Part 18

In pursuance of these benevolent intentions, the lieutenant, as a preliminary step, first knocked down the suspected rebel from County Kildare, which the weight of mettle in his fist rendered no difficult achievement. His garters then did duty as handcuffs: and with the aid of a brawny aide-de-camp (one such always attended him), he pinioned his victim hand and foot, and then most considerately advised him to pray for King George, observing that any prayers for his _own_ d—d _popish soul_ would be only time lost, as his fate in every world (should there be even a thousand) was decided to all eternity for having imagined the death of so good a monarch.

During this exhortation, the lieutenant twisted up his long cravat so as to make a firm, handsome rope, and then expertly sliding it over the rebel’s neck, secured it there by a double knot, drew the cravat over his own shoulders, and the aide-de-camp holding up the rebel’s heels, till he felt him _pretty easy_, the lieutenant with a powerful chuck drew up the poor devil’s head as high as his own (cheek by jowl), and began to trot about with his burden like a jolting cart-horse,—the rebel choking and gulping meanwhile, until he had no further solicitude about sublunary affairs—when the lieutenant, giving him a parting chuck, just to make sure that his neck was broken, threw down his load—the personal assets about which the aide-de-camp made a _present_ of to _himself_.

Now all this proceeding was very pains-taking and ingenious: and yet the ungrateful government (as Secretary Cook assured me) would have been better pleased had the execution taken place on timber and with hemp, according to old formalities.

To be serious:—this story is scarcely credible—yet it is a notorious fact; and the lieutenant, a few nights afterward, acquired the _sobriquet_ which forms a head to this sketch, and with which he was invested by the upper gallery of Crow Street Theatre—nor did he ever get rid of it to his dying-day.

The above _trotting_ execution (which was humorously related to me by an eye-witness) took place in the barrack-yard at Kerry House, Stephen’s Green. The _hangee_ was, I believe, (_as it happened_) in reality a rebel.

Providence, however, which is said to do “every thing for the best,” (though some persons who are half starving, and others who think themselves very unfortunate, will not allow it so much credit,) determined that Lieutenant H——’s loyalty and merits should meet their full reward in another sphere—where, being quite out of the reach of all his enemies, he might enjoy his destiny without envy or interruption. It therefore, very soon after the rebellion had terminated, took the lieutenant into its own especial keeping; and despatched a raging fever to bring him off to the other world, which commission the said fever duly executed after twenty-one days’ combustion;—and no doubt his ghost is treated according to its deserts; but nobody having since returned from those regions to inform us what has actually become of the lieutenant, it is still a _dead_ secret, and I fancy very few persons in Ireland have any wish for the opportunity of satisfying their curiosity. People however give a shrewd guess, that it is _possible_ he may be employed somewhere else in the very same way wherein he entertained himself in Ireland; and that after being duly furnished with a tail, horns, and cloven foot, no spirit could do infernal business better than the lieutenant.

CONVERSION AND INVERSION.

Rebel pranks—Caprice of the insurgents—Puns and piking—Archdeacon Elgy—His capture by the rebels—Captain Murphy’s harangue and argument—Proposal made to the Archdeacon—An “Orange parson” converted into a “green priest”—Father Cahill and Father Pat Elgy—Another exploit of Captain Murphy—Parson Owen of Wexford—His concealment in a grocer’s cockloft—Discovered by the _wattle boys_—Dragged to a window and hung therefrom, by his heels, over a number of pikes—His delirium, and escape through Captain Murphy’s humanity—Parson Owen’s superinduced squint, and consequent nuptials—His lady left a widow—Instance of the fatal effects of unpleasant and unexpected news.

We have, in the foregoing sketch, seen something of the unwarrantable acts whereof loyal zeal was capable. Let us now take a glance, in fairness and impartiality, at the conduct of the insurgents,—which varied exceedingly in different instances. Sometimes, almost as the humour of the moment guided them, they would treat such as fell in their power with lenity and moderation: at others, no degree of cruelty was spared toward those unfortunate individuals.

