“Sir Robert Whitecraft,” said Mr. Brown, “how conies such a wanton and unnecessary waste of property?”
“Because, sir,” replied that gentleman, “it is the property of a popish rebel and outlaw18, and is confiscated34 to the State.”
“But do you possess authority for this conduct?—Are you the State?”
“In the spirit of our Protestant Constitution, certainly. I am a loyal Protestant magistrate35, and a man of rank, and will hold myself accountable for what I do and have done. Come you, there,” he added, “who have knocked down the pump, take some straw, light it up, and put it with pitchforks upon the lower end of the stable; it has not yet caught the flames.”
This order was accordingly complied with, and in a few minutes the scene, if one could dissociate the mind from the hellish spirit which created it, had something terribly sublime36 in it.
Mr. Hastings, the gentleman who accompanied the clergyman, the real owner of the property, looked on with apparent indifference37, but uttered not a word. Indeed, he seemed rather to enjoy the novelty of the thing than otherwise, and passed with Mr. Brown from place to place, as if to obtain the best points for viewing the fire.
Reilly's residence was a long, large, two-story house, deeply thatched; the kitchen, containing pantry, laundry, scullery, and all the usual appurtenances connected with it, was a continuation of the larger house, but it was a story lower, and also deeply thatched. The out-offices ran in a long line behind the dwelling house, so that both ran parallel with each other, and stood pretty close besides, for the yard was a narrow one. In the meantime, the night, though dry, was dark and stormy. The wind howled through the adjoining trees like thunder, roared along the neighboring hills, and swept down in savage39 whirlwinds to the bottom of the lowest valleys. The greater portion of the crowd who were standing40 outside the cordon we have spoken of fled home, as the awful gusts42 grew stronger and stronger, in order to prevent their own houses from being stripped or unroofed, so that very few remained to witness the rage of the conflagration at its full height. The Irish peasantry entertain a superstition43 that whenever a strong storm of wind, without rain, arises, it has been occasioned by the necromantic44 spell of some guilty sorcerer, who, first having sold himself to the devil, afterwards raises him for some wicked purpose; and nothing but the sacrifice of a black dog or a black cock—the one without a white hair, and the other without a white feather—can prevent him from carrying away, body and soul, the individual who called him up, accompanied by such terrors. In fact the night, independently of the terrible accessory of the fire, was indescribably awful. Thatch38 portions of the ribs45 and roofs of houses were whirled along through the air; and the sweeping46 blast, in addition to its own howlings, was burdened with the loud screamings of women and children, and the stronger shoutings of men, as they attempted to make each other audible, amidst the roaring of the tempest.
This was terrible indeed; but on such a night, what must not the conflagration have been, fed by such pabulum—as Sir Robert himself would have said—as that on which it glutted47 its fiery48 and consuming appetite. We have said that the offices and dwelling-house ran parallel with each other, and such was the fact. What appeared singular, and not without the possibility of some dark supernatural causes, according to the impressions of the people, was, that the wind, on the night in question, started, as it were, along with the fire; but the truth is, it had been gamboling in its gigantic play before the fire commenced at all. In the meantime, as we said, the whole premises presented one fiery mass of red and waving flames, that shot and drifted up, from time to time, towards the sky, with the rapidity, and more than the terror, of the aurora49 borealis. As the conflagration proceeded, the high flames that arose from the mansion50, and those that leaped up from the offices, several times met across the yard, and mingled51, as if to exult52 in their fearful task of destruction, forming a long and distinct arch of flame, so exact and regular, that it seemed to proceed from the skill and effort of some powerful demon53, who had made it, as it were, a fiery arbor54 for his kind. The whole country was visible to an astonishing distance, and overhead, the evening sky, into which the up-rushing pyramids seemed to pass, looked as if it had caught the conflagration, and was one red mass of glowing and burning copper55. Around the house and premises the eye could distinguish a pin; but the strong light was so fearfully red that the deep tinge56 it communicated to the earth seemed like blood, and made it appear as if it had been sprinkled with it.
