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Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent

by William Carleton · English · Gutenberg #16009 · 1,168,498 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent

Author: William Carleton

Illustrator: M. L. Flanery


        
Release date: June 7, 2005 [eBook #16009]
                Most recently updated: March 2, 2018

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VALENTINE M'CLUTCHY, THE IRISH AGENT ***




Produced by David Widger





VALENTINE M'CLUTCHY,

THE IRISH AGENT.


By William Carleton




PREFACE


It was not my intention to have written any Preface to this book, but
to have allowed it simply to speak for itself. As it is very
likely, however, that both it and the motives of its author may be
misrepresented by bigoted or venal pens, I think it necessary to
introduce it to the reader by a few brief observations. In the first
place, then, I beg to say, that the work presents phases of Irish life
and manners that have never been given to the public before by any other
writer upon the same subject. So far, therefore, the book is a perfectly
new book--not only to the Irish people, but also to the English
and Scotch. I know not whether the authenticity of the facts and
descriptions contained in it may be called in question; but this I do
know, that there is not an honest man, on either side, who has lived in
the north of Ireland, and reached the term of fifty years, who will not
recognize the conduct and language of the northern Orangemen as just,
truthful, and not one whit exaggerated. To our friends across the
Channel it is only necessary to say, that I was born in one of the most
Orange counties in Ireland (Tyrone)--that the violence and licentious
abuses of these armed civilians were perpetrated before my eyes--and
that the sounds of their outrages may be said still to ring in my ears.

I have written many works upon Irish life, and up to the present day
the man has never lived who could lay his finger upon any passage of my
writings, and say “that is false.” I cannot, however, avoid remarking
here, that within the last few years, a more enlarged knowledge of life,
and a more matured intercourse with society, have enabled me to overcome
many absurd prejudices with which I was imbued. Without compromising,
however, the _truth or integrity_ of any portion of my writings, I am
willing to admit, which I do frankly, and without hesitation, that I
published in my early works passages which were not calculated to do
any earthly good; but, on the contrary, to give unnecessary offence to a
great number of my countrymen. It is due to myself to state this, and to
say, that in the last edition of my works I have left as many of these
passages out as I readily could, without diminishing the interest, or
disturbing the narrative.

_A fortiori_, then, this book may be considered as full of truth and
fidelity as any I have ever written: and I must say, that in writing
it I have changed no principle whatsoever. I am a liberal Conservative,
and, I trust, a rational one; but I am not, nor ever was, an Orangeman;
neither can I endure their exclusive and arrogant assumption of loyalty,
nor the outrages which it has generated. In what portion of my former
writings, for instance, did I ever publish a line in their favor, or in
favor of any secret and illegal confederacy?

Again, with regard to the Landlords and Agents, have I not written a
tale called the “Poor Scholar,” and another called “Tubber Derg”? in
both of which their corruptions and oppressions are exposed. Let it not
be mistaken. The two great curses of Ireland are bad Landlords and bad
Agents, and in nineteen cases out of every twenty, the origin of the
crime lies with the Landlord or Agent, instead of the tenant.

With respect to the Established Church of forty years ago, if there is
any man living who asserts that I have not _under-drawn_ her, rather
than otherwise, he is less intimate with truth than I could wish. On
this subject I challenge and defy inquiry. I grant you she is much
changed for the better now; but yet there is much to be done in her
still. It is true Irishmen at present get Mitres, a fact which was
unknown forty years ago. We have now more Evangelicism, and consequently
more sleekness and hypocrisy, more external decorum, and, I would also
trust, more internal spirituality. We have now many eminent and pious
Prelates in the Church, whose admirable example is enough even to shame
the Clergymen under them into a sense of their duty. It is to be wished
that we had many more such as they, for they are wanted. The Irish
Evangelical party are certainly very numerous, and they must pardon me
a slight anachronism or two regarding them, concerning what has been
termed the Modern Reformation in these volumes. Are those who compose
this same party, by the way, acquainted with their own origin? If not, I
will tell them. They were begotten by the active spirit of the Church
of Rome, upon their own establishment, when she was asleep; so that they
owe their very existence to those whom they look upon as their enemies:
and if it were only for this reason alone, there ought to be more
peace between them. In England the same spirit has effected a similar
seduction on that Establishment, but with this difference, that the
Puseyites are a much more obedient and dutiful progeny than the Irish
Evangelicals--inasmuch as they have the grace to acknowledge the
relationship.

This book was written to exhibit a useful moral to the country. It will
startle, I humbly trust, many a hard-hearted Landlord and flagitious
Agent into a perception of their duty, and it will show the negligent
and reckless Absentee how those from whose toils and struggles he
derives his support, are oppressed, and fleeced, and trampled on in his
name.

It will also teach the violent and bigoted Conservative--or, in other
words, the man who _still_ inherits the Orange sentiments of past
times--a lesson that he ought not to forget. It will also test the whole
spirit of modern Conservatism, and its liberality. If there be at the
press, or anywhere else, a malignant bigot, with great rancor and little
honesty, it is very likely he will attack my book; and this, of course,
he is at liberty to do. I deny, however, that modern Conservatism is
capable of adopting or cherishing the outrages which disgraced the
Orangemen of forty years ago, or even of a later period. And for this
reason I am confident that the Conservative Press of Ireland will
not only sustain me, but fight my battles, if I shall be ungenerously
attacked. Let them look upon these pictures, and if it ever should
happen that arms and irresponsible power shall be entrusted to them,
perhaps the recollection of their truth may teach them a lesson of
forbearance and humanity toward those that differ from them in creed,
that may be of important service to our common country. If so, I
shall have rendered a service to that country, which, as is usual, may
probably be recognized as valuable, when perhaps my bones are mouldering
in the clay, and my ear insensible to all such acknowledgments.

As for, myself, I have been so completely sickened by the bigoted
on each side, that I have come to the determination, as every honest
Irishman ought, of knowing no party but my country, and of devoting such
talents as God has given me, to the promotion of her general interests,
and the happiness of her whole people.

Dublin, December 24, 1844.




CHAPTER I.--An Irish Pair and Spoileen Tent

--A Marriage Proposal--An Under Agent--An Old Irish Squire and Union
Lord.


The town of Castle Cumber it is not our intention to describe at
more length than simply to say, that it consists of two long streets,
intersecting each other, and two or three lanes of cabins--many of them
mud ones--that stretch out of it on each side at right angles. This
street, and these straggling appendages, together with a Church, a
Prison, a Court-house, a Catholic chapel, a few shops, and half a
dozen public houses, present to the spectator all the features that are
generally necessary for the description of that class of remote country
towns of which we write. Indeed, with the exception of an ancient Stone
Cross, that stands in the middle of the street, and a Fair green, as
it is termed, or common, where its two half-yearly fairs are held, and
which lies at the west end of it, there is little or nothing else to be
added. The fair I particularly mention, because on the day on which the
circumstances I am about to describe occurred, a fair was held in the
town, and upon the green in question. The month was December--the day
stormy and unpropitious. There had been a deep snow and hard frost
for nearly three weeks before; but now the aspect of the white earth
contrasted wildly with the large masses of black clouds which hung
motionless in the air, and cast a dark and gloomy spirit not only over
the appearance of inanimate nature, but into the heart of man himself.

About noon, just when the whole fair had been assembled, the storm
commenced with wind, sleet, and rain. Never was a more striking or
unexpected change produced. Women tucked up, nearly to the knees, their
garments, soaked with wet, clinging to their bodies and limbs, as if
a part of themselves--men drenched and buttoned up to the chin--all
splashing through the slippery streets, their shoes spouting with
snow-broth--the falling of tents--the shouting against the loudness
of the storm, in order to be heard--the bleating of sheep, lowing of
cattle, the deafening and wild hum of confused noises--all, when added
to the roaring of the sweeping blast, the merciless pelting of the rain,
and the inclement character of the whole day, presented a scene that
was tempestuous and desolate beyond belief. Age, decrepid and
shivering--youth, benumbed and stiffened with cold--rich and poor,
man and woman, all had evidently but one object in view, and that was
shelter.

Love, charity, amusement, business, were all either disappointed or
forced to suspend their operations, at least for the present. Every
one ran or walked as quickly as possible, with the exception of some
forenoon drunkard, who staggered along at his ease, with an eye half
indolent and half stupid, careless, if not unconscious of the wild
uproar, both elemental and otherwise, by which he was surrounded.

Nay, the very beggars and impostors--to whom, in general, severe
weather on such occasions is a godsend, as it presents them to their
fellow-creatures in a more pitiable aspect--were glad to disperse. In
truth, the effect of the storm upon them was perfectly miraculous.
Many a poor creature, blind from birth or infancy, was gifted with, or
restored to excellent sight; the maimed were suddenly cured--the deaf
made to hear--the dumb to speak--and the study baccagh, or cripple,
bounded away, at the rate of six miles an hour, cursing the whole thing
as a bad spec--a dead failure.

Solemn assignations of long promise, rustic courtships, and earnest
match-makings, were all knocked up, unless in case of those who availed
themselves of the early part of the day. Time and place, in fact, were
completely forgotten by the parties, each being anxious only to secure
the nearest and most commodious shelter. Nay, though ashamed to write
it, we are bound to confess that some of our countrymen were ungallant
enough, on meeting with their sweethearts, fairly to give them the
slip, or only to recognize them with a kind of dreary and equivocal
salutation, that might be termed a cross between a wink and a shiver.
Others, however, gallantly and magnanimously set the tempest at
defiance, or blessed their stars for sending them an opportunity of
sitting so close to their fair inamoratas, in order that their loving
pressure might, in some degree, aided by a glass of warm punch,
compensate the sweet creatures for the unexpected drenching they had
got.

It has been well observed, that there is no class of life in which
instances of great virtue and fortitude may not be found; and the
Justness of the apothegm was fully corroborated here. Cold, bitter and
tempestuous and terrible as was the day, amidst rain, wind, sleet, and
hail, there might be seen, in a thoroughfare about the centre of the
town, a cripple, apparently paralytic from the middle down, seated upon
the naked street, his legs stretched out before him, hirpling onward; by
alternately twisting his miserable body from right to left; while, as
if the softer sex were not to be surpassed in feats of hardihood or
heroism, a tattered creature, in the shape of woman, without cap, shoe,
or stocking, accompanied by two naked and shivering children, whose
artificial lamentations were now lost in those of nature, proceeded up
the street, in the very teeth of the beating tempest, attempting to sing
some dismal ditty, with a voice which resembled the imagined shriekings
of a ghoul, more than the accents of a human being. These two were the
only individuals who, in the true spirit of hardened imposture, braved
all the fury of the elements in carrying out their principles--so true
is it, that a rogue will often advance farther in the pursuit of a
knavish object, than an honest man will in the attainment of a just one.
To them may be added the poor fool of the town, Joe Lockhart, who, from
his childhood, was known to be indifferent to all changes of weather,
and who now, elated by the festive spirit of a fair day, moved about
from place to place, without hat or shoe--neither of which he ever
wore--just with as much indifference as if it had been a day in the
month of June.

If the inclemency of the day, however, was injurious to the general
transaction of business, there was one class to whose interests it amply
contributed--I mean the publicans, and such as opened _shebeen_ houses,
or erected refreshment tents for the occasion. In a great portion
of Ireland there are to be found, in all fairs, what the people term
_spoileen_ tents--that is, tents in which fresh mutton is boiled, and
sold out, with bread and soup, to all customers. I know not how it
happens; but be the motive or cause what it may, scarcely any one ever
goes into a spoileen tent, unless in a mood of mirth and jocularity. To
eat spoileen seriously, would be as rare a sight as to witness a wife
dancing on her husband's coffin. It is very difficult, indeed,
to ascertain the reason why the eating of fresh mutton in such
circumstances is always associated with a spirit of strong ridicule and
humor. At all events, nothing can exceed the mirth that is always to be
found among the parties who frequent such tents. Fun, laughter, jest,
banter, attack, and repartee fly about in all directions, and the only
sounds heard are those of light-hearted noise and enjoyment.

Perhaps if the cause of this were closely traced, it might be found
to consist in a sense of shame, which Paddy good humoredly attempts
to laugh away. It is well known that the great body of the people pass
through life, without ever tasting beef or mutton--a, circumstance which
every one acquainted with the country knows to be true. It is also a
fact, that nineteen out of every twenty who go in to eat spoileen, are
actuated more by curiosity than hunger, inasmuch as they consist of such
persons as have never tasted it before. This, therefore, being generally
known, and each possessing latent consciousness of its truth, it is
considered best to take the matter in good humor, and escape the shame
of the thing, together with the poverty it implies, by turning it into
ridicule and jest. This indeed, is pretty evident, from the nature
of the spoileen keeper's observations on being paid, which is
usually--“Thank you, Barney; you may now considher yourself a
gintleman;” or if a female--“Long life to you, Bridget; you may now go
into high life any time.”

It is unnecessary to say, that on the day in question, the spoileen
tents were crowded to suffocation. In general these are pretty large,
sometimes one, occasionally two fires being kept in each; over these,
placed upon three large stones, or suspended from three poles, united
at top, is the pot or pots in which the spoileen is boiled; whilst
patiently in a corner of the tent, stand the poor invalid sheep, that
are doomed, as necessity may require, to furnish forth this humorous
entertainment.

Truth to tell, there are many reasons why this feast is a comic one.
In the first place, the description of mutton which they get is badly
calculated to prejudice honest Paddy in favor of that food in general,
it being' well known that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, the
sacrifice falls upon disease, poverty, and extreme old age; or, if there
be any manifestation of humanity in the selection, it is--that while the
tenderer sex is spared, the male one is in general certain to be made
the victim, but never unless when he has been known to reach a most
patriarchal length of years. Then the suddenness of the act which
converts a portion of the venerable patriarch into a component part of
honest Paddy, is equally remarkable; for it generally happens that the
animal now standing in a corner of the tent, will in about half an
hour be undergoing the process of assimilation in his (Paddy's) gastric
region. The elastic quality of the meat is indeed extraordinary, and
such as, with the knowledge of that fact, does sometimes render
Paddy's treat of spoileen to his sweetheart an act of very questionable
gallantry. Be this as it may, there is scarcely anything in life richer
than to witness a tent of spoileen eaters in full operation. Tugging,
pulling, dragging, tearing, swinging of the head from side to side, want
of success, loss of temper, fatigue of jaw, recovery of good humor, and
the wolfish rally, mingled with mock curses, loud laughter, shouting and
singing, all going on together, are the ordinary characteristics of this
most original banquet.

About the centre of the town stood one of those houses of entertainment
which holds rank in such towns as a second rate inn. On the day in
question it was painfully overcrowded, and such was the hubbub of
loud talk, laughter, singing, roaring, clattering of pewter pots, and
thumping of tables, that it was almost impossible to hear or understand
anything in the shape of conversation. To this, however, there was one
exception. A small closet simply large enough to hold a table, and two
short forms, opened from a room above stairs looking into the stable
yard. In this there was a good fire, at which sat two men, being, with
a bed and small table, nearly as many as it was capable of holding with
ease.

One of these was a stout, broad-shouldered person, a good deal
knock-kneed, remarkably sallow in the complexion, with brows black
and beetling. He squinted, too, with one eye, and what between this
circumstance, a remarkably sharp but hooked nose, and the lowering
brows aforesaid, there was altogether about him a singular expression of
acuteness and malignity. In every sense he was a person against whom
you would feel disposed to guard yourself, whether in the ordinary
intercourse of life and its transactions, or still more in the secret
workings of the darker and more vindictive passions. He was what they
call a down-looking man; that is, one who in conversation could never
look you straight in the face, which fact, together with a habit of
quivering observable in his upper lip, when any way agitated, gave
unquestionable proof that his cowardice was equal to his malignity, as
his treachery was to both. His age might be about fifty, or, perhaps
beyond it.

The other was a tall man, well featured, of a clear fresh complexion,
a fine blue eye, and altogether, a kind, benevolent expression of
countenance. He had been rather stout, but not robust, and might,
perhaps, at the time we write of, be about the same age as his
companion. He was evidently a man of respectability, well dressed, not
badly educated, and on the present occasion wore good broadcloth and
top boots. The contrast between him and the other, was in nothing more
striking than the honest, joyous spirit of his laughter, which rang
clearly and mellowly on your ear, leaving behind it an expression of
candor, light-heartedness, and good nature, that could not be mistaken.
“It's idle talk to speak about going such a day as this,” observed the
beetle-browed man, who stirred up the fire with something that passed
for a poker, in reply; “and to tell you the truth, upon my credit, Mr.
M'Loughlin, I'm not sorry that we happened to meet. You're a man I've
a sincere regard for, and always had--and on that account--well have
something more to drink.” So saying, he stamped upon the floor, which,
was exactly over the bar, in order that some one might attend them with
the liquor.

“I'm obliged to you, Val,” replied his companion dryly, “for your good
opinion of me; but at the same time, God forbid that I should ever
deserve it--eh? ha, ha, ha. Well, well, let us have some drink, as you
say, at all events; only it must be at my expense as well as the rest.
Well, sure enough, you were the devil's whip-thong in your day, and
if you haven't repented yet, all I can say is, there is little time to
lose, if you wish to have a bright look up at the last day”--

“Ha, ha, go on, Mr. M'Loughlin, we all know you, the same pleasant
fellow you ever were, and upon my credit, as good a companion as any
one could sit with. All I wish is that we had here more of the family on
both sides, that the boys and girls might have something to whisper to
one another.”

“I didn't care we had, Val, my boy; but how on earth will we get home?
Indeed such a terrible day I've seldom seen, for many years.”

“Faith, it's good to have a dry roof over our heads, and a warm fire
before us, at any rate. There's many a poor half-drowned devil in the
fair, would give a trifle to change places with us; there is, upon my
credit.”

In a few minutes the refreshments came in, much to the satisfaction
of the parties, who felt a strong sense of comfort, on contrasting the
warmth of their snug little room with the uproar of the storm that raged
without, and spent its fury upon the cold, bleak, and almost deserted
streets.

“I am glad, indeed, Mr. M'Loughlin,” continued his companion, “that
I happened to meet with you to-day--you and I are now neighbors, and
surely we ought to live like neighbors.”

“Well,” replied M'Loughlin dryly, “and don't we do so? You haven't found
me troublesome as a neighbor, have you? Eh, Val, my man?”

“No,” said the other, “certainly I have--upon my credit I haven't, an'
that's what I complain of; neither you nor your family associate with me
or mine.”

“Tut, Val, man,” replied M'Loughlin, still in the same dry, ironical
tone as before, “surely it's not long since you came to march us. It's
only two years and a half since you wormed out the O'Hagans, then the
farm lay near two years idle--ay--why, man, you're not four months our
neighbor yet.”

“No--not all out; still, Mr. M'Loughlin, somehow you don't treat me or
my family as neighbors. If you have to borrow anything, no matter what
it is, you never come to me for it. It was only the other day that you
wanted a rope to pull that breeding mare of yours out of the drain--and
yet you sent past me near half a mile, up to Widow Lenehan's to borrow
it.”

“Heavens pity you, Val, for it's a hard case; but every one has their
troubles, and it seems you are not without your own, poor man--eh--ha!
ha! ha!--Well, never mind, my friend; you're better off now for all
that, than when you were only a process-server on the estate; however,
I'll tell you what, Val the Vulture--you see I can be neighborly
sometimes--just let me know whenever you stand in need of a rope--mark,
I don't say whenever you deserve it--and may I never taste worse liquor
than this, but you shall have it with right good will, hoping still that
you'll make a proper use of it--ha! ha! ha! Come, man, in the mean time
take your liquor, an' don't look as if you'd eat me without salt; for I
tell you if you tried it, you'd find Brian M'Loughlin a tougher morsel
than you imagine.”

“If anybody else spoke to me in the style you do, Brian, I'd not be apt
to overlook it; upon my credit and reputation I would not.”

“No, but you'd look round it may be, ha! ha! ha! but go on, Vulture, who
minds what I say?”

“Nobody, to be sure, because you make one laugh whether they will or
not.”

“Faith, Vulture dear, and that's what nobody can tax you with; or if
you do, it's on the wrong side of the mouth you do it--and they say that
same is but indifferent mirth, Val.”

“I wish, Brian, you would sometimes speak seriously, and besides, you're
always hard, too hard, upon me. Anything I did harshly, it was always in
the discharge of my duty.”

“Never mind, Val, the fewer of those old sores you rip up, the better
for yourself--I'm not going to put you through your catechism about
them. If you're wise, let byegones be byegones; take that advice from
me. Whatever tricks you may have practised, you're now a wealthy man,
and for the same reason the world will help you forget them, if you keep
your toe in your pump.”

“I _am_ a wealthy man, and can set the world at defiance, if it goes to
that; yes, Brian, a wealthier man than the world thinks--and as I said,
I defy it.”

“Faith, and you needn't, for the world won't put you to that trouble, at
least a great part of it, if you were ten times the vulture you are, so
long as you have a full purse. Eh, do you perceive me? ha! ha! ha!”

