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Title: Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent
       The Works of William Carleton, Volume Two

Author: William Carleton

Illustrator: M. L. Flanery

Release Date: June 7, 2005 [EBook #16009]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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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 you and him, you will
take out of these farms all that can be taken. Of course M'Clutchy and
you are at liberty to revive anything you like, provided it be done
properly. What is it to me, who never go there? I do believe Hickman
was not merely an easy fellow, but a fool; as to _glove-money--
Healing-money--duty-fowls--and duty-work_--I tell you again, provided
you increase my remittances, and work the cash out of these fellows, you
may insist upon as many of them as you can get.

"Yours,

"CUMBER.

"P.S.--What, my little saint, did you mean by that charitable blunder,
concerning the widow, in your last letter? I never knew before that
a woman was a widow merely because her husband was transported, as he
ought to be, for sheep stealing, or because he happened to live, by
compulsion, in another country. However, no matter; give her, for me,
whatever you think proper, and add it to your bill of costs, as you will
do.

"Cumber."


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

"My Gracious Lord:

"As I have never intentionally varied from truth, I could not bear
even for a moment to seem to fall into the opposite principle. I was
certainly very busy on the day I had the honor and privilege of writing
to your lordship, and much distressed both in mind and heart, by the
woeful backsliding of a member of our congregation. On looking over the
copy of the letter, however, I perceive one thing that is gratifying
to me. My Lord, I made no mistake. It is not, perhaps, known to your
Lordship that there are two descriptions of widows--the real and
the vegetable; that is, the widow by death, and the widow by local
separation from her husband. Indeed the latter is a class that requires
as much sustainment and comfort as the other--being as they are, more
numerous, and suffering all the privations of widowhood, poor things,
except its reality. The expression, my Lord, is figurative, and taken
from the agricultural occupation of ploughing; for whenever one animal
is unyoked for any other purpose, such as travelling a journey or the
like, the other is forthwith turned into some park or grassy paddock,
and indeed generally enjoys more comfortable times than if still with
the yoke-fellow; for which reason the return of the latter is seldom
very earnestly desired by the other. I am happy to tell you, my Lord,
that some very refreshing revivals in the religious world have recently
occurred here, such as I trust will cause true religion to spread and be
honored in the land; but on the other hand, I fear that Satan is at work
among many evil designing persons on your Lordship's inheritance in this
our neighborhood. Of this, however, that good and conscientious man
Mr. M'Clutchy, will, I doubt not, give you all proper information and
advice.

"I have the honor to be, my Lord with profound humility,
"Your Lordship's unworthy servant,
"Solomon M'Slime."


Valentine M'Clutchy, Esq., J. P., to Lord Cumber:--

"My Lord:

"In point of fact, nothing could be more beneficial to your property,
than my very seasonable appointment to the commission of the peace. It
has extended my powers of working for your advantage, and armed me with
authority that will be found very necessary in repressing outrages and
disturbances when they occur; and I regret to say, that they are likely
to occur much too frequently. I should be sorry to doubt Mr. Hickman's
candor, but in spite of all my charity, I can scarcely avoid thinking
that he did not treat your Lordship with that openness of purpose and
confidence to which every landlord is entitled. Of course, I say this
with great pain, and rather between ourselves, as it were; for heaven
forbid, that a single syllable should escape either my tongue or pen,
that might injure that gentleman's character. The path of duty, however,
is often a stern one, as I find it to be on the present occasion. The
truth, then, is, that I fear Mr. Hickman must have kept the disturbed
state of your tenantry from your Lordship's knowledge, owing probably to
a reluctance in exposing his own laxity of management. Indeed, I wish I
could with a conscientious sense of my duty to your Lordship end here,
so far as he is concerned. But under every circumstance, truth, and
honesty, and candor, will in the long run tell for themselves. It is an
unquestionable fact, then, that from whatever cause it may proceed, your
tenantry and he, ever since my appointment, have had much intercourse
of--not exactly a public---nor can I decidedly term it--a private
nature; and it is equally true, that in proportion as this intercourse
became extended and enlarged, so did the dissatisfaction of the people
increase, until they are now almost ripe for outrage. I have observed,
I think, that poor Hickman never was remarkable for strength of mind,
though not destitute of a certain kind of sagacity; and whether his
tampering--if it be tampering--with these people,--be the result of
a foolish principle of envy, or whether on the other hand, there is
anything political in it, I really cannot say. All I can do is to
state the facts, and leave the inference to your lordship's superior
penetration.

"If, however, it be the fact, that Hickman could stop to foment this
unhappy feeling on your property, still, my Lord, he is not alone in
it. Indeed it is possible that the intercourse between him and them may
after all be innocent, however suspicions it looks, I trust and hope it
is so--for there are two other families in the neighborhood, who, to
my certain knowledge, have, by diffusing wicked and disloyal principles
among the tenantry, done incalculable injury. I had indeed some notion
of communicating with government on the subject, but I have not as yet
been able to get any information sufficiently tangible to work on. In
the meantime, I think the wisest and most prudent steps I could take for
your Lordship's advantage, would be to get them as quietly as possible
off the estate. I think, from a twofold sense of duty, I shall be forced
to do so. Their leases very fortunately have dropped in the first place,
and it will not be your interest to renew them on political grounds;
for they have lately expressed a determination to vote against your
brother--and in the next, we can get much larger fines from other
sources. Besides his large farm, one of these men, M'Loughlin, holds
a smaller one of eighteen acres, of which there are fifteen years yet
unexpired, yet on consulting with Mr. M'Slime, and examining the lease,
he is of opinion that it contains a flaw, and can be broken. I am sure,
my lord, for your sake I shall be glad of it.

"I cannot conclude without feeling grateful to Heaven for having given
me such a son as I am blessed with. He is, indeed, quite invaluable to
me in managing these refractory people, and were it not for his aid
and vigor, I could not have been able to send your lordship the last
remittance. He is truly zealous in your cause, but I regret to say, that
I am not likely to be able to avail myself long of his services. He is
about taking a large farm in a different part of the country with a view
to marriage, a circumstance which just now occasions me much anxiety of
mind, as he will be a serious loss to both your lordship and me. I
am also looking out for an under agent, but cannot find one to my
satisfaction. Will your lordship be kind enough to acknowledge the
remittance of last week?

"I have the honor to be, my lord,
"Val M'C."


Lord Cumber to Val M'C, Esq.:--

"Dear Sir:

"The check came safely to hand, and seasonably, and the oftener I
receive such communications the better. The best part of it, however, is
gone to the devil already, for I lost six hundred on Alley Croker at the
last Ascot meeting; I write in a hurry, but have time to desire you to
keep your son, if possible, on the property. By the way, as the under
agency is vacant, I request you will let him have it--and, if he wants a
farm to marry on, try and find him one somewhere on the estate: who
has a better right? and, I dare say, he will make as good a tenant as
another. As to Hickman, I think you are quite mistaken, the truth being
that he resigned, but was not dismissed the agency, and if he has not
a wish to get himself replaced--which I do not think--I don't know what
the deuce he should begin to plot about. I rather think the cause of
complaint amongst the people is, that they find some difference between
his laxity and your rigor; if so, you must only let them growl away, and
when, ever they resort to violence, of course punish them.

"Very truly yours,
"Cumber."

"P.S.--By all means get those mischievous fellows--I forget their
names--off the property, as I shall have no tenant under me who will
create disturbance or sow dissension among the people. I thank you
for the fine hamper of fowl, and have only to say, as above, that the
oftener, &c, &c.

"Cumber."




CHAPTER VII.--Reflections on Absenteeism

--Virtues of a Loyal Magistrate--A Small Dose of Flattery--A Brace of
Blessings--Darby has Notions of becoming a Convert--Hints to a Trusty
Bailiff, with a Bit of Mystery--Drum Dhu, and the Comforts of Christmas
Eve--An Extermination.

One of the greatest curses attending absenteeism is the facility
with which a dishonest and oppressive agent can maintain a system of
misrepresentation and falsehood, either to screen his own delinquency or
to destroy the reputation of those whom he hates or fears. An absentee
landlord has no guarantee beyond the honor and integrity of the man to
whom he entrusts the management of his property, and consequently he
ought to know that his very residence abroad presents strong temptations
to persons, who, in too many instances, are not possessed of any
principle strong enough to compete with their rapacity or cruelty.
Valentine M'Clutchy was one of those fellows in whom the heart was
naturally so hard and selfish that he loved both wealth and the
infliction of oppression, simply on account of the pleasure which they
afforded him. To such a man, and they formed too numerous a class, the
estate of an absentee landlord presented an appropriate, and generally
a safe field for action. The great principle of his life was, in every
transaction that occurred, to make the interest of the landlord on one
hand, and of the tenant on the other, subservient to his own. This was
their rule, and the cunning and adroitness necessary to carry it into
practical effect, were sometimes scarcely deemed worth concealment, so
strong was their sense of impunity, and their disregard of what seldom
took place--retribution. Indeed, the absence of the landlord gave
them necessarily, as matters were managed, an unlimited power over the
people, and gratified that malignant vigilance which ever attends upon
suspicion and conscious guilt. Many of the tenants, for instance,
when driven to the uttermost depths of distress and misery, have been
desperate enough to appeal to the head landlords, and almost in every
case the agent himself was enabled to show them their own letters, which
the absentee had in the meantime transmitted to the identical party
whose tyranny had occasioned them.

The appointment of Phil to the under agency was felt even more strongly
than the removal of Mr. Hickman or Val's succession to that gentleman;
for there was about honest Val something which the people could not
absolutely despise. His talents for business, however, prostituted as
they were to such infamous purposes, only rendered him a greater
scourge to the unhappy tenantry over whom he was placed. As for Phil, he
experienced at their hands that combined feeling of hatred and contempt
with which we look upon a man who has every disposition to villany but
not the ability to accomplish its purposes in a masterly manner.

Val's promotion to the Bench did not occasion so much surprise as might
be supposed. It is well known, that every such scoundrel, however he may
disregard the opinions of the people whom he despises, leaves nothing
undone that either meanness or ingenuity can accomplish to sustain a
plausible character with the gentry of the neighborhood. In the times of
which we write, the great passport to popularity among one party was the
expression of strong political opinions. For this reason, Val, who was
too cunning to neglect any subordinate aid to his success in life, had
created for himself a certain description of character, which in a great
degree occasioned much of his dishonesty and oppression to be overlooked
or forgiven. Like his father, old Deaker, he was a furious Orangeman,
of the true, loyal, and Ascendancy class--drank the glorious, pious,
and immortal memory every day after dinner--was, in fact, master of an
Orange Lodge, and altogether a man of that thorough, staunch, Protestant
principle, which was then, as it has been since, prostituted to the
worst purposes. For this reason, he was looked upon, by those of his own
class not so much as a heartless and unscrupulous knave, as a good sound
Protestant, whose religion and loyalty were of the right kidney. In
accordance with these principles, he lost no time in assuming the
character of an active useful man, who considered it the most important
part of his duty to extend his political opinions by every means in his
power, and to discountenance, in all shapes and under all circumstances,
such as were opposed to them. For this purpose, there was only one
object left untried and unaccomplished; but time and his undoubted
loyalty soon enabled him to achieve it. Not long after his appointment
to the agency, he began to experience some of these uneasy sensations
which a consciousness of not having deserved well at the hands of the
people will occasion. The man, as we have said, was a coward at heart;
but like many others of the same class, he contrived on most occasions
to conceal it. He now considered that it would, at all events, be a safe
and prudent act on his part to raise a corps of yeomanry, securing
a commission in it for himself and Phil. In this case he deemed it
necessary to be able to lay, before government such satisfactory proofs
as would ensure the accomplishment of his object, and at the same time
establish his own loyalty and devotion to the higher powers. No man
possessed the art of combining several motives, under the simple guise
of one act, with greater skill than M'Clutchy. For instance, he had an
opportunity of removing from the estate as many as possible of those
whom he could not reckon on for political support. Thus would he, in the
least suspicious manner, and in the very act of loyalty, occasion
that quantity of disturbance just necessary to corroborate his
representations to government--free property from disaffected persons,
whose consciences were proof against both his threats and promises--and
prove to the world that Valentine M'Clutchy was the man to suppress
disturbance, punish offenders, maintain peace, and, in short, exhibit
precisely that loyal and truly Protestant spirit which the times
required, and which, in the end, generally contrived to bring its own
reward along with it.

