tumultuous, and an impracticable, because they were an oppressed, people; and where, by the way, is there a people, worthy to be named such, who will or ought to rest contented under penal and oppressive laws. But there was a day when they would have been grateful for the relaxation of such laws. Oppression, however, has its traditions, and so has revenge, and these can descend from father to son, without education. If Roman Catholic disabilities had been removed at a proper time, they would long since have been forgotten, but they were not, and now they are remembered, and will be remembered. The prejudices of the Roman Catholics, however, and their enmity towards those who oppressed them, increased with their numbers and their knowledge. The religion of those who kept them down was Protestant; and think you, sir, that, be the merits of that religion what they may, these are the people to come over in large masses, without esteem for us, reflection, or any knowledge of its principles, and embrace the creed of the very men whom they look upon as their oppressors. Sir, there is but one way of converting the Irish, and it this:--Let them find the best arguments for Protestantism in the lives of its ministers, and of all who profess it.
Let the higher Protestant clergy move more among the humbler classes even of their own flocks--let them be found more frequently where the Roman Catholic priest always is--at the sick-bed--in the house of mourning, of death, and of sin--let them abandon the unbecoming pursuits of an ungodly ambition--cast from them the crooked and dishonest manoeuvres of political negotiation and intrigue--let them live more humbly, and more in accordance with the gospel which they preach--let them not set their hearts upon the church merely because it is a wealthy corporation, calculated rather to gratify their own worldly ambition or cupidity, than the spiritual exigencies of their own flocks--let them not draw their revenues from the pockets of a poor people who disclaim their faith, whilst they denounce and revile that faith as a thing not to be tolerated. Let them do this, sir--free Protestantism from the golden shackles which make it the slave of Mammon, that it may be able to work--do this, and depend upon it, that it will then flourish as it ought; but, in my humble opinion, until such a reform first takes place with ourselves, it is idle to expect that Roman Catholics will come over to us, unless, indeed, a few from sordid and dishonest motives--and these we were better without. I think, therefore, that the present Reformation Society is unseasonable and ill-advised, nor do I hesitate to predict that the event will prove it so. In conclusion, sir, I am sorry to say, that I've seldom seen one of those very zealous clergymen who would not rather convert one individual from Popery than ten from sin."
"Why, Clement, you are a liberal!"
"I trust, sir, I am a Christian. As for liberalism, as it is generally understood, no man scorns the cant of it more than I do. But I cannot think that a Roman Catholic man sincerely worshipping God--even with, many obvious errors in his forms, or, with what we consider absurdities in his very creed--I cannot think, I say, that such a man, worshipping the Almighty according to his knowledge, will be damned. To think so is precisely the doctrine of exclusive salvation, with which we charge Popery itself."
Mr. Lucre's face, during the enunciation of these sentiments, glowed like a furnace thrice heated--he turned up his eyes--groaned aloud--struck the arm of his chair with his open hand--then commenced fanning his breast, as if the act were necessary to cool that evangelical indignation, in which there is said to be no sin.
"Clement," said he, "this--this"--here he kept fanning down his choler for half a minute--"this is--astonishing--awful--monstrous--monstrous doctrine to come from the lips of a clergyman--man"--another fanning--"of the Established Church; but what is still worse, from--from--the lips of my curate! my curate! I'll trouble you to touch the bell--thank you, sir. But, Mr. Clement, the circumstance of giving utterance to such opinions, so abruptly, as if you were merely stating some common-place fact--without evincing the slightest consideration for me--without reflecting upon who and what I am--without remembering my position--my influence--the purity and orthodoxy of my doctrine--the services I have rendered to religion, and to a Protestant government--(John, a glass of water; quickly)--you forget, sir, that I have proved the Romish Church to be both damnable and idolatrous--that she is without the means of salvation--that her light is out--her candlestick removed--and that she is nothing now but darkness, and abomination, and blasphemy. Yes, sir; knowing all this, you could openly express such doctrines, without giving me a moment's notice, or anything to, prepare me for such a shock!--sir, I am very much distressed indeed; but I thank my God that this excitement--(bring it here, John; quick:)--that this excitement is Christian excitement--Christian excitement, Mr. Clement; for I am not, I trust, without thai zeal for the interests of my church, of my King, and of Protestantism at large, which becomes a man who has labored for them as I have done."
Here, notwithstanding the excessive thirst which seemed to have fastened on him, he put the glass to his lips; but, sooth to say, like the widow's cruse, it seemed to have been gifted with the miraculous property of going from his lips as full as when it came to them.