“Well, damn the devil, heaven pardon me for swearing, for it's a thing I
hate----”

“----And yet, many a fat oath you've bolted in your time. Now on the
nick of your conscience, Val darling, how many Bibles did you wear out,
by a long and honest course of hard swearing?--eh--ha! ha! ha!”

“Ha! ha! ha! Brian, I see there is little use in speaking to you, or
being angry with you; you are a devilish pleasant hearty fellow, only
something a little too rough about the tongue.”

“Never mind, Val, by all accounts it would be easy to reckon them; but
seriously, is it true that the lower joint of your right thumb is horny,
in consequence of having caught the character of your conscience from
having kissed it so often?”

“Go on, Brian, go on; to be sure it is; they may say what they like--I
am not depending upon them, and I care little. But now, Brian, there
is one thing I will say, and I have long wished for an opportunity of
saying it.”

“That's my bully, out with it; don't be dashed, Val, you'll get over
your modesty; upon my credit you will--ha! ha! ha!”

“D--n it, you can't be serious for a minute; but no matter, I will
out with it--here's your health and fireside, in the mean time!” Brian
merely nodded in reply, but said nothing. “Now you know, Brian, your
farm and mine lie very snugly beside one another; observe that that's
what I begin with.”

“Very good.”

“Again, your family and mine live very close to one another, too.”

“Very good.”

“Now, what if part of the farms, and part of the families were to become
united, and get spliced together, eh?”

“Very good, very good.”

“Well, but do you really think so, Brian?”

“Go on, if you please, and let us hear more of it; state your case, as
you say at the sessions.”

“Well, then, there's your daughter Mary, a handsome girl, and, by all
accounts, as good as she is handsome--and there's my son Phil, who,
excepting the cast (* Squint)--is--but, at any rate, if he's no beauty,
he's a stout young fellow, for you know yourself that that little
closeness about the knees is always a sign of strength.”

“That little closeness, Val!--why, Vulture darling, isn't one knee sugar
candy, and the other licking it?--but go on, it's not bad for so far, go
on; upon my credit it's not.”

“I am glad you like it for so far--then seriously, what would you think
of a marriage between them?”

“Devil a prettier move you could make, Val. As you say, the farms and
the families lie convenient to one another--and I don't see what's to
prevent your proposal from being realized. You'll do well for Phil, of
course--for although he has the squint in both eyes, instead of only in
one, like yourself--and is twisted very much about the knees, more than
you are a good deal--still, Val--neighbor Val, as I now may call you--he
is a stout, left-legged, round-shouldered blade; and I question whether
the red poll does not become him better than a black one like yours
would.”

“Why I grant you, Brian, that he looks better on horseback than on foot,
and when mounted on 'Handsome Harry,' with top-boots and spurs, it's
not on every highway you could meet his equal.”

“Devil a lie in that, Val--nor a boy better made to ride or shoot round
a corner you could not meet in Europe--but never mind; go on, Val--go
on, my friend; no, faith, on hill or in hollow, it would not be easy to
match him.”

“He'd make an excellent good husband.”

“He would not be your son if he did not--well?”

“Well, as to that, if the truth was known, I know where the blame
would lie--your daughter will not be the shrew and scold to him that my
blister was to me--upon my credit she won't.”

“Devil, a lie in that either, Val--well, well--oh! I'll take my oath she
won't.”

“I don't see why he and she might not be very happy together--you are
able to do handsomely for her, as report goes.”

“And willing, Val, and a bad father I'd be, if I were not.”

“Well then, Brian, so far all looks fair, and devilish glad I am that I
broached the thing at once. I have been thinking of it ever since I came
to the neighborhood--upon my credit I have.”.

“Faith, and so am I glad of it--but what's to be done next, Val
darling?”

“Why the less time that's lost upon it the better--we must bring the
youngsters together till they get acquainted--then we can have another
meeting, and settle the match out of hand. Did you ever see Phil on
'Handsome Harry?'”

“Didn't I?--to be sure I did--and upon my word, Val, he's a credit to
the horse he rides, as the horse is to him--a comely couple they are in
truth. But, Val, or neighbor Val, as I now may call you, don't you think
it would be better to wind up this business now that our hand's in for
it? Let us hear what you'll do, and I'll follow you on my part, for
there's no use in losing time about it--upon my credit there's not.”

“What would you think, then, of the farm we're in now--that is, the
O'Hagan property, as you call it? Suppose I gave him that, what will
you come down with for the girl? I know it can't be under three
hundred--come, say three hundred, and it's a match.”

“Three hundred! Oh! Val, you're too soft--too moderate--too mild--indeed
you are--why three hundred would be nothing against the O'Hagan
property, as you call it--and, indeed, I don't intend to put my daughter
off under five hundred, and that's nearly double what three is--eh, Val,
what do you say, upon your credit now?”

“Faith, I'll not quarrel with you if you make it six or eight.”

“Well now,” said M'Loughlin, rising up, whilst his honest features were
lit with indignation, “this joke or this impudence on your part, has
gone far enough--listen to me. What did I or my family do, I ask my
own conscience in the name of God--what sin did we commit--whom did we
oppress--whom did we rob--whom did we persecute--that a scoundrel like
you, the bastard spawn of an unprincipled profligate, remarkable only
for drunkenness, debauchery, and blasphemy--what, I say, did I and my
family do, that you, his son, who were, and are to this day, the low,
mean, willing scourge of every oppressor, the agent of their crimes--the
instrument of their villianies--you who undermined the honest man--who
sold and betrayed the poor man--who deceived and misled the widow and
her orphans, and rose upon their ruin--who have robbed your employers
as well as those you were employed against--a double traitor--steeped in
treachery, and perjured a thousand times to the core of your black and
deceitful heart--what crime, I say again, did I or mine commit--that
we, whose name and blood has been without a stain for a thousand years,
should suffer the insult that you now have offered Us--eh, look me in
the face now if you can, and answer me if you are able?”

M'Cloughlin as he concluded, calmly folded his arms, and looked at his
companion resolutely but sternly. The other, to do him justice, did
certainly raise his head, and fix his evil eye upon him for a moment--it
dropped after a single glance; in truth, he quailed before M'Loughlin;
his upper lip, as usual, quivered--his brow lowered, and looked black as
midnight, whilst all the rest of his face became the color of ashes.
In fact, that white smile, which is known to be the very emblem of
cowardice and revenge, sat upon his countenance, stamping upon it at
once the character of the spectre and the demon--a being to be both
feared and hated.

“Well, Brian M'Loughlin,” returned the other, “hear me.”

“Don't dare to Brian me, sir,” returned M'Loughlin; “I'm a very humble
man, and ought to be an humble man, for I know well what a sinner I
am before God--but for all that, and if it were against even
religion itself--I feel too proud to suffer you to speak to me as you
do--no--don't Brian me, but listen and let me show you what you are, and
what you have been; I can't say what you will be, that does not lie with
any but God.”

“Well,” said M'Clutchy, “go on; I now can hear you, and what is more, I
wish to hear you--and whisper--speak your worst.”

It is said, that both cowardice and despair have their courage, and it
would appear from the manner and action of this man, that he now felt
actuated by some vague feeling resembling that which we have described.
He rose up and said,

“Brian M'Loughlin, do you think I ever can forget this?”

“What do you mean by that,” said M'Loughlin, “look me in the face, I
say, and tell me what you mean by it. I'm a man, and an honest man, and
there's no treachery about me.”

The sternness with which he spoke, made the other quail again.

“There was little in it,” he replied, in a rebuked but cold and
malignant spirit; “I didn't think you were so violent. I bore a great
deal from you this day, Mr. M'Louglin--a great deal, indeed, and so
patiently as I bore it too; upon my credit I did.”

M'Loughlin made no reply, but stamped on the floor, in order to bring up
some person to whom he might pay the reckoning.

“You need not stamp,” said the other, “this is my share of the
reckoning.”

“Your share, no: I told you before, it must not be yours. I wouldn't
have it said, that bit or sup, paid for by your ill-gotten wealth,
should ever cross my lips--no, no.”

The waiter, or rather waitress, a red-haired, barefooted wench, now came
up.

“Here,” said M'Loughlin, “take the refreshments we've had last out of
that, and keep the change to yourself. I have settled what we've had
before, as well as this.”

“And why not allow me to settle for this?” asked M'Clutchy.

“Because,” replied this honest and respectable man, “I could not swallow
a thimbleful of anything paid for by your money; what is it? If I did I
would dream for weeks of all that you have done, or if I didn't dream,
the sorrows and the wrongs of my near relative, Widow O'Hagan and her
family, would prevent me from sleeping; the Kellys that you've driven to
beggary--The Gormleys that you got put out--good God! and who now holds
their places? Your own cousin. It's useless, however, to mention all
you've done. You, Val the Vulture, as the people call you, are one of
those scourges that rise and flourish upon the distresses of the poor,
and the injustice that you yourself bring upon them by your falsehood
and calumny; and all because the property they live on is neglected by
those who have a right to look after it. Ay, there is another of your
white and cowardly laughs. Well, you know that there is not a neglected
estate in the country but can produce another vulture like yourself,
playing the same heartless pranks upon the poor people--tying,
misrepresenting, swaggering over and robbing them, and that, too, in the
open face of day, merely because you think there is no one to bring you
to an account.

“Now go home,” he added, “and when next you want to get a wife for your
spanking son, that's likely to become a squireen upon our hands, don't
come to Brian M'Loughlin, who knows you from the paring of the nails to
the core of the heart.”

M'Glutchy looked at him and laughed again; “before you go, at all
events,” he replied, “I hope you remember the observation I made when I
introduced the discourse.”

“I can't say I do,” said M'Loughlin, “but I suppose you will let us hear
it.”

“I will,” replied Val, and his brow darkened as before. “It was
this--your farm and mine lie very snugly together--observe, I said,
'_that's what I begin with_'--didn't I say that?”

“You did, and now what else do you say?”

“The very same thing--that _your farm, and mine lie snugly
together_--and mark me, Mr. M'Loughlin--”

“I do--oh, upon my credit I do--ha, ha, ha!”

“Than _that's what I end with_.”

“Ah,” replied M'Loughlin indignantly, “you think you have the ball at
your own foot, now that old Topertoe is gone, and his son has made you
his under agent. A nice job indeed it was, that transformed old drunken
Tom Topertoe into Lord Cumber, and made his son, the present Lord, too
proud to live on his own estate. However, I'd be glad to see the honest
man that ever envied the same old Tom his title, when we all know that
he got it for selling his country. As for you, Vulture, I defy and
despise you; when my rent's due, thank God I am able to pay it, so you
may do your worst. While Mr. Hickman's over you, the tenants have some
protection, in spite of your villainy, you unprincipled scoundrel.”

“Our farms lie snugly together, Mr: M'Loughlin, and _that's what I end
with_.”

It was from the town of Castle Cumber, which we have described at the
opening of our narrative, that old Tom Topertoe, a squire of the true
Irish kidney, took his title. Topertoe, or Lord Castle Cumber, as we
must now call him, like many others, had the high honor of being a Union
Lord--that, is to say his attachment to his principles was so steady,
that he did not hesitate to sell his country for a title, and we may
add, something besides. It is not our intention, at this distance of
time, to discuss the merits of either the union or its repeal; but in
justice to truth and honor, or, perhaps, we should rather say, fraud and
profligacy, we are constrained to admit, that there is not to be found
in the annals of all history, any political negotiation based upon such
rank and festering corruption, as was the legislative union. Had the
motives which actuated the English government towards this country been
pure, and influenced by principles of equality and common justice, they
would never have had recourse to such unparalleled profligacy. This is
self-evident, for those who seek an honorable end will scorn to obtain
it by foul and dishonorable means. The conduct of England, therefore, in
this base and shameless traffic, is certainly a _prima face_ evidence
of her ultimate policy--a policy blacker in the very simplicity of its
iniquity than its worst enemies can paint it, and so obvious in its
character, that we question whether a man could be found, of ordinary
information, belonging to any party, capable at this moment of
deliberately and conscientiously defending it, so far as pertains to
this transaction. But enough of this.

Before the union, old Topertoe was master of three votes--that is, he
sat himself for the county, and returned members for two boroughs. He
was known by the sobriquet of Pater Noster Tom--not from any disposition
to devotion; but because, whether in parliament, on the hustings, or,
indeed, anywhere else, he never made a speech longer than the Lord's
Prayer. And yet, short as it was, it generally puzzled the shrewdest
and most sagacious of his audience to understand it. Still, though not
without his faults, he was by no means a bad landlord, as landlords
went. 'Tis true he was fond of his wine and of his wench--as a proof of
which, it was well known that he seldom or ever went to,bed with less
than four or five bottles under his belt; and as touching the latter,
that he had two agents in pay to cater for his passions. In both these
propensities he was certainly countenanced by the usages and moral
habits of the times; and the truth is, he grew rather popular than
otherwise, precisely on account of them. He was bluff, boisterous, and
not ill-natured--one of that bygone class who would horsewhip a tenant
to-day and fight a duel for him to-morrow. Above all things, he resided
on his estate, knew all his tenantry by name and person, and contracted,
by degrees, a kind of anomalous attachment for them, merely because they
were his property, and voted and fought for him at elections, and
often fought with him touching their relative positions of landlord and
tenant. Indeed, we question whether he would not enter into a quarrel as
readily for a tenant as he would for a favorite dog or horse; and we are
inclined to think, that to do him justice, he laid nearly as much value
on the one as on the other--a circumstance which we dare say several of
our modern landlords, both resident and absentee, will consider as, on
our part, a good-humored stretch of fiction.

His speech at elections absolutely became a proverb in the country; and,
indeed, when we remember the good-natured license of the times, as
many still may, together with the singular blending of generosity
and violence, horsewhipping and protection, mirth and mischief which
characterized the bearing of such men as Topertoe, we are fain to think,
to vary the proverb a little, that he might have spoken more and fared
worse.

“Here I am again, ye blaggards; your own ould Topertoe, that never had
a day's illness, but the gout, bad luck to it. Damn your bloods, ye
affectionate rascals, sure you love me, and I love you, and 't isn't
Gully Preston (his opponent) that can cut our loves in two. No, boys,
he's not the blade to do that, at any rate! Hurra then, ye vagabones;
ould Tom Topertoe for ever! He loves his bottle and his wench, and will
make any rascal quiver on a daisy that would dare to say bow to your
blankets. Now, Gully Preston, make a speech--if you can! Hurra for Tom
Topertoe, that never had a day's illness, but the gout, bad luck to it!
and don't listen to Gully Preston, boys! Hurra!”

This speech, from which he never varied, was waited for at elections
with a vehemence of mirth and a force of popularity which no eloquence
brought against him could withstand. Indeed, it was perfectly well known
that it alone returned him, for when upon an occasion of considerable
doubt and difficulty, the two parties of the county having been
considered as equally balanced, he was advised by some foolish
friend, or enemy in disguise, to address them in a serious speech, the
consequences were near proving disastrous to his interests. When
he commenced--“Gentlemen--upon an occasion of such important
difficulty”--there was for about a quarter of a minute a dead
silence--that of astonishment--Topertoe, however, who had stuck fast,
was obliged to commence again---“Gentlemen--upon an occasion, of
such--” but it would not do, the groaning, shouting, hooting, and
yelling, were deafening for some minutes, much to the gratification of
his opponent. At length there was something like a pause, and several
voices shouted out--“what the divil do you mane, Tom?” “He's showin'
the garran bane at last,” shouted another--“desartin' his colors!”--“oh!
we're gintlemen now it seems, an' not his own blaggards, as we used to
be--Tiper-to'e's vagabones that stood by him--oh no! Tom, to hell wid
you and your gintlemen--three cheers for Gully Preston!”

Tom saw it was nearly over with him, and Preston's hopes ran high.
“Aisy, boys,” said the other, resuming his old, and, indeed, his natural
manner--“Aisy, ye vagabones--Topertoe's ould speech for ever! Here I am
again, ye blaggards, that never had a day's illness but the gout,
bad luck to it!” &c, &c. This was enough, the old feeling of fun and
attachment kindled up--the multitude joined him in his speech, precisely
as a popular singer is joined by the gods of the upper gallery in
some favorite air, and no sooner was it concluded, than the cheering,
throwing up of hats, and huzzaing, gave ample proof that he had
completely recovered his lost ground, and set himself right with the
people.

Such is a brief of old Topertoe, the first Lord of Castle Cumber, who,
by the way, did not wear his honors long, the gout, to which he was a
martyr, having taken him from under his coronet before he had it a year
on his brow. He was one of the men peculiar to his times, or rather who
aided in shaping them; easy, full of strong but gross impulses, quick
and outrageous in resentment, but possessed of broad uncouth humor, and
a sudden oblivion of his passion. Without reading or education--he was
coarse, sensual, careless, and extravagant, having no stronger or purer
principle to regulate him than that which originated in his passions
or his necessities. Of shame or moral sanction he knew nothing, and
consequently held himself amenable to the world on two points only--the
laws of duelling and those of gaming. He would take an insult from no
man, and always paid his gambling debts with honor; but beyond that, he
neither feared nor cared for anything in this world--and being a member
of the Hellfire Club, he did not believe in the other. In fact he was
the very man on whose peculiar temperament and character a corrupt and
wily politician might expect to impress his own principles with success.
Topertoe was consequently not only the very man to sell his country, but
to sell, it at the highest price, and be afterwards the first to laugh,
as he did, at his own corruption.

Of his eldest son, who of course succeeded to his rank and property,
there is not so much to be said at present, because he will appear, to
some extent, as an actor in our drama. It is enough then to say here
that he inherited his father's vices, purged of their vulgarity and
grossness, without a single particle of his uncertain and capricious
good nature. In his manners he appeared more of the gentleman; was
lively, shallow, and versatile; but having been educated at an English
school and an English college, he felt, or affected to feel, all the
fashionable prejudices of the day and of his class against his native
country. He was an absentee from both pride and inclination, and it is
not surprising then that he knew but little of Ireland, and that little
was strongly to its disadvantage.

Another brother there was, whose unpretending character requires little
else than merely that he should be named. The honorable Alexander
Topertoe, who was also educated in England, from the moment his father
stained what he conceived to be the honor of their family by receiving a
title and twenty thousand pounds, as a bribe for his three votes against
a native parliament--hung his head in mortification and shame, and
having experienced at all times little else than neglect from his father
and brother, he hurried soon afterwards to the continent with a heavy
heart and a light purse, where for the present we must leave him.




CHAPTER II.--Birth and Origin of Mr. M'Clutchy

Christian Forgiveness--Mr. Hickman, the Head Agent--Darby O'Drive, the
Bailiff--And an Instructive Dialogue.


Time, which passes with a slow but certain pace, had already crept twice
around his yearly circle since the fair already described in the town
of Castle Cumber. The lapse of three years, however, had made no change
whatsoever in the heart or principles of Mr. Valentine M'Clutchy,
although he had on his external manner and bearing. He now assumed more
of the gentleman, and endeavored to impress himself upon those who came
in contact with him, as a person of great authority and importance.
One morning after the period just mentioned had! elapsed, he and his
graceful son, “Mister Phil,” were sitting in the parlor of Constitution
Cottage, for so they were pleased to designate a house which had no
pretension whatever to that unpretending appellation.

“So father,” said Phil, “you don't forget that such was the treatment
M'Loughlin gave you!”

“Why, I remember it, Phil; but you know, Phil, I'm a patient and a
forgiving man notwithstanding; you know that Phil;--ha, ha, ha!”

“That was certainly the worst case came across us yet,” replied the son,
“none of the rest ventured to go so far, even when you had less power
than you have now.”

“I didn't tell you all, Phil,” continued the father, following up the
same train of thought.

“And why not,” said Phil, “why should you conceal anything from me?”

“Because,” replied the other, “I think you have heard enough for the
present.”

The fact was, that M'Clutchy's consciousness of the truth contained
in M'Loughlin's indignant reproaches, was such as prevented him from
repeating them, even to his son, knowing right well that had he done
so they could not exactly have looked each other in the face without
sensations regarding their own conduct, which neither of them wished to
avow. There is a hypocrisy in villainy sometimes so deep that it cannot
bear to repeat its own iniquity, even in the presence of those who are
aware of it, and in this predicament stood Valentine M'Clutchy.

“Maybe he has relented,” said Phil, “or that he will give me his pretty
daughter yet--and you know they have the cash. The linen manufactory of
M'Loughlin and Harman is flourishing.”

“No, no, Phil,” replied the father, “you must give her up--that's
past--but no matter, I'll forgive him.”

Phil looked at him and smiled. “Come, come, father,” said he, “be
original--that last is a touch of M'Slime--of honest Solomon. Keep back
the forgiveness yet awhile, may be they may come round--begad, and upon
my honor and reputation, I shouldn't wish to lose the girl--no, father,
don't forgive them yet awhile.”