One evening, about this period, our worthy agent was sitting in his back
parlor, enjoying with Phil the comforts of a warm tumbler of punch, when
the old knock already described was heard at the hall door.

"How the devil does that rascal contrive to give such a knock?" said
Phil--"upon my honor and reputation, father, I could know it out of a
thousand."

"It's very difficult to say," replied the other; "but I agree with you
in its character--and yet, I am convinced that Master Darby by no means
entertains the terror of me which he affects. However, be this as it
may, he is invaluable for his attachment to our interests, and the trust
which we can repose in him. I intend to make him a sergeant in our new
corps--and talking of that, Phil, you are not aware that I received this
morning a letter from Lord Cumber, in which he thanks me for the hint,
and says he will do everything in his power to forward the business. I
have proposed that he shall be colonel, and that the corps be named the
Castle Cumber Yeomanry. I shall myself be captain and paymaster, and you
shall have a slice of something off it, Phil, my boy."

"I have no objection in life," replied Phil, "and let the slice be a
good one; only I am rather quakerly as to actual fighting, which may God
of his infinite mercy prevent!"

"There will be no fighting, my hero," replied the father, laughing;
"if there were, Phil, I would myself rise above all claims for military
glory; but here there will be nothing but a healthy chase across the
country after an occasional rebel or whiteboy, or perhaps the seizing of
a still, and the capture of many a keg of neat poteen, Phil--eh? What do
you say to that my boy?"

"I have no objection to that," said Phil, "provided everything is done
in an open, manly manner--in broad day-light. These scoundrel whiteboys
have such devilish good practice at hedge-firing, that I have already
made up my mind to decline all warfare that won't be sanctioned by the
sun. I believe in my soul they see better without light than with it, so
that the darkness which would be a protection to them, could be none to
me."

At this moment, a tap--such as a thief would give when ascertaining
if the master of the house were asleep, in order that he might rob
him--came to the door, and upon being desired to "come in and be d----d"

Darby entered.

"You're an hour late, you scoundrel," said Val; "what have you to say
for yourself?"

"Yes," added Phil, who was a perfect Achilles to every bailiff and
driver on the estate--"what have you to say for yourself? If I served
you right, upon my honor and reputation, I would kick you out. I would,
you scoundrel, and I ought."

"I know you ought, squire, for I desarve it; but, any how, sure it was
the floods that sent me round. The stick was covered above three feet,
and I had to go round by the bridge. Throth his honor there ought to
make the Grand Jury put a bridge acrass it, and I wish to goodness,
Square Phil, you would spake to him to get them to do it next summer."

When Solomon said, that all was vanity and vexation of spirit, we hope
he did not mean that the two terms were at all synonymous; because, if
he did, we unquestionably stand prepared to contest his knowledge of
human nature, despite both his wisdom and experience. Darby's reply was
not a long one, but its effect was powerful. The very notion that Val
M'Clutchy could, should, might, or ought to have such influence over the
Grand Jury of the county was irresistible with the father; and that he
should live to be actually called squire, nay to hear the word with his
own ears, was equally so with the son.

Vanity! What sensation can the hearts of thousands--millions feel, that
ought for a moment be compared, in an ecstatic sense of enjoyment, with
those which arise from gratified vanity?

"Come, you sneaking scoundrel, take a glass of spirits--the night's
severe," said Val.

"Yes, you sneaking scoundrel, take a glass of spirits, and we'll see
what can be done about the bridge before next winter," added Phil.

"All I can say is, gintlemen," said Darby, "that if you both take it
up, it will be done. In the mane time, here's both your healths,
your honors; an' may you both be spared on the property, as a pair of
blessins to the estate!" Then, running over to Phil, he whispered in
a playhouse voice--"Square Phil, I daren't let his honor hear me now,
but--here's black confusion to Hickman, the desaver!"

"What is he saying, Phil? What is the cursed sneaking scoundrel saying?"

"Why your honor," interposed Darby, "I was axin' permission jist to add
a thrifle to what I'm goin' to drink."

"What do you mean?" said Val.

"Just, your honor, to drink the glorious, pious, and immoral mimory!
hip, hip, hurra!"

"And how can you drink it, you rascal, and you a papist?" asked Phil,
still highly delighted with Darby's loyalty. "What would your priest say
if he knew it?"

"Why," said Darby, quite unconscious of the testimony he was bearing to
his own duplicity, "sure they can forgive me that, along with my other
sins. But, any how, I have a great notion to leave them and their
ralligion altogether."

"How is that, you scoundrel?" asked Val.

"Yes, you scoundrel; how is that?" added Phil.

"Why, troth," replied Darby, "I can't well account for it myself,
barrin' it comes from an enlightened conscience. Mr. M'Slime gave me a
tract, some time ago, called Spiritual Food for Babes of Grace, and I
thought in my own conscience, afther readin' it carefully over, that it
applied very much to my condition."

"Ah!" said Phil, "what a babe you are! but no matter; I'm glad you
have notions of becoming a good sound Protestant; take my word there's
nothing like it. A man that's a good sound Protestant is always a loyal
fellow, and when he's drunk, drinks--to hell with the Pope."

"Phil, don't be a fool," said his father, who inherited many, if not
all of old Deaker's opinions. "If you are about to become a
Protestant, Darby, that's a very different thing from changing your
religion--inasmuch as you must have one to change first. However, as you
say, M'Slime's your man, and be guided by him."

"So I intend, sir; and he has been spakin' to me about comin' forrid
publicly, in regard of an intention he has of writin' a new tract
consarning me, to be called the Converted Bailiff, or a Companion to
the Religious Attorney; and he says, sir, that he'll get us bound up
together."

"Does he?" said Val, dryly; "strung up, I suppose he means."

"Troth your honor's right," replied Darby; "but my own mimory isn't what
it used to be--it was strung up he said, sure enough, sir."

"Very well," said Val, "but now to business. Phil, my boy, you move off
for a little--Darby and I have a small matter to talk over, that nobody
must hear but ourselves."

"All right," replied Phil; "so take care of yourselves;" and accordingly
left the room.

Now the truth was, that M'Clutchy, who perfectly understood the
half-witted character of his son--for be it known that worthy Phil was
considered by those who had the honor of his acquaintance, as anything
but an oracle--did not feel himself justified in admitting the said Phil
to full confidence in all his plans and speculations.

"You see now," said he, addressing Darby sternly--"you see the opinion
which I entertain of your honesty, when I trust you more than I do my
son."

"Troth I do your honor--and by the same token did I ever betray you?"

"Betray, you scoundrel! what had you to betray?" said Val indignantly,
whatever I do is for the benefit of the country in general, and for Lord
Cumber's property in particular: you know that."

"Know it! doesn't the whole world know it, sir?"

"Well, then"--said Val, softening---"now to business. In the first place
observe my words--listen."

Darby said nothing, but looked at him in the attitude of deep and
breathless attention.

"Whenever you happen to execute a warrant of distress--that is, when
removing furniture or any other property off the premises, keep a sharp
look out for any papers or parchments that happen to come in your way.
It would do no harm if you should slip them quietly into your pocket and
bring them to me. I say quietly, because there is a spirit abroad among
the people that we must watch; but if they once suspected that we were
on the look out for it, they might baffle us; these papers, you know can
be returned."

"I see, your honor," said Darby--"there you are right, as, indeed, you
always are."

"Very well, then. Is the night dark and stormy?"

"So dark, sir, that a blind man could see it."

Val then approached the bailiff, looked cautiously about the
room--opened the door, and peeped into the hall; after which he
returned, and placing about half-a-dozen written papers in his hand,
whispered something to him with great earnestness and deliberation.
Darby heard him with profound attention, nodded his head significantly
as he spoke, and placed the point of his right hand fore-finger on the
papers, as if he said, "I see--I understand--I am to do so and so with
these; it's all clear--all right, and it shall be done before I sleep."

The conversation then fell into its original channel, and Phil was
summoned, in order to receive his instructions touching a ceremony which
was to take place on the following day but one; which ceremony simply
consisted in turning out upon the wide world, without house, or home, or
shelter, about twenty three families, containing among them the young,
the aged, the sick, and the dying--but this is a scene to which we must
beg the reader's more particular attention.

There stood, facing the west, about two miles from Constitution Cottage,
an irregular string of cabins, with here and there something that might
approach the comfortable air of a middle size house. The soil on which
they stood was an elevated moor, studded with rocks and small cultivated
patches, which the hard hand of labor had, with toil and difficulty,
worn from what might otherwise be called a cold, bleak, desert. The
rocks in several instances were overgrown with underwood and shrubs
of different descriptions, which were browsed upon by meagre and
hungry-looking goats, the only description of cattle that the poverty
of these poor people allowed them to keep, with the exception of two
or three families, who were able to indulge in the luxury of a cow. In
winter it had an air of shivering desolation that was enough to chill
the very blood, even to think of; but in summer, the greenness of the
shrubs, some of which were aromatic and fragrant, relieved the dark,
depressing spirit which seemed to brood upon it. This little colony,
notwithstanding the wretchedness of its appearance, was not, however,
shut out from a share of human happiness. The manners of its inhabitants
were primeval and simple, and if their enjoyments were few and limited,
so also were their desires. God gave them the summer breeze to purify
their blood, the sun of heaven to irradiate the bleakness of their
mountains, the morning and evening dressed in all their beauty, and
music of their mountain streams, and that of the feathered songsters, to
enliven their souls with its melody. The voices of spring, of summer, of
autumn, were cheerful in their ears as the voices of friends, and even
winter, with all his wildness and desolation, was not without a grim
complacence which they loved. They were a poor, harmless, little
community, so very humble and inoffensive, as to be absolutely beneath
the reach of human resentment or injustice. Alas! they were not so.

The cause of the oppression which was now about to place them in its
iron grasp, was as simple as it was iniquitous. They refused to vote for
Lord Cumber's brother, and were independent enough to respect the rights
of conscience, in defiance of M'Clutchy's denunciations. They had voted
for the gentleman who gave them employment, and who happened besides, to
entertain opinions which they approved. M'Clutchy's object was to remove
them from the property, in order that he might replace them with a more
obedient and less conscientious class; for this was his principle of
action under such circumstances.

It so happened that there lived among them a man named O'Regan, who,
in point of comfort, was at the head of this little community. He was a
quiet and an affectionate individual, industrious, sober, and every way
well conducted. This inoffensive and virtuous man, and Iris faithful
wife, had been for some time before the period we are describing,
under the shadow of deep affliction. Their second child, and his little
brother, together with the eldest, who for two or three years before had
been at service in England, were all that had been spared to them--the
rest having died young. This second boy was named Torley, and him they
loved with an excess of tenderness and affection that could scarcely be
blamed. The boy was handsome and manly, full of feeling, and possessed
of great resolution and courage; all this, however, was ultimately of
no avail in adding to the span of the poor youth's life. One day in the
beginning of autumn, he overloaded himself with a log of fir which
he had found in the moors; having laid it down to rest, he broke a
blood-vessel in attempting to raise it to his shoulder the second time:
he staggered home, related the accident as it had occurred, and laid
himself down gently upon his bed. Decline then set in, and the
handsome and high-spirited Torley O'Regan, lay patiently awaiting his
dissolution, his languid eye dim with the shadow of its approach. From
the moment it was ascertained that his death, early and unexpectedly,
was known to be certain, the grief of his parents transcended the bounds
of ordinary sorrow. It was indeed, a distressing thing to witness their
sufferings, and to feel, in the inmost chambers of the heart, the awful
wail of their desolation and despair.

Winter had now arrived in all its severity, and the very day selected
for the removal of these poor people was that which fills, or was
designed to fill, every Christian heart with hope, charity, affection
for our kind, and the innocent enjoyment of that festive spirit which
gives to the season a charm that throws the memory back upon the
sweetest recollections of life--I mean Christmas eve. The morning,
however, was ushered in by storm. There had been above a fortnight's
snow, accompanied by hard frost, and to this was added now the force
of a piercing wind, and a tremendous down pouring of hard dry drift,
against which it is at any time almost impossible even to walk, unless
when supported by health, youth, and uncommon strength.