"I assure you, Mr. Lucre," replied Clement, "in uttering my sentiments, I most certainly had not the slightest intention of giving you offence.
I spoke calmly, and candidly, and truly, what I think and feel--and I regret that I should have offended you so much; for I only expressed the common charity of our religion, which hopeth all things--is slow to condemn, and forbids us to judge, lest we be judged."
"Clement," said Mr. Lucre, who, to speak truth, had ascribed his excitement--what a base, servile, dishonest, hypocritical scoundrel of a word is that excitement--ready to adopt any meaning, to conceal any failing, to disguise any fact, to run any lying message whatsoever at the beck and service of falsehood or hypocrisy. If a man is drunk, in steps excitement--Lord, sir, he was only excited, a little excited;--if a man is in a rage, like Mr. Lucre, he is only excited, moved by Christian excitement--out upon it!--but, like every other slavish instrument, we must use it--had ascribed his excitement, we say, to causes that had nothing whatsoever to do in occasioning it--the _bona fide_ one being the indirect rebuke, to him, and the class to which he belonged, that was contained in Clement's observations upon the Established Church and her ecclesiastics. "Clement," said he, "I must be plain with you. For some time past I have really suspected the soundness of your views--I had doubts of your orthodoxy; but out of consideration for your large family, I did not press you for an explanation."
"Then, sir," replied Clement, "allow me to say, that as an orthodox clergyman, jealous of the purity of our creed, and anxious for the spiritual welfare of your flock, it was your duty to have done so. As for me, I shall be at all times both ready and willing to render an account of the faith that is in me. I neither fear nor deprecate investigation, sir, I assure you."
"I certainly knew not, however, that you were so far gone in latitudinarianism, as I find, unfortunately, to be the case. I hold a responsible--a sacred situation, as a Protestant minister, Mr. Clement, and consequently cannot suffer such doctrine to spread through my flock.
Besides, had you taken an active part in promoting this Reformation, as, with your learning and talents I know you could have done--I make no allusion now to your unhappy principles--had you done so it was my fixed intention to have increased your salary ten pounds per annum, out of my own pocket, notwithstanding the great claims that are upon me."
"My legal salary, I believe, Mr. Lucre, is seventy-five pounds per annum, and the value of your benefice is one thousand four hundred. I may say the whole duty is performed by me. Out of that one thousand four hundred, I receive sixty; but I shall add nothing more--for indeed I have yet several visits to make before I go home. As to my orthodoxy, sir, you will take your own course. To my bishop I am ready to explain my opinions; they are in accordance with the Word of God; and if for entertaining them I am deprived of the slender support for which I labor, as your curate, my trust in God will not be the less."
Mr. Lucre declined any reply, but bowed very politely, and rang the bell, to order his carriage, as a hint to Mr. Clement that the conversation was closed. The latter bowed, bade him good morning, and departed.
When Mr. Clement said he had some visits to make, we must, lest the reader might suppose they are visits of ceremony, follow his steps in order to learn the nature of these visits.
About half a mile from the Glebe house of Castle Cumber, the meek and unassuming curate entered into an abode of misery and sorrow, which would require a far more touching pen than ours to describe. A poor widow sat upon the edge of a little truckle bed with the head of one of her children on her lap; another lay in the same bed silent and feeble, and looking evidently ill. Mr. Clement remembered to have seen the boy whom she supported, not long before playing about the cottage, his rosy cheeks heightened into a glow of health and beauty by the exercise, and his fair, thick-clustered hair blown about by the breeze. The child was dying, and the tender power of a mother's love prompted her to keep him as near her breaking heart as she could, during the short space that remained of his brief existence. When Mr. Clement entered, the lonely mother looked upon him with an aspect of such bitter sorrow, of such helpless supplication in her misery, as if she said, am I left to the affliction of my own heart! Am I cut off from the piety and comfort, which distress like mine ought to derive from Christian sympathy and fellowship! Have I not even a human face to look upon, but those of my dying children! Such in similar circumstances are the questions which the heart will ask. She could not immediately speak, but with the head of her dying boy upon her heart she sat in mute and unbroken agony, every pang of her departing orphan throwing a deeper shade of affliction over her countenance, and a keener barb of sorrow into her heart.
The champion of God, however, was at his post. He advanced to the bed-side, and in tones which proclaimed the fulness of his sympathy in her sufferings, and with a countenance lit up by that trust in heaven which long trials of his own and similar bereavements had given him, he addressed her in words of comfort and consolation, and raised her heart to better hopes than any which this world of care and trial can bestow.
