"And this is it," Raymond proceeded; "look at this page, that's not the one the blood is on; no, no, there's nothing here but madness. Ah!" said he, lowering his voice to a tone of deep compassion, "sure she's mad; they killed Hugh O'Began, and they killed the two sons, and then she went mad.--So, you see, there it is now--on that page there's blood, and, on this one,--with the big letter on it, there's madness. Then agin comes the Turnin' out. How would you like to walk three long, dreary miles, in sleet, and frost, and snow, havin' no house to go to--wid thin breeches to your bottom, an' maybe a hole in them--widout shoe or stockin' on your hooves--wid a couple of shiverin', half starved, sick childre, tied by an ould praskeen to your back, an' you sinkin' wid hunger all the time?--ay, and the tail o' your old coat blown up behind every minute, like a sparrow before the wind!--Eh, how would you like it?"
Lucre still stuck to the hypothesis of liquor, and accordingly went and rang the porter's bell, who immediately appeared.
"John," said his master, "I desire you will immediately show this man out--he is so scandalously affected with liquor, that he knows not the purport of his own language."
John approached his master with a face of awful tenor:--"for God's sake, sir," said he, "don't say a word that might cross him, sure he's the great madman, _Raymond-na-hattha_. Just sit still, and let him take his own way, and he'll do no harm in life; appear to listen to him, and he'll be like a child--but, if you go to harshness, he'd tear you, and me, and all that's in the house, into minced meat."
Once more did Lucre's countenance lose its accustomed hue; but, on this occasion, it assumed the color of a duck egg, or something between a bad white and a bad blue; "my good friend," said he, "will you please to take a seat--John, stay in the room." This he said in a whisper.
"There," proceeded Raymond, who had been busily engaged in examining the pages of the Bible, "there is the page where that's on--the puttin' out in the clouds and storm of heaven--there it is on that page. Look at the ould man and the ould woman there--see them tremblin'. Don't cry--don't cry; but they are--see the widow there wid her orphans--there's a sick boy in that house, and a poor sick girl in that other house--see, they're all cryin'--all cryin'--for they must go out, and on sich a day!
All that, now, is upon these two other pages, bekaise, you see, no one page would hould all that. But see here--here's a page wid only one side of it covered--let vis see what's on it. Oh, ay--here's the poor craythur's childre, wid the poor father and the poor mother; but they have the one cow to give milk to moisten their bit. Ha--ha--look again, there she goes off to the pound! Don't cry, poor helpless crathers; but how can you help cryin' when your poor mother's cryin'. That's a bitther thing, too, and it's on this page--see--that--that--that's it I've between my fingers--look at it--'how wet it is wid the poor craythur's tears; but there's no blood here--no, no--nothing but tears. Oh, here--see here--a page as big as the rest, bat wid nothing on it. Ay, I know that--that's an empty farm that nobody dare take, or woe be to them. But here--I seen him "--here he shuddered strongly--"I seen him!
His father and mother were both standing undher him--that was the worst of all. It's in this page. He was only one-and-twenty, and the eyes he had; but how did it happen, that although they hanged him, every one loved him? I seen his father and the poor mother looking up to the gallows where he stood, and then she fainted, and she then got sick, and poor ould Brian has nobody now but himself; and all that's on this page." Here poor Raymond shed tears, so completely was he overpowered by the force of his own imaginings. He again proceeded--"And the poor white-headed son. What wouldn't the poor mother give to have his white head to look at? but he will never waken--he will never waken more.
What's the name o' this book?" he inquired of Mr. Lucre.
"My excellent and most intelligent friend," replied that gentleman, in atone of meekness and humility that would have shamed an apostle; "my most interesting friend, the name of that book in the Bible."
"The Bible! oh yes; but am I doin' it right?" he inquired; "am I puttin'
the explanation to it as I ought? Sure they all oxplain it, and it's only fair that Raymond should show his larnin' as well as any of them.
Let us see, then--murdher and bloodshed, hangin' and starvin', huntin', purshuin, whippin', cowld and nakedness, hunger and sickness, death and then madness, and then death agin, and then damnation! Did I explain it?"
"Perfectly, my friend--nothing can do better."
"Well, then, think of it; but these aren't my explanations--but I know who puts them to that bad book! Don't they take all I said out of it?