It is impossible to look upon a large and extensive conflagration without feeling the mind filled with imagery and comparisons, drawn57 from moral and actual life. Here, for instance, is a tyrant58, in the unrestrained exercise of his power—he now has his enemy in his grip, and hear how he exults59; listen to the mirthful and crackling laughter with which the fiendish despot rejoices, as he gains the victory; mark the diabolical gambols60 with which he sports, and the demon glee with which he performs his capricious but frightful61 exultations. But the tyrant, after all, will become exhausted62—his strength and power will fail him; he will destroy his own subjects; he will become feeble, and when he has nothing further on which to exercise his power, he will, like many another tyrant before him, sink, and be lost in the ruin he has made.
Again: Would you behold63 Industry? Here have its terrible spirits been appointed their tasks. Observe the energy, the activity, the persevering65 fury with which they discharge their separate duties. See how that eldest66 son of Apollyon, with the appetite of hell, licks into his burning maw every thing that comes in contact with his tongue of fire. What quickness of execution, and how rapidly they pass from place to place! how they run about in quest of employment! how diligently67 and effectually they search every nook and corner, lest anything might escape them! Mark the activity with which that strong fellow leaps across, from beam to beam, seizing upon each as he goes. A different task has been assigned to another: he attacks the rafters of the roof—he fails at first, but, like the constrictor, he first licks over his victim before he destroys it—bravo!—he is at it again—it gives way—he is upon it, and about it; and now his difficulties are over—the red wood glows, splits and crackles, and flies off in angry flakes68, in order to become a minister to its active and devouring69 master. See! observe! What business—what a coil and turmoil70 of industry! Every flame at work—no idle hand here—no lazy lounger reposing71. No, no—the industry of a hive of bees is nothing to this. Running up—running down—running in all directions: now they unite together to accomplish some general task, and again disperse72 themselves to perform their individual appointments.
But hark! what comes here? Room for another element. 'Tis the windstorm, that comes to partake in the triumph of the victory which his ministers have assisted to gain. But lo! here he comes in person; and now they unite—or how?—Do they oppose each other? Here does the windstorm drive back the god of fire from his victim; again the fiery god attempts to reach it; and again he feels that he has met more than his match. Once, twice, thrice he has failed in getting at it. But is this conflict real—this fierce battle between the elements? Alas73, no; they are both tyrants74, and what is to be expected?
The wind god, always unsteady, wheels round, comes to the assistance of his opponent, and gives him new courage, new vigor75, and new strength. But his inferior ministers must have a share of this dreadful repast. Off go a thousand masses of burning material, whirling along. Off go the; glowing timbers and rafters, on the wind, by which they are borne in thousands of red meteors across the sky. But hark, again! Room for the whirlwind! Here it comes, and addresses itself to yon tall and waving pyramid; they embrace; the pyramid is twisted into the figure of a gigantic corkscrew—round they go, rapid as thought; the thunder of the wind supplies them with the appropriate music, and continues until; this terrible and gigantic waltz of the elements is concluded. But now these fearful ravagers are satisfied, because they have nothing more on which they can glut themselves. They appear, however, to be seated. The wind has become low, and is only able to work up a feeble effort at its former strength. The flames, too, are subsiding—their power is gone; occasional jets of fire I come forth76, but they instantly disappear. By degrees, and one after another, they vanish. Nothing now is visible but smoke, and every thing is considered as over—when lo! like a great general, who has achieved a triumphant77 victory, it is deemed right to; take a last look at the position of the enemy. Up, therefore, starts an unexpected burst of flame—blazes for a while; looks about it, as it were; sees that the victory is complete, and drops down into the darkness from which it came. The conflagration is over; the wind-storm is also appeased78. Small hollow gusts, amongst the trees and elsewhere, are now all that are heard. By degrees, even these cease; and the wind is now such as it was in the course of the evening, when the elements were comparatively quiet and still.