In O'Regan's house there was, indeed, the terrible union of a most
bitter and twofold misery. The boy was literally dying, and to this was
added the consciousness that M'Clutchy would work his way in spite
of storm, tempest, and sickness, nay, even death itself. A few of the
inhabitants of the wild mountain village, which, by the way, was named
Drum Dhu, from its black and desolate look, had too much the fear of
M'Clutchy before their eyes, to await his measures, and accordingly
sought out some other shelter. It was said, however, and generally
supposed, by several of the neighboring gentry, that even M'Clutchy
himself would scarcely dare to take such a step, in defiance of common
humanity, public opinion, and the laws both of God and--we were about
to add--man, but the word cannot be written. Every step he took was
strictly and perfectly legal, and the consequence was, that he had that
strong argument, "I am supporthed by the, laws of the land," to enable
him to trample upon all the principles of humanity and justice--to
gratify political rancor, personal hatred, to oppress, persecute, and
ruin.

Removal, however, in Torley O'Regan's case, would have been instant
death. Motion or effort of any kind were strictly forbidden, as was
conversation, except in the calmest and lowest tones, and everything
at at all approaching to excitement. Still the terror lest this inhuman
agent might carry his resolution into effect on such a day, and under
such circumstances, gave to their pitiable sense of his loss a dark and
deadly hue of misery, at which the heart actually sickens. From the hour
of nine o'clock on that ominous morning, the inhabitants of Drum Dhu
were passing, despite the storm, from cabin to cabin, discussing
the probable events of the day, and asking each other if it could be
possible that M'Clutchy would turn them out under such a tempest. Nor
was this all. The scene indeed was one which ought never to be witnessed
in any country. Misery in all its shapes was there--suffering in its
severest pangs--sickness--disease--famine--and death--to all which was
to be added bleak, houseless, homeless, roofless desolation. Had the
season been summer they might have slept in the fields, made themselves
temporary sheds, or carried their sick, and aged, and helpless, to
distant places where humanity might aid and relieve them. But no--here
were the elements of God, as it were, called in by the malignity and
wickedness of man to war against old age, infancy, and disease.

For a day or two proceeding this, poor Torley thought he felt a little
better, that is to say, his usual symptoms of suffering were litigated,
as is sometimes the case when human weakness literally sinks below the
reach of pain itself. Ten o'clock had arrived and he had not yet awoke,
having only fallen asleep a little before daybreak. His father went
to his bed-side, and looking down saw that he was still asleep, with
a peaceful smile irradiating his features, as it were with a sense
of inward happiness and tranquility. He beckoned to his mother who
approached the bed, and contemplated him with that tearless agony which
sears the heart and brain, until the feeling would be gladly
exchanged for madness. The conversation which followed was in Irish, a
circumstance that accounts for its figurative style and tenderness of
expression.

"What is that smile," said the father. "It is the peace of God," said
the mother, "shining from an innocent and happy heart. Oh! Torley, my
son, my son!"

"Yes," replied the father, "he is going to meet happy hearts, but he
will leave none in this house behind him--even little Brian that he
loved so well--but where was there a heart so loving as his?" This we
need scarcely observe, was all said in whispers.

"Ah!" said the father, "you may well ask--but don't you remember this
day week, when we were talking of M'Clutchy--'I hope,' says he, 'that
if he should come, I'll be where no agent can turn me out--that is, in
heaven--for I wouldn't wish to live to see you both and little Brian
put from the place that we all loved so well--and then he wiped away the
tears from his pale cheeks.--Oh! Torley, my son--my son--are you laving
us! laving us forever?"

The father sat down quietly on a chair, and put his hand upon his
forehead, as if to keep the upper part of his head from flying off--for
such, he said, were the sensations he felt. He then wrung his hands
until the joints cracked, and gave one short convulsive sob, which no
effort of his could repress. The boy soon afterwards opened his eyes,
and fixed them with the same peaceful and affectionate smile upon his
parents.

"Torley," said the mother, kissing him, "how do you feel, our flower?"

"Aisier," said he, "but I think weaker--I had a dream," he continued;
"I thought I was looking in through a great gate at the most beautiful
place that ever was--and I said to myself, what country can that be,
that's so full of light, and music, and green trees, and beautiful
rivers? 'That is heaven,' said a sweet voice beside me, but I could
see no one. I looked again, and then I thought I saw my three little
brothers standin' inside the gate smilin'--and I said, 'ar'n't you my
brothers that died when you were young?' 'Yes,' said they,'and we are
come to welcome you here.' I was then goin' to go in, when I thought I
saw my father and Brian runnun' hand in hand towards the gate, and as' I
was goin' in I thought they called after me--'wait, Torley, dear, for we
will follow you soon.'"

"And I hope we all will, our blessed treasure; for when you leave us,
son of our hearts, what temptation will we have to stay afther you? Your
voice, achora, will be in our ears, and your sweet looks in our eyes--
but that is all that will be left of you--and your father and I will
never have a day's happiness more. Oh, never--never!"

"You both know I wouldn't lave you if I could help it, but it's the will
of God that I should go; then when I'll be so happy, won't it take the
edge off your grief. Bring Brian here. He and I were all that was
left you, since Ned went to England--and now you will have only him. I
needn't bid you to love him, for I know that you loved both of us, may
be more than you ought, or more than I desarved; but not surely more
than Brian does. Brian, my darling, come and kiss your own Torley that
keept you sleeping every night in his bosom, and never was properly
happy without you--kiss me when I can feel you, for I know that before
long, you will kiss me when I can't kiss you--Brian, my darling life,
how loth I am to lave you, and to lave you all, father--to lave you all,
mother."

As he spoke, and paused from time to time, the tumult of the storm
without, and the fury with which it swept against the roof, door,
and windows of the house, made a terrible diapason to the sweet and
affecting tone of feeling which pervaded the remarks of the dying
boy. His father, however, who felt an irrepressible dread of what was
expected to take place, started at the close of the last words, and
with a heart divided between the two terrors, stood in that stupefaction
which is only the resting-place of misery, where it takes breath and
strengthens itself for its greatest trials. Ho stood with one hand as
before, pressed upon his forehead, and pointed with the other to the
door. The wife, too, paused, for she could not doubt for a moment, that
she heard sounds mingling with those of the storm which belonged not to
it. It was Christmas eve!

"Stop, Mary," said he, the very current of his heart stilled--its
beating pulses frozen, as it were, by the terrible apprehension--"stop,
Mary; you can open the door, but in such a morning as this you couldn't
shut it, and the wind and drift would come in and fill the house, and
be the death of our boy. No, I must open the door myself, and it will
require all my strength to shut it."

"I hear it all, now," said Torley, "the cries and the shouting, the
screechings and the--well, you need not be afeared; put poor Brian in
with me, for I know there is no Irishman but will respect a death-bed,
be it landlord, or agent, ay, or bailey. Oh, no, father, the hand of
God is upon us, and if they respect nothing else, they will surely respect
that. They won't move me, mother, when they see me; for that would kill
me--that would be to murder a dying man."

The father made no reply, but rushed towards the door, which he opened
and closed after him with more ease than he had expected. The storm, in
fact, was subsiding; the small hard drift had ceased, and it was evident
from the appearance of the sky that there was likely to be a change for
the better.

It would, indeed, appear, as if the Divine Being actually restrained and
checked the elements, on witnessing the cruel, heartless, and oppressive
purposes of man. But, what a scene presented itself to O'Regan, on going
forth to witness the proceedings which were then about to take place on
this woeful day!

Entering the northern end of this wild collection of sheelings was
seen a posse of bailiffs, drivers, constables, keepers, and all that
hard-hearted class of ruffians that constitute the staff of a land agent
upon occasions similar to this. Immediately behind these followed a body
of Orange yeomanry, dressed in regimentals, and with fire-arms--each
man carrying thirty rounds of ball cartridge. We say Orange yeomen
advisedly, because, at the period we speak of, Roman Catholics were not
admitted into the yeomanry, unless, perhaps, one in a corps; and even
out of ten corps, perhaps, you might not find the ten exceptions. When
we add to this the fact, that every Protestant young man was then
an Orangeman, and that a strong, relentless feeling of religious and
political hatred subsisted between them and the Catholic party, we think
that there are few, even among our strongest Conservatives, if any,
who would attempt to defend the inhuman policy of allowing one party of
Irishmen, stimulated by the worst passions, to be let loose thus armed
upon defenceless men, whom, besides, they looked upon and treated as
enemies.

The men in question, who were known by the sobriquet of Deaker's
Dashers, were, in point of fact, the terror of every one in the country
who was not an Orangeman, no matter what his creed or conduct might
be. They were to a man guided by the true Tory principle, not only of
supporting Protestantism, but of putting down Popery; and yet, with
singular inconsistency, they were seldom or never seen within a church
door, all their religion consisting in giving violent and offensive
toasts, and their loyalty in playing party tunes, singing Orange songs,
meeting in Orange lodges, and executing the will of some such oppressor
as M'Clutchy, who was by no means an exaggerated specimen of the Orange
Tory.

Deaker's Dashers were commanded on this occasion by a little squat
figure, all belly, with a short pair of legs at one end, and a little
red, fiery face, that looked as if it would explode--at the other.
The figure was mounted on horseback, and as it and its party gallantly
entered this city of cabins, it clapped its hands on its side, to
impress the enemy, no doubt, with a due sense of its military character
and prowess. Behind the whole procession, at a little distance, rode
M'Clutchy and M'Slime, graceful Phil having declined the honor of the
expedition altogether, principally, he said, in consequence of the
shortness of the days, and the consequent very sudden approach of night.
We cannot omit to state, that Darby O'Drive was full of consequence and
importance, and led on his followers, with a roll of paper containing
the list of fill those who were to be expelled, rolled up in his hand,
somewhat like a baton of office. Opposed to this display stood a crowd
of poor shivering wretches, with all the marks of poverty and struggle,
and, in many cases, of famine and extreme destitution, about them and
upon them. Women with their half starved children in their arms, many
of them without shoes or stockings--laboring care-worn men, their heads
bound up in cotton handkerchiefs, as intimating illness or recovery
from illness--old men bent over their staves, some with long white hair,
streaming to the breeze, and all with haggard looks of terror, produced
by the well known presence among them of Deaker's Dashers.

And this was Christmas eve--a time of joy and festivity!

Other features were also presented, which gave to this miserable scene
a still more depressing character. The voice of lamentation was loud,
especially from the females, both young and old--all of whom, with some
exceptions, were in tears. Many were rending their hair, others clapping
their hands in distraction--some were kneeling to Heaven to implore
its protection, and not a few to call down its vengeance upon their
oppressors. From many of the men, especially the young and healthy,
came stifled curses, and smothered determinations of deep and fearful
vengeance. Brows darkened, eyes gleamed, and teeth were ground with a
spirit that could neither be mistaken or scarcely condemned. M'Clutchy
was then sowing the wind; but whether at a future day to reap the
whirlwind, we are not now prepared to state.

At length it was deemed time that the ceremony should commence; and
M'Clutchy, armed also with a case of pistols, rode up to Darby:--

"O'Drive, you scoundrel," he shouted--for he saw his enemy, and got
courageous, especially since he had a body of his father's Dashers at
his back--"O'Drive, you scoundrel, do you mean to keep us here all
day? Why don't you commence? Whose is the first name on your list?
The ejectment must proceed," addressing the poor people as much as
Darby--"it must proceed. Everything we do is by Lord Cumber's orders,
and strictly according to the law of the land. Every attempt at refusing
to give up peaceable possession, makes you liable to be punished; and
punished, by d--n you shall be."