They do; and, sure, don't you see the poor people's blood, and tears, and everything upon it; sure all I said is in it. Here," he exclaimed, shuddering, "take it away, or may be it'll make me as wicked as the rest of you. But, after all, maybe it's not the fault of the book, but of the people." It would indeed be difficult to find a more frightful comment upon the crimes and atrocities which have been perpetrated in this divided country, in the name, and under the character of religion, than that which issued, with a kind of methodical incoherency, from the lips of _Raymond-na-hattha_. When he had concluded, Mr. Lucre, having first wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead, politely asked him if there was anything he could do for him.
"Oh, ay," said he; "but first bring me a lump of good mate, and a quart of portlier."
"You shall have it, my excellent friend. John, ring the bell. You are a very interesting person, Mr.--Mr.--
"_Raymond-na-hattha_, sir."
"Mr. Raiment--very interesting, indeed. (Good God! am I to run the risk of being-strangled in my own house by a madman!) Oh--here, Alick; bring up some cold meat and a bottle of porter. Anything to make you comfortable, my good sir."
"I only want to see if all's right, sir," said Raymond, "and I'll tell you by and by." This was followed by a look of most pitiable distress from Lucre to his servant, John.
Raymond no sooner saw the cold beef and bread laid down, together with a bottle of porter, than he commenced an exhibition, which first, awoke Mr. Lucre's astonishment, next his admiration, and lastly his envy.
Raymond's performance, however, was of that rare description which loses by too frequent practice, and is only seen to advantage when the opportunities for exhibition are few. Three mortal pounds having at length disappeared, together with the greater part of a quartern loaf, and two bottles of porter, for Raymond had made bold to call for a second, he now wiped his mouth with the cuff of his coat first, and afterwards, by way of a more delicate touch, with the gathered palm of his hand; then, looking at Mr. Lucre, who sat perspiring with terror in his gorgeous easy chair, our readers may judge of the ease it just then communicated to that reverend gentleman, when he said, "It's all right enough, sir."
"I'm delighted to hear it," replied Mr. Lucre, applying the _sudariolum_ once more with a very nervous and quivering hand to his forehead:
"Is there anything else in which I can serve you, my good sir?"
[Illustration: PAGE 231-- Borrow the loan of your religion]
"Yes, there is--all's right, I've now made the thrial, and it will do--I want to borrow the loan of your religion till the new praties comes in."
"You shall have it, my worthy sir--you shall have it, with very great pleasure."
"The raison why I came to you for it," said Raymond, who, evidently in this joke, had been put up by some one, "was bekaise I was tould that it's as good as new with you--'seldom used lasts long,' you know--but, such as it is, I'll borry it for--ah, there now, that's one; all right, all right," pointing to the fragments of the meat and bread--"I wouldn't ax betther; so, till the praties comes in, mind I'll take care of it; and, if I don't bring it back safe, I'll bring you a betther one in it's place." He then nodded familiarly to Mr. Lucre, and left the house. The latter felt as if he breathed new life once more, but he could not so readily pardon the man for admitting him.
"What is the reason, sir," he asked, his face reddening, "that you suffered that formidable madman to get into the house?"
"Why, sir," replied the porter, "when I opened the door, he shot in like a bolt; and, as for preventing him after that, if I had attempted it, he'd have had me in fragments long ago. When he's not opposed, sir, or crossed, he's quiet as a lamb, and wouldn't hurt a child; but, if he's vexed, and won't get his own way, why ten men wouldn't stand him."
"Take care that he shall never be admitted here again," said his master; "I really am quite disturbed and nervous by his conduct and language, which are perfectly unintelligible. Indeed I am absolutely unwell--the shock was awful, and to occur on such a day, too--I fear my appetite will be very much affected by it--a circumstance which would be distressing beyond belief. Stop--perhaps it is not yet too late--ask Francis is the venison down, and, if not, desire him not to dress it to-day--I am out of appetite, say."
John went, and in a couple of minutes returned, "Francis says it's down, sir, for some time," replied the man, "and that it must be dressed to-day, otherwise it will be spoiled."
"And this is owing to you, you scoundrel," said his master in a rage, "owing to your neglect and carlessness--but there is no placing dependence upon one of you. See, you rascal, the position in which I am--here is a delicious haunch of venison for dinner, and now I am so much agitated and out of order that my appetite will be quite gone, and it will be eaten by others before my face, while I cannot touch it. For a very trifle I would this moment discharge you from my service, and without a character too."
"I am very sorry, sir, but the truth--"
"Begone, you scoundrel, and leave the room, or I shall use the horse-whip to you."
John disappeared, and this great and zealous prop of Protestantism walked to and fro his study, almost gnashing his teeth from the apprehension of not having an appetite for the haunch of venison.