“Phil, we'll do better for you, boy--don't be a fool, I say, but have
sense--I tell you what, Phil,” continued his father, and his face
assumed a ghastly, deadly look, at once dark and pallid, “listen to
me;--I'll forgive him, Phil, until the nettle, the chick-weed, the
burdock, the fulsome preshagh, the black fungus, the slimiest weed that
grows--aye, till the green mould of ruin itself, grows upon the spot
that is now his hearth--till the winter rain beats into, and the whiter
wind howls over it.”

“No marriage, then,” said Phil. “No marriage; but what keeps Darby
O'Drive? the rascal should have been here before--oh no,” said he,
looking at his watch, “he has better than half an hour yet.”

“What steps do you intend to take, father?”

“Phil, when I'm prepared, you shall know them. In the meantime leave
me--I must write to M'Slime, or send to him. M'Slime's useful at a hint
or suggestion, but, with all his wiliness and hypocrisy, not capable of
carrying a difficult matter successfully out; he overdoes everything by
too much caution, and consequently gets himself into ridiculous scrapes,
besides I cannot and will not place full confidence in him. He is too
oily, and cants too much, to be trusted; I think, still, we may use him
and overreach him into the bargain. Are you going into Castle Cumber?”

“I am.”

“Well, drop these couple of letters in the post office, and tell Rankin
he must have the Garts finished by Monday next, at the farthest, or it
will be worse for him. By the way, I have that fellow in my eye too--he
had the assurance to tell me the other day, that he could not possibly
undertake the carts until he had M'Loughlin's job at the manufactory
finished. Off with you now, I see O'Drive and Hanlon coming up.”

Graceful Phil in a few minutes was mounted in his usual lofty state on
“Handsome Harry,” and dashed off to Castle Cumber.

It may not be improper here, before we proceed farther, to give the
reader some additional knowledge of the parentage and personal history
of Mr. Valentine M'Clutchy, as well as a brief statement concerning the
Castle Cumber property, and the gentleman who acted in the capacity of
head agent.

The mother, then, of Valentine M'Clutchy, or as he was more generally
called Val the Vulture, was daughter to the county goaler, Christie
Clank by name, who had risen regularly through all the gradations of
office, until the power of promotion could no farther go. His daughter,
Kate Clank, was a celebrated beauty, and enjoyed a considerable extent
of local reputation, independently of being a great favorite with the
junior portion of the grand jury. Among the latter, however, there was
one, a young squire of very libertine principles, named Deaker, whose
suit to the fair Miss Clank proved more successful than those of his
competitors, and the consequence was the appearance of young Val. The
reader, therefore, already perceives that M'Clutchy's real name was
Deaker; but perhaps he is not aware that, in the times of which we
write, it was usual for young unmarried men of wealth not to suffer
their illegitimate children to be named after them. There were, indeed,
many reasons for this. In the first place, the mere fact of assuming the
true name, was a standing argument of the father's profligacy. Secondly,
the morals of the class and the period were so licentious, that the
legitimate portion of a family did not like to be either outnumbered or
insulted by their namesakes and illegitimate relatives, almost at
every turn of the public roads. In the third place, a young man of
this description could not, when seeking for a wife, feel the slightest
inclination to have a living catalogue of his immoralities enumerated
to her, under the names of Tom, or Dick, or Val so and so, all his
children. This, of course, was an involuntary respect paid to modesty,
and perhaps the strongest argument for suppressing the true name. The
practice, however, was by no means universal; but in frequent instances
it existed, and Val the Vulture's was one of them. He was named after
neither father or mother, but after his grandmother, by the gaoler's
side. Deaker would not suffer his name to be assumed; and so far as
his mother was concerned, the general tenor of her life rendered the
reminiscence of her's anything but creditable to her offspring. With
respect to his education, Val's gratitude was principally due to his
grandfather Clank, who had him well instructed. He himself, from the
beginning, was shrewd, clever, and intelligent, and possessed the power,
in a singular degree, of adapting himself to his society, whenever he
felt it his interest to do so. He could, indeed, raise or depress his
manners in a very surprising degree, and with an effort that often
occasioned astonishment. On the other hand, he was rapacious,
unscrupulous, cowardly, and so vindictive, that he was never known to
forgive an injury. These are qualities to which, when you add natural
adroitness and talent, you have such a character as has too frequently
impressed itself, with something like the agreeable sensations produced
by a red hot burning iron, upon the distresses, fears, and necessities
of the Irish people.

M'Clutchy rose from the humble office of process-server to that of
bailiff's follower, bailiff, head-bailiff, barony constable, until,
finally, he felt himself a kind of factotum on the Castle Cumber
property; and in proportion as he rose, so did his manners rise with
him. For years before his introduction to our readers, he was the
practical manager of the estate; and so judiciously did he regulate
his own fortunes on it, that without any shameless or illegal breach of
honesty, he actually contrived to become a wealthy man, and to live in
a respectable manner. Much, however, will have more, and Val was
rapacious. On finding himself comparatively independent, he began to
take more enlarged, but still very cautious measures to secure some of
the good things of the estate to him and his. This he was the better
able to do, as he had, by the apparent candor of his manner, completely
wormed himself into the full confidence of the head agent--a gentleman
of high honor and integrity, remarkable alike for humanity and
benevolence; but utterly without suspicion. Two or three farms, whose
leases dropped, he most iniquitously took into his own hands, and so
far wheedled the agent, that he induced that gentleman to think he was
rendering a service to the property by doing so. The tenantry now
began to murmur--a complaint came here, and another there--here was an
instance of private and disguised oppression; and this was followed by
a, vindictive attempt to injure either the property or character of some
one who had the courage to tell him what he thought of his conduct.

Val apprehending that he might be out-borne by too powerful a mass
of testimony, contrived just then, through his misrepresentations to the
agent, who still confided in him, and by the political influence of
his father, the squire, who was the landlord's strongest electioneering
supporter in the county, to get himself formally appointed under-agent.
Feeling now quite confident in his strength, and that his hold on the
prejudices, and, we may add, the ignorance of the absentee landlord, was
as strong, if not stronger than those of the agent himself, he began
to give a greater and less guarded scope to his natural principles.
Mr. Hickman, the agent, had been strongly disgusted by the political
profligacy with which the union was carried; and had, on more than one
occasion, intimated a doubt whether, as an honest man, he could render
political support to any one who had participated in its corruption or
recognized the justice of those principles on which it had been
carried. All this gave M'Clutchy that imperturbable insolence which is
inseparable from petty tyranny and licensed extortion. Day after day did
his character come out in all its natural deformity. The outcry against
him was not now confined to this portion of the property, or that--it
became pretty general; and, perhaps, at the time we have brought him on
the stage, there was not a man in Ireland, holding the situation he did,
who was more feared and more detested.

Some time previous to this, however, Hickman's eyes were opened to his
undisguised character, and what he could do he did. On finding that the
Vulture was reviving all the oppressive usages with which property
in Ireland is so penally taxed, he immediately gave orders that such
exactions should be discontinued by M'Clutchy, and resisted by the
tenants. In spite of all this, however, there were upon the property
many timid persons, who, dreading his malignity of purpose, still
continued to yield to his avarice and rapacity, that which nothing else
but a dread of his vengeance could extort from them. Thus did he feather
his nest at the expense of their terrors.

Hickman, who had also been agent to old Topertoe, felt a kind of
personal attachment to that good-humored reprobate, so long as he
believed him to be honest. Old Tom's venality, however, at the union,
made him rather sick of the connection, and the conduct, or rather
expensive profligacy of the young absentee Lord, rendered his situation,
as an honest and humane agent, one of great pain to himself, considering
his position between landlord and tenant.

He knew besides, that many men of his class had taken most scandalous
advantages of the embarrassments which their dishonesty had occasioned
in the affairs of their employers, and lent them their own rents in the
moments of distress, in order to get a lien on their property. For this
reason, and out of a feeling of honor and self-respect, Mr. Hickman had
made it a point of principle to lend the young Lord, no money under any
circumstances. As far as he could legitimately, and within the ordinary
calculations of humanity, feed Lord Cumber's prodigality of expenditure
he did it. This, however, was not exactly the kind of agent which his
lordship wanted, and however highly he respected, and honored him, still
that direful word necessity goaded him into a forgetfulness of his own
real interests, and of what was due to Hickman. He wanted an agent
with less feeling, less scruple, less independence, and more of that
accommodating principle which would yield itself to, and go down with,
the impetuous current of his offensive vices, and satisfy their cravings
even at his own ruin. Such, then, was M'Clutchy--such the position of
Mr. Hickman, the agent--and such the general state of the Castle Cumber
property. As to the principles and necessities of its proprietor, if
they are not already known, we may assure our readers that they soon
will be.

Constitution Cottage, M'Clutchy's residence, was, in fact, no cottage at
all, as we have said, but a very respectable house, and of considerable
size. Attached to it was an extensive yard and office houses, an
excellent garden, orchard, pigeon house, and everything, in fact, that
could constitute substantial comfort and convenience. It was situated
beside a small clump of old beeches, that sheltered it from the
north--to the front lay, at a few miles distance, a range of fine
mountains--and between them stretched as rich a valley, both in
fertility and beauty, as the eye of man could rest upon. The ground
before the door fell by an easy and gradual descent, until a little
further down it reached a green expanse of level meadow, through which
a clear river wound its lingering course, as if loth to pass away from
between the rich and grassy banks that enclosed it. It was, in fact, a
spot of that calm and perfectly rural character which draws the heart
unconsciously to the secret charm that rests upon it, and which even the
casual traveler leaves behind him with regret. Some improvements were
at the present time in an incipient state--such as plantations--garden
walls--and what seemed the lines of an avenue, or approach to the house,
which, by the way, stood in the centre of a farm that consisted of about
eighty Irish acres.

At length a single knock came, which was given by O'Drive, for Hanlon,
who was his assistant, durst not attempt such a thing in his presence;
and if ever a knock conveyed the duplicity of the man who gave it, that
did. Though, as we said, but a single one, yet there was no mistaking
its double meaning. It was impudent and servile; it was impudent, as
much as to say to the servants, “why don't you open the door quickly for
a man who is so deep in your master's confidence as I am?” while to that
master himself, it said, or seemed to say, “I am your creature, your
instrument, your slave, ready to execute any oppression, any hardship,
or villainy, on which you can employ me.”

It is said, and we believe with truth, that in military life no officer
is so severe and oppressive as he who has risen from the ranks, and been
most obsequious there. We do not doubt it, for the principle is a strong
one in human nature, and is by no means confined to either the army or
navy. At all events, shuffling, and cringing, and slinking Darby O'Drive
presented himself to Val the Vulture. There was a downcast, cowardly,
shy, uneasy, expression in his blank, straggling features, that seemed
to say, for God's sake spare my very life--don't annihilate me--here
I am--you see through me--heart, spirit, and soul--body, lungs, and
lights--could I tell _you_ a lie? No. Could I deceive you--such a man as
you, that can look through me as if I was a lanthorn, or a pane of
glass without a bull's eye in it. No! only let me live and I'll do your
bidding.

“Well,” said Val, in a sharp, imperious;one, “you're punctual for a
wonder.”

“God be praised for that,” replied Darby, wiping the top of his nose
with the finger and thumb of an old mitten, “heaven be praised that I'm
not late.”

“Hold your damned canting, tongue, you knave, what place is this for
it?”

“Knave! well I am then.”

“Yes, you know you are--you are all knaves--every bailiff is a
knave--ahem--unless, indeed, one in a thousand.”

“It's truth, indeed, plaise your honor.”

“Not but there's worse than you after all, and be damned to you.”

“An' betther, sir, too, i' you please, for sure, God help me, I'm not
what I ought to be.”

“Well, mend then, why don't you? for you want it. Come now, no jaw, I
tell you, but answer me what I am about to ask you; not a word now.”

“Well, no then, plaise your honor, I won't in throth.”

“Did you warn the townland of Ballymackscud?”

“Yis, plaise your honor.”

“Are they ready--have they the rent?”

“Only some o' them, sir,--an other some is axin' for time, the thieves.”

“Who are asking for time?”

“Why the O'Shaughrans, sir--hopin', indeed, that your honor will let
them wait till the markets rises, an not be forced to sell the grain
whin the prices is so low now that it would ridin them--but it's
wondherful the onraisonableness of some people. Says I, 'his honor, Mr.
M'Clutchy, is only doin' his duty; but a betther hearted or a kinder man
never bruk the world's bread than he is to them that desarves it at
his hands;' so, sir, they began to--but--well, well, it's no matther--I
tould them they were wrong--made it plain to them--but they wouldn't be
convinced, say what I might.”

“Why, what did they say, were they abusing me--I suppose so?”

“Och! the poor sowls, sure it was only ignorance and foolishness on
their part--onraisonable cratures all or most of them is.”

“Let me know at once what they said, you knave, or upon my honor and
soul I'll turn you out of the room and bring in Hanlon.”

“Plaise your honor, he wasn't present--I left him outside, in regard
that I didn't think he was fit to be trust--a safe with--no matther,
'twas for a raison I had.” He gave a look at M'Clutchy as he spoke,
compounded of such far and distant cunning, scarcely perceptible--and
such obvious, yet retreating cowardice, scarcely perceptible also---that
no language could convey any notion of it.

“Ah!” said Val, “you are a neat lad--but go on--what did they say, for I
must have it out of you.”

“That I may die in happiness, your honor, but I'm afeard to tell
you--but, sure, if you'd give your promise, sir--your bright word of
honor, that you'd not pay me off for it, I'll tell you.”

“Ah! you d----d crawling reptile, out with it--I won't pay you off.”

[Illustration: PAGE 142-- there's as many curses before you in hell]

“Well, then, here it is--oh! the curse o' Cromwell on them this day,
for an ungrateful pack! they said, your honor, that--bad luck to them I
pray--that there wasn't so black-hearted a scoundrel on the face of the
airth as your four quarthers--that the gallows is gapin' for you--and
that there's as many curses before you in hell as 'ud blisther a
griddle.”

M'Clutchy's face assumed its usual expression of diabolical malignity,
whilst, at the same time, he gave a look so piercing at Darby, as if
suspecting that the curse, from its peculiar character, was at least
partially his own invention,--that the latter, who stood like a
criminal, looking towards the floor, felt precisely what was going
forward in the other's mind, and knew that he had nothing else for
it but to look him steadily in the face, as a mark of his perfect
innocence. Gradually, therefore, and slowly he raised his small gray
eyes until they met those of M'Clutchy, and thus the gaze continued
for nearly a minute between them, and that with such steadiness on both
sides, that they resembled a mesmeric doctor and his patient, rather
than anything else to which we could compare them. On the part of
M'Clutchy the gaze was that of an inquisitor looking into the heart of
him whom he suspected; on that of Darby, the eye, unconscious of evil,
betrayed nothing but the purest simplicity and candor.

And yet, when we consider that Darby most unquestionably did not only
ornament, but give peculiar point to the opinions expressed by the
tenantry against the Vulture, perhaps we ought to acknowledge that of
the two he possessed a larger share of histrionic talent.

At length M'Clutchy, whose eye, for reasons with which the reader is
already acquainted, was never either a firm or a steady one, removed it
from Darby, who nevertheless followed it with a simple but pertinacious
look, as much as to say, I have told you truth, and am now waiting your
leisure to proceed.

“What do you stare at?” said M'Clutchy, strongly disposed to vent his
malignity on the next object to him; “and, you beggarly scoundrel, what
did you say to that? Tell me, or I'll heave you, head foremost, through
the window?”

“Why,” replied Darby, in a quiet, confident, and insinuating tone, “I
raisoned wid them--raisoned wid them like a Christian. 'Now, Sheemus
O'Shaughran,' says I, 'you've said what I know to be a lie. I'm not the
man to put ill between you and his honor, Mr. M'Clutchy, but at the same
time,' says I, 'I'm his sarvint, and as an honest man I must do my duty.
I don't intend to mintion a syllable of what you said this day; but as
his sarvint, and gettin' bread through him, and undher him, I can't, nor
I won't, suffer his honor to be backbitten before his own face--for it's
next to that. Now,' says I, 'be guided by me, and all will be right. In
the first place, you know, he's entitled to _duty-fowl_*--in the next
place, he's entitled to _duty-work_.' 'Ay, the landlord is,' said they,
'but not the Vul----' 'Whisht,' says I, in a friendly whisper, puttin'
my hand across Dan's mouth, an' winkin' both my eyes at him; 'send his
honor down a pair of them fine fat turkeys--I know his honor's fond
o' them; but that's not all,' says I--'do you wish to have a friend in
coort? I know you do. Well and good--he's drawing gravel to make a new
avenue early next week, so, Sheemus O'Shaughran, if you wish to have
two friends in coort--a great one and a little one'--manin' myself, God
pardon me, for the little one, your honor--'you will,' says I 'early on
next Monday mornin', send down a pair of horses and carts, and give him
a week's duty work. Then,' says I, 'lave the rest to _somebody_, for I
won't name names.'--No, your honor, I did'nt bring Hanlon in.--By the
same token, as a proof of it, there's young Bandy Shaughran, the son,
wid a turkey under aich arm, comin'up to the hall door.”

     * These were iniquitous exactions, racked from the poor
     tenantry by the old landlords or their agents.

“Well,” proceeded M'Clutchy, without a single observation, “did you call
on the Slevins?”

“Yes, sir; they're ready.”

“The Magonnels?”

“Not ready, sir; but a pair of geese, and two men on next Thursday and
Saturday. On Friday they must go to market to buy two _slips_.” (* young
pigs).

“Widow Gaffney?”

“Not ready, sir; but that I may never die in sin, a 'cute shaver.”

“Why so--what did she say?”

“Oh, Mr. Hickman, sir, the head agent, your honor; that's the go.
Throth, the same Mr. Hickman is--but, God forbid, sir, I'd spake a word
against the absent; but any way, he's a good round thrifle, one way or
the other, out of your pocket, from Jinny-warry to December.”

“Darby, my good man, and most impertinent scoundrel, if you wish
to retain your present situation, never open your lips against that
excellent gentleman, Mr. Hickman. Mark my words--out you go, if I ever
discover that you mention him with disrespect.”

“Well, I won't then; and God forgive me for spakin' the truth--when it's
not right.”

“Did you see the Mulhollands?”

“Mr. Hickman again, sir, an' bad luck to---- Beg pardon, sir, I forgot.
Throth, sir, when I mentioned the duty work an' the new aveny, they
whistled at you.”

“Whistled at me!”

“Yes, sir; an' said that Mr. Hickman tould them to give you neither duty
fowl nor duty work, but to do their own business, and let you do yours.
Ay, and 'twas the same from all the rest.”

“Well,” said Val, going to the window and looking abroad for a minute
or two,--“well--so much for Ballymackscud; now for its next neighbor,
Ballymackfud.”

“Mr. Hickman again, sir. The divil sweep the same Hickman, any way,”
 said Darby, in an aside, which he knew the other could easily hear. “Out
of the whole townland, sir, all I got was two men for the aveny--a goose
from Barney Scadden, and her last ten, along wid half-a-dozen eggs, from
that dacent creature, widow M'Murt. Throth four fine little clildre she
has, if they had anything on them, or anything to keep body and sowl
together.”

“You warned them all, of course?”

“Every sowl in the townland of Ballymackt 'ud; and there's the upshot.
But it's all Mr. Hickman, sir; for he tould them--'I will have none of
this work,' says he; 'the tenants musn't be harrished and fleeshed
in this manner,' says he. Yes, your honor, that's the upshot from
Ballymackfud--two day's work--a sick goose (for I disremembered
to mention that Barney said, wid a wink, that she'd require great
attintion, as she was in a delicate state of health)--one ould hen, and
a half-a-dozen eggs; which wouldn't be the case, only for Hickman--not
but he's a very respectable gentleman--by all accounts.”

“I told you before, sirra, that I will have nothing offensive to him
mentioned in my presence. Give this letter to Mr. M'Slime, and bring me
an answer as soon as you can. Will you have a glass of spirits?”

“Would it be intherfairin' wid my duty, sir?”

“If you think so, don't take it; you ought to know best.”

“Well, then, for this one time, in regard of a _Lhin-roe_* or the red
wather in my stomach, I'll try it. I drank bog-bine last night goin' to
bed, but divil a morsel o' good it did me.”

     * Lhin-roe, or red water--the Irish name for heart-burn.

M'Clutchy handed him a full glass, which he held steadily before his
eye, till the other put up the decanter.

“Your honor's health, sir,” said he, “and fireside; and if you war to
throw me out o' fifty windies, I'll add to that--here's wishin' that the
divil had his own, and I know where you'd soon be.”

“How, you villainous scoundrel,” said Val, starting with rising wrath,
“what do you mean by that?”

Darby made no reply, but hastily tossing off the glass, he seized his
hat, bolted outside the door, and putting in his head, said in a kind of
loud but confidential whisper--

“IN HICKMAN'S PLACE, your honor!”