"Do not swear, my dear friend," interposed M'Slime; "swear not at all;
but let thy yea be yea, and thy nay, nay; for whatsoever is more than
this cometh of evil. My good friends," he added, addressing himself to
the people, "I could not feel justified in losing this opportunity to
throw in a word in season for your sakes. I need scarcely tell you that
Mr. M'Clutchy, whose character for benevolence and humanity is perfectly
well known--and I would allude to his strong sense of religion, and its
practical influence on his conduct, were I not afraid of giving rise
to a feeling of spiritual pride in the heart of any fellow-creature,
however humble;--I need not tell you, I say, that he and I are here as
your true friends. I, a frail and unworthy sinner, avow myself as your
friend; at least, it is the most anxious and sincere wish of my heart
to do good to you; for, I trust I can honestly say, that I love my
Catholic--I mean my Roman Catholic friends, and desire to meet them in
the bonds of Christ. Yes, we are your friends. You know it is true
that God loveth whom he chasteneth, and that it is always good to
pass through the furnace of tribulation. What are we, then, but the
instruments of his chastisement of you, and of bringing you through that
furnace for your own good and for His honor! Be truly grateful, then,
for this instance of His interposition in your favor. It is only a
blessing in disguise; my friends--strongly disguised, I grant you--but
still a blessing. And now, my friends, to prove my own sincerity--my
affection, and, I trust, Christian interest in your welfare, I say unto
you, that if such among you as lack bread will come to me, when this
dispensation in your favor is concluded, I shall give them that which
will truly nourish them."

M'Clutohy could not stand this, but went down to the little squab
Dasher, who joined him in a loud fit of laughter at M'Slime's little
word in season; so that the poor dismayed people had the bitter
reflection to add to their other convictions, that their misery, their
cares, and their sorrows, were made a mockery of by those who were
actually inflicting them.

"When Darby, on whose face there was a heartless smirk of satisfaction
at this opportunity of gratifying M'Clutchy, was about to enter the
first cabin, there arose from the trembling creatures a loud murmur of
wild and unregulated lamentation, which actually startled the bailiff's,
who looked as if they were about to be assaulted. An old man then
approached M'Clutchy, bent with age and infirmity, and whose white hair
hung far down, his shoulders--

"Sir," said he, taking off his hat, and standing before him uncovered,
severe and still bitter as was the day--"I stand here in the name of
these poor creatures you see about us, to beg you, for the sake of
God--of Christ who redeemed us--and of the Holy Spirit that gives
kindness and charity to the heart--not on this blake hill undher sich
a sky, and on sich a day, to turn us out of the only shelter we have on
earth! There's people here that will die if they're brought outside
the door. We did not, at laist the most part of all you see before you,
think you had any thought of houldin' good your threat in such a time
of cowld, and storm, and disolation. Look at us, sir, then, have pity
on us! Make it your own case, if you can, and maybe that will bring our
destitution nearer you--and besides, sir, there's a great number of us
thought betther about votin' with you, and surely you won't think of
puttin' them out."

"It's too late now," said M'Clutchy; "if you had promised me your votes
in time, it was not my intention to have disturbed you--at present I am
acting altogether by Lord Cumber's orders, who desires that every one
refusing to vote for him shall be made an example of, and removed from
the property--O'Drive, you scoundrel, do your duty."

At this moment there rushed forth from the again agitated crowd an old
woman, whose grizzled locks had escaped from under her dowd cap, and
were blown in confusion about her head; she wore a drugget gown that
had once been yellow, and a deep blue petticoat of the same stuff; a
circumstance, which, joined to the excitement, gave to her appearance a
good deal of picturesque effect.


"Low born tyrant," she shouted, kneeling rapidly down and holding up her
clasped hands, but not in supplication--"low born, tyrant," she shouted,
"stop;--spawn of blasphemin' Deaker, stop--bastard of the notorious Kate
Clank, hould your hand? You see we know you and yours well. You were a
bad son to a bad mother, and the curse of God will pursue you and
yours, for that and your other villanies. Go back and hould your hand, I
say--and don't dare to bring the vengeance of God upon you, for the plot
of hell you are about to work out this day. I know that plot. Be warned.
Look about you here, and think of what you're going to do. Have you
no feeling for ould and helpless age--for the weakness of women, the
innocence of children? Are you not afraid on such a day to come near
the bed of sickness, or the bed of death, with such an intention? Here's
widows and orphans, the sick and the dyin', ould age half dead, Mid
infancy half starved; and is it upon these, that you and blasphemin'
Deaker's bloody Dashers are goin' to work your will? Hould your hand, I
say, or if you don't, although I needn't curse you myself, for I am
too wicked for that--yet in the name of all these harmless and helpless
creatures before you, I call their curses on your head. In the name
of all the care, and pain, and sorrow, and starvation, and affliction,
that's now before your eyes, be you cursed in soul and body--in all you
touch--in all you love--cursed here, and cursed hereafter forever, if
you proceed in your wicked intentions this woeful day!"

"Who is that mad-woman?" said M'Clutchy. "Let her be removed. All I can
say is, that she has taken a very unsuccessful method of staying the
proceedings."

"Who am I?" said she; "I will tell you that. Look at this," she replied,
exposing her bosom; "these are the breasts that suckled you--between
them did you lie, you ungrateful viper! Yes, you may stare--it's many a
long year since the name of Kate Clank reached your ears, and now that
you have heard it, it is not to bless you. Well, you remember when you
heard it last--on the day you hunted your dogs at me, and threatened to
have me horse-whipped--ay, to horse-whip me with your own hands, should
I ever come near your cursed house. Now, you know who I am, and now I
have kept my word, which was never to die till I gave you a shamed face.
Kate Clank, your mother, is before you!"

M'Clutchy took the matter very coolly certainly--laughed at her, and, in
a voice of thunder, desired the ejectments to proceed.

But how shall we dwell upon this miserable work? The wailings and
screams, the solicitations for mercy, their prayers, their imprecations
and promises, were all sternly disregarded; and on went the justice of
law, accompanied by the tumult of misery. The old were dragged out--the
bedriden grand-mother had her couch of straw taken from under her. From
the house of death, the corpse of an aged female was carried out amidst
the shrieks and imprecations of both men and women! The sick child that
clung with faintness to the bosom of its distracted mother, was put out
under the freezing blast of the north; and on, on, onward, from house to
house, went the steps of law, accompanied still by the increasing tumult
of misery. This was upon Christmas eve--a day of "joy and festivity!"

At length they reached O'Regan's,and it is not our intention to describe
the occurrence at any length. It could not be done. O'Regan clasped his
hands, so did his wife; they knelt--they wept--they supplicated.
They stated the nature of his malady--decline--from having ruptured a
blood-vessel. They ran to M'Clutchy, to M'Slime, to the squat figure
on horseback. They prayed to Darby, and especially entreated a ruffian
follower who had been remarkable for, and wanton in, his inhumanity, but
with no effect. Darby shook his head.

"It couldn't be done," said he.

"No," replied the other, whose name was Grimes, "we can't make any
differ between one and another--so out he goes."

"Father," observed the meek boy, "let them. I will only be the sooner in
heaven."

He was placed sitting up in bed by the bailiff's, trembling in the cold
rush of the blast; but the moment the father saw their polluted and
sacrilegious hands upon him--he rushed forward accompanied by his
mother.

"Stay," he said, in a loud, hoarse voice, "since you will have him out,
let our hands, not yours, be upon him."

The ruffian told him they could not stand there all day, and without any
farther respect for their feelings, they rudely wrapped the bed-clothes
about him, and, carrying him out, he was placed upon a chair before the
door. His parents were immediately beside him, and took him now into
then own care; but it was too late--he smiled as he looked into their
faces, then looked at his little brother, and giving one long drawn
sigh, he passed, without pain or suffering, saving a slight shudder,
into happiness. O'Regan, when he saw that his noble and beloved boy was
gone, surrendered him into the keeping of his wife and other friends,
who prevented his body from falling off the chair. He then bent his eye
sternly upon the group of bailiffs, especially upon the rude ruffian,
Grimes, whose conduct was so atrocious.

"Now listen," said he, kneeling down beside his dead son--"listen all
of you that has wrought this murder of my dying boy! He is yet warm,"
he added, grinding his teeth and looking up to heaven, "and here beside
him, I pray, that the gates of mercy may be closed upon my soul through
sill eternity, if I die without vengeance for your death, my son!"

His mother, who was now in a state between stupor and distraction,
exclaimed--

"To be sure, darling, and I'll assist you, and so will Torley."

The death of this boy, under circumstances of such incredible cruelty,
occasioned even M'Clutchy to relax something of his original intentions.
He persisted, however, in accomplishing all the ejectments without
exception, but when this was over, he allowed them to re-occupy their
miserable cabins, until the weather should get milder, and until such
of them as could, might be able to procure some other shelter for
themselves and families.

When all was over, M'Slime, who had brought with him a sheaf of tracts
for their spiritual sustenance, saw, from the deeply tragic character
of the proceedings, that he might spare himself the trouble of such
Christian sympathy as he wished to manifest for their salvation. He
and M'Clutchy, to whom, by the way, he presented the truly spiritual
sustenance of some good brandy out of a flask, with which he balanced
the tracts in his other pocket, then took their way in the very centre
of the Dashers, leaving behind them all those sorrows of life, for
which, however, they might well be glad to exchange their consciences
and their wealth.

The circumstances which we have just described, were too striking not to
excite considerable indignation among all reasonable minds at the time.
An account of that day's proceedings got into the papers, but was so
promptly and fully contradicted by the united testimony of M'Clutchy and
M'Slime, that the matter was made to appear very highly complimentary
to the benevolence and humanity of both. "So far from the proceedings in
question," the contradiction went on to say, "being marked by the wanton
cruelty and inhumanity imputed to them, they were, on the contrary, as
remarkable for the kindness and forbearance evinced by Messrs. M'Clutchy
and M'Slime. The whole thing was a mere legal form, conducted in a most
benevolent and Christian spirit. The people were all restored to their
tenements the moment the business of the day was concluded, and we
cannot readily forget the admirable advice and exhortation offered to
them, and so appropriately offered by Solomon M'Slime, Esq., the truly
Christian and benevolent law agent of the property in question."

By these proceedings, however, M'Clutchy had gained Ms point, which was,
under the guise of a zealous course of public duty, to create a basis on
which to ground his private representations of the state of the country
to government. He accordingly lost no time in communicating on the
subject with Lord Cumber, who at once supported him in the project of
raising a body of cavalry for the better security of the public peace;
as, indeed, it was his interest to do, inasmuch, as it advanced his own
importance in the eye of government quite as much as it did M'Clutchy's.
A strong case was therefore made out by this plausible intriguer. In a
few days after the affair of Drum Dhu, honest Val contrived to receive
secret information of the existence of certain illegal papers which
clearly showed that there existed a wide and still spreading conspiracy
in the country. As yet, he said, he could not ground any proceeding of a
definite character upon them.

The information, he proceeded to say, when writing to the Castle, which
came to him anonymously, was to the effect that by secretly searching
the eaves of certain houses specified in the communication received, he
would find documents, clearly corroborating the existence and design of
the conspiracy just alluded to. That he had accordingly done so, and
to his utter surprise, found that his anonymous informant was right. He
begged to enclose copies of the papers, together with the names of the
families residing in the houses where they were found. He did not like,
indeed, to be called a "Conspiracy hunter," as no man more deprecated
their existence; but he was so devotedly attached to the interests of
his revered sovereign, and those of his government, that no matter at
what risk, either of person or reputation, he would never shrink from
avowing or manifesting that attachment to them. And he had the honor to
be, his very obedient servant.

Valentine M'Clutohy, J.P.

P.S.--He begged to enclose for his perusal a letter from his warm
friend, Lord Cumber, on the necessity, as he properly terms it, of
getting up a corps of cavalry, which is indeed a second thought, as
they would be much better adapted, upon long pursuits and under pressing
circumstances, for scouring the country, which is now so dreadfully
disturbed. And has once more the honor to be, Val M'C.