Mr. Brown and his friend, Mr. Hastings, having waited until they saw the last rafter of unfortunate Reilly's house and premises sink into a black mass of smoking ruins, turned their steps to the parsonage, which they had no sooner entered than they went immediately to Reilly's room, who was still there under concealment79. Mr. Brown, however, went out again and returned with some wine, which he placed upon the table.
“Gentlemen,” said Reilly, “this has become an awful night; the wind has been tremendous, and has done a good deal of damage, I fear, to your house and premises, Mr. Brown. I heard the slates80 falling about in great numbers; and the inmates81 of the house were, as far as I could judge, exceedingly alarmed.”
“It was a dreadful night in more senses than one,” replied Mr. Brown.
“By the by,” said Reilly, “was there not a fire somewhere in the neighborhood, I observed through the windows a strong light flickering82 and vibrating, as it were, over the whole country. What must it have been?”
“My dear Reilly,” replied Mr. Brown, “be calm; your house and premises are, at this moment, one dark heap of smouldering ruins.”
“Oh, yes—I understand,” replied Reilly—“Sir Robert Whitecraft.”
“Sir Robert Whitecraft,” replied Mr. Brown; “it is too true, Reilly—you are now houseless and homeless; and may God forgive him!”
Reilly got up and paced the room several times, then sat down, and filling himself a glass of wine, drank it off; then looking at each of them, said, in a voice rendered hoarse83 by the indignation and resentment84 which he felt himself compelled, out of respect for his kind friends, to restrain, “Gentlemen,” he repeated, “what do you call this”
“Malice—persecution85—vengeance,” replied Mr. Brown, whose resentment was scarcely less than that of Reilly himself. “In the presence of God, and before all the world. I would pronounce it one of the most diabolical acts ever committed in the history of civil society. But you have one consolation86, Reilly; your money and papers are safe.”
“It is not that,” replied Reilly; “I think not of them. It is the vindictive87 and persecuting88 spirit of that man—that monster—and the personal motives89 from which he acts, that torture me, and that plant in my heart a principle of vengeance more fearful than his. But you do not understand me, gentlemen; I could smile at all he has done to myself yet. It is of the serpent-tooth which will destroy the peace of others, that I think. All these motives being considered, what do you think that man deserves at my hand?”
“My dear Reilly,” said the clergyman, “recollect that there is a Providence90; and that we cannot assume to ourselves the disposition91 of His judgments92, or the knowledge of His wisdom. Have patience. Your situation is one of great distress93 and almost unexampled difficulty. At all events, you are, for the present, safe under this roof; and although I grant you have much to suffer, still you have a free conscience, and, I dare say, would not exchange your position for that of your persecutor2.”
“No,” said Reilly; “most assuredly not—most assuredly not; no, not for worlds. Yet is it not strange, gentlemen, that that man will sleep sound and happily to-night, whilst I will lie upon a bed of thorns?”
At this moment Mrs. Brown tapped gently at the door, which was cautiously opened by her husband.
“John,” said she, “here is a note which I was desired to give to you without a moment's delay.”
“Thank you, my love; I will read it instantly.”.
He then bolted the door, and coming to the table took up one of the candles and read the letter, which he handed to Mr. Hastings. Now we have already stated that this gentleman, whilst looking on at the destruction of Reilly's property, never once opened his lips. Neither did he, from the moment they entered Reilly's room. He sat like a dumb man, occasionally helping94 himself to a glass of wine. After having perused95 the note he merely nodded, but said not a word; he seemed to have lost the faculty96 of speech. At length Mr. Brown spoke41:
“This is really too bad, my dear Reilly; here is a note signed H.F., which informs me that your residence, concealment, or whatever it is, has been discovered by Sir Robert Whitecraft, and that the military are on their way here to arrest you; you must instantly fly.”
Hastings then got up, and taking Reilly's hand, said:
“Yes, Reilly, you must escape—disguise yourself—take all shapes—since you will not leave the country; but there is one fact I wish to impress upon you: meddle97 not with—injure not—Sir Robert Whitecraft. Leave him to me.”