They had at their mercy, during the whole period, a man of high rank, their avowed, zealous, and active enemy, a Protestant and Orangeman. Yet, while numerous persons of inferior classes were piked and butchered, the Earl of Kingston was unmolested, and left at liberty on their evacuation of Wexford. It were to be wished that General Lake had shown similar generosity to Mr. Cornelius Grogan, whose hasty and unmerited execution by martial law savoured of deliberate murder as strongly as the death of most who were slaughtered by the rebels.

On many occasions during that dreadful struggle, jests were so strangely mixed up with murder, that it was not easy to guess which way a scene would terminate—whether in tragedy or comedy; so much depended on the sobriety or intoxication of the insurgents.

One or two anecdotes (out of hundreds worth recording) will serve to show in some degree the spirit of the times; and we will preface them by observing, that the district (the barony of Forth, in County Wexford,) most active in rebellion, most zealous and most sanguinary, was the identical point whereon Strongbow, the first British soldier who set foot in Ireland, had, six hundred and twenty seven years before, begun his colonization. Most of the Wexford rebels, indeed, were lineal descendants of the original Britons who came over there from South Wales and Bristol, and repeopled that district after their countrymen had nearly exterminated the aboriginal natives.

The rebels had obliged Major Maxwell, with the king’s troops, far too precipitately to evacuate Wexford; and that officer, by the rapidity of his movements, gave neither time nor notice to the loyalists to retreat with him. It was therefore considered, that Archdeacon Elgy, a dignitary of the Protestant church, was the most likely subject for the rebels to begin their slaughter with; and the general opinion ran that he would have at least a dozen pikes through his body before dinner-time on the day the insurgents entered.

Of this way of thinking was the divine himself: nor did the numerous corresponding surmises prove erroneous. Sentence of death was promptly passed upon the archdeacon, who was held to aggravate his offences by contumacy.

A certain shrewd fellow, yclept a _captain_ among the rebels, however, saw things in a different point of view; and, though without any particularly kind feelings toward the archdeacon, he, by use of a very luminous argument, changed the determination of his comrades.

“What’s the good,” said he, “of _piking_ the old man? Sure, if he’ll give in, and worship the Virgin in our chapel, won’t it be a better job? They say he’s a very good Orange parson, and why shouldn’t he make a good _green priest_, if he’ll take on with Father Cahill? Devil the much harm ever he did us!—so, if yees agree to that same, I’ll tell him, fair and easy, to _take on_ with the Virgin to-morrow in the big chapel, or he’ll find himself more _holy_ than _godly_ before the sun sets.”

The concluding joke, however trite, put them all in good humour; and the orator proceeded: “Come a couple of dozen of ye, boys, with wattles on your shoulders; give me the colours and cross, and we’ll go to Parson Elgy.”

In fact they went to the archdeacon, and Mr. Murphy, the spokesman, told him very quietly and civilly that he came to “offer his reverence life and liberty, and a good parish too, if he would only _do the thing_ cleverly in the way Father Cahill would show him.”

The reverend doctor, not comprehending the nature of the condition, and conceiving that they probably only required him to stand neuter, replied, in a quivering voice, “that he would never forget the obligations: he was well content with the cure he had, but not the less indebted to them for their kind offer to give him a better.”

“Ough!” said Captain Murphy, “your reverence happens to be all in the wrong.”

The archdeacon of course fell into his nervous fit again, and stood quaking as if both Saint Vitus’ dance and the _tic douloureux_ had assailed him at once with their utmost rancour.

“I am only come,” resumed Murphy, “just to give your reverence two little _choices_.”

“Oh, Lord! Captain Murphy, what are they?” cried the clerical gentleman.

“Either to take your turn to-morrow in the big _chapel_, with our clergy, and be one of them yourself, or to receive two-and-twenty pikes straight _through_ your reverence’s carcase, as you will otherwise do, before the sun sets this blessed day—and by my sowl it’s not far from that time now! (Here the doctor groaned most heavily.) One of the things,” pursued the rebel, “is quite easy for your reverence to do, and the other is quite easy for _us_ to do; and so there will be no great trouble in it either way. Come on, lads, and just show your _switches_ to his reverence.”