Representations like these, aided by that most foolish and besotted
tendency which so many of the ignorant and uneducated peasantry have of
entering into such associations, did not fail in working out M'Clutchy's
designs. Most of those in whose houses these papers were placed, fled
the country, among whom was O'Regan, whose dying son Deaker's Dashers
treated with such indefensible barbarity; and what made everything
appear to fall in with his good fortune, it was much about this period
that Grimes, the unfeeling man whom O'Regan appeared to have in his eye
when he uttered such an awful vow of vengeance, was found murdered not
far from his own house, with a slip of paper pinned to his coat, on
which were written, in a disguised hand the words--"Remember O'Regan's
son, and let tyrants tremble."

Many strong circumstances appeared to bring this murder home to O'Regan.
From the day of his son's death until the illegal papers were found in
the eave of his house, he had never rested one moment. His whole
soul seemed darkly to brood over that distressing event, and to have
undergone a change, as it were, from good to evil. His brow lowered,
his cheek got gaunt and haggard, and his eye hollow and wolfish with
ferocity. Neither did he make any great secret of his intention to
execute vengeance on those who hurried his dying child out of life
whilst in the very throes of dissolution. He was never known, however,
to name any names, nor to mark out any particular individual for
revenge. His denunciations were general, but fearful in their import.
The necessity, too, of deserting his wife and child sealed his ruin,
which was not hard to do, as the man was at best but poor, or merely
able, as it is termed, to live from hand to mouth. His flight,
therefore, and all the circumstances of the case considered, it is
not strange that he was the object of general suspicion, and that the
officers of justice were sharply on the lookout for a clue to him.

In this position matters were, when the Castle Cumber corps of cavalry
made their appearance under all the glitter of new arms, housings and
uniforms, with Valentine M'Clutchy as their captain and paymaster, and
graceful Phil as lieutenant. Upon what slight circumstances do great
events often turn. Because Phil had an ungainly twist in his legs, or
in other words, because he was knock-kneed, and could not appear to
advantage as an infantry officer, was the character of the corps changed
from foot to cavalry, so that Phil and Handsome Harry had an opportunity
of exhibiting their points together. A year had now elapsed, and the
same wintry month of December had again returned, and yet no search had
been successful in finding any trace of O'Regan; but if our readers
will be so good as to accompany us to another scene, they will have an
opportunity of learning at least the character which M'Clutchy's new
corps had won in the country.




CHAPTER VIII.--Poverty and Sorrow

A Winter Morning--Father Roche--A Mountain Journey--Raymond
Na-hattha--Cabin on the Moors--M'Clutchy's Bloodhounds--The Conflict--A
Treble Death.


It is the chill and ghastly dawn of a severe winter morning; the gray,
cheerless opening of day borrows its faint light only for the purpose of
enabling you to see that the country about you is partially covered with
snow, and that the angry sky is loaded with storm. The rising sun, like
some poverty-stricken invalid, driven, as it were, by necessity, to the
occupation of the day, seems scarcely able to rise, and does so with
a sickly and reluctant aspect. Abroad, there is no voice of joy or
kindness--no cheerful murmur with which the heart can sympathize--all
the warm and exhilarating harmonies that breathe from nature in her
more genial moods are silent. A black freezing spirit darkens the very
light of day, and throws its dismal shadow upon everything about us,
whilst the only sounds that fall upon the ear are the roaring of
the bitter winds among the naked trees, or the hoarse voice of the
half-frozen river, rising and falling--now near, and now far away in the
distance.

On such a morning as this it was, and at such an hour, that a
pale-faced, thin woman, with all the melancholy evidences of destitution
and sorrow about her, knocked at the door of her parish priest, the
Rev. Francis Roche. The very knock she gave had in it a character of
respectful but eager haste. Her appearance, too, was miserable, and as
she stood in the cold wintry twilight, it would have satisfied any one
that deep affliction and wasting poverty were both at her humble heart.
She had on neither shoe nor stocking, and the consequence was, that the
sharp and jagged surface of the frozen ground, rendered severer by the
impatient speed of her journey, had cut her feet in such a manner that
the blood flowed from them in several places. Cloak or bonnet she had
none; but instead of the former her humble gown was turned over her
shoulders, and in place of the latter she wore a thin kerchief, drawn
round her head, and held under her chin with one hand, as the lower
classes of Irishwomen do in short and hasty journeys. Her journey,
however, though hasty in this instance, was by do means short; and it
was easy to perceive by her distracted manner and stifled sobs, that
however poorly protected against the bitter elements, she had a grief
within which rendered her insensible to their severity.

It was also apparent, that, though humble in life, she possessed, like
thousands of her countrywomen, a mind of sufficient compass and strength
to comprehend, when adequately moved, the united working of more than
one principle at the same moment. We have said it was evident that she
was under the influence of deep sorrow, but this was not all--a second
glance might disclose the exhibition of a still higher principle. The
woman was at prayer, and it was easy to perceive by the beads which she
held in her fervently clasped hands, by the occasional knocking of her
breast, and the earnest look of supplication to heaven, that her soul
poured forth its aspirations in the deep-felt and anxious spirit of that
religion, which affliction is found so often to kindle in the peasant's
heart. She had only knocked a second time when the door was opened, and
having folded up her beads, she put them into her bosom, and entering
the priest's house, immediately found herself in the kitchen. In a
moment a middle-aged woman, with a rush light in her hand, stirred up
the greeshough, and raking the live turf out of it, she threw on a dozen
well-dried peats out of the chimney corner, and soon had a comfortable
and blazing fire, at which the afflicted creature, having first
intimated her wish that his reverence should accompany her home, was
desired to sit until he should be ready to set out.

"Why, then," exclaimed the good-natured woman, "but you had abitther
thramp of it this cowld and cuttin' mornin'--and a cowld and cuttin'
mornin' it is--for sure didn't I feel as if the very nose was whipt
off o' me when I only wint to open the door for you. Sit near the fire,
achora, and warm yourself--throth myself feels like a sieve, the way
the cowld's goin' through me;--sit over, achora, sit over, and get some
heat into you."

"Thank you," said the woman, "but you know it's not a safe thing to go
near the fire when one is frozen or very cowld--'twould only make me
worse when I go out again, besides givin' me pain now."

"Och, troth you're right, I forgot that--but you surely didn't come
far, if one's to judge by your dress; though, God knows, far or near,
you have the light coverin' an you for such a morning as this is, the
Lord be praised!"

"I came better than three miles," replied the woman.

"Than what?"

"Than three miles."

"Saver above, is it possible! without cloak or bonnet, shoe or
stockin'--an' you have your affliction at home, too, poor thing; why the
Lord look down an you, an' pity you I pray his blessed name this day!
Stop, I must warm you a drink of brave new milk, and that'll help to
put the cowld out of your heart--sit round here, from the breath of that
back door--I'll have it ready for you in a jiffey; throth will I, an'
you'll see it'll warm you and do you good."

"God help me," exclaimed the woman, "I'll take the drink, bekase I
wouldn't refuse your kind heart; but it's not meat, nor drink, nor
cowld, nor storm, that's throublin' me--I could bear all that, and many
a time did--but then I had _him!_ but now who's to comfort us--who are
we to look to--who is to be our friend? Oh, in the wide world--but God
is good!"--said she, checking herself from a pious apprehension that
she was not sufficiently submissive to his will, "God is good--but still
it's hard to think of losing him."

"Well, you won't lose him, I hope," said the good creature, stirring
the new milk with a spoon, and tasting it to ascertain if it was warm
enough--"Of coorse it's your husband you--whitch! whitch!--the divil be
off you for a skillet, I've a'most scalded myself wid you--it's so thin
that it has a thing boilin' before you could say Jack Robinson. Here
now, achora, try it, an' take care it's not a trifle too hot--it'll
comfort you, anyhow."

It is in a country like Ireland, where there is so much of that close
and wasting poverty which constitutes absolute misery, that these
beautiful gushes of pure and tender humanity are to be found, which
spring in the obscurity of life out of the natural goodness and
untutored piety of the Irish heart. It is these virtues, unseen and
unknown, as they generally are, except by the humble individuals on whom
they are exerted--that so often light up by their radiance the
darkness and destitution of the cold and lowly cabin, and that gives an
unconscious sense of cheerfulness under great privations, which
those who do not know the people often attribute to other and more
discreditable causes.

While the poor woman in question was drinking the warm milk--the very
best restorative by the way which she could get--for poverty is mostly
forced to find out its own humble comforts--Father Roche entered the
kitchen, buttoned up and prepared for the journey. On looking at her he
seemed startled by the scantiness of her dress on such a morning--and
when she rose up at his entrance and dropped him a curtesy, exclaiming,
"God save you, Father!"--at the same time swallowing down the remainder
of the milk that she might not lose a moment; he cast his eye round the
kitchen to see whether she had actually come in the dress she wore.

"How far have you come this morning, my poor woman?" he inquired.

"From the ride of the Sliebeen More Mountains, plaise your reverence."

"What, in your present dress! without shoe or stocking?"

"True enough, sir; but indeed it was little the cowld, or sleet, or
frost, troubled me."

"Yes, God help you, I can believe that too--for I understand the cause
of it too well--but have hope--Katty, what was that you gave her?"

"A mouthful of warm milk, your reverence, to put the cowld out of her
heart."

"Ah, Katty, I wish we could put sorrow and affliction out of it--but
you did well and right in the meantime; still you must do better, Katty,
lend her your cloak--and your shoes and stockings too, poor thing!"

"I'm oblaged to your reverence," she replied, "but indeed I won't
feel the want of them; as I said, there's only one thought that I am
suffering about--and that is, for your reverence to see my husband
before he departs."

"Yes--but the consequences of this cold and bitter journey may fall
upon you at another time--and before long, too--so be advised by me, and
don't refuse to take them."

"It's not aisy to do that, sir," she replied with a faint smile, for as
she spoke, his servant had the cloak already about her shoulders; "it
appears," she continued, "that this kind woman must have her will and
way in everything."

"To be sure I will," said Katty, "espishially in everything that's
right, any how--come here now, and while his reverence is getting his
staff and mittens in the room above, I'll help you on with the shoes and
stockings. Now," she added, in one of those touching and irresistible
whispers that are produced by kindness and not by secrecy, "if anything
happens--as God forbid there should--but if anything does happen, keep
these till afther everything is over. Before strangers you know one
wouldn't like to appear too bare, if they could help it."

The tone in which these words were spoke could not fail in at once
reaching the poor woman's heart. She wept as much from gratitude as the
gloomy alternative involved in Katty's benevolent offer.

"God bless you," she exclaimed, "but I trust in the Almighty, there
may be hope and that they won't be wanted. Still, how can I hope when I
think of the way he's in? But God is good, blessed be his holy name!"

So saying, the priest came down,and they both set out on their bleak and
desolate journey.

The natural aspect of the surrounding country was in good keeping with
the wild and stormy character of the morning. Before them, in the back
ground, rose a magnificent range of mountains, whose snowy peaks were
occasionally seen far above the dusky clouds which drifted rapidly
across their bosoms. The whole landscape, in fact, teemed with a
spirit of savage grandeur. Many of the glens on each side were deep
and precipitous, where rock beetled over rock, and ledge projected over
ledge, in a manner so fearful that the mind of the spectator, excited
and rapt into terror by the contemplation of them, wondered why they did
not long ago tumble into the chasm beneath, so slight was their apparent
support. Even in the mildest, seasons desolation brooded over the lesser
hills and mountains about them; what then must it not have been at the
period we are describing? From a hill a little to the right, over which
they had to pass, a precipitous headland was visible, against which the
mighty heavings of the ocean could be heard hoarsely thundering at a
distance, and the giant billows, in periods of storm and tempest, seen
shivering themselves into white; foam that rose nearly to the summit of
their immovable barriers.

Such was the toilsome country over which our two travellers had to pass.

It was not without difficulty and fatigue that the priest and his
companion wended their way towards one of the moors we have, mentioned.
The snow beat against them with great violence, sometimes rendering
it almost impossible for them to keep their eyes open or to see
their proper path across the hills. The woman, however, trod her
way instinctively, and whilst the, priest aided her by his superior
strength, she in return guided him by a clearer sagacity. Neither spoke
much, for in truth each had enough to do in combating with the toil and
peril of the journey, as well as in thinking of the melancholy scene to
which they were hastening. Words of consolation and comfort he did
from time to time utter; but he felt that his situation was one of
difficulty. To inspire hope where there was probably no hope, might be
only to deepen her affliction; and, on the other hand, to weigh down a
heart already heavy laden by unnecessarily adding one gloomy forboding
to its burthen, was not in his nature. Such comfort as he could give
without bearing too strongly upon either her hopes or her fears he did
give; and we do not think that an apostle, had he been in his place,
could or ought to have done more.

