Darby having heard—for he never went to mass—that he was denounced by the priest, and feeling that his carrying into execution the heartless and oppressive proceedings of M'Clutchy had, taken together, certainly made him as unpopular a man as any individual of his contemptible standing in life could be, resolved, in the first place, to carry arms for his own protection, and, in the next, to take a step which he knew would vex the curate sorely. Accordingly, he lost no time in circulating, and having it circulated by others, that the great Reformation Society would give, in a private way, five guineas a head to every convert, taking them either by the individual or the family, although the conversion of the latter, he said, was far more coveted than even a greater number of individuals, when they were not bound by the same ties of blood, inasmuch, as the bringing them over by families was an outpouring of grace which could not be withstood. The consequence was, that all the profligate and unprincipled who had cold, and nakedness, and famine, in addition to their own utter want of all moral feeling to stimulate them, looked upon the new Reformation and its liberal promises as a complete windfall blown into their way by some unexpected piece of good fortune. Five guineas a head! And all for only going to church, and gaining for ever more the heart and affections of the good and kind Lord ———. There was also another class, the simple and honest poor, who had no other way of avoiding all the rigors and privations of that terrible season, than a painful compliance with the only principle which could rescue themselves and their children, from a state of things worse than death itself—and which might probably have terminated in death—we mean the principle of the new Reformation. There was, still, a third class—which consisted of a set of thorough Irish wags, who looked upon the whole thing as an excellent joke—and who, while they had not a rag to their backs, nor a morsel for their mouths, enjoyed the whole ceremony of reading their recantation, renouncing Popery, and all that, as a capital spree while it lasted, and a thing that ought by all means to be encouraged, until better times came.
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—”