Above twenty long pikes were instantly flourished in the air with an hurra that nearly shook every nerve of the archdeacon out of its natural situation.

“Ah, gentlemen!” said he, “spare a poor old man, who never harmed any of you. For the love of God, spare me!”

“Arrah! be easy, parson,” said Captain Murphy: “sure there’s but _one_ God between us all, and that’s plenty, if there were as many more of us. So what are we differing and bothering about? whether you say your prayers in the _church_ or in the _chapel_, in _Latin_ or in _English_; whether you reckon them on your beads, or read them on your book,—sure it’s all one to Him, and no great _differ_, I should think, to any sensible gentleman,—especially when he cannot help himself! Boys, handle your switches; though, by my sowl, I’d be sorry to _skiver_ your reverence.”

The archdeacon, though an excellent orthodox parson, now began to see his way, and was too wise to have any thing to do with Captain Murphy’s _switches_ if it were avoidable. He recollected that the great bishops and archbishops who were roasted alive in Queen Mary’s time, for the very same reason, got but little credit from posterity for their martyrdom; and how could he expect _any_ for being _piked_, which was not half so dilatory a death as roasting? Then, again, he considered that twenty pikes in a man’s body would not be near as nourishing as one barnacle or lobster (on which he had for many years loved to feed). He deemed it better to make a merit of necessity; and accordingly, putting on a civil face, agreed to all their proposals. He then took a drink of holy water (which Captain Murphy always carried in a bottle about with him); made several crosses upon his forehead with a feather dipped in some “blessed oil” (tinged with green); and after every pike-man had shaken him by the fist, and called him Father Pat Elgy, it was finally settled he should next day be rechristened in “the big chapel” by all the Fathers, taught to celebrate mass as well as the best of them, and get a _protection_ for having _taken on_ as a true Catholic.

The gentlemen with their _switches_ now retired, uplifting shouts of exultation at having _converted_ the archdeacon, while that dignitary tottered back to his family, who had given him up for lost, were bewailing his cruel martyrdom, and triumphed at his return, though at the expense of his orthodoxy. A cold roast leg of mutton was then produced;—and heartily discussing that _creature comfort_, his reverence could not avoid congratulating himself when he observed the mark of the _spit_, and reflected that there would have been two-and-twenty much wider perforations drilled through his own body had not Captain Murphy made a _papist_ of him.

Next morning, _Father Elgy_ was duly christened _Patrick_; renounced Martin Luther, in the great chapel of Wexford, as an egregious impostor; and being appointed a _coadjutor_, celebrated mass with considerable dexterity and proper gesticulation. He subsequently set about getting the double manual by heart, that he might be ready to _chaunt_, as soon as Father Cahill should teach him the several tunes.

The archdeacon, though he had no great reason to be ashamed of his second christening, (particularly as he had always prayed against _sudden death_ while he was a Protestant,) could yet never bear, in after times, to hear the circumstance alluded to, since it could not be mentioned but a laugh was unavoidable. I often saw Murphy afterward: he had been generally humane, saved many lives, and was not prosecuted. He himself told me the foregoing story, with that exquisite simplicity which belongs almost exclusively to his rank of Irishmen.

Another Protestant clergyman did not fare quite so well as the archdeacon, being never able to look any man _straight_ in the face afterward. Parson Owen, brother to Miss Owen of Dublin (heretofore mentioned in the anecdotes of Doctor Achmet Borumborad), had a small living in the neighbourhood of Wexford; and as he looked for church preferment, was, of course, a violent, indeed an outrageous royalist. Now, as almost every man among his parishioners held a different creed, both in religion and politics, he was not over-popular in _quiet_ days; and when the bustle began, thinking it high time to secure his precious person, he retired for better security into the town of Wexford. He had not, however, consulted an _oracle_;—that being the first place attacked by the rebels: and Major Maxwell, as has been stated, having with his garrison retreated without beat of drum, the parson found himself necessitated to resort to a cockloft in a grocer’s house in the Bull-ring at Wexford; where, provisions not being quite handy, and an empty stomach good for contemplation, he had ample opportunity to reflect on the species of death he would, most likely meet. The _promotion_ of _Father Pat Elgy_ had not come to his knowledge.