“Go out by the back way,” said Mr. Brown, “and fly into the fields, lest they should surround the house and render escape impossible. God bless you and preserve you from the violence of your enemies!”
It is unnecessary to relate what subsequently occurred. Mr. Brown's premises, as he had anticipated, were completely surrounded ere the party in search of Reilly had demanded admittance. The whole house was searched from top to bottom, but, as usual, without success. Sir Robert Whitecraft himself was not with them, but the party were all but intoxicated98, and, were it not for the calm and unshrinking firmness of Mr. Brown, would have been guilty of a very offensive degree of insolence99.
Reilly, in the meantime, did not pass far from the house. On the contrary, he resolved to watch from a safe place the motions of those who were in pursuit of him. In order to do this more securely, he mounted into the branches of a magnificent oak tree that stood in the centre of a field adjoining a kind of back lawn that stretched from the walled garden of the parsonage. The fact is, that the clergyman's house had two hall-doors—one in front, and the other in the rear—and as the rooms commanded a view of the scenery behind the house, which was much finer than that in front, on this account the back hall-door was necessary, as it gave them a free and easy egress100 to the lawn we have mentioned, from which a magnificent prospect101 was visible.
It was obvious that the party, though unsuccessful, had been very accurately102 informed. Finding, however, that the bird had flown, several of them galloped103 across the lawn—it was a cavalry104 party, having been sent out for speed and passed into the field where the tree grew in which Reilly was concealed105. After a useless search, however, they returned, and pulled up their horses under the oak.
“Well,” said one of them, “it's a dear case that the scoundrel can make himself invisible. We have orders from Sir Eobert to shoot him, and to put the matter upon the principle of resistance against the law, on his side. Sir Robert has been most credibly106 informed that that disloyal parson has concealed him in his house for nearly the last month. Now who could ever think of looking for a Popish rebel in the house of a Protestant parson? What the deuce is keeping those fellows? I hope they won't go too far into the country.”
“Any man that says Mr. Brown is a disloyal parson is a liar,” said one of them in a stem voice.
“And I say,” said another, with a hiccough, “that, hang me, but I think this same Reilly is as loyal a man as e'er a one amongst us. My name is George Johnston, and I'm not ashamed of it; and the truth is, that only Miss Folliard fell in love with Reilly, and refused to marry Sir Robert, Reilly would have been a loyal man still, and no ill-will against him. But, by —- it was too bad to burn his house and place—and see whether Sir Robert will come off the better of it. I myself am a good Protestant—show me the man that will deny that, and I'll become his schoolmaster only for five minutes. I do say, and I'll tell it to Sir Robert's face, that there's something wrong somewhere. Give me a Papish that breaks the law, let him be priest or layman107, and I'm the boy that will take a grip of him if I can get him. But, confound me, if I like to be sent out to hunt innocent, inoffensive Papishes, who commit no crime except that of having property that chaps like Sir Robert have their eye on. Now suppose the Papishes had the upper hand, and that they treated us so, what would you say?”
“All I can say is,” replied another of them, “that I'd wish to get the reward.”
“Curse the reward,” said Johnston, “I like fair play.”
“But how did Sir Robert come to know?” asked another, “that Reilly was with the parson'?”
“Who the deuce here can tell that?” replied several.
“The thing was a hoax,” said Johnston, “and a cursed uncomfortable one for us. But here comes these fellows, just as they went, it seems. Well, boys, no trail of this cunning fox?”
“Trail!” exclaimed the others. “Gad, you might as well hunt for your grandmother's needle in a bottle of straw. The truth is, the man's not in the country, and whoever gave the information as to the parson keeping him was some enemy of the parson's more than of Reilly's, I'll go bail108. Come, now, let us go back, and give an account of our luck, and then to our barracks.”