CHAPTER III.--Solomon M'Slime, a Religious Attorney

--Solomon M'Slime, a Religious Attorney--His Office--Family
Devotions--Substitute for Breakfast--Misprision Blasphemy--Letter on
Business.


Pass we now to another worthy character, who had locality upon the
aforesaid property of Castle Cumber. Solomon M'Slime, the law agent, was
a satisfactory proof of the ease with which religion and law may meet
and aid each other in the heart and spirit of the same person. An
attorney, no doubt, is at all times an amiable, honest, and feeling
individual, simply upon professional principles; but when to all this is
added the benignant influence of serious and decided piety, it would not
be an easy task to find, among the several classes which compose society
in general, anything so truly engaging, so morally taintless, so sweetly
sanctimonious, so seductively comely, as is that pure and evengelical
exhibition of human character, that is found to be developed in a
religious attorney.

Solomon M'Slime was a man in whose heart the two principles kept their
constant residence; indeed so beautifully were they blended, that his
law might frequently be mistaken for religion, just as his religion,
on the other hand, was often known to smack strongly of law. In this
excellent man, these principles accommodated each with a benignant
indulgence, that manifested the beauty of holiness in a high degree.
If, for instance, law in its progress presented to him any obstacle of
doubtful morality, religion came forward with a sweet but serious smile,
and said to her companion, “My dear friend, or sister, in this case I
permit you.” And on the contrary, if religion felt over sensitive or
scrupulous, law had fifty arguments of safety, and precedent, and
high authority to justify her. But, indeed, we may observe, that in
a religious attorney these illiberal scruples do not often occur.
Mr. M'Slime knew the advantages of religion too well, to feel that
contraction of the mind and principles, which in so many ordinary cases
occasions religion and common morality to become almost identical.
Religion was to him a friend--a patroness in whose graces he stood so
high, that she permitted him to do many things which those who were more
estranged from her durst not attempt. He enjoyed that state of blessed
freedom which is accorded to so few, and, consequently, had his
“permissions” and his “privileges” to go in the wicked wayfares of this
trying world much greater lengths than those, who were less gifted
and favored by the sweet and consoling principle which regulated and
beautified his life.

Solomon was a small man, thin, sharp-featured, and solemn. He was
deliberate in his manner and movements, and correct but slow of speech.
Though solemn, however, he was not at all severe or querulous, as is too
frequently the case with those who affect to be religious. Far from it.
On the contrary, in him the gospel gifts appeared in a cheerful gravity
of disposition, and a good-humored lubricity of temper, that could turn
with equal flexibility and suavity to every incident of life, no matter
how trying to the erring heart. All the hinges of his spirit seemed to
have been graciously and abundantly oiled, and such was his serenity,
that it was quite evident he had a light within him. It was truly a
pleasure to speak to, or transact business with such a man; he seemed
always so full of inward peace, and comfort, and happiness. Nay, upon
some occasions, he could rise to a kind of sanctified facetiousness
that was perfectly delightful, and in the very singleness of his heart,
would, of an odd time, let out, easily and gently it is true, a small
joke, that savored a good deal of secular humor.

Then he was so full of charity and affection for all that were frail and
erring among our kind, that he never, or seldom, breathed a harsh word
against the offender. Or if, in the fulness of his benevolence, he found
it necessary to enumerate their faults, and place them, as it were, in
a catalogue, it was done in a spirit of such love, mingled with sorrow,
that those to whom he addressed himself, often thought it a pity that he
himself did not honor religion, by becoming the offender, simply for the
sake of afterwards becoming the patient.

In the religious world he was a very active and prominent man--punctual
in his devotional exercises, and always on the lookout for some of those
unfortunate brands with which society abounds, that he might, as he
termed it, have the pleasure of plucking them out of the burning. He
never went without a Bible and a variety of tracts in his pocket, and
seldom was missed from the platform of a religious meeting. He received
subscriptions for all public and private charities, and has repeatedly
been known to offer and afford consolation to the widow and orphan, at
a time when the pressure of business rendered the act truly one of
Christian interest and affection.

The hour was not more than ten o'clock, a.m. when Darby entered his
office, in which, by the way, lay three or four Bibles, in different
places. In a recess on one side of the chimney-piece, stood a
glass-covered bookcase, filled with the usual works on his profession,
whilst hung upon the walls, and consequently nearer observation,
were two or three pensile shelves, on which were to be found a small
collection of religious volumes, tracts, and other productions, all
bearing on the same subject. On the desk was a well-thumbed Bible to the
right, which was that used at family prayer; and on the opposite side, a
religious almanack and a copy of congregation hymns.

Darby, on reaching the hall door, knocked with considerable more
decision than he had done at M'Clutchy's, but without appearing to have
made himself heard; after waiting patiently for some time, however,
he knocked again, and at length the door was opened by a very pretty
servant girl, about seventeen, who, upon his inquiring if her master
was at home, replied in a sighing voice, and with a demure face, “Oh,
yes--at family prayer.”

“When he's done,” said Darby, “maybe you'd be kind enough to say that
Darby O'Drive has a message for him.”

The pretty servant did not nod--an act--which she considered as too
flippant for the solemnity of devotion--but she gently bowed her head,
and closed her eyes in assent--upon which was heard a somewhat cheerful
groan, replete with true unction, inside the parlor, followed by a voice
that said, “ah, Susannah!” pronounced in a tone of grave but placid
remonstrance; Susannah immediately entered, and the voice, which
was that of our attorney, proceeded--“Susannah take your place--long
measure, eight lines, four eights, and two sixes.” The psalm was then
raised or pitched by Solomon himself, who was followed by six or
eight others, each in a different key, but all with such reluctance
to approach their leader, that from a principle of unworthiness, they
allowed him, as the more pious, to get far in advance of them. In this
manner they sang two verses, and it was remarkable, that although on
coming to the conclusion, Solomon was far ahead, and the rest nowhere,
yet, from the same principle of unworthiness, they left the finish, as
they did the start, altogether to himself. The psalm was accordingly
wound up by a kind of understanding or accompaniment between his mouth
and nose, which seemed each moved by a zealous but godly struggle to
excel the other, if not in melody at least in loudness. They then
all knelt down, and Solomon launched, with a sonorous voice, into
an extempore prayer, which was accompanied by a solemn commentary of
groanings, sighings, moanings, and muffled ejaculations, that cannot
otherwise be described except by saying that they resembled something
between a screech and a scream. Their devotions being over, Darby,
having delivered M'Clutchy's letter, was desired to take a seat in the
office, until Mr. M'Slime should be at leisure to send a reply.

“Sit down, my good friend, Darby, sit down, and be at ease, at least in
your body; I do not suffer any one who has an immortal soul to be saved
to stand in my office--and as you have one to be saved, Darby, you must
sit. The pride of this vain life is our besetting sin, and happy are
they who are enabled to overcome it--may he be praised!--sit down.”

“I'm thankful to you, sir,” said Darby, “oh, thin, Mr. M'Slime, it would
be well for the world if every attorney in it was like you, sir--there
would be little honesty goin' asthray, sir, if there was.”

“Sam Sharpe, my dear boy, if you have not that bill of costs finished--”

“No sir.”

“A good boy, Sam--well, do not omit thirteen and four pence for
two letters, which I ought to have sent--as a part of my moral,
independently of my professional duty--to Widow Lenehan, having
explained to her by word of mouth, that which I ought in conscience,
to have written--but indeed my conscience often leads me to the--what
should I say?--the merciful side in these matters. No, Darby, my friend,
you cannot see into my heart, or you would not say so--I am frail,
Darby, and sinful--I am not up to the standard, my friend, neither have
I acted up to my privileges--the freedom of the gospel! is a blessed
thing, provided we abuse it not'--well, Sam, my good young friend--”

“That was entered before, sir, under the head of instructions.”

“Very right--apparently very right, Sam, and reasonable for you to think
so--but this was on a different occasion, although the same case.”

“Oh, I beg pardon, sir, I did not know that.”

“Sam, do not beg pardon--not of me--nor of any but One--go there, Sam,
you require it; we all require it, at least I do abundantly. Darby,
my friend, it is a principle with me never to lose an opportunity of
throwing in a word in season--but as the affairs of this life must be
attended to--only in a secondary degree, I admit--I will, therefore,
place you at the only true fountain where you can be properly refreshed.
Take this Bible, Darby, and it matters not where you open it, read and
be filled.”

Now, as Darby, in consequence of his early attendance upon M'Clutchy,
had been obliged to leave home that morning without his breakfast,
it must be admitted that he was not just then in the best possible
disposition to draw much edification from it. After poring over it
with a very sombre face for some time, he at length looked shrewdly
at M'Slime closing one eye a little, as was his custom; “I beg pardon,
sir,” said he, “but if I'm not mistaken this book I believe is intended
more for the sowl than the body.”

“For the body! truly, Darby, that last is a carnal thought, and I am
sorry to hear, it from your lips:--the Bible is a spiritual book, my
friend, and spiritually must it be received.”

“But, to a man like me, who hasn't had his breakfast to-day yet, how
will it be sarviceable? will reading it keep off hunger or fill my
stomach?”

“Ah! Darby, my friend, that is gross talk--such views of divine truth
are really a perversion of the gifts of heaven. That book although it
will not fill your stomach, as you grossly call it, actually will do it
figuratively, which in point of fact is the same thing, or a greater--it
will enable you to bear hunger as a dispensation, Darby, to which it is
your duty as a Christian to submit. Nay, it will do more, my friend; it
will exalt your faith to such a divine pitch, that if you read it with
the proper spirit, you will pray that the dispensation thus laid on you
may continue, in order that the inner man may be purged.”

“Faith, and Mr. M'Slime, with great respect, if that is your doctrine
it isn't your practice. The sorra word of prayer--God bless the
prayers!--came out o' your lips today, an til you laid in a good warm
breakfast, and afther that, for fraid of disappointments, the very first
thing you prayed for was your daily bread--didn't I hear you? But I'll
tell you what, sir, ordher me my breakfast, and then I'll be spakin' to
you. A hungry man--or a hungry woman, or her hungry childre' can't eat
Bibles; although it is well known, God knows, that when hunger, and
famine, and starvation are widin them and upon them, that the same
Bible, but nothing else, is; handed to them by pious people in the shape
of consolation and relief. Now I'm thinkin', Mr. M'Slime, that that is
not the best way to make the Bible respected. Are you goin' to give me
my breakfast, sir? upon my sowl, beggin' your pardon, if you do I'll
bring the Bible home wid me, if that will satisfy you, for we haven't
got e'er a one in our own little cabin.”

“Sharpe, my good boy, I'll trouble you to take that Bible out of his
hands. I am not in the slightest degree offended, Darby--you will yet,
I trust, live to know better, may He grant it! I overlook the misprision
of blasphemy on your part, for you didn't know what you said? but you
will, you will.

“This is a short reply to Mr. M'Clutchy's note. I shall see him on my
way to the sessions to-morrow, but I have told him so in it. And now,
my friend, be assured I overlook the ungodly and carnal tenor of your
conversation--we are all frail and prone to error; I, at least, am
so--still we must part as Christians ought, Darby. You have asked me
for a breakfast, but I overlook that also--I ought to overlook it as
a Christian; for is not your immortal soul of infinitely greater value
than your perishable body? Undoubtedly--and as a proof that I value it
more, receive this--this, my brother sinner--oh! that I could say my
brother Christian also--receive it, Darby, and in the proper spirit too;
it is a tract written by the Rev. Vesuvius M'Slug, entitled 'Spiritual
Food for Babes of Grace;' I have myself found it graciously consolatory
and refreshing, and I hope that you also may, my friend.”

“Begad, sir,” said Darby, “it may be very good in its way, and I've
no doubt but it's a very generous and Christian act in you to give
it--espishilly since it cost you nothing--but for all that, upon my
sowl, I'm strongly of opinion that to a hungry man it's a bad substitute
for a breakfast.”

“Ah! by the way, Darby,” lending a deaf ear to this observation, “have
you heard, within the last day or two, anything of Mr. M'Clutchy's
father, Mr. Deaker--how he is?”

“Why, sir,” replied Darby, “I'm tould he's breaking down fast, but the
divil a one of him will give up the lady. Parsons, and ministers, and
even priests, have all been at him; but it is useless: he curses
and damns them right and left, and won't be attended by any one but
her--hadn't you betther try him, Mr. M'Slime? May be you might succeed.
Who knows but a little of the 'Spiritual Food for Babes of Grace'
might sarve him as well as others. There's a case for you. Sure he
acknowledges himself to be a member of the hell-fire club!”

“He's a reprobate, my friend--impenitent, hopeless. I have myself tried
him, spoke with him, reasoned with him, but never was my humility,
my patience, so strongly tried. His language I will not repeat--but
canting knave, hypocrite, rascal attor--no, it is useless and unedifying
to repeat it. Now go, my friend, and do not forget that precious tract
which you have thrust so disrespectfully into your pocket.”

Darby, after a shrewd wink at one of the apprentices, which was
returned, passed out, and left Mr. M'Slime to the pursuit of his
salvation.

In the mean time, as we authors have peculiar “privileges,” as Mr.
M'Slime would say, we think if only due to our readers to let them have
a peep at M'Slime's note to our friend Valentine M'Clutchy.

“My dear friend--I felt as deep an interest in the purport of your note
as you yourself possibly could. The parties alluded to I appreciate
precisely as you do--M'Loughlin has in the most unchristian manner
assailed my character as well as yours. So has his partner in the
concern--I mean Harman. But then, my friend, are we not Christians,
and shall we not return good for evil? Shall we not forgive them? Some
whispers, hints, very gentle and delicate have reached my ears, which
I do not wish to commit to paper;--but this I may say, until I see you
to-morrow, that I think your intentions with respect to M'Loughlin and
Harman are premature. There is a screw loose somewhere, so to speak,
that is all--but I believe, I can say, that if your father, Deaker,
will act to our purposes, all will be as we could wish. This is a
delicate subject, my dear friend, but still I am of opinion that if
you could, by any practicable means; soften the unfortunate female
who possesses such an ascendancy over him, all will be right. I would,
myself, undertake the perilous task for your sake--and perilous to
ordinary men I admit it would be, for she is beyond question exceedingly
comely. In me this would appear disinterested, whilst in you, suspicion
would become strong. Cash is wanted in the quarter you know, and cash
has been refused in another quarter, and when we meet I shall tell you
more about this matter. In the mean time it is well that there is no
legitimate issue--but should he will his property to this Delilah, or
could she be removed?--I mean to a local distance. But I shall see you
to-morrow (D.V.), when we can have freer conversation upon what may be
done. With humble but sincere prayers for your best wishes and welfare,
I am, my dear friend,

“Thine in the bonds of Christian love,

“Solomon M'Slime.

“P. S.--As it is a principle of mine to neglect no just opportunity of
improving my deceitful heart, I bought from a travelling pedlar this
morning, a book with the remarkable title of 'The Spiritual Attorney,
or A Sure Guide to the Other World.' I have not yet had time to look at
anything but the title page, and consequently am not able to inform you
which of the worlds he alludes to, ha, ha! You see, my friend, I do not
think there is evil in a joke that is harmless, or has a moral end in
view, as every joke ought to have.

“Thine as before,

“Sol. M'Slime.”




CHAPTER IV.--Poll Doolin, the Child Cadger

--Raymond, her Son--Short Dialogue on the Times--Polls Opinion on
the Causes of Immorality--Solomon is Generous--A Squire of the Old
School--And a Moral Dialogue.


The next morning was that on which the Quarter Sessions of Castle Cumber
commenced; and of course it was necessary for Darby O'Drive, who was
always full of business on such occasions, to see M'Clutchy, in order
to receive instructions touching his duties on various proceedings
connected with the estate. He had reached the crossroads that ran about
half-way between Constitution Cottage and Castle Cumber, when! he met,
just where the road turned to M'Clutchy's, a woman named Poll Doolin,
accompanied, as she mostly was, by her son--a poor, harmless, idiot,
named Raymond; both of whom were well known throughout the whole parish.
Poll was a thin, sallow woman, with piercing dark eyes, and a very;
gipsy-like countenance. Her dress was always black, and very much worn;
in fact, everything about her was black--black stockings, black bonnet,
black hair, and black kerchief. Poll's occupation was indeed a singular
one, and not very creditable to the morals of the day. Her means of
living were derived from the employment of child-cadger to the Foundling
Hospital of Dublin. In other words, she lived by conveying illegitimate
children from the places of their birth to the establishment just
mentioned, which has been very properly termed a bounty for national
immorality. Whenever a birth of this kind occurred, Poll was immediately
sent for--received her little charge with a name--whether true or false
mattered not--pinned to its dress--then her traveling expenses; after
which she delivered it at the hospital, got a receipt for its delivery,
and returned to claim her demand, which was paid only on her producing
it. In the mean time, the unfortunate infant had to encounter all the
comforts of the establishment, until it was drafted out to a charter
school, in which hot-bed of pollution it received that exquisitely
moral education that enabled it to be sent out into society admirably
qualified to sustain the high character of Protestantism.

“Morrow, Poll,” said Darby; “what's the youngest news wid you? And
Raymond, my boy, how goes it wid you?”

“I don't care for you,” replied the fool; “you drove away Widow
Branagan's cow, an' left the childre to the black wather. Bad luck to
you!”

Darby started; for there is a superstition among the Irish, that the
curse of an “innocent” is one of the most unlucky that can be uttered.

“Don't curse me,” replied Darby; “sure, Raymond, I did only my duty.”

“Then who made you do your duty?” asked the other.

“Why, Val the Vul--hem--Mr. M'Clutchy, to be sure.”

“Bad luck to him then!”

His mother, who had been walking a little before him, turned, and,
rushing towards him, put her hand hastily towards his mouth, with the
obvious intention of suppressing the imprecation; but too late; it had
escaped, and be the consequence what it might, Val had got the exciting
cause of it.

“My poor unfortunate boy,” said she, “you oughtn't to curse anybody;
stop this minute, and say God bless him.”

“God bless who?”

“Mr. McClutchy.”

“The devil bless him! ha, ha, ha! Doesn't he harry the poor, an' drive
away their cows from them--doesn't he rack them an' rob them--harry
them, rack them, rob them--

     “Harry them, rack them, rob them,
     Rob them, rack them, harry them--
     Harry them, rack them, rob them,
     Rob them, rack them, harry them.”

This he sung in an air somewhat like “Judy Callahan.”

“Ha, ha, ha! Oh the devil bless him! and they say a blessin' from the
devil is very like a curse from God.”

The mother once more put up her hands to his face, but only with the
intention of fondling and caressing him. She tenderly stroked down his
head, and patted his cheek, and attempted to win him out of the evil
humor into which the sight of Darby had thrown him. Darby could observe,
however, that she appeared to be deeply troubled by the idiot's conduct,
as was evident by the trembling of her hands, and a perturbation of
manner which she could not conceal.

“Raymond,” she said, soothingly, “won't you be good for me, darlin'--for
your own mother, my poor helpless boy? Won't you be good for me?”

“I will,” said he, in a more placid voice.

“And you will not curse anybody any more?”

“No, mother, no.”

“And won't you bless Mr. M'Clutchy, my dear child?”

“There's a fig for him,” he replied--there's a fig for him. Now!”

“But you didn't bless him, my darlin'--you didn't bless him yet.”

As she spoke the words, her eye caught! his, and she perceived that it
began to gleam and kindle.

“Well no,” said she hastily; “no, I won't ask you; only hould your
tongue--say no more.”

She again patted his cheek tenderly, and the fiery light which began to
burn in his eye, died gradually away, and no other expression remained
in it but the habitual one of innocence and good-nature.

“No, no,” said she, shaking her head, and speaking as much to herself as
to Darby; “I know him too well; no earthly power will put him out of
his own way, once he takes it into his head. This minute, if I had
spoke another word about the blessin', Mr. M'Clutchy would a got
another curse; yet, except in these fits, my poor child is kindness and
tendheress itself.”

“Well now,” said Darby, “that that's over, can you tell me, Poll, what's
the news? When were you in Dublin?”

“I've given that up,” replied Poll; “I'm too ould and stiff for it now.
As for the news, you ought to know what's goin' as well as I do. You're
nearly as much on the foot.”

“No; nor if every head in the parish was 'ithin side o'mine, I wouldn't
know as much in the news line as you, Poll.”

“The news that's goin' of late, Darby, is not good, an' you know it.
There's great grumlin' an' great complaints, ever since. Val, the lad,
became undher agent; and you know that too.”

“But how can I prevent that?” said Darby; “sure I'd side wid the people
if I could.”

“You'd side wid the people, an' you'd side wid the man that oppresses
them, even in spite of Mr. Hickman.”

“God bless Mr. Hickman!” said Raymond, “and the divil curse him! and
sure 'tis well known that the divil's curse is only another name for
God's blessin'. God bless, Mr. Hickman!”