It is difficult, however, to give comfort in such moments, nor is it prudent to enforce it too strongly. The widow looked upon her boy's face, which was sweetly marked with the graces of innocence, even in the throes of death. The light of life was nearly withdrawn from his dim blue eye; but he felt from time to time for the mother's, hands, and the mother's bosom. He was striving, too, to utter his little complaint; attempting probably to describe his sufferings, and to beg relief from his unhappy parent; but the dissolving power of death was on all his faculties; his words lapsed into each, other indistinctly, and were consequently unintelligible. Mrs. Vincent, for such was the widow's name, heard the words addressed to her by Mr. Clement; she raised her eyes, to heaven for a moment, and then turned them, heavy with misery, upon her dying boy. Her heart--her hopes:--almost her whole being were peculiarly centered in the object before her; and though she had imagined that sympathy might support her, she now felt that no human power could give her consolation. The tears were falling fast from Mr.
Clement's cheeks, who felt, that until the agonies of the boy were over, it would be vain to offer her any kind of support. At length she exclaimed--
"Oh! Saviour, who suffered the agony of the cross, and who loved little children like him, let your mercy descend upon my beloved! Suffer him to come to you soon. Oh! Saviour--hear a mother's prayer, for I loved him above all, and he was our life! Core of my heart, you are striving to tell your mother what you suffer, but the weight of death is upon your tongue, and you cannot do it! I am here, my beloved sufferer--I am here--you struggle to find my hands to tell me--to tell me--but I cannot help you."
"Mrs. Vincent," said the curate, "we have reason to believe that what appears to us to be the agony of death, is not felt so severely as we imagine; strive to moderate your grief--and reflect that he will soon be in peace, and joy, and happiness, that will never end. His little sorrows and sufferings will soon be over, and the bosom of a merciful God will receive him into life and glory."
"But, sir," replied the widow, the tears fast streaming down her cheeks, "do you not see what he suffers? Look at the moisture that is on his little brow, and see how he writhes with the pain. He thinks that I can stop it, and it is for that he presses my hand. During his whole illness that was still his cry--'oh, mother, take away this pain, why don't you take away the pain!'"
Mr. Clement was a father, and an affectionate one, and this allusion to the innocence of the little sufferer touched his heart, and he was silent.
The widow proceeded: "there he lies, my only--only son--his departed father's image, and I looked up to him to be one day my support, my pride, and my happiness--but see what he is now! Oh! James, James, wouldn't I lay down my life to save yours!"
"You look at the dark side of the picture, Mrs. Vincent," said the curate. "Think upon what he may escape by his early and his happy death.
You know not, but that there was crime, and sin, and affliction before him. Consider how many parents there are now in the world, who would feel happy that their children, who bring shame, and distress, and misery upon them, had been taken to God in their childhood. And, surely, there is still a God to provide for your self and your other little ones; for remember, you have still those who have tender claims upon your heart."
"I know you are right, sir," she replied "but in cases like this, nature must have its way. Death, death, but you're cruel! Oh--blessed Father, what is this!"
One last convulsive spasm, one low agonizing groan, accompanied by a relaxation of the little fingers which had pressed her hands, closed the sufferings of the widow's pride. She stooped wildly over him and pressed him to her heart, as if by doing so she could draw his pains into her own frame, as they Were already in her spirit; but his murmurings were silent, and on looking closely into his countenance, she perceived that his Redeemer had, indeed, suffered her little one to go unto him; that all his little pains and agonies were over forever.
"His sufferings are past," she exclaimed, "James, your sufferings are over!" As she uttered the words, the curate was astonished by hearing her burst out into one or two wild hysteric laughs, which happily ended in tears.
"No more," she continued, "you'll feel no more pain now, my precious boy; your voice will never sound in my ears again; you'll never call on me to say 'mother, take away my pain;' the Sunday mornin' will never come when I will take pride in dressing you. My morning and evening kiss will never more be given--all my heart was fixed on is gone, and I care not now what becomes of me."
What could the good curate do? He strove to soothe, sustain, and comfort her, but in vain; the poor widow heard him not.
"Jenny," said she, at length, turning to, the other sick child, "your brother is at rest! James is at rest; he will disturb your sleep now no more--nor will you disturb his."
"Oh! but he couldn't help it, mammy; it was the pain that made him."