Now at this period it was usual for men who were prominent for rank and loyalty109, and whose attachment110 to the Constitution and Government was indicated by such acts and principles as those which we have hitherto read in the life of Sir Robert. Whitecraft—we say, it was usual for such as him to be allowed a small detachment of military, whose numbers were mostly rated, according to the services he required of them, by the zeal111 and activity of their employer, as well as for his protection; and, in order to their accommodation, some uninhabited house in the neighborhood was converted into a barrack for the purpose. Such was the case in the instance of Sir Robert Whitecraft, who, independently of his zeal for the public good, was supposed to have an eye in this disposition of things, to his own personal Safety. He consequently, had his little barrack so closely adjoining his house that a notice of five minutes could at any time have its inmates at his premises, or in his presence.
After these men went away, Reilly, having waited a few minutes, until he was satisfied that they had actually, one and all of them, disappeared, came down from the tree, and once more betook himself to the road. Whither to go he knew not. In consequence of having received his education abroad, his personal knowledge of the inhabitants belonging to the neighborhood was very limited. Go somewhere, however, he must. Accordingly, he resolved to advance, at all events, as far as he might be able to travel before bed-time, and then resign himself to chance for a night's shelter. One might imagine, indeed, that his position as a wealthy Roman Catholic gentleman, suffering persecution from the tool and scourge112 of a hostile government, might have calculated upon shelter and secrecy113 from those belonging to his own creed114. And so, indeed, in nineteen cases out of twenty he might; but in what predicament should he find himself if the twentieth proved treacherous115? And against this he had no guarantee. That age was peculiarly marked by the foulest116 personal perfidy117, precipitated118 into action by rapacity119, ingratitude120, and the blackest ambition. The son of a Roman Catholic gentleman, for instance, had nothing more to do than change his creed, attach himself to the government, become a spy and informer on his family, and he ousted121 his own father at once out of his hereditary122 property—an ungrateful and heinous123 proceeding15, that was too common in the time of which we write. Then, as to the people themselves, they were, in general, steeped in poverty and ignorance, and this is certainly not surprising when we consider that no man durst educate them. The government rewards, therefore, assailed124 them with a double temptation. In the first, the amount of it—taking their poverty into consideration—was calculated to grapple with and overcome their scruples125; and in the next, they were certain by their treachery to secure the protection of government for themselves.
Such, exactly, was the state of the country on the night when Reilly found himself a solitary126 traveller on the road, ignorant of his destiny, and uncertain where or in what quarter he might seek shelter until morning.
He had not gone far when he overtook another traveller, with whom he entered into conversation.
“God save you, my friend.”
“God save you kindly127, sir,” replied the other; “was not this an awful night?”
“If you may say so,” returned Reilly unconsciously, and for the moment forgetting himself, “well may I, my friend.”
Indeed it is probable that Reilly was thrown somewhat off his guard by the accent of his companion, from which he at once inferred that he was a Catholic.
“Why, sir,” replied the man, “how could it be more awful to you than to any other man?”
“Suppose my house was blown down,” said Reilly, “and that yours was not, would not that be cause sufficient?”
“My house!” exclaimed the man with a deep sigh; “but sure you ought to know, sir, that it's not every man has a house.”
“And perhaps I do know it.”
“Wasn't that a terrible act, sir—the burning of Mr. Reilly's house and place?”
“Who is Mr. Reilly?” asked the other.
“A Catholic gintleman, sir, that the soldiers are afther,” replied the man.
“And perhaps it is right that they should be after him. What did he do? The Catholics are too much in the habit of violating the law, especially their priests, who persist in marrying Protestants and Papists together, although they know it is a hanging matter. If they deliberately put their necks into the noose128, who can pity them?”
“It seems they do, then,” replied the man in a subdued129 voice; “and what is still more strange, it very often happens that persons of their own creed are somewhat too ready to come down wid a harsh word upon 'em.”
“Well, my friend,” responded Reilly, “let them not deserve it; let them obey the law.”
“And are you, of opinion, sir,” asked the man with a significant emphasis upon the personal pronoun which we have put in italics; “are you of opinion, sir, that obedience130 to the law is always a security to either person or property?”