“Amen, my darlin' child, wid all my heart,” said Poll; “but, Darby,” she
continued, “take my word for it, that these things won't end well. The
estate and neighborhood was peaceable and quiet till the Vulture began
his pranks, and now----”

“Very well,” said Darby, “the blame be his, an' if it comes to that, the
punishment; so far as myself's consarned, I say, let every herrin' hang
by its own tail--I must do my duty. But tell me, Poll--hut, woman, never
mind the Vulture--let him go to the devil his own way--tell me do you
ever hear from your son Frank, that Brian M'Loughlin sent acrass?”

“No,” said she, “not a word; but the curse o' heaven on Brian
M'Loughlin! Was my fine young man worth no more than his garran of
a horse, that he didn't steal either, till he was put to it by the
Finigans.”

“Well, sure two o' them were sent over soon afther him, if that's any
comfort.”

“It's no comfort,” replied Poll, “but I'll tell you what's a comfort,
the thought that I'll never die till I have full revenge on Brian
M'Loughlin--ay, either on him or his--or both. Come, Raymond, have you
ne'er a spare curse now for Brian M'Loughlin?--you could give a fat one
to M'Clutchy this minute and have you none for Brian M'Loughlin?”

“No,” replied, the son, “he doesn't be harryin' the poor.”

“Well, but he transported your brother.

“No matter; Frank used to beat me--he was bad, an Brian M'Loughlin was
good to me, and does be good to me; he gives me my dinner or breakfast
whenever I go there--an' a good bed in the barn. I won't curse him.
Now!”

“It's no use,” continued Poll, whose thin features had not yet subsided
from the inflammatory wildness of expression which had been awakened by
the curse, “it's no use, he'll only do what he likes himself, an' the
best way is to never heed him.”

“I believe so,” said Darby, “but where's your daughter Lucy now, Poll?”

“Why,” said Poll, “she has taken to my trade, an' thravels up to the
Foundling; although, dear knows, it's hardly worth her while now--it
won't give her salt to her kale, poor girl.”

“Why, are the times mendin'?” asked Darby, who spoke in a moral point of
view.

“Mendin'!” exclaimed Poll, “oh, ay indeed--Troth they're not fit to be
named in the one day with what they used to be. But indeed, of late
I'm happy to say that they are improvin' a bit,” said she, speaking
professionally. “M'Clutchy's givin' them a lift, for I've ever an'
always remarked, that distress, and poverty, and neglect o' the poor,
and hardship, and persecution, an' oppression, and anything that way,
was sure to have my very heart broke wid business.”

“And tell me, Poll, did you ever happen to get a job from a sartin pious
gentleman, o' the name of M'Slime?--now tell the truth.”

“It's a question,” replied Poll, “you have no right to axe--you must
know, Darby O'Drive, that I've had my private business, as well as
my public business, an' that I'd suffer that right hand to be cut off
sooner than betray trust. Honor bright, or what's the world good for!”

They now reached a spot where the road branched into two, but Poll still
kept to that which led to M'Clutchy's. “Are you for the Cottage too,”
 asked Darby.

“I am,” replied Poll, “I've been sent for; but what he wants wid me, I
know no more than the man in the moon.”

Just then the tramp of a horse's feet was heard behind' them, and in a
minute or two, Solomon M'Slime, who was also on his way to the Cottage,
rode up to them.

“A kind good morning to you Darby, my friend! I trust you did not
neglect to avail yourself of the--Ah!” said he complacently on catching
a glimpse of Poll's face, “I think I ought to recollect your features,
my good woman--but, no--I can't say I do--No, I must mistake them for
those of another--but, indeed, the best of us is liable to mistake and
error--all frail--flesh is grass.”

“You might often see my face,” returned Poll, “but I don't think ever we
spoke before. I know you to look at you, sir, that's all--an' it's thrue
what you say too, sir, there's nothing but frailty in the world--divil a
much else--howsomever, be that as is may, honor bright's my motive.”

“And a good motto it is, my excellent woman--is that interesting young
man your son?”

“He is, sir; but he's a poor innocent that, hasn't the full complement
of wit, sir, God help him!”

“Well, my good woman,” continued Solomon, “as he appears to be without
shoes to his feet, will you accept of five shillings, which is all the
silver I have about me, to buy him a pair.”

“Many thanks, Mr. M'Sl--hem--many thanks, sir; honor bright's my
motive.”

“And let it always be so, my excellent, woman; a good morning to you
very kindly! Darby, I bid you also good morning, and peace be with you
both.”

So saying, he rode on at a quiet, easy amble, apparently at peace with
his heart, his conscience, his sleek cob, and all the world besides.

The sessions of Castle Cumber having concluded as sessions usually
conclude, we beg our reader to accompany us to Deaker Hall the residence
of M'Clutchy's father, the squire. This man was far advanced in years,
but appeared to have been possessed of a constitution which sustains
sensuality, or perhaps that retrospective spirit which gloats over its
polluted recollections, on the very verge of the grave. In the case
before us, old age sharpened the inclination to vice in proportion as
it diminished the power of being vicious, and presented an instance of a
man, at the close of a long life, watching over the grave of a corrupted
heart, with a hope of meeting the wan spectres of his own departed
passions, since he could not meet the passions themselves; and he met
them, for they could not rest, but returned to their former habitation,
like unclean spirits as they were, each bringing seven more along with
it, but not to torment him. Such were the beings with which the soul of
this aged materialist was crowded. During life his well known motto was,
“let us eat, and drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.” Upon this
principle, expanded into still wider depravity, did he live and act
during a protracted existence, and to those who knew him, and well known
he was, there appeared something frightfully revolting in the shameless
career of this impenitent old infidel.

Deaker was a large man, with a rainbow protuberance before, whose chin,
at the time we speak of, rested upon his breast, giving to him the exact
character which he bore--that of a man who to the last was studious
of every sensual opportunity. His gray, goatish eye, was vigilant and.
circumspect, and his under lip protruded in a manner, which, joined to
the character of his age, left no one at a loss for the general subject
matter of his thoughts. He always wore top boots, and generally went on
horseback, having that part of his hat which rested on the collar of his
coat, turned up and greasy.

Squire Deaker's language was not more moral than his life--for he not
only enforced his principles by his example, but also by his precept.
His conversation consequently resolved itself into a mingled stream of
swearing and obscenity. Ridicule of religion, and a hardened triumph in
his own iniquitous exploits, illustrated and confirmed by a prodigality
of blasphemous asservations, constituted the staple of his thoughts and
expressions. According to his own principles he could not look forward
to another life, and consequently all that remained for him was to look
back upon an unbroken line of seduction and profligacy--upon wealth and
influence not merely abused, but prostituted to the lowest and
grossest purposes of our worst passions--upon systematic crime--unmanly
treachery--and that dishonest avarice which constituted the act of
heartless desertion in himself the ultimate ruin and degradation of
his victims. Such was this well known squire of the old school, whose
portrait, taken from life, will be recognized by every one who ever knew
him, should any such happen to peruse these pages.

At the period of which we write Squire Deaker was near eighty, and
although feeble and broken down, he still exhibited the remains of a
large, coarse, strong-boned animal, not without a vigorous twinkle of
low cunning in his eye, and a duplicity of character and principle about
his angular and ill-shaped eye-brows which could not be mistaken. He
was confined to his bed, and for the first time during many years, was
unable to attend the Castle Cumber quarter sessions.

It was the second or third day after their close that about the hour of
ten o'clock, a.m., he awoke from a heavy and unhealthy doze, which could
scarcely be termed sleep, but rather a kind of middle state between that
and waking. At length he raised his head, gasped, and on finding no one
in the room, he let fly a volley of execrations, and rang the bell.

“Is there any one there? Any one within hearing? I say Isabel, Isabel,
jezabel, are you all dead and d----d?”

“No, your honor, not yet--some of us at least,” replied a shrewd-looking
lad of about eighteen, nicking his appearance.

“Ha, Lanty--it's you, is it? What do you mean by that, you devil's
pick-tooth? Where's Isabel? Where's Jezabel? Playing her pranks, I
suppose--where is she, you devil's tooth-brush? eh?”

“Do you want your brandy and wather, sir?”

“Brandy and h--l, you scoundrel! Where's Miss Puzzle?”

“Why, she's just rinsing her mouth, sir, wid a drop of “--

“Of what, you devil's imp; but I know--she's drinking--she's drunk, you
young candidate for perdition?”

“I'm not an ould one, sir, any how; as to Miss Fuzzle, sir, she bid me
say, that she's doin' herself the pleasure of drinkin' your health”--

“Ha, ha, ha! Oh, if I were near her--that's all! drinking my health!
She's tipsy, the she scoundrel, she never sends me that message unless
when she's tipsy”--

“Not tipsy, your honor, only unwell--she's a little touched wid the
falling sickness--she always takes it after rinsing her mouth, sir; for
she's fond of a sweet breath, your honor.”

“Ah, she's a confounded blackguard--a living quicksand, and nothing
else. Lanty, my lad, if the Mississippi was brandy grog, she'd dry the
river--drinking at this hour!--well, never mind, I was drunk myself last
night, and I'm half drunk yet. Here, you devil's tinder box, mix me a
glass of brandy and water.”

“Wouldn't you do it better yourself, sir?”

“No, you whelp, don't you see how my hands, and be hanged to them,
tremble and shake. Put in another glass, I say--carry it to my mouth
now; hold, you croil--here's the glorious, pious, and immortal memory!
Ho! Lanty, there's nothing like being a good Protestant after all--so
I'll stand to glorious Bill, to the last; nine times nine, and one cheer
more! hurra!”

He then laid himself back, and attempted to whistle the Boyne Water,
but having only one tusk in front, the sound produced resembled the wild
whistle of the wind through the chink of a door--shrill and monotonous;
after which he burst out into a chuckling laugh, tickled, probably, at
the notion of that celebrated melody proving disloyal in spite of him,
as refusing, as it were, to be whistled.

At this moment Miss Isabel, or as he most frequently called her Miss
Jezabel Puzzle, came in with a gleaming eye and an unsteady step--her
hair partially dishevelled, and her dress most negligently put on. The
moment Deaker saw her, his whole manner changed, notwithstanding his
previous violence--the swagger departed from him, his countenance fell,
and he lay mute and terror-stricken before her. It was indeed clear that
her sway over him was boundless, and such was the fact. On this occasion
she simply looked at him significantly, held up her hand in a menacing
attitude, and having made a mock curtesy, immediately left the room.

“Lanty,” said he in an undertone, when she had gone, “Lanty, you clip,
go and tell her to forgive me; I said too much, and I'm sorry for it,
say--go you scoundrel.”

“Faix I'll do no such thing, sir,” replied Lanty, alarmed at the nature
of the message; “I know better than to come across her now; she'd whale
the life out o' me. Sure she's afther flailing the cook out o' the
kitchen--and Tom Corbet the butler has one of his ears, he says, hangin'
off him as long as a blood-hound's.”

“Speak easy,” said Doaker, in a voice of terror, “speak lower, or she
may hear you--Isn't it strange,” he said to himself, “that I who never
feared God or man, should quail before this Jezabel!”

“Begad, an' here's one, your honor, that'll make her quail, if he meets
her.”

“Who is it,” asked the other eagerly, “who is it you imp?”

“Why, Mr. M'Clutchy, sir; he's ridin' up the avenue.”

“Ay, Val the Vulture--Val the Vulture--I like that fellow--like him for
his confoundedly clever roguery; only he's a hypocrite, and doesn't set
the world at defiance as I do;--no, he's a cowardly, skulking hypocrite,
nearly as great a one as M'Slime, but doesn't talk so much about
religion as that oily gentleman.”

In a few moments M'Clutchy entered. “Good morrow, Val. Well, Val--well,
my Vulture, what's in the wind now? Who's to suffer? Are you ready for a
pounce? Eh?”

“I was sorry to hear that your health's not so good, sir, as it was.”

“You lie, my dear Vulture, you lie in your throat, I tell you. You're
watching for my carcase, snuffing the air at a distance under the hope
of a gorge. No--you didn't care the devil had me, provided you could
make a haul by it.”

“I hope sir, there's no----”

“Hope! You rascally hypocrite, what's hope good for? Hope to rot in the
grave is it? To melt into corruption and feed the worms? What a precious
putrid carcase I'll make, when I'm a month in the dirt. Maybe you
wouldn't much relish the scent of me then, my worthy Vulture. Curse your
beak, at all events! what do you want? what did you come for?”

Val, who knew his worthy sire well, knew also the most successful method
of working out any purpose with him. He accordingly replied, conscious
that hypocrisy was out of the question--

“The fact is, sir, I want you to aid me in a piece of knavery.”

“I'll do it--I'll do it. Hang me if I don't. Come--I like that--it
shows that there's no mock modesty between us--that we know one another.
What's the knavery?”

“Why, sir, I'm anxious, in the first place, to have Hickman, the head
agent, out, and in the next, to get into his place, if possible. Now, I
know that you can assist me in both, if you wish.”

“How?” asked Deaker, who was quite as able a tactician as his son; and
who, in fact, had contrived to put himself so completely! in possession
of the political influence of the county as to be able to return any one
he wished. “How is it to be done? Tell me that?”

“I have understood from George Gamble, Lord Cumber's own man, that he
wants money.”

“Tut,” replied Deaker, who now forgot a great deal of his swearing, and
applied himself to the subject, with all the coolness and ability of a
thorough man of business.

“Tut, Val, is that your news? When was he ever otherwise? Come to the
point; the thing's desirable--but how can it be done?”

“I think it can; but it must be by very nice handling indeed.”

“Well--your nice handling then?”

“The truth is, that Hickman, I suspect, is almost sick of the
agency--thanks to Lord Cumber's extravagance, and an occasional bit of
blister which I, through the tenantry, lay on him at home. Cumber, you
know, is an unsteady scoundrel, and in the ordinary I transactions of
life, has no fixed principle, for he is possessed of little honor, and I
am afraid not much honesty.”

“Oh murder! this from Val the Vulture! Let me look at you! Did M'Slime
bite you? or have you turned Methodist? Holy Jupiter, what a sermon!
Curse your beak, sir; go on, and no preaching.”

“Not much honesty as I said. Now, sir, if you, who have him doubly in
your power--first, by the mortgage; and, secondly, as his political
godfather, who can either put him in, or keep him out of the country--if
you were to write him a friendly, confidential letter, in which,
observe, you are about to finally arrange your affairs; and you are
sorry--quite sorry--but the truth is, something must be done about the
mortgage--you are very sorry--mark--but you are old, and cannot leave
your property in an unsettled state. Just touch that part of it so--”

“Yes--touch and go.”

“Exactly--touch and go. Well, you pass then to the political portion
of it. Hickman's political opinions are not well known, or at least
doubtful. Indeed you have reason to believe that he will not support
his lordship or his family--is not in the confidence of
government--displeased at the Union--and grumbles about corruption.
His lordship is abroad you know, and cannot think for himself. You speak
as his friend--his tried friend--he ought to have a man on his property
who is staunch, can be depended on, and who will see that full justice
is done him in his absence. Hickman, too, is against Ascendancy
principles. Do you see, sir?”

“Proceed--what next?”

“Why, we stop there for the present; nothing more can be done until we
hear from the scoundrel himself.”

“And what do you imagine will be the upshot?”

“Why, I think it not at all unlikely that he will place himself and
his interests, pecuniary and political, altogether in your hands, and
consequently you will probably have the guiding of him.”

“Well, Val, you are an able knave to be sure; but never mind; I like you
all the better. The true doctrine is always--eat, drink, and be merry,
for to-morrow you die,--take as much out of life and your fellow-men as
you can. There's no knavery in the grave, my Vulture. There the honest
man and the knave are alike; and this being the case, what the devil is
public opinion worth?”

“It's worth a great deal if we use it for our own purposes while we're
here; otherwise I agree with you that it's valueless in itself.”

“You're a cursed clever fellow, Val, an able knave, as I said--but I
don't like your son; he's a dishonest blockhead, and I needn't tell
you that the man who has not brains enough to be dishonest is a most
contemptible scoundrel.”

“Are you not able to get up?” asked Val, in a very dutiful and
affectionate voice.

“Able enough now, but my head swam a while ago at a deuced rate. I
was drunk, as usual, last night, and could do nothing, not even put a
tumbler to my mouth, until I took a stiff glass of brandy and water,
and that has set me up again. When shall I write to young Topertoe, the
Cumber blade?”

“The sooner the better, now; but I think you ought to rise and take some
exercise.”

“So I shall, immediately, and to-morrow I write then, according to your
able instructions, most subtle and sagacious Val. Are you off?”

“Yes, good-bye, sir, and many thanks.”

“None of your stuff I say, but be off out of this--” and as he spoke Val
disappeared.

So far the first steps for ousting Mr. Hickman were taken by this
precious father and his equally valuable son. Val, however, entertained
other speculations quite as ingenious, and far more malignant in
their tendency. Hickman, of course, he might, by undercurrents and
manoeuvering, succeed in ejecting from the agency; but he could not
absolutely ruin him. Nothing short of this, however, did he propose to
himself, so far as M'Loughlin, and, we may add, every one connected with
him, was concerned; for M'Clutchy possessed that kind of economy in his
moral feelings, that always prompted him to gratify his interest and his
malice by the same act of virtue. How he succeeded in this benevolent
resolution, time and the progress of this truthful history will show.




CHAPTER V.--A Mysterious Meeting

--Description of a Summer Evening--A Jealous Vision--Letter from Squire
Beaker to Lord Cumber--Lord Cumber's Reply.


The season was now about the close of May, that delightful month
which presents, the heart and all our purer sensations with a twofold
enjoyment; for in that sweet period have we not all the tenderness and
delicacy of spring, combined with the fuller and more expanded charms
of the leafy summer--like that portion of female life, in which the
eye feels it difficult to determine whether the delicate beauty of
the blushing girl, or the riper loveliness of the full grown maid,
predominates in the person. The time was evening, about half an hour
before that soft repose of twilight, in which may be perceived the
subsiding stir of busy life as it murmurs itself into slumber, after the
active pursuits of day. On a green upland lawn, that was a sheep walk,
some portions of which were studded over with the blooming and fragrant
furze, stood an old ecclesiastical ruin, grey from time, and breathing
with that spirit of vague but dreamy reverie, which it caught from the
loveliness of the season, the calmness and the golden light of the hour,
accessories, that, by their influence, gave a solemn beauty to its very
desolation. It reminded one somewhat of the light which coming death
throws upon the cheek of youth when he treacherously treads in the soft
and noiseless steps of decline--or rather of that still purer light,
which, when the aged Christian arrives at the close of a well spent
life, accompanied by peace, and hope, and calmness, falls like a glory
on his bed of death. The ruin was but small, a remnant of one of those
humble, but rude temples, in which God was worshipped in simplicity and
peace, far from the noisy tumults and sanguinary conflicts of ambitious
man.

Through this sweet upland, and close to the ruin, ran a footpath that
led to a mountain village of considerable extent. Immediately behind the
ruin stood a few large hawthorn trees, now white with blossoms, whose
fragrance made the very air a luxury, and from whose branches came forth
those gushes of evening melody that shed tenderness and tranquility into
the troubled heart. The country in the distance lay charmed, as it were,
by the calm spirit of peace which seemed to have diffused itself
over the whole landscape--western windows were turned into fire--the
motionless lakes shone like mirrors wherever they caught the beams of
the evening light, as did several bends of the broad river which barely
moved within its winding banks through the meadows below. The sun at
length became half concealed behind the summit of the western hills, so
that his rich and gorgeous beams fell only upon the surrounding uplands,
now lit into purple, leaving the valleys and lower parts of the country
to repose in that beautiful shadow which can be looked upon from the
higher parts, only through the crimson glory of the departing light.
And now the sun has disappeared--is gone--but still how beautiful is
the fading splendor that sleeps for a little on the mountain tops, then
becomes dimmer and dimmer--then a faint streak which gradually melts
away until it is finally lost in the soft shadows of that thoughtful
hour. And even thus passeth away all human glory! The ruin which we have
mentioned stood about half way between the residence of Brian M'Loughlin
and the mountain village to which we have alluded. Proceeding homewards
from the latter place, having performed an errand of mercy and charity,
was a very beautiful girl, exquisitely formed, but somewhat below the
middle size. She was Brian M'Loughlin's only daughter--a creature that
breathed of goodness, grace, and all those delightful qualities that make
woman a ministering angel amidst the cares, and miseries, and sorrows
of life. Her figure, symmetry itself, was so light, and graceful, and
elegant, that a new charm was displayed by every motion, as a new beauty
was discovered by every change of her expressive countenance; her hair
was like the raven's wing, and her black eye, instead of being sharp and
piercing, was more in accordance with the benignity of her character,
soft, sweet, and mellow. Her bust and arm were perfection, and the small
white hand and taper fingers would have told a connoisseur or sculptor,
that her foot, in lightness and elegance of formation, might have
excited, the envy of Iris or Camilla.