Previous to this event, the parson had fallen in love with the only daughter of Mr. Brown, a rich trader, who had formerly kept a tan-yard in Enniscorthy; or rather his reverence _fell in love_ with a great number of _government debentures_, bearing interest at five per cent per annum, which the young lady informed him would be all her own if she “behaved herself.” He had, therefore, three cogent reasons for seeking to prolong his life:—first, the natural love of it; secondly, the debentures; and _lastly_, the damsel.

However, his security was by no means permanent. Early one morning, wishing to get a mouthful of fresh air, his reverence ventured to peep out of his garret-window into the street, and was instantly recognised by one of the _wattle-boys_, as the pike-men were then called.

“Hah! hah! your reverence is there, sure enough,” said the man of the wattle. “Ough! by my sowl if you budge out of that peep-hole till I come back again, we’ll make a big bonfire of ye and your Orange family altogether. Plaze, now, don’t let me _lose sight_ of your reverence while I run for my commander: it’s he’ll know what to do with the likes of ye.”

The rebel immediately ran off, but soon returned with the same “Captain Murphy,” and a whole company of pike-men, just to “skiver the parson.” Owen was a dapper, saucy, pert-looking, little fellow: he had good sharp eyes, an excellent use of his tongue, and was considered keen: and though a high churchman, he was thought at times to be rather more free and easy in his little sensualities than most bishops could reasonably have approved of. On this latter account, indeed, it was said that Mr. Brown, before-mentioned, did not relish him for a son-in-law. Ladies, however, are sometimes more charitable in this respect; Miss Brown conceived that whatever his _piety_ might amount to, his _love_, at least, was orthodox; and in this belief, she privately counselled her swain to affect more holiness before her papa:—to be lavish, for instance, in abuse of the powers of darkness; to speak slower, and in a more solemn tone; to get longer skirts made to his coats and waistcoats, let his hair grow lank, and say grace with becoming gravity and deliberation,—not as if he were impatient to rush at the eatables before they were properly blessed. “Eating,” added the didactic lady, “may become a vice if too luxuriously gratified; whereas hunger must be a virtue, or the popes would not so strongly recommend fasting.”

At this stage of the treaty, and of the castle-building on the foundation of a tan-yard, his reverence was unfortunately seized in the cockloft by Captain Murphy; and though the captain was a neighbour of his, and a decent sort of cattle-dealer, yet Parson Owen gave himself up for lost to an absolute certainty. His love was, therefore, quite quenched in horror: his throat swelled up as if he had a quinsy, and he anticipated nothing short of that which he had prayed against (like Doctor Elgy) every Sunday since he obtained holy orders—namely, a sudden death. He thought repentance was, as the French say, _meilleur tard que jamais_, and accordingly _began_ to repent and implore as hard as possible,—though without the most remote idea that his supplications would have time to reach heaven before he himself was turned loose on the road thither.

Captain Murphy, who, as we have seen, was, although coarse, a _good-tempered_ fellow, on entering the room with half-a-dozen wattle-boys, otherwise _executioners_, very civilly told Parson Owen, “He would be obliged to him just to prepare himself for the other world: whether the other world was a _better_ place or a _worse_, he would not attempt to divine;—all he could _assure_ his reverence was, that he should not be very long going there.—The boys below,” continued Captain Murphy, “having a good many more to send along with you to-day, your reverence will be so good as to come down to the first floor as soon as convenient, that you may drop more agreeably from thence out of the window on the pikes!”

Without much ceremony, the poor parson was handed down one flight of stairs, when Captain Murphy opening a window as wide as he could, begged Owen would be _kind enough_ to take off his coat and waistcoat, and throw them to the boys below; the remainder of his dress they might take from the corpse, after his reverence had _stiffened_!

The parson was nearly petrified; but there was no appeal. The captain’s attendants civilly helped him to remove his upper garments, for which he had the pleasure of seeing an amusing scramble under the window, accompanied by a hundred jokes upon the little parson’s surtout, which not being large enough for any middle-sized rebel, the smallest fellow among them appropriated it, and strutted about therein, amidst the horse-laughter of his companions.