The direct force of the question could not be easily parried, at least by Reilly, to whose circumstances it applied131 so powerfully, and he consequently paused for a little to shape his thoughts into the language he wished to adopt; the man, however, proceeded:
“I wonder what Mr. Reilly would say if such a question was put to him?”
“I suppose,” replied Reilly, “he would say much as I say—that neither innocence132 nor obedience is always a security under any law or any constitution either.”
His companion made no reply, and they walked on for some time in silence. Such indeed was the precarious133 state of the country then that, although the stranger, from the opening words of their conversation, suspected his companion to be no other than Willy Reilly himself, yet he hesitated to avow134 the suspicions he entertained of his identity, although he felt anxious to repose135 the fullest confidence in him; and Reilly, on the other hand, though perfectly136 aware of the true character of his companion, was influenced in their conversation by a similar feeling. Distrust it could not be termed on either side, but simply the operation of that general caution which was generated by the state of the times, when it was extremely difficult to know the individual on whom you could place dependence137. Reilly's generous nature, however, could bear this miserable manoeuvring no longer.
“Come, my friend,” said he, “we have been beating about the bush with each other to no purpose; although I know not your name, yet I think I do your profession.”
“And I would hold a wager,” replied other, “that Mr. Reilly, whose house was burned down by a villain31 this night, is not a thousand miles from me.”
“And suppose you are right?”
“Then, upon my veracity138, you're safe, if I am. It would ill become my cloth and character to act dishonorably or contrary to the spirit of my religion.
'Non ignara mali miseris succurrere disco.'
You see, Mr. Reilly, I couldn't make use of any other gender139 but the feminine without violating prosody140; for although I'm not so sharp at my Latin as I was, still I couldn't use ignarus, as you see, without fairly committing myself as a scholar; and indeed, if I went to that, it would surely be the first time I have been mistaken for a dunce.”
The honest priest, now that the ice was broken, and conscious that he was in safe hands, fell at once into his easy and natural manner, and rattled141 away very much to the amusement of his companion. “Ah!” he proceeded, “many a character I have been forced to assume.”
“How is that?” inquired Reilly. “How did it happen that you were forced into such a variety of characters?”
“Why, you see, Mr. Reilly—troth and maybe I had better not be naming you aloud; walls have ears, and so may hedges. How, you ask? Why, you see, I'm not registered, and consequently have no permission from government to exercise my functions.”
“Why,” said Reilly, “you labor142 under a mistake, my friend; the bill for registering Catholic priests did not pass; it was lost by a majority of two. So far make your mind easy. The consequence is, that if you labor under no ecclesiastical censure143 you may exercise all the functions of your office—that is, as well as you can, and as far as you dare.”
“Well, that same's a comfort,” said the priest; “but the report was, and is, that we are to be registered. However, be that as it may, I have been a perfect Proteus. The metamorphoses of Ovid were nothing to mine. I have represented every character in society at large; to-day I've been a farmer, and to-morrow a poor man (a mendicant), sometimes a fool—a rare character, you know, in this world—and sometimes a tiddler, for I play a little.”
“And which character did you prefer among them all?” asked Reilly, with a smile which he could not repress.
“Oh, in troth, you needn't ask that, Mr. R.—hem—you needn't ask that. The first morning I took to the fiddle144 I was about to give myself up to government at once. As for my part, I'd be ashamed to tell you how sent those that were unlucky enough to ear my music scampering145 across the country.”
“And, pray, how long is that since?”
“Why, something better than three weeks, the Lord pity me!”
“And what description of dress did you wear on that occasion?” asked Reilly.
“Dress-why, then, an old yellow caubeen, a blue frieze146 coat, and—movrone, oh! a striped breeches. And the worst of it was, that big Paddy Mullin, from Mullaghmore, having met me in old Darby Doyle's, poor man, where I went to take a little refreshment147, ordered in something to eat, and began to make me play for him. There was a Protestant in the house, too, so that I couldn't tell him who I was, and I accordingly began, and soon cleared the house of them. God bless you, sir, you could little dream of all I went through. I was one day set in the house I was concealed in, in the town of Ballyrogan, and only for the town fool, Art M'Kenna, I suppose I'd have swung before this.”