They had now arrived within half a mile of the moor, when they felt
themselves overtaken by a man whose figure was of a very singular and
startling description, being apparently as wild and untamed as the
barren waste on which he made his appearance. He was actually two or
three inches above the common height, but in addition to this fact, and
as if not satisfied with it, he wore three hats, one sheathed a little
into the other, so that they could not readily separate, and the under
one he kept always fastened to his head, in order to prevent the whole
pyramid from falling off. His person seemed to gain still greater height
from the circumstance of his wearing a long surtout that reached to his
heels, and which he kept constantly buttoned closely about him. His feet
were cased in a tight pair of leather buskins, for it was one of his
singularities that he could endure neither boot nor shoe, and he always
wore a glove of some kind on his left hand, but never any on his right.
His features might be termed regular, even handsome; and his eyes were
absolutely brilliant, yet, notwithstanding this, it was impossible to
look for a moment upon his _tout ensemble_ without perceiving that that
spirit which stamps the impress of reason and intellect upon the human
countenance, was not visible in his. Like a new and well-proportioned
house which had never been occupied, everything seemed externally
regular and perfect, whilst it was evident by its still and lonely
character, as contrasted with the busy marks of on-going life in those
around it, that it was void and without an inhabitant.

Like many others of his unhappy class, Poll Doolin's son,
"Raymond-na-hattha," for it was he, and so had he been nick-named,
in consequence of his wearing such a number of hats, had a remarkable
mixture of humor, simplicity, and cunning. He entertained a great
penchant, or rather a passion for cock-fighting, and on the present
occasion carried a game one under his arm. Throughout the country no
man possessed a bird of that species, with whose pedigree he was not
thoroughly acquainted; and, truth to tell, he proved himself as great
a thief as he was a genealogist among them. Many a time the unfortunate
foxes from some neighboring cover were cursed and banned, when, if
the truth had been known, the only fox that despoiled the roost was
Raymond-na-hattha. One thing, however, was certain, that unless the
cock was thoroughly game he might enjoy his liberty and ease long enough
without molestation from Raymond. We had well nigh forgotten to say that
he wore on the right side of his topmost hat a cockade of yellow cloth,
from which two or three ribbons of a scarlet color fluttered down to his
shoulder, a bit of vanity which added very much to the fantastic nature
of his general costume.

"Ha! Raymond, my good boy," said the priest, "how does it happen
that you are so early up this stormy morning? would you not be more
comfortable in your bed?"

"Airly up," replied Raymond, "airly up! that's good--to be sure you're a
priest, but you don't know everything."

"Why, what am I ignorant of now, Raymond?"

"Why, that I didn't go to bed yet--so that it's up late, instead of
early, I am--d'ye hear? ha, ha, now take that."

"When, where, and how did you spend the night then, Raymond; but you
seem in a hurry--surely if you trot on at this fate we cannot keep up
with you." The truth is, Raymond's general rate of travelling was very
rapid. "Where did you spend the night, Raymond," continued the priest.

"Wid a set o' jolly cocks--ha, ha,--now make money of that, d'ye hear."

"You're a riddle, Raymond; you're a riddle; there's no understanding
you--where did you get the cock?--but I needn't ask; of course you stole
him."

"Then why do you ax if you think so?"

"Because you're notorious for stealing cocks--every one knows as much."

"No, never steal 'em,--fond o' me--come wid me themselves. Look." The
words were scarcely uttered when he tossed the bird up into the air, and
certainly, after flying about for a few yards, he alit, and tottering
against the wind towards Raymond, stretched out his neck, as if he
wished to be again taken up by him.

"I see," said the priest, "but answer me--where did you spend last night
now?"

"I tould you," said Raymond, "wid de jolly cocks--sure I mostly roost
it; an' better company too than most people, for they're fond o' me.
Didn't you see? ha, ha!"

"I believe I understand you now," said Father Roche; "you've slept near
somebody's hen roost, and have stolen the cock--to whom are you carrying
it?"

"You won't tell to-morrow; ha, ha, there now, take a rub too--that's
one."

"Poor creature," said the priest to his companion, "I am told he is
affectionate, and where he takes a fancy or has received a kindness,
very grateful."

The parish where the circumstances we are describing occurred, having
been that in which Raymond was born, of course the poor fool was
familiar to every one in it, as indeed every one in it, young and old,
was to him.

During the short dialogue between him and the priest, the female,
absorbed in her own heavy sorrow, was observed by Raymond occasionally
to wipe the tears from her eyes; a slight change, a shade of apparent
compassion came over his countenance, and turning to her, he gently laid
his hand upon her shoulder, and said, in a voice different from, his
flighty and abrupt manner--

"Don't cry, Mary, he has company, and good things that were brought to
him--he has indeed, Mary; so don't be crying now."

"What do you mean, poor boy?" asked the woman; "I don't understand you,
Raymond."

"It is difficult to do that at all times," said Father Roche, "but
notwithstanding the wildness of his manner, he is seldom without
meaning. Raymond will you tell me where you came from now?" he asked.

"From your house," he replied; "I went to fetch you to him; but you were
both gone, and I overtook you--I could aisy do that--ha ha."

"But what is the company that's with him, Raymond?" asked the female,
naturally anxious to understand this part of his communication. Raymond,
however, was now in one of his silent moods, and appeared not to hear
her; at all events, he did not think it worth his while to give her any
reply. For a short period he kept murmuring indistinctly to himself, or
if a word or two became audible, it was clear that his favorite sport of
cock-fighting had altogether engrossed his attention.

They had now reached a rough, dark knoll of heath, which brought them
in view of the cabin to which they were going, and also commanded an
extensive and glorious prospect of the rich and magnificent inland
country which lay behind them. The priest and his now almost exhausted
companion, to whom its scenery was familiar, waited not to look back
upon its beauty or its richness. Not so Raymond, who, from the moment
they began to ascend the elevation, kept constantly looking back, and
straining his eyes in one particular direction. At length he started,
and placing his right hand upon the priest's shoulder, said in a
suppressed but eager voice--

"Go on--go on--they're coming." Then, turning to the female--"Come,"
said he; "come, Mary,--I'll help you."

"Who is coming?" she exclaimed, whilst the paleness of death and terror
settled in her face; "for God's mercy, Raymond, who is coming?"

"I saw them," said he; "I saw them. Come--come fast--I'll help
you--don't thrimble--don't thrimble."

"Let us be guided by him," said the priest. "Raymond," he added, "we
cannot go much faster through this marshy heath, but do you aid Mary as
well as you can; as for me, I will try if it be possible to quicken my
pace."

He accordingly proceeded in advance of the other two for a little;
but it was only for a little. The female--who seemed excited by some
uncommon terror, and the wild, apprehensive manner of her companion,
into something not unlike the energy of despair--rushed on, as if she
had been only setting out, or gained supernatural strength. In a few
minutes she was beside the priest, whom she encouraged, and besought,
and entreated--ay, and in some moments of more vehement feeling,
absolutely chided, for not keeping pace with herself. They had now,
however, came within about a hundred yards of the cabin, which they soon
reached--the female entering it about a minute or two before the others,
in order to make those humble arrangements about a sick-bed, which,
however poverty may be forced to overlook on ordinary occasions, are
always attended to on the approach of the doctor, or the minister of
religion. In the instance before us, she had barely time to comfort her
sick husband, by an assurance that the priest had arrived, after which
she hastily wiped his lips and kissed them, then settled his head more
easily; after which she spread out to the best advantage the poor quilt
which covered him, and tucked it in about his lowly bed, so as to give
it something of a more tidy appearance.

The interior of the cottage, which the priest and Raymond entered
together, was, when the bitter and inclement nature of the morning, and
the state of the miserable inmates is considered, enough to make any
heart possessing humanity shudder. Two or three stools; a couple of
pots; a few shelves, supported on pegs driven into the peat wall;
about a bushel of raw potatoes lying in a corner; a small heap of damp
turf--for the foregoing summer had been so incessantly wet, that the
turf, unless when very early cut, could not be saved; a few wooden
noggins and dishes; together with a bundle of straw, covered up in a
corner with the sick man's coat, which, when shaken out at night, was
a bed; and those, with the exception of their own simple domestic truth
and affection, were their only riches. The floor, too, as is not unusual
in such mountain cabins, was nothing but the natural peat, and so
damp and soft was it, that in wet weather the marks of their feet were
visibly impressed on it at every step. With the exception of liberty to
go and come, pure air, and the light of the blessed day, they might as
well have dragged out their existence in a subterraneous keep belonging
to some tyrannical old baron of the feudal ages.

There was one small apartment in this cabin, but what it contained,
if it did contain anything, could not readily be seen, for the hole or
window, which in summer admitted the light, was now filled with rags
to keep out the cold. From this little room, however, the priest as he
entered, was surprised to see a young man come forth, apparently much
moved by some object which he had seen in it.

"Mr. Harman," said the priest, a good deal surprised, "who could have
expected to find you here?"

They shook hands as he spoke, each casting his eyes upon this woeful
scene of misery. "God pity them," ejaculated the priest, clasping his
hands, and looking upwards, "and sustain them!"

"I owe it to poor Raymond, here," replied the other, "and I feel obliged
to him; but," said he, taking Father Roche over to the door, "here will
be a double death--father and son."

"Father and son, how is that?--she mentioned nothing of the son."

"It is very possible," said Harman, "that they are not conscious of his
danger. I fear, however, that the poor boy has not many hours to live."

All that we have just described, occurred in three minutes; but short
as was the time, the wife's impatience to have the rites of the church
administered, could scarcely be restrained; nor was poor Raymond's
anxiety much less.

"They're comin'," said he, "Mr. Harman, they are comin'; hurry, hurry, I
know what they'll do."

"Who are coming, Raymond?" asked Harman. "Oh!" said the fool,
"hurry--M'Clutchy's blood-hounds."

The wife clapped her hands, shrieked, and falling on her knees,
exclaimed in a piercing voice, "merciful God, look down on us! Oh,
Father Roche, there is not a moment to be lost!"

The priest and Harman again exchanged a melancholy glance;--"you
must all retire into the little room," said the clergyman, "until I
administer to him the last rites."

They accordingly withdrew, the woman having first left a lit rush light
candle at his bed-side, as she knew the ceremony required.

The man's strength was wasting fast, and his voice sinking rapidly,
but on the other hand he was calm and rational, a circumstance which
relieved the priest's mind very much. As is usual, having put a stole
about his neck, he first heard his confession, earnestly exhorted him
to repentance, and soothed and comforted him with all those promises
and consolations which are held out to repentant sinners. He then
administered the Extreme Unction; which being over, the ceremony, and
a solemn one it must be considered, was concluded. On this occasion,
however, his death-bed consolations did not end here. There are in the
Roman Catholic Church prayers for the dying, many of them replete with
the fervor of Christian faith, and calculated to raise the soul to the
hopes of immortality. These the priest read in a slow manner, so as that
the dying man could easily accompany him, which he did with his hands
clasped, upon his breast, and his eyes closed, unless when he raised
them occasionally to heaven. He then exhorted him with an anxiety for
his salvation which transcended all earthly and temporal considerations,
prayed with him and for him, whilst the tears streamed in torrents down
his cheeks. Nor was the spirit of his holy mission lost; the penitent
man's face assumed a placid and serene expression; the light of immortal
hope beamed upon it; and raising his eyes and his feeble arms to heaven,
he uttered several ejaculations in a tone of voice too low to be heard.
At length he exclaimed aloud, "thanks to the Almighty that I did not
commit this murder as I intended! I found it done to my hand; but
I don't know who did it, as I am to meet my God!" The words were
pronounced with difficulty; indeed they were scarcely uttered, when his
arms fell lifelessly, as it were, by his side--they were again suddenly
drawn up, however, as if by a convulsive motion, and the priest saw
that the agonies of death were about to commence; still, it was easy to
perceive that the man was collected and rational.