Captain Murphy now ordered his wattlers to draw up close under the window, in order to welcome his reverence on the points of their weapons as he went out head-foremost. The order was promptly obeyed, with loud huzzas. The parson’s legs were tied firmly together with a towel which the captain found in the room; but his arms were left loose, to flourish about (as they said) like a _windmill_, and make the _sight_ the more _agreeable_!

“Now, boys,” said the captain, “I’ll out with his reverence; and when I let him go, do you all _catch him_!”

The parson was in good earnest thrust out of the window, and hung with his head downward and his arms at liberty, (a very disagreeable position,) to the great amusement of the gentlemen of the wattle, as was proved by a due mixture of grins and shouts. If any of my readers have seen a pack of hungry spaniels sitting on their haunches round a sportsman’s table, looking up to their master, and licking their jaws with impatience for the morsel he holds in his fingers to throw among them, they may imagine the enviable situation of Parson Owen, dangling out of the grocer’s window at the Bull-ring in Wexford;—Serjeant Murphy meanwhile holding his legs, and now and then giving him a little shake, as if he intended to let him drop—asking his reverence if he were _ready_ to _step down_ to the croppies.

The condemned Lutheran was, of course, all this time gazing with straining eyeballs upon the forest of pikes underneath. His blood (as if to witness the curiosity) rushed down to his head; and he naturally fell into a state of delirium. All he could recollect or relate afterward was, that “as his eyes met the pikes just under him, and heard the rebels call on the captain to ‘_let go!_’ the influx of blood to his brain operated as, he should imagine, apoplexy might;”—and the captain perceiving his prisoner to be senseless, and actually intending, if possible, to save him, cried out to the men below that “by J—s the parson was ‘stone dead’ of the _fright_, and was quite _kilt_!”

“Hurrah!” cried the wattle-boys.

“Hurrah!” repeated Captain Murphy: “The devil any use in dirtying your pikes with a dead parson! Better not _spoil his clothes_, boys! his shirt alone is worth a crown, if it’s worth a farthing.”

Some of the wattlers bespoke one garment—some another:—and these were thrown out of the window by Murphy, who left the poor parson in his “birth-day suit,” with five times as much blood in his head as it was anatomically entitled to. The attendants in the room all thought he was absolutely dead, and scampered down to assist in the _scramble_. But Murphy, as he departed, whispered to the owner of the house, “The parson has life enough in him, yet! you don’t think I intended to kill my neighbour, if I could help it, do you? But if ever he _shows_ again, or any of ye tell a single word of this matter, by J—s every living sowl shall be burnt into black cinders!”

The _defunct_ was then covered with a quilt, carried up to a back cockloft, and attended there by the two old women who, in fact, alone occupied the house. He remained safe and sound till the town was retaken by General Lake, who immediately hanged several disaffected gentlemen, cut off their heads by martial law, and therewith ornamented the entrance of the court-house, as heretofore described. Parson Owen was now fully liberated, with the only difference of having got a lank body, confused brains, a celestial squint, and an illegitimate sort of St. Vitus’s dance, commonly called a _muscular contortion_, which, by occasional twitches and jerks, imparted both to his features and limbs considerable _variety_.

However, by the extraordinary caprice of Dame Fortune, what the parson considered the most dreadful incident of his life turned out, in one respect, the most fortunate one. Mr. Brown, the father of his charmer, was moved to pity by his sufferings and escape, and still further conciliated by the _twist_ in his optic nerves, which gave the good clergyman the appearance, whenever he played the orator in his reading-desk or pulpit, of looking steadfastly and devoutly up to heaven. Hence he acquired the reputation of being marvellously increased in godliness; and Miss Brown, with her debentures, was at length committed to his “holy keeping.” I believe, however, the worthy man did not long survive to enjoy his wished-for prosperity. St. Vitus grew too familiar; and poor Owen became, successively, puny, sickly, and imbecile: the idea of the pikes never quitted his sensorium; and after a brief union, he left his spouse a dashing young widow, to look out for another helpmate, which I understand she was not long in providing.