“How was that?” asked Reilly.
“Why, sir, one day I got the hard word that they would be into the house where I was in a few minutes. To escape them in my own dress I knew was impossible; and what was to be done? The poor fool, who was as true as steel, came to my relief. 'Here,' said he, 'exchange wid me. I'll put on your black clothes, and you'll put on my red ones'—he was dressed like an old soldier—'then I'll take to my scrapers, an' while they are in pursuit of me you can escape to some friend's house, where you may get another dress. 'God knows,' said he, with a grin on him I didn't like, 'it's a poor exchange on my part. You can play the fool, and cock your cap, without any one to ask you for authority,' says he, 'and if I only marry a wrong couple I may be hanged. Go off now.' Well, sir, out I walked, dressed in a red coat, military hat, white knee-breeches, and black leggings. As I was going out I met the soldiers. 'Is the priest inside, Art?' they asked. I pointed64 in a wrong direction. 'Up by Kilclay?' I nodded. They first searched the house, however, but found neither priest nor fool; only one of them, something sharper than the rest, went out of the back door, and saw unfortunate Art, dressed in black, running for the bare life. Of course they thought it was me they had. Off they started; and a tolerable chase Art put them to. At last he was caught, after a run across the country of about four miles; but ne'er a word came out of his lips, till a keen fellow, on looking closely at him, discovered the mistake. Some of them were then going to kill the poor fool, but others interfered148, and wouldn't allow him to be touched; and many of them laughed heartily149 when they saw Art turned into a clergyman, as they said. Art, however, was no coward, and threatened to read every man of them out from the altar. 'I'll exkimnicate every mother's son of you,' said he. 'I'm a reverend clargy; and, by the contents of my soger's cap, I'll close the mouths on your faces, so that a blessed pratie or a boult of fat bacon will never go down one of your villainous throats again; and then,' he added, 'I'll sell you for scarecrows to the Pope o' Room, who wants a dozen or two of you to sweep out his palace.' It was then, sir, that, while I was getting out of my red clothes, I was transformed again; but, indeed, the most of us are so now, God help us!”
They had now arrived at a narrow part of the road, when the priest stood.
“Mr. Reilly,” said he, “I am very tired; but, as it is, we must go on a couple of miles further, until we reach Glen Dhu, where I think I can promise you a night's lodging150, such as it will be.”
“I am easily satisfied,” replied his companion; “it would be a soft bed that would win me to repose on this night, at least.”
“It will certainly be a rude and a rough one,” said the priest, “and there will be few hearts there free from care, no more than yours, Mr. Reilly. Alas! that I should be obliged to say so in a Christian151 country.”
“You say you are fatigued,” said Reilly. “Take my arm; I am strong enough to yield you some support.”
The priest did so, and they proceeded at a slower pace, until they got over the next two miles, when the priest stopped again.
“I must rest a little,” said he, “although we are now within a hundred yards of our berth152 for the night. Do you know where you are?”
“Perfectly,” replied Reilly; “but, good mercy! sure there is neither house nor home within two miles of us. We are in the moors153, at the very mouth of Glen Dhu.'
“Yes,” replied his companion, “and I am glad we are here.”
The poor hunted priest felt himself, indeed, very much exhausted, so much so that, if the termination of his journey had been at a much longer distance from thence, he would scarcely have been able to reach it.