It was now, however, that a scene took place, which could not, we
imagine, be witnessed out of distracted and unhappy Ireland. Raymond,
who appeared to dread the approach of those whom he termed M'Clutchy's
blood-hounds, no sooner saw that the religious rites were concluded,
than he ran out to reconnoitre. In a moment, however, he returned a
picture of terror, and dragging the woman to the door, pointed to a
declivity below the house, exclaiming--

[Illustration: PAGE 186-- See, Mary, see--they're gallopin]

"See, Mary, see--they're gallopin'." The dying man seemed conscious of
what was said, for the groan he gave was wild and startling; his wife
dropped on her knees at the door, where she could watch her husband and
those who approached, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, "To your mercy,
O Lord of heaven, to your mercy take him, before he falls into their
hands, that will show him none!" She then bestowed upon him a look full
of an impatient agony, which no language could describe; her eyes had
already become wild and piercing--her cheek flushed--and her frame
animated with a spirit that seemed to partake at once of terror, intense
hatred, and something like frenzy.

"They are gallopin'! they are gallopin'!" she said, "and they will find
life in him!" She then wrung her hands, but shed not a tear--"speed,
Hugh," she said, "speed, speed, husband of my heart--the arms of God are
they not open for you, and why do you stay?" These sentiments, we
should have informed our readers, were uttered, or rather chaunted in
a recitative of sorrow, in Irish; Irish being the language in which
the peasantry who happen to speak both it and English, always express
themselves when more than usually excited. "The sacred oil of salvation
is upon you--the sacrament of peace and forgiveness has lightened your
soul--the breath of mercy is the breath you're breathin'--the hope of
Jesus is in your heart, and the intercession of his blessed mother, she
that knew sorrow herself, is before you! Then, light of my heart, the
arms of God are they not open for you, and why do you stay here?"

"Nearer--nearer," she exclaimed, "they are nearer--whippin' and spurrin'
their horses! Hugh O'Regan, that was the sun of my life, and of my
heart, and ever without a cloud, hasten to the God of mercy! Oh, surely,
you will not blame your own Mary that was your lovin' wife--and the
treasure of your young and manly heart, for wishin' to see you taken
from her eyes--and for wishing to see the eyes that,never looked upon
us all but with love and kindness, closed on us forever. Oh," said she,
putting her hands to her forehead, "an' is it--is it come to this--that
I that was dearer to him than his own life a thousand times, should now
be glad to see him die--be glad to see him die! Oh! they are here,"
she shrieked, "before the door--you may hear their horses' feet!
Hugh O'Regan," and her voice became louder and more energetic--"the
white-skinned--the fair of hair, the strong of hand, and the true of
heart--as you ever loved me that was once your happy bride--as you ever
loved the religion of our holy church--as you hope for happiness and
mercy, hasten from me--from our orphan--from all--oh, hasten to the arms
of your God!"

During this scene there was a solemn silence in the house, the priest
and Harman having both been struck mute at the solemnity of the scene.

"They are here--they are here!" she screamed. "Oh, sun of my heart,
think not now of me, nor of the children of your love, for we will
follow you in time--but think of the happy country you're going to,--to
live in the sunshine of heaven, among saints and angels for ever! Oh,
sun of my heart, think too of what you lave behind you! What is it?
Oh! what is it to you--but poverty, and misery, and hardship--the cowld
cabin and the damp bed--the frost of the sky--the frown of power, and
the scourge of law--all this, oh, right hand of my affection, with the
hard labor and the scanty food, do you fly from! Sure we had no friend
in this world to protect or defend us against them that, would trample
us under their feet! No friend for us because we are poor, and no friend
for our religion because it is despised. Then hasten, hasten, O light of
my heart--and take refuge in the mercy of your God!"

"Mary," said the priest, who had his eyes fixed upon the sick man, "Give
God thanks, he is dead--and beyond the reach of human enmity forever."

She immediately prostrated herself on the floor in token of humility and
thanksgiving--then raising her eyes to heaven, she said, "may the heart
of the woeful widow be grateful to the God who has taken him to his
mercy before they came upon him! But here they are, and now I am not
afraid of them. They can't insult my blessed husband now, nor murdher
him, as his father's villains did our dyin' son, on the cowld Esker of
Drum Dhu; nor disturb him with their barbarous torments on the bed of
death--and glory be to God for that!"

Many of our readers may be led to imagine that the terrors of Mary
O'Regan were altogether unproportioned to anything that might be
apprehended from the approach of the officers of justice, or, at least
to those who came to execute the law. The state of Irish society at that
time, however, was very different from what it is now, or has been for
the last twenty years. At that period one party was in the ascendant and
the other directly under their feet; the former was in the possession
of irresponsible power, and the other, in many matters, without any
tribunal whatsoever to which, they could appeal. The Established Church
of Ireland was then a sordid corporation, whose wealth was parcelled
out, not only without principle, but without shame, to the English and
Irish aristocracy, but principally to the English. Church livings were
not filled with men remarkable for learning and piety, but awarded to
political prostitution, and often to young rakes of known and unblushing
profligacy, connected with families of rank. The consequence was, that
a gross secular spirit, replete with political hatred and religious
rancor, was the only principle which existed in the place of true
religion. That word was then, except in rare cases indeed, a dead
letter; for such was the state of Protestant society then, and for
several years afterwards, that it mattered not how much or how little a
man of that creed knew about the principles of his own church; and as
it was administered the less he knew of it the better--all that was
necessary to constitute a good Protestant was "to hate the Pope." In
truth--for it cannot be concealed, and we write it with deep pain and
sorrow--the Established Church of Ireland was then, in point of fact,
little else than a mere political engine held by the English government
for the purpose of securing the adherence of those who were willing to
give support to their measures.

In such a state of things, then, it need not be wondered at, that,
neglected and secularized as it was at the period we write of, it should
produce a class of men, whose passions in everything connected with
religion and politics were intolerant and exclusive. Every church, no
matter what its creed, unfortunately has its elect of such professors.
Nor were these confined to the lower classes alone--far from it. The
squire and nobleman were too frequently both alike remarkable for the
exhibition of such principles. Of this class was our friend M'Clutchy,
who was now a justice of the peace, a grand juror, and a captain of
cavalry--his corps having, a little time before, been completed. With
this posse, as the officers of justice, the pranks he played were
grievous to think of or to remember. He and they were, in fact, the
terror of the whole Roman Catholic population; and from the spirit in
which they executed justice, were seldom called by any other name than
that of M'Clutchy's Bloodhounds. Upon the present occasion they were
unaccompanied by M'Clutchy himself--a circumstance which was not to
be regretted, as there was little to be expected from his presence but
additional brutality and insult.

On arriving at the door, they hastily dismounted, and rushed into the
cabin with their usual violence and impetuosity, each being armed with a
carbine and bayonet.

"Hallo!" said the leader, whose name was Sharpe; "what's here? shamming
sickness is it?"

"No," said Father Roche; "it is death?"

"Ay! shamming death then. Never mind--we'll soon see that. Come, Steele,
give him a prod--a gentle one--and I'll engage it'll make him find
tongue, if anything will."

Steele, to whom this was addressed, drew his bayonet, and commenced
screwing it on, for the purpose of executing his orders.

"A devilish good trick, too," said he; "and the first of the kind that
has been practised on us yet--here goes--"

Up until this moment O'Regan's wife sat beside the dead body of
her husband, without either word or motion. A smile of--it might
be satisfaction, perhaps even joy, at his release; or it might be
hatred--was on her face, and in her eye; but when the man pointed his
bayonet at the corpse of her husband, she started to her knees, and
opening out her arms, exclaimed--

"Here's my heart--and through that heart your bayonet will go, before it
touches his body. Oh, if you have hearts in your bodies, you will surely
spare the dead!"

"Here goes, ma'am," he repeated, "and you had better lave that--we're
not in the habit of being checked by the like of you, at any rate, or
any of your creed."

"I am not afeared to profess my creed--nor ashamed of it," she
exclaimed; and if it went to that, I would die for it--but I tell you,
that before your bayonet touches the dead body of my husband, it must
pass through my heart!"

"Don't be alarmed, Mary," said the priest; "they surely cannot be
serious. It's not possible that any being in the shape of man could be
guilty of such a sacrilegious outrage upon the dead as they threaten."

"What is it your business?" said the leader; "go and tare off your
masses, and be hanged; none of your Popish interference here, or it'll
be worse for you! I say the fellow's not dead--he's only skeining. Come,
Alick, put the woman aside, and tickle him up."

"Keep aside, I tell you," said Steele, again addressing her--"keep
aside, my good woman, till I obey my orders--and don't provoke me."

Father Roche was again advancing to remonstrate with him, for the man's
determination seemed likely to get stronger by opposition--when, just as
the bayonet which had already passed under the woman's arm, was within a
few inches of O'Regan's body, he felt himself dragged forcibly back,
and Raymond-na-hattha stood before him, having seized both carbine and
bayonet with a strong grip.

"Don't do that," he exclaimed--"don't--you'd hurt him--sure you'd hurt
poor Hugh!"

The touching simplicity of this language, which, to a heart possessing
the least tincture of humanity, would have more, force than the
strongest argument, was thrown away upon him to whom it was directed.

"Fling the blasted idiot off," shouted Sharpe; "don't you see he has let
the cat out o' the bag--how could the man be hurted if he was dead; I
knew it was a schame." To throw Raymond off, however, was easier said
than done, as the fellow found on attempting it. A struggle commenced
between them, which, though violent, was not of long duration. Raymond's
eye got turbid, and glared with a fiery light; but otherwise his
complexion did not change. By a vehement twist, he wrenched the arms
out of Steele's hands, hurling him from him at the same time, with such
force, that he fell on the floor with a crash.

"Now," said he, pointing the bayonet to his neck, "would you like
it?---ha, ha!--think of that."

Four carbines--the whole party consisting of five--were immediately
levelled at him; and it is not improbable that half a minute more would
have closed both his existence and his history, had not Father Roche and
the widow both succeeded, with some difficulty, in drawing him back from
the prostrate officer of justice. Raymond, after a little time, gave up
the arms; but his eye still blazed at his opponent, with a glare that
could not be misunderstood.

Harman, who had hitherto taken no part whatsoever in the altercation,
now interfered; and with feelings which he found it nearly impossible to
restrain, pointed out to them the wanton cruelty of such conduct towards
both the living and the dead. "I am ashamed of you," said he, "as
countrymen, as Irishmen. Your treatment of this poor heartbroken woman,
amidst her desolation and sorrow, is a disgrace to the country that
gave you birth, and to the religion you profess, if, indeed, you profess
any."

"Come, come, my good fellow," said Sharpe, "what is it you say about my
religion? I tell you I'll allow no man to spake a syllable against my
religion; so keep quiet if you're wise, and don't attack that, otherwise
don't be surprised if I make you dance the devil's hornpipe in half a
shake, great a hairo as you are."

"And yet you felt no scruple in just now insulting religion, in the
person of this reverend gentleman who never offended you."

"Him! why what the hell is he but a priest?"

"And the more entitled to your respect on that account--but since you
are so easily excited in defence of your own creed, why so ready to
attack in such offensive and insulting language that of another?"

"Come, come, Sharpe," said another of them, "are we to be here all
day--whatever we're to do let us do it at once; if the fellow's dead,
why he has had a devilish good escape of it, and if not, let us clap him
on a horse, that is, provided he's able to travel. I think myself he has
got the start of us, and that the wind's out of him."

"Take your time," said Steele, who felt anxious to avenge his defeat
upon some one, "we must know, that before ever we leave the house--and
by the great Boyne, the first person that goes between me and him will
get the contents of this," and as he uttered the words he coolly and
deliberately cocked the gun, and was advancing as before to the dead
body.