CHAPTER XIII.--Darby's Brief Retirement from Public Life.
--A Controversial Discussion, together with the Virtues it Produced
Our readers may recollect that Darby in his pleasant dialogue with Father M'Cabe, alluded to a man named Bob Beatty, as a person afflicted with epilepsy. It was then reported that the priest had miraculously cured him of that complaint; but, whether he had or not, one thing, at least, was certain, that he became a Roman Catholic, and went regularly to mass. He had been, in fact, exceedingly notorious for his violence as an Orangeman, and was what the people then termed a blood-hound, and the son of a man who had earned an unenviable reputation as a Tory hunter; which means a person who devoted the whole energies of his life, and brought all the rancour of a religious hatred to the task of pursuing and capturing such unfortunate Catholics as came within grasp of penal laws. Beatty, like all converts, the moment he embraced the Roman Catholic creed, became a most outrageous opponent to the principles of Protestantism. Every Orangeman and Protestant must be damned, and it stood to reason they should, for didn't they oppose the Pope? Bob, then, was an especial protege of Father M'Cabe's, who, on his part, had very little to complain of his convert, unless it might be the difficulty of overcoming a habit of strong swearing which had brought itself so closely into his conversation, that he must either remain altogether silent, or let fly the oaths. Another slight weakness, which was rather annoying to the priest too, consisted in a habit Bob had, when any way affected with liquor, of drinking in the very fervor of his new-born zeal, that celebrated old toast, "to hell with the Pope!" These, however, were but mere specks, and would be removed in time, by inducing better habits. Now, it so happened, that on the day in question, Bob was wending his way to Father M'Cabe's, to communicate some matter connected with his religious feelings, and to ask his advice and opinion.
"How confoundedly blind the world is," thought Bob, "not to see that Popery--" he never called it anything else--"is the true faith! Curse me but Priest M'Cabe is a famous fellow!--Zounds, what an Orangeman he would make!--he's just the cut for it, an' it's a thousand pities he's not one--but!--what the hell am I sayin?' They say he's cross and ill-tempered, but I deny it--isn't he patient, except when in a passion? and never in a passion unless when provoked; what the d--l more would they have? I know I let fly an oath myself of an odd time (every third word, good reader), but, then, sure the faith is never injured by the vessel that contains it. Begad, but I'm sorry for my father, though, for, as there's no salvation out o' Popery, the devil of it is, that he's lost beyond purchase."
In such eccentric speculations did Bob amuse himself, until, in consequence of the rapid pace at which he went, he overtook a fellow-traveller, who turned out to be no other than our friend Darby O'Drive. There was, in fact, considering the peculiar character of these two converts, something irresistibly comic in this encounter. Bob knew little or nothing of the Roman Catholic creed; and, as for Darby, we need not say that he was thoroughly ignorant of Protestantism. Yet, nothing could be more certain--if one could judge by the fierce controversial cock of Bob's hat, and the sneering contemptuous expression of Darby's face, that a hard battle, touching the safest way of salvation, was about to be fought between them.
Bob, indeed, had of late been anxious to meet Darby, in order, as he said, to make him "show the cloven foot, the rascal;" but Darby's ire against the priest was now up; and besides, he reflected that a display of some kind would recommend him to the Reformationists, especially, he hoped, to Mr. Lucre, who, he was resolved, should hear it. The two converts looked at each other with no charitable aspect. Darby was about to speak, but Bob, who thought there was not a moment to be lost, gave him a controversial facer before he had time to utter a word:--"How many articles in your church?"
[Illustration: PAGE 233-- How many articles in your church?]
"How many articles in my church! There's one bad one in your church more than ought to be in it, since they got you:--but can you tell me how many sins cry to heaven for vengeance on you, you poor lost hathen?"
"Don't hathen me, you had betther; but answer my question, you rascally heretic."
"Heretic inagh! oh, thin, is it from a barefaced idolather like you that we hear heretic called to us! Faith, it's come to a purty time o' day wid us!"
"You're a blessed convart not to know the Forty-nine articles of your fat establishment!"
"And I'll hould a wager that you don't know this minute how many saikerments in your idolathry. Oh, what a swaggerin' Catholic you are, you poor hair-brained blackguard!"
"I believe you found some convincin' texts in the big purse of the Bible blackguards--do you smell that, Darby?"
"You have a full purse, they say, but, by the time Father M'Cabe takes the price of your trangressions out of it--as he won't fail to do--take my word for it, it'll be as lank as a stocking without a leg in it--do you smell that, Bob ahagur?"
"Where was your church before the Reformation?"