Having reached the ruin, she was surprised to see the figure of a thin
woman, dressed in black, issue out of it, and approach her with somewhat
of caution in her manner. Mary M'Loughlin was a girl of strong mind and
firm character, and not likely to feel alarmed by any groundless cause
of apprehension. She immediately recognized the woman, who was no other
than our old friend Poll Doolin, and in the phrases peculiar to the
country, made the usual kind inquiry after her health and welfare.

“It's a very unusual thing, Poll,” she proceeded, “to see you in this
part of the neighborhood!”

“It is,” returned Poll, “I wasn't so near the mountains this many a day;
an' I wouldn't be here now, only on your account. Miss M'Loughlin.”

Now, Mary was by no means ignorant of the enmity which this woman
entertained against her father and family, in consequence of having
prosecuted and transported her profligate son. Without the slightest
apprehension on that account, she felt, however, a good deal puzzled
as to the meaning which could be attached to Poll's words. “How, on my
account, Poll? I don't understand you.”

“Neither you nor yours desarve it at my hands; but for all that, I am
here to do you a good tarn.”

“I hope I never deserved any evil at your! hands, Poll.”

“No, but you're your father's daughter for all that, an' it's not usual
to hate the tree and spare the branches.”

“I suppose you allude to the transportation of your son; but remember,
Poll, that I was only a child then; and don't forget that had your son
been honest, he might I still be a comfort and a credit to you, instead
of a shame and a sorrow. I don't I mean, nor do I wish to hurt your
feelings, Poll; but I am anxious that you should not indulge in such
bitterness of heart against my father, who only did what he could not
avoid.”

“Well,” said Poll, “never mind that--although it isn't aisy for a mother
to forget her child wid all his faults; I am here, as I said, on your
'account--I am here to tell you, that there is danger about you and
before you, and to put you on your guard against it. I am here, Miss
Mary M'Loughlin, and if I'm not your friend--I'm not sayin' that I am
not--still I'm the friend of one that is your friend, and that will
protect you if he can.”

“That is very strange, Poll, for I know not how I can have an enemy.
What danger could a simple inoffensive girl like me feel? I who have
never knowingly offended anybody.”

“I have said the truth,” replied Poll, “and did my duty--you're now
warned, so be on your guard and take care of yourself.”

“But how, Poll? You mention danger, yet have not told me what it is,
where it's to come from, nor how I am to guard myself against it.”

“I'm not at liberty,” said Poll, “but this I can tell you, it's
threatening you, and it comes from a quarther where you'd never look for
it.”

Mary, who was neither timid nor surprised, smiled with the confidence of
innocence, and replied, after a short pause of thought--

“Well, Poll, I have been thinking over my friends, and cannot find one
that is likely to be my enemy; at all events I am deeply obliged to you,
still if you could mention what the danger is, I would certainly
feel the obligation to be greater. As it is, I thank you again. Good
evening!”

“Stay, Miss Mary,” replied Poll, walking eagerly a step or two after
her, “stay a minute; I have run a risk in doin' this--only promise me,
to keep what I said to you a saicret for a while--as well as that you
ever had any private talk wid me. Promise this.”

“I shall certainly not promise any such thing, Poll; so far from that,
I will mention every word of your conversation to my father and family,
the moment I reach home. If, as you say, there is danger before or
around me, there are none whose protection I should so naturally seek.”

“But this,” said Poll, with an appearance of deep anxiety, “this is a
matther of mere indifference to you: it's to me the danger is, if you
spake of it--to me, I say--not to you.”

“But I can have no secrets from my family.”

“Well, but is it ginerous in you to put me--ay', my very life in
danger--when all you have to do is merely to say nothing? However, since
I must speak out--you'll put more than me in danger--them that you love
betther, an' that you'd never carry a light heart if anything happened
them.”

Mary started--and a light seemed suddenly to break upon her.

“How,” said she, “my engagement to Francis Harman is no secret; our
marriage at no distant day being sanctioned by both our families. Is he
involved in danger connected with your hints?”

“Deep and deadly, both to him and me. You don't know it, Miss Mary. If
you love him, as you do--as is well known you do--if you would keep him
and my poor worthless self out of danger, may be out of bloodshed--don't
mention a syllable of this meetin' to any one; but of all persons livin'
to himself, until I give you lave, until I can tell you it will be safe
to do so. See, I kneel down with hands clasped, I beg it of you for his
sake and safety!”

It was pretty well known through the parish, especially by the
initiated, that this same Poll Doolin, had in truth most of its secrets
in keeping; and that she had frequently conducted with success those
rustic intrigues which are to be found in humble, as well as in high
life. The former part of Poll's character, however, was all that had
ever reached the youthful ears of poor innocent Mary, whilst of her
address as a diplomatist in the plots and pursuits of love, she was
utterly ignorant. Naturally unsuspicious, as we have already said,
she looked upon the woman's knowing character rather as a circumstance
calculated to corroborate the truth of the mystery which she, must have
discovered: and was so much moved by the unquestionable sincerity of her
manner, and the safety of her own lover, that she assured her she would
keep the secret, until permitted to divulge it; which she begged might
be at as early a period as possible. Poll thanked her eagerly and
gratefully, and in a few minutes, having made a circuit behind the ruin,
sought the lower and richer country by a different path.

Mary unconsciously stood for some time after Poll had left her,
meditating over the strange and almost unaccountable scene which had
just taken place, when a rich voice, with which she was well acquainted,
addressed her. She started, and on turning about, found Francis Harman
before her. Twilight had now nearly passed away, and the dusk of evening
was deepening into the darkness of a summer night.

“What on earth are you thinking of alone in this place, my dear Mary,
and who was that woman who just left you?”

Mary, though firm of character, was also tender and warm of heart, and
felt deeply for those she loved. The interview with Poll, therefore, had
excited apprehensions concerning Harman's safety, which disturbed her
far more than any she felt for herself. He gave her his right arm as he
spoke, and they went on towards her father's house.

“Good God,” he exclaimed, before she had time to answer him, “what
has disturbed or alarmed you, my sweet Mary? I feel your heart beating
against my arm, in a most extraordinary manner. How is this?”

The consciousness of the injunction so solemnly and recently imposed,
distressed her exceedingly. Her love of truth was like her love of life
or of heaven, a sacred and instinctive principle which she must now
not only violate, but be forced to run into the hateful practice of
dissimulation. All this passed through her mind in a moment.

“My dear Francis, I will freely admit that the beatings of my heart are
not altogether without cause; I have been somewhat disturbed, but it
will not signify; I shall be quite well in a moment--but where did you
come from?”

“They told me you had gone up to poor Widow Carrick's--and I took the
short way, thinking to find you there. But what has disturbed you, my
dear Mary? Something has, and greatly too.”

She looked up with an affectionate smile into his face, although there
trembled a tear upon her eyelids, as she spoke--

“Do not ask me, my dear Frank; nor don't think the circumstance of
much importance. It is a little secret of mine, which I cannot for the
present disclose.”

“Well, my love, I only ask to know if the woman that left you was Poll
Doolin.”

“I cannot answer even that, Frank; but such as the secret is, I trust
you shall soon know it.”

“That is enough, my darling. I am satisfied that you would conceal
nothing from either your family or me, which might be detrimental either
to yourself or us--or which we ought to know.”

“That is true,” said she, “I feel that it is true.”

“But then on the other hand,” said he, playfully, “suppose our little
darling were in possession of a secret which we ought not to know--what
character should we bestow on the secret?”

This, though said in love and jest, distressed her so much that she
was forced to tell him so--“my dear Francis,” she replied, with as
much composure as she could assume, “do not press me on the subject;--I
cannot speak upon it now, and I consequently must throw myself on your
love and generosity only for a short time, I hope.”

“Not a syllable, my darling, on the subject until you resume it
yourself--how are Widow Carrick's sick children?”

“Somewhat better,” she replied, “the two eldest are recovering, and want
nourishment, which, with the exception of my poor contributions, they
cannot get.”

“God love and guard your kind and charitable heart, my sweet Mary,” said
he, looking down tenderly into her beautiful face, and pressing her arm
lovingly against his side.

“What a hard-hearted man that under agent, M'Clutchy, is,” she
exclaimed, her beautiful eye brightening with indignation--“do you know
that while her children were ill, his bailiff, Darby O'Drive, by his
orders or authority, or some claim or other, took away her goose and
the only half-dozen of eggs she had for them--indeed, Frank, he's a sad
curse to the property.”

“He is what an old Vandal was once called for his cruelty and
oppression--the Scourge of God,” replied Harman, “such certainly the
unhappy tenantry of the Topertoe family find him. Harsh and heartless
as he is, however, what would he be were it not for the vigilance and
humanity of Mr. Hickman? But are you aware, Mary, that his graceful son
Phil was a suitor of yours?”

“Of mine---ha, ha, ha!--oh, that's too comical, Frank--but I am not--Had
I really ever that honor?”

“Most certainly; his amiable father had the modesty to propose a
matrimonial union between your family and his!”

“I never heard of it,” replied Mary, “never;--but that is easily
accounted for--my father, I know, would not insult me by the very
mention of it.”

“It's a fact though, that the illegitimate son of the blasphemous old
squire, and of the virtuous and celebrated Kate Clank, hoped to have
united the M'Loughlin blood with his!”

“Hush!” exclaimed Mary, shuddering, “the very thought is sickening,
revolting.”

“It's not a pleasant subject, certainly,” said Harman, “and the less
that is said about it the more disgust we shall avoid, at any rate.”

Her lover having safely conducted Mary home, remained with her family
only a few minutes, as the evening was advanced, and he had still to go
as far as Castle Cumber, upon business connected with the manufactory,
which M'Loughlin and his father had placed wholly under his
superintendence.

Upon what slight circumstances does the happiness of individuals,
nay, even of states and kingdoms, too frequently depend! Harman most
assuredly was incapable of altogether dismissing the circumstance of
the evening--involved in mystery as they unquestionably were--out of his
mind; not that he entertained the slightest possible suspicion of Mary's
prudence or affection; but he felt a kind of surprise at the novelty
of the position in which he saw she was placed, and no little pain in
consequence of the disagreeable necessity for silence which she admitted
had been imposed on her. His confidence in her, however, was boundless;
and from this perfect reliance on her discretion and truth, he derived
an assurance that she was acting with strict propriety under the
circumstances, whatever might be their character or tendency.

It may be necessary to mention here that a right of passage ran from
Beleeven, the name of the village in which M'Loughlin resided, to the
Castle Cumber high road, which it joined a little beyond Constitution
Cottage, passing immediately through an angle of the clump of beeches
already mentioned as growing behind the house. By this path, which
shortened the way very much, Harman, and indeed every pedestrian
acquainted with it, was in the habit of passing, and on the night in
question he was proceeding along it at a pretty quick pace, when, having
reached the beeches just alluded to, he perceived two figures, a male
and female, apparently engaged in close and earnest conversation. The
distance at first was too great to enable him to form any opinion as to
who they were, nor would he have even asked himself the question, were
it not that the way necessarily brought him pretty near them. The reader
may form some conception then of his surprise, his perplexity, and,
disguise it as he might, his pain, on ascertaining that the female was
no other than Poll Doolin, and her companion, graceful Phil himself--the
gallant and accomplished owner of Handsome Harry.

It appeared quite evident that the subject matter of their conversation
was designed for no other ears than their own, or why speak as they did
in low and guarded tones, that implied great secrecy and caution. Nay,
what proved still a plainer corroboration of this--no sooner was the
noise of his footsteps heard, than Poll squatted herself down behind
the small hedge which separated the pathway from the space on which they
stood, and this clearly with a hope of concealing her person from
his observation. Phil also turned away his face with a purpose of
concealment, but the impression left by his lank and scraggy outline,
as it stood twisted before Harman, was such as could not be mistaken.
Poll's identity not only on this occasion, but also during her hasty
separation from Mary, was now established beyond the possibility of a
doubt; a fact which lent to both her interviews a degree of mystery that
confounded Harman. On thinking over the matter coolly, he could scarcely
help believing that Her appearance here was in some way connected with
the, circumstances which had occasioned Mary so much agitation and
alarm. This suspicion, however, soon gave way to a more generous
estimate of her character, and he could not permit himself for a moment
to imagine the existence of anything that was prejudicial to her truth
and affection. At the same time he felt it impossible to prevent himself
from experiencing a strong sense of anxiety, or perhaps we should say, a
feeling of involuntary pain, which lay like a dead weight upon his heart
and spirits. In truth, do what he might and reason as he would, he could
not expel from his mind the new and painful principle which disturbed
it. And thus he went on, sometimes triumphantly defending Mary from all
ungenerous suspicion, and again writhing under the vague and shapeless
surmises which the singular events of the evening sent crowding to
his imagination. His dreams on retiring to seek repose were
frightful--several times in the night he saw graceful Phil squinting
at him with a nondescript leer of vengeance and derision in his yellow
goggle eyes, and bearing Mary off, like some misshapen ogre of old,
mounted upon Handsome Harry, who appeared to be gifted with the speed
of Hark-away or flying Childers, whilst he himself could do nothing but
stand helplessly by, and contemplate the triumph of his hated rival.

In the mean time the respected father and grandfather of that worthy
young gentleman were laboring as assiduously for his advancement in
life as if he had been gifted with a catalogue of all human virtues.
Old Deaker, true to his word, addressed the very next day the following
characteristic epistle--

“To the Right Hon. Lord Cumber.

“My Lord--It is unnecessary to tell you that I was, during my life,
a plain blunt fellow in all my transactions. When I was honest, I was
honest like a man; and when I did the roguery, I did it like a open,
fearless knave, that defied the world and scorned hypocrisy. I am,
therefore, the same consistent old scoundrel as ever; or the same bluff,
good-humored rascal which your old father--who sold his country--and
yourself--who would sell it too, if you had one to sell--ever found me.
To make short work, then, I want you to dismiss that poor, scurvy devil,
Hickman, from your agency, and put that misbegotten spawn of mine in
his place. I mean Val M'Clutchy, or Val the Vulture, as they have very
properly christened him. Hickman's not the thing, in any sense. He can't
manage the people, and they impose upon him--then you suffer, of course.
Bedsides, he's an anti-ascendancy man, of late, and will go against you
at the forthcoming Election. The fellow pretends to have a conscience,
and be cursed to him--prates about the Union--preaches against
corruption--and talks about the people, as if they were fit to be
anything else than what they are. This is a pretty fellow for you to
have as an agent to your property. Now, I'll tell you what, my Lord--you
know old Deaker well. His motto is--'Let us eat, drink, and be merry,
for to-morrow we die--' I'll tell you what, I say; I have a mortgage on
your property for fourteen thousand pounds. Now, put in Val or I'll be
speaking to my lawyer about it. Put in Val, or you will never warm your
posteriors in a seat for this county, so long as I carry the key of it.
In doing so, make no wry faces about it--you will only serve yourself
and your property, and serve Val into the bargain. Val, to be sure,
is as confounded a scoundrel as any of us, but then he is a staunch
Protestant; and you ought not to be told at this time of day, that the
greater the scoundrel the better the agent. Would you have a fellow,
for instance, whose conscience, indeed, must stand between you and your
interest? Would you have some honest blockhead, who, when you are to be
served by a piece of friendly rascality, will plead scruples. If so, you
are a greater fool than I ever took you to be. Make Val your agent, and
it is not you that will suffer by him, but the people--whom, of course,
no one cares a curse about. I ought to have some claim on you, I think.
Many a lift I have given your precious old father, Tom Topertoe, when I
did not think of pleading scruples. To tell you the truth, many a dirty
trick I played for him, and never brought my conscience to account for
it. Make the most of this rascally world, and of the rascals that are in
it, for we are all alike in the grave. Put in Val, then, and don't made
an enemy of

“Your old friend,

“Randal Deaker.

“P.S.--As to Val, he knows nothing of this transaction--I told him I
would say so, and I keep my word. I forgot to say that if you write this
beggarly devil, Hickman, a sharp letter for money, he may probably
save you the trouble of turning him out. I know him well--he is a thin
skinned fool, and will be apt to bolt, if you follow my advice.

“Yours as you deserve it,

“R D.”


Now, it is necessary to say here, that amidst all this pretence of open
villainy, there ran an undercurrent of cunning that might escape the
observation of most men. In truth, old Deaker was not only a knave, but
a most unscrupulous oppressor at heart, especially when he happened to
get a man in his power from whom he wished to extort a favor, or on
whom he wished to inflict an injury. In the present instance he felt
perfectly conscious of his power over the heartless profligate, to whom
he wrote such a characteristic letter, and the result shows that he
neither miscalculated the feeble principles of his correspondent, nor
the consequences of his own influence over him. By due return of post he
received a reply, of which the following is a copy:--

“Old Deaker--You have me fast, and you know it--so I suppose must is
the word; now I'll tell you what I want, you old villain; I want two
thousand pounds, and if M'Clutchy is to get the agency, I must have
the money--so there is my must as well as yours. In the meantime I have
written to Hickman on the same subject, want of money, I mean--what the
consequences may be, I know not, but I fancy I can guess them.

“Yours,

“Cumber.”




CHAPTER VI.--The Life and Virtues of an Irish Absentee

--Duties of an Irish Landlord--An Apologue on Property--Reasons for
Appointing an Agent--M'Clutchy's Notions of His Duties--Receipt to make
a Forty Shilling Freeholder.


Lord Cumber to Henry Hickman, Esq.

“London, April 1st, 18--

“My Dear Hickman,

“I wrote to you the day before yesterday, and, as the letter was one of
a very pressing nature, I hope its influence won't be lost upon you.
To you who are so well acquainted with the cursed pickle in which I am
placed, it is unnecessary to say that I shall be fairly done up, unless
you can squeeze something for me out of those rascally tenants of mine.
Fairly done up is not the proper term either; for between you and me, I
strongly suspect a young fellow called Swingler, an ironmonger's son,
of giving me a twist too much, on more than one occasion. He was
introduced, that is, proposed as a member of our club, by Sir Robert
Ratsbane, whose grandfather was a druggist, and seconded by Lord
Loadstone, the celebrated lady-killer, as a regular pigeon, who dropped,
by the death of old 'burn the wind,' into half a million at least. The
fellow did appear to be a very capital speculation, but the whole thing,
however, was a trick, as I strongly suspect; for after losing to a
tolerably smart tune, our gentleman began to illustrate the doctrine of
reaction, and has, under the character of a pigeon, already fleeced half
a score of us. Last week I suffered to the tune of eight hundred--Sir
Heavyhead to that of twelve--Bill Swag five--and the Hon. Tom Trickman
himself, who scarcely ever loses, gave bills for six fifties. I can't
stand this, Hickman, that is, I cannot afford to stand it. What is
fifteen thousand a year to a man like me, who must support his rank, or
be driven to the purgatorial alternative of being imprisoned on his own
estate? Hickman, you have no bowels for me, although you can have for
the hard-fisted boors on my property, who wont pay up as they ought, and
all through your indolence and neglect. You must send me money, get it
where you will; beg, borrow, rob, drive, cant, sell out--for money I
must have. Two thousand within a fortnight, and no disappointment,
or I'm dished. You know not the demands upon me, and therefore you,
naturally enough, think very easily--much too easily--of my confounded
difficulties. If you had an opera girl to keep, as I have--and a
devilish expensive appendage the affectionate jade is--perhaps you might
feel a little more Christian sympathy for me than you do. If you had the
expense of my yacht--my large stud at Melton Mowbry and Doncaster, and
the yearly deficits in my betting book, besides the never ending train
of jockies, grooms, feeders, trainers, _et hoc genus omne_--to meet, it
is probable, old boy, you would not feel so boundless an interest, as
you say you do, in the peace and welfare of another man's tenantry, and
all this at that other man's expense. You're confoundedly unreasonable,
Hickman. Why feel, or pretend to feel, more for these fellows, their
barelegged wives, and ragged brats, than you do for a nobleman of rank,
to whom you are deeply indebted. I mean you no offence, Hickman; you are
in other respects an honest fellow enough, and if possessed of only a
little less heart, as the times go, and more skill in raising money from
these people, you would be invaluable to such a distressed devil as I
am. As it is, I regret to say, that you are more a friend to my tenantry
than to myself, which is a poor qualification for an agent. In fact, we,
the Irish aristocracy living here, or absentees as you call us, instead
of being assailed by abuse, want of patriotism, neglect of duties, and
all that kind of stuff, have an especial claim upon the compassion of
their countrymen. If you knew what we, with limited means and encumbered
properties, must suffer in attempting to compete with the aristocracy
of this country, who are enormously rich, you would say that we deserve
immortal credit for holding out and keeping up appearances as we
do--not that I think we always come off scott-free from their ridicule,
especially when they see the shifts to which we are put, in order to
stretch onward at their own pace. However, we must drink when we are
thirsty, as well as they, and if the water happen to be low in the
cistern, which, indeed, is mostly the case with us, we must, as the
rook in the fable did with the pebbles, throw in rack-renting, drivings,
executions, mortgages, loans, &c, in order to bring it within our
reach--for there is ingenuity in everything, as the proverb says, except
in roasting of eggs.