“God help our unhappy Church,” said he, “for she is suffering much; but still she is suffering nobly, and with such Christian fortitude154 as will make her days of trial and endurance the brightest in her annals. All that power and persecution can direct against us is put in force a thousand ways; but we act under the consciousness that we have God and truth on our side, and this gives us strength and courage to suffer. And if we fly, Mr. Reilly, and hide ourselves, it is not from any moral cowardice155 we do so. It certainly is not true courage to expose our lives wantonly and unnecessarily to the vengeance of our enemies. Read the Old Testament156 and history, and you will find how many good and pious157 men have sought shelter in wildernesses158 and caves, as we have done. The truth is, we feel ourselves called upon, for the sake of our suffering and neglected flocks, to remain in the country, and to afford them all the consolation and religious support in our power, God help them.”
“I admire the justice of your sentiments,” replied Reilly, “and the spirit in which they are—expressed. Indeed I am of opinion that if those who foster and stimulate159 this detestable spirit of persecution against you only knew how certainly and surely it defeats their purpose, by cementing your hearts and the hearts of your flocks together, they would not, from principles even of worldly policy, persist in it. The man who attempted to break down the arch by heaping additional weight upon it ultimately found that the greater the weight the stronger the arch, and so I trust it will be with us.”
“It would seem,” said the priest, “to be an attempt to exterminate160 the religion of the people by depriving them of their pastors161, and consequently of their Church, in order to bring them to the impression that, upon the principle of any Church being better than no Church, they may gradually be absorbed into Protestantism. This seems to be their policy; but how can any policy, based upon such persecution, and so grossly at variance162 with human liberty, ever succeed? As it is, we go out in the dead hours of the night, when even persecution is asleep, and administer the consolations163 of religion to the sick, the dying, and the destitute164. Now these stolen visits are sweeter, perhaps, and more efficacious, than if they took place in freedom and the open day. Again, we educate their children in the principles of their creed, during the same lonely hours, in waste houses, where we are obliged to keep the windows stuffed with straw, or covered with blinds of some sort, lest a chance of discovery might ensue. Such is the life we lead—a life of want and misery165 and suffering, but we complain not; on the contrary, we submit ourselves to the will of God, and receive this severe visitation as a chastisement166 intended for our good.”
The necessities of our narrative167, however, compel us to leave them here for the present; but not without a hope that they found shelter for the night, as we trust we shall be able to show.
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1
clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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iniquitous
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| adj.不公正的；邪恶的；高得出奇的 | |
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profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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glut
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| n.存货过多，供过于求；v.狼吞虎咽 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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outlawed
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| 宣布…为不合法（outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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22
gutted
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| adj.容易消化的v.毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的过去式和过去分词 )；取出…的内脏 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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minions
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| n.奴颜婢膝的仆从( minion的名词复数 )；走狗；宠儿；受人崇拜者 | |
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conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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cordon
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| n.警戒线，哨兵线 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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nefarious
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| adj.恶毒的，极坏的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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38
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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41
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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42
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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43
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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44
necromantic
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| 降神术的，妖术的 | |
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45
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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46
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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47
glutted
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| v.吃得过多( glut的过去式和过去分词 )；（对胃口、欲望等）纵情满足；使厌腻；塞满 | |
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48
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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49
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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50
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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51
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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52
exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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53
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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54
arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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55
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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56
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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57
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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58
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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59
exults
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的第三人称单数 ) | |
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60
gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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61
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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62
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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63
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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68
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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69
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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70
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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71
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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72
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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73
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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79
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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80
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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82
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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83
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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87
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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93
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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100
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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102
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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103
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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104
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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credibly
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| ad.可信地；可靠地 | |
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layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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108
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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111
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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112
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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113
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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114
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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115
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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116
foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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117
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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119
rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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120
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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121
ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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125
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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126
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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129
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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130
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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131
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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133
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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137
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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139
gender
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| n.（生理上的）性，（名词、代词等的）性 | |
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prosody
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| n.诗体论，作诗法 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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142
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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143
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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150
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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151
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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153
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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wildernesses
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| 荒野( wilderness的名词复数 )； 沙漠； （政治家）在野； 不再当政（或掌权） | |
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159
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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exterminate
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| v.扑灭，消灭，根绝 | |
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161
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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163
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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164
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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165
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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166
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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167
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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