“Come, then, Hickman, set to work at once. My yacht has been damaged by
a foolish wager I made to run her through a creek of reefs at low water,
so that the mere repairs will cost me a cool two hundred at least.
Besides this, I have pledged myself to buy my charming little Signora a
pair of Blenheim spaniels that she has fallen in love with, for which I
shall have to fork out a hundred and fifty down. I say, then, again,
my dear Hickman, money, money; money by _any_ means, but by _all_ means
money; _rem, sed quocunque modo rem_.

“By the way is there not a man there, a kind of under-fellow in
something--agent, I believe--some time appointed, named M'Snitchy, or
M'Smatchey, M'Clutchy, or some such euphonious appellative? Somebody,
old Deaker I think, once mentioned him to me in strong terms, and said
he might become capable of being useful; and you know, Hickman, as well
as I do, that every property circumstanced as mine is, requires a useful
fellow of that particular description. For instance, I dare say, there
are certain proceedings connected with your duty to which you have
no great inclination, and, under these circumstances, would it not
be prudent at least to resort to the agency of somebody like this
M'Clutchy; a fellow not overburthened with too strong a perception of
the necessary pressure. But the truth is, if I proceed in this manner,
your humanity, as the cant goes, will take the alarm; you will say that
my residence abroad has not improved my principles; and that I am rather
strongly tainted with club morality, and the ethics of the gaming,
house. So would you, perhaps, if you breathed my atmosphere, and were
exposed to my temptations. But now I am preaching, and not to the right
purpose either; so as I said before, I say again--money, money, money.

“I am, my dear Hickman,
“Thy friend in distress,
“Cumber.”


Henry Hickman, Esq., to the Right Honorable Lord Viscount Cumber:--

Primrose Hill, April 18--

“My Lord:

“I have had the honor of receiving both your communications, and have
read them, especially that of the first instant, with great pain. I need
not tell you, that I have been your father's friend--that I have been,
and still am your friend, and as such, from my age and anxiety for your
lordship's welfare and reputation, I must take the liberty of one who
has both sincerely at heart, to write to you in terms which a mere agent
could not with propriety use. As this letter, therefore, is written
for your own eye only, you will be good enough to remember that in
everything severe and home-spoken in it, the friend, and not the agent
speaks--at the same time, I must admit, that it is from the knowledge
gained as an agent that I remonstrate as a friend.

“It is now beyond a doubt, my Lord, that your position is one surrounded
with difficulties scarcely to be surmounted, unless by measures which I,
as an honest man, cannot permit myself to adopt. So long as the course
of life, which it has pleased your lordship's better taste and judgment
to pursue, did not bring within the compass of my duties as your agent,
the exhibition of principles at variance with humanity and justice, so
long did I fulfil those duties with all the ability and zeal for your
just interests which I could exert. But now I perceive, that you have
driven me to that line beyond which I cannot put my foot, without
dishonor to myself. I have been the agent of your property, my Lord, but
I shall never become the instrument of your vices; and believe me, this
is a distinction which in our unhappy country, is too seldom observed.
Many an agent, my Lord, has built himself a fortune out of the very
necessities of his employer, and left to his children the honorable
reflection that their independence originated from profligacy on the one
hand and dishonesty on the other. You see, my Lord, I find it necessary
to be very plain with you, and to say, that however you may feel
yourself disposed to follow the one course, I shall not rival you in the
other. I cannot become a scourge inflicted by your necessities, not to
use a harsher word, upon a suffering people, who are already exhausted
and provoked by an excess of severity and neglect. Think of the
predicament in which you would have me stand--of the defence which you
place, in my lips. Should your tenantry ask me--'why are you thus cruel
and oppressive-upon us?' what reply could I make but this--'I am thus
cruel because his lordship is profligate. He wants money to support
his-mistress, to feed her vanities and excesses, and you must endure
distress and privation, that the insatiable rapacity of a courtezan may
be gratified. His lordship, too, has horses and dogs, in the welfare of
which he feels a deep interest.' 'But why does he not feel an interest
in us?' 'So he does, for are not you the persons by whose toil and labor
he is enabled to support them all?' 'So that in point of fact, we
are made indirectly the agents of his crimes. The privations which
we suffer--the sweat of our brows--the labor of our hands, go to
the-support of his wantonness, his luxury, and his extravagance!
This, then, is his interest in us?' 'Yes--_work, that you may feed
them_--starve, that his mistress may riot in wantonness; perish your
children that his dogs may be fed!' In such a position as this, my Lord,
I shall never place myself, but you may easily find many that will. The
moment your necessities are known, knavery will be immediately at work,
and assume its guardianship over folly. Indeed there is a monarchical
spirit in knavery, which has never yet been observed. The knave keeps
his fool, as did the kings of old, with this only difference, and a
material one it is--that whilst the fool always lived at the king's
expense, the knave lives at the fool's. How your lordship may feel under
the new administration I cannot say, but I am inclined to think, you
will not find it a distinction without a difference. By this, of course,
you understand, my Lord, that I at once resign my agency.

“And now, my Lord, in addition to many other unavailable remonstrances
made by me, not only against your licentious habits as a man, but
against your still more indefensible conduct as a landlord, allow me
to address you in a spirit of honesty, which I fear is not easily found
among the class to which I belong. I look upon this as a duty which I
owe less to you than to my country, because I am satisfied that the
most important service which can be rendered to any man, not ashamed
of either your habits or principles, is to lay before him a clear, but
short and simple statement, of that which constitutes his duty as
a landlord--I should say an Irish landlord--for there is a national
idiosyncrasy of constitution about such a man, which appears to prevent
him from properly discharging his duties, either as a friend to himself,
or a just man to his tenantry.

“The first principle, therefore, which an Irish landlord--or, indeed any
landlord--should lay down, as his fixed and unerring guide, is ever to
remember that his tenantry are his best friends--his only patrons--and
that instead of looking down upon them with contempt, neglect, or even
indifference, he should feel that they are his chief benefactors, who
prop his influence, maintain his rank, and support his authority.

“The second is--that the duties of the landlord to his tenantry are much
greater, and far more important than those of his tenantry to him, and
should at least be quite as equitably and attentively discharged.

“The third is--to remember that the great mass of the population in
Ireland belong to one creed, and the great bulk of landed proprietors
to another; and to take care that none of those fierce and iniquitous
prerogatives of power, which are claimed and exercised by those who
possess property, shall be suffered, in the name of religion, or
politics, or prejudice of any kind, to disturb or abridge the civil or
religious rights of the people, and thus weaken the bonds which should
render the interests of landlord and tenant identical. Prejudice so
exercised is tyranny. Every landlord should remember that the soil is of
no religion.

“The fourth is--simply to remember that those who live upon our
property have bodies and souls, passions, reflections, and feelings
like ourselves. That they are susceptible of hunger, cold, grief,
joy, sickness, and sorrow--that they love their children and domestic
relatives, are attached to their religion, bound by strong and heartfelt
ties to the soil they live on, and are, in fact, moved by all those
general laws and principles of life and nature, which go to make up
social and individual happiness--to remember, in short, that they are
men who have higher destinies in life, than merely administering to the
wants, excesses, or crimes of others; and that no condition has ever yet
been known to subsist between landlord and tenant, or even between man
and man, by which one party is required to surrender comfort, freedom,
and enjoyment, in fact, all that life is good for, merely to gratify the
wants, vices, or ambition of the other.

“The fifth and last is--not by oppression, cruelty, or rapacity, to goad
the people into madness and outrage, under the plausible name of law
or justice; or to drive the national mind--which is a clear one--into
reflections that may lead it to fall back upon first principles, or
force it to remember that the universal consent by which the rights of
property are acknowledged, may, under the exasperation of overstrained
pressure, in a land so peculiarly circumstanced as Ireland is,
be altogether withheld, and thus its whole foundations shaken or
overturned, and the justice of individual claims and prescriptive right
lost in the tumult.

“These principles are simple, my Lord, but they ought at least to be
better known, or what would be still more desirable, better practised.
As, however, my paper is nearly filled, I shall finish my communication
with a short fab!e, to which I beg your lordship's serious attention.

“There lived a man once, who was foolish enough to entertain a senseless
prejudice against cows, because they did not give milk all the year
round. This man was married, and of course, had a numerous family of
children, and being very lazy and improvident, depended principally upon
the kindliness of an excellent cow, whose milk was the chief means of
his support and theirs. At length in the due course of time, the poor
cow, as every one must know, began to yield it in diminished quantities,
and as it happened to be a severe year, and as the lazy man we speak of
had made no provision for its occurrence, it is unnecessary to say that
he and his family were put to the greatest straits for subsistence.
Finding, after much deliberation, that the poor animal, which they
kicked and cudgelled to excess could not change the laws of nature, or
afford them that which she did not possess, it was determined by her
proprietor, that as she failed in supplying them with sufficient milk
they should try the fleams, and have recourse to her blood, in order
to eke out their support. Accordingly she was bled, along with being
milked; but if the quantity of milk she gave before was little, it now
became less, so that in proportion as they drew upon the one the other
diminished, as was but natural. In this way they proceeded, milking and
bleeding the poor animal at the same time, not only without any benefit
to themselves, but with a certain prospect of her ultimate loss, when
one day the cow, after having ruminated for some time on the treatment
she was receiving, began to reflect that she could not be much worse,
or rather that she must soon altogether sink under this system of double
drainage. 'Well' thought she, 'I feel how matters must close with me
at last; I am indeed near the end of my tether; what have I now to fear
when I know that I cannot be worse? And if I am to die, as I must, is it
not better to have satisfaction for my sufferings'? Accordingly, me next
morning when her owner went to get blood for their breakfast, it so
happened that the cow thrust a horn into him, and he was found lying
a corpse under her lifeless carcase--the last drop of her blood having
been expended under the final operation of the fleams. My Lord, the
moral of this is as obvious as it is fearful--and fearfully have the
circumstances of the country, and the principles of such men as you,
caused it to be illustrated. If landlords will press too severely
upon the functions of human suffering and patience, it is not to be
surprised, although it is to be deplored, that where no legal remedy
exists against individual cruelty or rapacity, or that plausible
selfishness, which is the worst species of oppression--that the law, I
say, which protects only the one party should be forgotten or despised
by the other, and a fiercer code of vengeance substituted in its stead.

“With respect to Mr. M'Clutchy, surely your lordship must remember that
by your own letter he was appointed under agent more than three years
ago.

“If, after the many remonstrances I have had occasion to make against
his general conduct to the tenants, you consider him a useful man upon
your property, you will, in that case, have to abide the consequences of
your confidence in him. You are, at all events, duly forewarned.

“I now must beg leave, my Lord, to render up my trust, to resign my
situation as the agent of your estates--I do so with pain, but the
course of your lordship's life has left me no other alternative. I
cannot rack and goad your tenants, nor injure your own property. I
cannot paralyze industry, cramp honest exertion, or distress poverty
still further, merely to supply necessities which are little less than
criminal in yourself and ruinous to your tenantry.

“Believe me, my Lord, I would not abandon you in your difficulties, if I
saw any honorable means of extricating you from them. You know, however,
that every practicable step has been taken for that purpose, but without
effect--your property should grow rapidly indeed, in order to keep pace
with the increasing and incessant demands which are made upon it. We
can borrow no more, and the knowledge of that fact alone, ought to set
a limit to your extravagance. Excuse this plainness, my Lord, it is well
meant and void of intentional offence.

“I shall be ready in a few days to deliver all books, papers, documents,
&c, connected With the property, to any person duly authorized by your
Lordship to receive them.

“I have the honor to be, &c,

“Henby Hickman.”


The Right Honorable Lord Cumber to Valentine M'Clutchy:--

Doncaster, April, 18--

“Sir:

“In consequence of certain communications which have passed between Mr.
Hickman and myself, I have determined that he shall no longer act in
the capacity of my agent. The situation is therefore open, and, until
a competent person shall be appointed, I authorize you to discharge its
duties, and receive from him a correct statement of all accounts
between us, together with all deeds, leases, books, papers, &c, in his
possession; you first having procured me adequate security, the amount
of which will be determined by M'Slime, my law agent, who will join or
aid you in making all necessary arrangements.

“You will also have the goodness, as soon afterwards as you feel it
practicable, to transmit me a bond fide account of the Ballyrocket and
Tulygrindem estates, their capability of improvement, condition of the
tenantry, what leases are expired, if any, and those which will soon
drop, with a view of seeing what can be made out of it. In this, also,
M'Slime will aid you.

“As to the person who may succeed Hickman, as a necessary preliminary he
must lay down two thousand pounds, in the shape of an equivalent for the
appointment. Could you within a fortnight or so, raise so much? If so,
let me hear from you without delay, as it is not unlikely in that case,
I may appoint yourself.

“By the way, do you understand the manufacture of forty shilling
free-holders in an economical way, because if you do, it would be a
desideratum. Parliament, it is said, will be dissolved in June, and I
want, as well as I can remember, nearly two hundred votes. My brother
lost the last election by something about that number, and I know he
feels very anxious to get into parliament for many reasons. He is now on
the continent, where he has been for the last three years.”


Valentine M'Clutchy, Esq., to the Right Hon. Lord Viscount Cumber:--

“My Lord:

“I have had the honor of receiving your Lordship's kind communication,
to which I hasten to make the earliest possible reply. And first, my
Lord, allow me to return sincere thanks for your warm kindness, in
promising to appoint me your agent. You may rest assured, my Lord, that
I will go through my duties as such without favor or affection to any
one, barring your lordship, whose interests it will night and day become
my duty to study. With, respect to the loan your lordship makes allusion
to, I fear it will be out of my power to raise it--that is to the full
amount; but if one-half would do, I might by the aid of friends get it
together. As for security, I trust it is only necessary to say, that
Randal Deaker and Cadwallader Tullywagger, Esqrs., are ready to give it
to any amount, so that there is no difficulty there at all events.

“On looking again at your lordship's kind letter, it appears possible
that I made a mistake in considering the two thousand as a loan; but
on the other hand, there is not a man living, who respects the high
principles and delicate feelings of our aristocracy more than I do,
and the consequence was, that I feared in supposing it otherwise than a
loan, I might offend your lordship's keen sense of honor, which I pledge
my credit and reputation would grieve my heart even to think of. Under
this impression, then, I shall continue to believe it a loan, until I
have the honor of hearing from your lordship again.

“Your anxiety, my Lord, to ascertain the state of your property and the
condition of your tenantry is certainly honorable to yourself, as being
a direct proof of the generous interest you feel in their welfare. It is
fortunate in this instance, that your lordship should apply to a man who
has had the opportunities of becoming acquainted with both. True, I am
a simple-minded man, my Lord, and if I possess one quality more
than another it is a love of truth, and a slow, but straightforward
perseverance in whatever is right. It is to this, always under
Providence, that I owe everything. I grant indeed, that it ill becomes
me to speak in this manner of myself, but my object in doing so is,
that as I am about to enter into communications touching your lordship's
tenants and property, you may be induced to place the fullest confidence
in whatever I shall say. Many a time, indeed, my excellent and worthy
friend, Mr. Hickman, has made the same observation, and I felt it
gratifying in the highest degree to hear this from a man who is truth
itself, and whose only fault is--if it be one--that his heart is too
kind, and rather easily imposed on by those who deal in fraud and
cunning. A man like him, who, if he cannot speak well of an absent
friend, will be silent, is a jewel in this life which ought to be worn
in the very core of the heart.

“With respect to the Ballyracket estate, of which I shall speak first, I
cannot report so favorably as I could wish. The task, in fact, is to me,
personally, a very painful one; especially with reference to that well
meaning and estimable gentleman, Mr. Hickman. In the first place, my
Lord, the tenantry are not at all in arrears, a circumstance which is
by no means in favor of the landlord, especially an Irish one. Every one
knows that an Irish landlord has other demands upon his tenantry besides
the payment of their rents. Is there no stress, for instance, to be laid
upon his political influence, which cannot be exerted unless
through their agency? Now a tenant not in arrears to his landlord is
comparatively independent, but it is not with an independent tenantry
that a landlord can work his wishes. No, my Lord; the safe principle
is to keep the tenant two or three gales behind, and if he fails in
submission, or turns restiff, and becomes openly contumacious, then
you have the means of rectifying the errors of his judgment in your own
hands, and it can be done with the color of both law and justice, behind
which any man may stand without the imputation of harsh motives, or
an excessive love of subordination. I am sorry that Mr. Hickman should
differ with me on this point, for he is a man whose opinions are
very valuable on many things, with the exception of his amiable and
kind-hearted obstinacy.

“The next disadvantage to your interests, my Lord, is another error--I
am sorry to be forced to say it--of Mr. Hickman. That gentleman is an
advocate for education and the spread of knowledge. Now if an agent were
as much devoted to the interests of the people as he is and ought to be
to those of the landlord, this principle might pass; but as I take it,
that the sole duty of an agent is to extend the interest of his employer
exclusively, so am I opposed to any plan or practice by which the people
may be taught to think too clearly. For let me ask, my Lord, what class
of persons, at the approach of an election, for instance, or during
its continuance, are most available for our interests? Who are driven
without reluctance, without thought, or without reason, in blind and
infatuated multitudes, to the hustings? Certainly not those who have
been educated, or taught to think and act for themselves; but the poor
and the ignorant. And, my Lord, is not the vote of an ignorant man as
valid in law as one who is enlightened? For these reasons, then, I do
not approve of the new schools which Mr. Hickman has established; and
I was pleased to hear that your lordship was sufficiently awake to your
own interests, to decline granting them any support. No, my Lord; an
educated people will be a thinking people--a thinking people will be an
independent people--but an independent people will not be a manageable
people; and if that is not placing the subject in a satisfactory light,
I know not what is.

“I need scarcely assure you, my Lord, that in my own humble way, I did
everything I reasonably could to discountenance the education system. I
even went so far as to prevent several of the tenants from sending
their children to these schools; but, as usual, I experienced but little
gratitude at their hands, or at those of their parents. This, however,
was not so much owing to my interference, as to the accidental
circumstance of three or four of them having been hanged or transported
for crimes which they were base enough to impute to the ignorance
occasioned by my principles--for so they spoke.

“Such then is the condition of the Ballyracket tenantry. They are not in
arrears, and you may consequently guess at the wretched state of their
moral feelings. They are, in fact, every day becoming more aware of the
very kind of knowledge which we don't wish them to possess. They do not
slink aside when they see you now; on the contrary, they stand erect,
and look you fearlessly in the face. Upon my credit and reputation
this is truth--melancholy truth, my Lord--and I fear that at the next
election you will find it so to your cost.

“I have lost no time in ascertaining the other particulars mentioned in
your lordship's letter. The leases of three townlands expired on
March last. They are Derrydowny, Cracknaboulteen, and Ballyweltem. The
principal tenant of Derrydowny is a very respectable widow---one Mrs.
M'Swaddle--a woman of serious habits, if not of decided piety. She
has three daughters, all of whom sit under the ministration of a Mr.
Bolthan--which is pronounced Bottom--a young preacher, belonging to the
Methodist connection. They are to all appearance well in the world, keep
a conversation car, and have the reputation of being very honest and
saving--Old M'Swaddle himself was a revenue collector, and it is
said, died richer than they are willing to admit. Cracknaboulteen is
altogether in the possession of the celebrated family of the M'Kegs--or,
as they are called, the Five Sols--the name of each being Solomon, which
is shortened into Sol. There is lame Sol, blind Sol, long Sol, uncertain
Sol, and Sol of the mountain. They are celebrated distillers of poteen
whiskey, but are not rich. The estate, in fact, would be better without
them, were it not for their votes. The townland of Ballyweltem is
principally the property of a wild faction, named M'Kippeen, whose great
delight is to keep up perpetual feud against an opposite faction of
the O'Squads, who on their part are every whit as eager for the fray as
their enemies. These are also poor enough, and in an election are
not to be depended on. I should say, in addition to this, that several
renewal, fines will fall in during the course of the winter. I
shall, however, examine the leases, and other documents, still more
searchingly, and see what can be got out of it, and how far we can go.

“The Tullygrindem estate is, I am sorry to say, in a still more
disheartening condition. There is a very bitter and knowing family
living on the townland of Beleeven, named M'Loughlin, who contrive to
spread dangerous and destructive principles among the tenantry. They
are cunning, unscrupulous, and vindictive, but cautious, plausible, and
cloaked with the deepest hypocrisy. I have been endeavoring for years
to conciliate, or rather, reform them by kindness, but hitherto
without effect; whether I shall ultimately succeed in purifying this
fountain-head of bigotry and unconstitutional principle--I do not wish
to use a shorter, but a much stronger term--I cannot yet say. I
shall, at all events, from a sense of justice to you, my Lord, and of
kindness--mistaken it may be, I grant you--to them, continue to make the
desirable attempt. My amiable friend, Hickman, has certainly been
made the dupe of their adroitness, but, indeed, he is too simple
and credulous for this world, as every kind-hearted man, with great
benevolence and little judgment, usually is. If I had not risen honestly
and honorably, as I trust I may say, through the gradations of office
upon this property, I think it probable I, might myself have been
deceived and misled by the natural and seductive tact of this dangerous
family. Mr. Hickman espouses their quarrel, not exactly their quarrel,
but their cause against me; but that is so completely in accordance with
his easy simplicity of character, and his pardonable love of popularity,
that it rather endears him to, me than otherwise.

“Indeed, I may say, my Lord, candidly and confidentially, that there
is a spirit abroad upon your estates, which requires to be vigilantly
watched, and checked with all due and reasonable promptitude; I allude
principally to these M'Loughlins, and when I state that my excellent
and well disposed friend is absolutely popular among your tenantry, even
although he made them pay up to the very last gale, and that I am by no
means in good odor with them, you will not be surprised when I furnish
your lordship with a key to this same state of feeling which exists so
generally in this country. This, then, my Lord, is the secret:--whenever
an Irish agent devotes himself honestly to the wants, wishes, and
interests of his employer, especially if he be needy and pressed for
money, so sure will he become unpopular with the tenantry. Now, I am
somewhat unpopular with the tenantry, and my amiable friend, Hickman, is
beloved by them; but I think your lordship by this time understands the
why and the wherefore on both sides. As your agent, my Lord, I should
regret such popularity, at the same time, I think the intentions of
poor, sweet, amiable Hickman's heart, are such as we must all love and
admire.

“With respect, my Lord, to the manufacture of the “forties,” as a
certain comical class of freeholders are termed, I could have easily
undertaken to double the number you mention, on the most reasonable
terms, were it not for the discouraging system adopted by Mr. Hickman.
As it is, I must see what can be done; but your lordship knows that I
can take no step either in this or anything else, until my appointment
shall be finally confirmed. Perhaps you are not aware of the remarkable
document, on the subject in question, which has recently gone its rounds
in this country. It is called--

“'A RECEIPT TO MAKE A FORTY SHILLING FREEHOLDER.'

“'Take the poorest Irishman you can get, he must be destitute and
ignorant, for then he will be slavish, give him a mud cabin, but no
education; let the former be a bad model of an indifferent pig-stye, and
held at thrice its value. Put him to repose on a comfortable bed of
damp straw, with his own coat and his wife's petticoat, for bed-clothes.
Pamper him on two half meals of potatoes and point per day--with water
_ad libitum_. For clothing--let him have a new shirt once every three
years--to give him exercise and keep him clean--a hat once in every
seven, and brogues whenever he can get them. His coat and breeches--lest
he might grow too independent--must be worn upon the principle of the
Highlander's knife, which, although a century in the family, was never
changed, except sometimes the handle and sometimes the blade. Let his
right to vote be founded upon a freehold property of six feet square, or
as much as may be encompassed by his own shift, and take care that there
be a gooseberry bush in the centre of it; he must have from four to
ten children, as a proof of his standing in society, all fashionably
dressed, and coming at the rate of one every twelve months. Having thus,
by a liberal system of feeding and clothing, rendered him strong for
labor, you must work him from dark to dark--pay him fourpence a day for
three quarters of the year, with permission to beg or starve for the
remainder. When in health task him beyond his strength, and when
sick neglect him--for there is nothing so beautiful as kindness in a
landlord, and gratitude in a tenant--and thus will your virtues become
reciprocal. He must live under a gradation of six landlords, so that
whoever defaults, he may suffer--and he will have the advantage of six
tyrants instead of one. Your agent is to wheedle, and your bailiff to
bully him; the one must promise, and the other threaten; but if both
fail, you must try him yourself. Should he become intractable under all
this, you must take purer measures.--Compliment him on his wife--praise
and admire his children--play upon his affections, and corrupt him
through his very virtues--for that will show that you love your country
and her people better than your own interests. Place a promise of
independence on one side of him, but a ruined cottage and extermination
on the other. When all his scruples are thus honorably overcome, and his
conscience skilfully removed, take him for twenty minutes or so out of
his rags, put him into a voting suit that he may avoid suspicion, bring
him up to the poll--steep him in the strongest perjury, then strip him
of his voting suit, clap him into his rags, and having thus fitted him
for the perpetration of any treachery or crime, set him at large
once more, that he may disseminate your own principles upon your
own property, until you may require him again. Having thus honestly
discharged your duty to God and your country, go calmly to your pillow,
where you can rest in the consciousness of having done all that a
virtuous man and true patriot can do, to promote the comfort and
independence of his fellow creatures.'

“I have the honor to be, &c., &c.,
“VAL M'CLUTCHY,”



Lord Cumber to Solomon M'Slime, Esq., Attorney at Law:

“DEAR SIR:

“Enclosed is a letter to Mr. M'Clutchy, which I will trouble you to
forward to him as soon as you can. It contains his appointment to the
vacant agency, together with the proper power of attorney, and I have
every reason to hope that my property will improve under him. I did
think it no breach of any honorable principle to make him advance, by
way of compensation, the sum of two thousand pounds. It is a thing very
usually done, I am aware, and by men who would not bear any imputation
against their honor. But I know not how it is, his letter has deterred
me from taking the money in that light. It would be certainly too bad
to allow a person of his birth and standing in the world to teach one
of mine a lesson in delicacy of feeling. For this reason, then, let
him advance the money on the usual terms of loan:--that you can
adjust between you. All I ask is, that you will not lose one moment
of unnecessary time in accomplishing this business, and remitting the
money. Two thousand in a fortnight will be of more value to me than four
in a month, owing to the peculiar difficulties in which I am placed.

“Yours, CUMBER.

“P.S.--I say, my little saint, I hope you are as religious as ever--but
in the meantime as it is not unlikely--but on the contrary very
probable--if not altogether certain--that I shall be in Ireland should
the election take place, I trust you will have the kindness to let me
know if there's e'er a pretty girl in the neighborhood--that wants
a friend and protector--ha, ha, ha--as great a sinner as ever, you
see--but for that reason you know the more entitled to your prayers
for my conversion. The greater the saint, the greater the sinner
now-a-days--or is it the other way? I forget.

“CUMBER.”


Lord Cumber to Val M'Clutchy, enclosed in the above:

“Dear Sir:

“I am very happy in appointing you to the important situation of my
agent, with all the necessary powers and authority to act as may best
seem to you for my advantage. The money I will take on your own terms,
only I beg that you will lose no time in remitting it. I agree with you
in thinking that Mr. Hickman, however well meaning, was deficient
in firmness and penetration of character, so far as the tenants were
concerned; and I would recommend you to avoid the errors which you
perceived in him. With many principles laid down in your letter I agree,
but not with all. For instance, if I understand you right, you would
appear to advocate too much indulgence to the tenantry at my expense;
for what else is allowing them to run into arrears. This certainly
keeps the money out of my pocket, and you cannot surely expect me to
countenance such a proceeding as that:--whilst I say this, it is due to
you that I consider your ultimate object a correct one. Property loses
a great portion of its value, unless a landlord's influence over the
people be as strong as his right to the soil; and for this reason, the
duty of every landlord is to exercise as powerful a control over the
former, and get as much out of the latter as he can. The landlords, to be
sure, are of one religion and the people of another; but so long as we
can avail ourselves of the latter for political purposes, we need care
but little about their creed. The results in this case are precisely the
same as if the country were Protestant, and that is as much as we
want. Indeed I question if the whole Irish population were Protestant
to-morrow, whether the fact would not be against us. I now speak
as identifying myself with British interests. Would we find them as
manageable and as easily shaped to our purposes? I fear not. They would
demand education, knowledge, and all the fulness of civil liberty; they
would become independent, they would think for themselves, and in
what predicament would that place us? Could we then work our British
interests, foster British prejudices, and aid British ambition as we do?
Certainly not, unless we had the people with us, and without them we are
nothing.

“On the whole, then, so long as we continue to maintain our proper
influence over them, I think, without doubt, we are much safer as we
stand.

“With respect to the discharge of your duty, your own judgment will be a
better guide than mine. As I said before, avoid Hickman's errors; I fear
he was too soft, credulous, and easily played upon. Excess of feeling,
in fact, is a bad qualification in an agent. Humanity is very well in
its place; but a strong sense of duty is worth a thousand of it.
It strikes me, that you would do well to put on a manner in your
intercourse with the tenants, as much opposed to Hickman's as possible.
Be generally angry, speak loud, swear roundly, and make them know their
place. To bully and browbeat is not easily done with success, even in
a just cause, although with a broken-spirited people it is a good gift;
but after all I apprehend the best method is just to adapt your bearing
to the character of the person you have to deal with, if you wish, as
you ought, to arrive at that ascendency of feeling on your part, and
subserviency on theirs, which are necessary to keep them in proper
temper for your purposes.

“Your receipt for making a forty shilling freeholder contains many
excellent ingredients, but I do not think it was honestly drawn up; that
is, I believe it to be the production of some one who was not friendly
to that system of franchise. I have little else to say, except that you
will find it necessary I think to be very firm and rigorous. Remember
that we are here to-day, and gone to-morrow; so upon this principle keep
them moving at a steady pace. In three words, think of my difficulties,
and get all you can out of them--still remembering, as we say in the
ring, never to train them below their strength, for that would be the
loss of our own battle.

“Yours,
“Cumber.”


Solomon M'Slime, Esq., Attorney-at-law, to Lord Cumber,

“My esteemed Lord:

“I had the unmerited honor--for, indeed, to a man sensible of his many
frailties as I am, I feel it is an unmerited honor--to receive any
communication from one whom the Lord hath exalted to a place of such
high rank in this world, as that which your lordship so worthily fills.
It gives me great gratification, my Lord, to learn from your last letter
that you have appointed my friend, Mr. Valentine M'Clutchy, as your
agent. I am not in the habit of attributing such circumstances as
this--being, as they generally are, matters of mere worldly prudence
and convenience--to any over-ruling cause from above; but truly the
appointment of such a man at this particular time, looks as if there
were a principle of good at work for your lordship's interests. May you
continue, as you do, to deserve it! Your change of agents is, indeed,
one that, through the talent, energy, and integrity of Mr. M'Clutchy, is
likely to redound much and largely to your own benefit. In his capacity
of under agent, I have had frequent opportunities of transacting
business with him; and when I contrast his quickness, clearness,
honesty, and skill, with the evident want of----but no, my Lord; far be
it from me, as a Christian man, to institute any rash comparison either
in favor of my fellow-creature or against him, so long as sin and
prejudice even for that which is good, and frailty, may render us, as
they often do, liable to error. In Mr. M'Clutchy it is possible I may
be mistaken; in Mr. Hickman it is possible I may be mistaken--I am not
infallible--I am frail--a very sinner, but not removed wholly, I would
trust, out of the range of grace. My Lord, I say again, that, as a
conscientious man, and as far as mere human reason--which is at best
but short-sighted--enables me to judge, I am truly cheered in spirit by
this, I trust, providential change in the agency of your property. My
Lord, in my various correspondence, I generally endeavor to make it
a rule not to forget my Christian duties, or, so to speak, to cast a
single grain of the good seed into the hearts of those to whom I am
privileged to write. The calls of religion are, indeed, strong upon
us, if we permitted ourselves to listen to them as we ought. Will your
lordship then pardon me for reminding you, that, however humble the
instrument, I have before now been the honored means of setting your
godly examples of charity before the world, with the single-hearted
purpose and hope that it might imitate your virtues. There is in the
neighborhood a case at present of great distress, in the person of a
widow and her three young children, who have been left destitute by the
guilt and consequent deportation of her unhappy husband to Australia,
for the crime of feloniously abstracting live mutton. I defended him
professionally, or, I should say--although I do not boast of it--with an
eye to the relief of his interesting wife, but without success; and what
rendered his crime more unpardonable, he had the unparalleled wickedness
to say, that he was instigated to it by the ill-advice and intemperate
habits of this amiable woman. Will your lordship, then, allow me to put
your honored name in the list of her Christian friends? Allow me, my
Lord, to subscribe myself,

“Your lordship's frail, unworthy,
“But faithful and honored servant,
“Solomon M'Slime.”

“P.S.--With respect to your jocose and ironical postscript, may I again
take the liberty of throwing in a word in season. If your lordship could
so far assume a proper Christian seriousness of character, as to render
the act of kindness and protection on your part such as might confer a
competent independence upon a female of religious dispositions, I doubt
not, should your lordship's charity continue unabated on your arrival
here, that some such desirable opportunity might offer, as that of
rescuing a comely but desolate maiden from distress.

“There is, indeed, a man here living on your lordship's property, who
has a daughter endowed with a large portion of that vain gift called
beauty. Her father and family are people of bad principle, without
conscience or honesty, and, withal, utterly destitute of religion--not
but that they carry themselves very plausibly to the world. Among such
people, my Lord, it is not possible that this engaging damsel, who is
now so youthful and innocent, could resist the evil influence of the
principles that prevail in her family. Indeed, her abiding among them
cannot be for her welfare in any sense.

“I have the honor, &c.”


Valentine M'Clutchy, Esq., to Solomon M'Slime.

“My dear M'Slime:

“As it is beyond any doubt, that in the fair discharge of our duty, you
and I can be mutually serviceable to each other; and as it is equally
evident that it is our interest, and what is more, the interest of Lord
Cumber, that we should be so, I therefore think it right to observe,
that in all transactions between us, each should treat the other with
the most perfect confidence. For this reason, I beg to assure you, once
for all, that in any proceeding that may appear harsh towards any of
his lordship's tenantry, I am and shall be actuated by no other feeling,
than a strong, conscientious sense of my duty to him. This is, was, and
will bo the principle of my whole life. And you know very well, my dear
M'Slime, that if I were less devoted to those interests than I am, my
popularity would be greater among the tenantry. Indeed, few men have
a right to know this better than yourself, inasmuch as you stand in
precisely the same beloved relation to them that I do.

“Our excellent friend Hickman is a very worthy man and exceedingly well
meaning. Don't you think so? Oh, I am sure you do. Yet I know not how
it happened that he left out of his system of agency some of the most
valuable rights and privileges of the landlord. These I will mention to
you when I see you, and when I have more time. I consequently must
say, that in attempting to revive these rights, even while I was
deputy-agent, the unjust odium that is falling upon me already, even
while I had scarce time to move in them, ought rather to be--that is
morally speaking--visited upon him who allowed them to lapse. Now that
the fine old leases of the M'Loughlins and the Harmans, and others, have
dropped, what can I do but study Lord Cumber's interest, in the first
instance? Not but I would serve them if I could, and will if I can. I
bear them no ill-feeling; and if they have joined in the calumnies and
threats that are so unjustly uttered against me, what can I do, and
what ought I do, but return good for evil? You, as a truly religious and
pious man, will feel delighted to support me in this principle, and also
to aid me in bearing it practically out. Any services of a similar kind
that I can honestly and conscientiously render you--and none other would
you accept--I shall be on my part delighted to offer. In the meantime,
let me have your excellent advice as to the most efficient means of
stifling the unreasonable murmurs that are rising among the people--and
as touching M'Loughlin's and Harman's properties, I should be glad to see
you, in order to consult upon what may or can be done for them, always
compatibly with Lord Cumber's interests.

“The pair of turkies which I send you are the result of my reviving one
of his lordship's rights. They are _duty-turkies_, and I do not think
they will eat the worse for the blessings which Darby O'Drive tells me
accompanied them; at least I don't find they do.

“All that I have yet written, however, is only preliminary; but now to
business. I have received the letter which Lord Cumber transmitted to
me, under your frank, in which I am appointed his head agent. He also is
willing to accept the two thousand pounds on my own terms--that is, of
course, as a loan, at the usual rate of interest. But don't you think,
my dear M'Slime, that with respect to this large sum, an understanding
might be entered into--or rather an arrangement made, in a quiet way,
that would, I flatter myself, turn out of great ultimate advantage to
his lordship. The truth is, that Lord Cumber, like most generous men, is
very negligent of his own interests--at least much more so than he ought
to be; and it would be most beneficial to him, in every sense, to have
a person managing his estates, in the best possible condition to serve
him. His property, in fact, is not represented in the grand jury panel
of the county. This is a great loss to him--a serious loss. In the first
place, it is wretchedly, shamefully deficient in roads--both public and
private. In the next place, there are many rents left unpaid, through
the inability of the people, which we could get paid by the making of
these roads, and other county arrangements, which the ill-thinking call
jobs. In the third and last place, he has on his property no magistrate
friendly to his aforesaid interests, and who would devote himself
to them with suitable energy and zeal. Indeed, with regard to the
murmurings and heart-burnings alluded to, I fear that such a magistrate
will soon become a matter of necessity. There is a bad spirit rising and
getting abroad, wherever it came from--and you know, my dear M'Slime,
that it could not proceed from either you or me. You know that--you
feel it. Now, what I would propose is this--Lord Cumber has
sufficient interest with the government, to have me--all-unworthy as
I am--appointed a magistrate. Let the government but hint to the
chancellor, and the thing is done. In that event, instead of giving him
this large sum of money as a loan, let it go as a _per contra_ to my
appointment to the bench. And there is another consideration by no means
to be overlooked, which is, that by this arrangement the government
would be certain to have in the commission a man who would prove himself
one of the precise class which they stand in need of--that is, a useful
man, devoted to their wishes.

“Now, my dear M'Slime, I mention this to you with all the confidence
of unshaken friendship. From you these representations will go to his
lordship with a much better grace than they would from me. Tell him
in your own peculiar way, that he shall have the two thousand for the
magistracy. That is my first object as his friend--this once obtained,
I have no doubt of seeing myself, ere long, a member of the grand panel,
and capable of serving him still more extensively.

“Believe me to be,
“My dear M'Slime, &c,
“Valentine M'Clutchy.

“P.S.--I heard you once express a wish about a certain farm--but mum's
the word--only this, I have something in my eye for you.”


Solomon M'Slime to the Right Hon. Lord Cumber:--

“My Gracious Lord:

“I, of course, cannot look upon the condition you annex to the
appointment of the agent as unreasonable, although my friend M'Clutchy
insists, he says, for the honor of the aristocracy, that it was a
mistake on your lordship's part, and that a loan only was meant. Be this
as it may, I humbly hope a thought has been vouchsafed to me, by which
the matter may, under Providence, assume a more agreeable character for
all parties. Last night, my Lord, immediately after family worship, I
found myself much refreshed in mind, but rather jaded in my poor sinful
body, after the fatigues of the day--for, indeed, I had ridden a good
deal since morning. However, I desired Susanna--a pious young person,
who acts as children's maid, and understands my habits--to procure me
a little hot water and sugar, into which, out of a necessary regard for
health, which is imposed as a duty on us all, I poured a little brandy,
partly for sustainment and partly to qualify the water. Having swallowed
a little of this I found the two principles combine together, almost
like kindred spirits, and consequently experienced both nourishment and
edification from the draught. It was then, my Lord, that it was given me
to turn my mind upon the transaction alluded to, I mean the condition of
paying two thousand pounds for the privilege of managing your property.
Indeed the thing was vouchsafed to me in this light;--your property,
my Lord, is not represented in the grand panel of the county, which is
certainly a serious loss to you, as there is no one here to advocate
your interests, especially since poor Mr. Deaker's infirmities (would
that they were all only of the body!) have caused him to attend the
grand jury less frequently. Many arrangements might be advantageously
made, by which your lordship would indirectly benefit;--that is, the
money, so to speak, might be made to go into one pocket, in order that
it should be transferred to yours. Then you have not; a magistrate in
your estates devoted to your special interests, as you ought to have;
this is a very necessary thing, my Lord, and to which I humbly endeavor
to direct your attention. Again, my Lord, you have no magistrate of
true Protestant and Ascendancy principles, who from time to time, might
manifest to the government that you did not forget their interests
no more than your own. Now, my Lord, what man can be, or is better
qualified to serve your Lordship in all these capacities than that
staunch and unflinching Protestant, Mr. Val M'Clutchy? In what
individual could the commission of the peace more appropriately or
worthily rest than in your own agent? I therefore beg your lordship to
turn this in your mind, and if advised by one so humble, I would suggest
the trial of a short prayer previous to entering on it. Should you exert
your influence for that purpose with the government, the gracious, I
trust I may call it so--appointment--would be immediately made, and I
think I know the grateful disposition of Mr. M'Clutchy sufficiently well
to assure your lordship, that from a thorough Christian sense of your
kindness, the two thousand pounds will be, on that condition, placed in
your lordship's hands.

“I have the honor to be, my Lord,
“Solomon M'Slime.

“P.S. Mr. M'Clutchy is ignorant that a suggestion so well calculated
to advance the best interests of general religion, has been graciously
intimated to one so unworthy as I am.”


Lord Cumber to Solomon M'Slime, Esq:--

“It is done--a bargain--I have arranged the business here with the
secretary, and am obliged to you, my sleek little saint, for suggesting
it; I wonder M'Clutchy himself did not think of it. I feel glad the old
leases have dropped, for I am sure, that between y

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