"Holdback," said Harman, in a voice which made the man start, whilst
with a firm tread and resolute eye, he stood face to face before him;
"hold back, and dare not violate that sacred and awful privilege, which
in every country and creed under heaven is sufficient to protect the
defenceless dead. What can be your object in this? are you men--have
you the spirit, the courage, of men? If you are human beings, is not
the sight of that unhappy fellow-creature--I hope he is happy
now,--stretched out in death before you, sufficient, by the very
stillness of departed life, to calm the brutal frenzy of your passions!
Have you common courage? No; I tell you to your teeth that none but
spiritless caitiffs and cowards would, in the presence of death and
sorrow--in the miserable cabin of the destitute widow and her orphan
boy--exhibit the ruffianly outrages of men who are wanton in their
cruelty, merely because they know there is none to resist them; and I
may add, because they think that their excesses, however barbarous, will
be shielded by higher authority. No, I tell you, if there stood man for
man before you, even without arms in their hands, you would not dare to
act and swagger as you do, or to play these cruel pranks of oppression
and tyranny anywhere, much less in the house of death and affliction.
Fie upon you, you are a disgrace to everything that is human, a reproach
to every feeling of manhood, and every principle of religion."

Hardened as they were by the habits of their profligate and debasing
employment, such was the ascendancy of manly truth and and moral feeling
over them, that for a minute or two they quailed under the indignant
glance of Harman. Steele drew back his gun, and looked round on his
companions to ascertain their feeling.

"Gentleman," said Father Roche, anxious to mollify them as much as he
could--"gentleman, for the sake of that poor heart-broken widowed woman
and her orphan son--for her and his sake, and if not for theirs then,
for the sake of God himself, before whose awful judgment-seat we must
all stand to render an account of our works, I entreat--I implore you to
withdraw--do, gentlemen, and leave her and her children to their sorrows
and their misery, for the world has little else for them."

"I'm willing to go," said a fellow, ironically called Handsome Hacket,
because he was blind of an eye and deeply pock-pitted--"there's no use
in quarrellin' with a woman certainly--and I don't think there can be
any doubt about the man's death; devil a bit."

"Well said, Vainus," exclaimed Sharpe, "and it is not ten days since
we were defrauded of Parra Rackan who escaped from us in Jemmy Reilly's
coffin--when we thought to nab him in the wakehouse--and when we went
away didn't they set him at large, and then go back to bury the man that
was dead. Now, how da you know, Vainus, my purty boy, that this fellow's
not playin' us a trick o' the same color?"

"Come, come," said another of them who had not yet spoke, "it's aisy
to know that. Curse me, Steele, if you don't give him a tickle, I
will--that's all--we're losin' the day and I want my breakfast Living
or dead, and be hanged to him, I'm starved for want of something to
eat--and to drink, too--so be quick I tell you."

"Very well, my buck," said Steele--"that's your sort--here goes--"

He once more advanced with a savage determination to effect his
purpose--when the priest gently and in a mild spirit of remonstrance
laid his hand upon his shoulder; but he had scarcely done so, when
one of them seized him by the collar and flung, or rather attempted to
fling, him back with great violence.

"Go on, Steele," shouted the last speaker, whose name was Harpur--"Go
on--and be cursed, man, we will support you."

The words, however, were scarcely out of his lips, when Raymond, his eye
glaring like that of a tiger with the wildness of untamed resentment,
sprang upon him with a bound, and in a moment they once more grappled
together. It was, however, only for a moment--for by the heavy blow he
received from Raymond, the man staggered and fell, but ere he reached
the ground, the gun, which had been ineffectually aimed at the poor
fool, went off, and lodged its contents in the heart of the last
speaker, who staggered, groaned, and fell lifeless where he stood.

For a minute or so, this fatal and unexpected catastrophe stunned them.
They looked upon each other amazed and apparently stupefied, "What,"
cried Sharpe, "is Harpur dead?" Two of them then placed their arms
against the wall in order to ascertain the exact nature of the injury
inflicted.

At this moment, Sharpe, who saw at once the man was indeed lifeless,
raised his gun about to take aim at Raymond, when a blow from Harman
felled him to the earth.

"And here's for your kindness, Mister Harman," shouted Steele; but
ere the words were uttered, O'Regan's wife threw herself upon him
so effectually, that he felt it impossible to avail himself of his
fire-arms.

"Fight now," she shouted in Irish, "it is for your lives--it is for the
widow--for the orphan--for the bed of death--and the dead that's upon
it--fight now--for God will be with us! May his strength and power be
in your arms and your hearts, prays the woeful widow this day!
Villain--villain," she shouted, "I have you powerless now--but it's the
strength of God that is in me, and not my own!"

The conflict that ensued now was bitter, savage, deadly. The moment
Sharpe was knocked down, Raymond flew to their firearms, handed one to
Harman, and kept the other himself. The men who used them were fierce,
and powerful, and cruel. In a moment a furious contest took place. The
four men immediately grappled, each one attempting to wrest the gun
from his antagonist. Raymond, whose passions were now roused so as to
resemble the ravenous fury of madness itself, at one time howled like
a beast of prey, and shouted, and screamed, and laughed with maniac
wildness that was enough to make almost any heart quail. His eyes
blazed, his figure dilated, his muscles stood out, his mouth was white
with froth, and his eyebrows were knit into a deep and deadly scowl.
Altogether his appearance was frightful and appalling.

Harman was still better matched, and the struggle with his foe was for
some time doubtful enough, the latter being one of the strongest and
most resolute men in the whole parish. A powerful tug for the gun now
took place, each pulling in opposite directions with all his might. At
length a thought struck Harman, who all at once let the gun go, when
the other having no longer any resisting power to sustain him, fell back
upon the floor, and in an instant Harman's knee was on his chest and the
gun in his possession. The man ground his teeth, and looking up into his
face with a black scowl of hatred, exclaimed--

"It is your turn now, but I will have mine."

"You have had yours too long, villain," replied the other, "but in
the mean time I will teach you to respect the bed of death and the
afflictions of the widow."

Saying which, he vigorously applied the butt of the gun to his ribs,
until he had rendered him anything but disposed for further conflict.

Both victories were achieved much about the same time; Raymond's
opponent being far the more severely punished of the two. "What,
however, was their surprise after each had expelled his man from the
cabin, to find Steele down, his gun lying on one side. O'Regan's wife
fastened on his throat, and himself panting and almost black in the
face!

"Here now," she exclaimed, "the battle of the widow was well fought,
and God gave us strength. Put this man out with the rest." This was
accordingly done, but as in the case of his companions, the gun for the
present was retained.

"See now," she proceeded, still in Irish, "what the hand of a weak
woman can do, when her heart is strengthened by God, against cruelty and
oppression. What made that strong man weak in my grasp? Because he knew
that the weakness of the widow was his shame--the touch of her hand took
away his strength; and what had he within or about him to depend upon?
could he look in upon his wicked heart, and be strong? could he look
upon the darkness of a bad conscience, and be strong? could he look on
me--upon my dead husband, and his bed of death, and be strong? No--and
above all, could he look up to the Almighty God in heaven, and be
strong--no--no--no--but from all these I gained strength--for surely,
surely, I had it not in myself!"

She uttered these sentiments with wonderful energy, and indeed, from
the fire in her eye, and the flush of her cheek, it was evident she
was highly excited. Father Roche, who had been engaged, and indeed, had
enough to do in keeping the poor child quiet and aloof from the fray,
especially from his mother--now entreated that she would endeavor to
compose herself, as she had reason to thank God, he said, that neither
she herself nor her resolute defenders had sustained any personal
injury. She did not seem to have heard him--for on looking on the body
of her husband she almost bounded over to the bed, and kneeling down
rapturously, and in a spirit of enthusiastic triumph, kissed his lips.

"Now, my husband," said she, "we have fought and gained the victory--no
insult did you get--no dishonor on your lowly bed where you're sleepin'
your last sleep. Hugh, do you know, asthore, how the wife of your heart
fought for you? Your own poor, weak, sorrowful, heart-broken, but loving
wife, that was as feeble as an infant this mornin'! But who gave her
the strength to put down a strong and wicked man'? The God--the good
God--and to him be the glory!--in whose bosom you are now happy. Ay, we
conquered--ha--ha--ha--we conquered--we conquered--ha--ha--ha!"

The dead body of Harpur in the meantime had been removed by his
companions, who it was evident felt as much, if not more bitterness at
their own defeat, than they did by the fatal accident which deprived him
of life.

Scarcely had the wild triumph of O'Regan's wife time to subside, when
it soon became evident that the tragical incidents of this bitter and
melancholy morning were not yet completed.

The child alluded to by Harman in his first brief conversation with
Father Roche, had been for some time past in a much more dangerous state
than his parents suspected, or at least than his unhappy mother did,
whose principal care was engrossed by the situation of her husband.
The poor boy, at all times affectionate and uncomplaining, felt loth to
obtrude his little wants and sufferings upon her attention, knowing
as he did, that, owing to the nursing of his father, she was scarcely
permitted three hours sleep out of the twenty-four. If he could have
been afforded even the ordinary comforts of a sick-bed, it is possible
he might have recovered. The only drink he could call for was "the black
water," as it is termed by the people, and his only nutrition a dry
potato, which he could not take; the bed he lay upon was damp straw, yet
did this patient child never utter a syllable to dishearten his mother,
or deepen the gloom which hung over the circumstances of the family,
and his father's heart. When asked how he was, he uniformly replied
"better," and his large lucid eyes would faintly smile upon his mother,
as if to give her hope, after which the desolate boy would amuse himself
by handling the bedclothes as invalids often do, or play with the humid
straw of his cold and miserable bed, or strive to chat with his mother.

These details are very painful to those whose hearts are so elegantly
and fashionably tender that they recoil with humane horror from scenes
of humble wretchedness and destitution. It is good, however, that they
should be known to exist, for we assure the great and wealthy that
they actually do exist, and may be found in all their sharpness and
melancholy truth within the evening shadow which falls from many a proud
and wealthy dwelling in this our native land.

After all, it is likely, that had not the fearful occurrences of this
morning taken place, their sweet boy might have been spared to them. The
shock, however, occasioned by the discharge of the gun, and the noise
of the conflict, acting upon a frame so feeble were more than he could
bear. Be this as it may, the constables were not many minutes gone,
when, to their surprise, he staggered back again out of his little
room, where Father Roche had placed him, and tottering across the floor,
slipped in the deceased man's blood, and fell. The mother flew to him,
but Harman had already raised him up; when on his feet, he looked at
the blood and shuddered--a still more deadly paleness settled on his
face--his breath came short, and his lips got dry and parched--he could
not speak nor stand, had not Harman supported him. He looked again at
the blood with horror, and then at his mother, whilst he shrank up, as
it were, into himself, and shivered from head to foot.

"Darling of my heart," she exclaimed, "I understand you. Bryan, our
treasure, be a man for the sake of your poor heart-broken mother--I
will, I will, my darling life, I will wipe it off of you, every stain of
it--why should such blood and my innocent son come together?"

She now got a cloth, and in a few moments left not a trace of it upon
him. He had not yet spoken, but on finding himself cleansed from it, he
stretched out his hands, thereby intimating that he wished to go to her.

"Do you not perceive a bottle on the shelf there?" said Harman, "it
contains wine which I brought for his--," he checked himself;--"Alas!
my poor boy," he exclaimed involuntarily, "you are doubly dear to
your-mother now. Mix it with water," he proceeded, "and give him a
little, it will strengthen and revive him."

"Better," said Father Roche in a low voice, not intended for his, "to
put him back into his own bed; he is not now in a state to be made
acquainted with his woeful loss." As he spoke the boy glanced at the
corpse of his father, and almost at the same moment his mother put wine
and water to his lips. He was about to taste it, but on looking into
the little tin porringer that contained it, he put it away from him, and
shuddered strongly.

"It's mixed with the blood," said he, "and I can't;" and again he put it
away from him.

"Bryan, asthore," said his mother, "it's not blood; sure it's wine that
Mr. Harman, the blessin' of God be upon him, brought to you."

He turned away again, however, and would not take it. "Bring me to my
father," said he, once more stretching out his arms towards his mother,
"let me stay a while with him."

"But he's asleep, Bryan," said Harman, "and I'm sure you would not wish
to awaken him."

"I would like to kiss him then," he replied, "and to sleep a while with
him."

"Och, let him, poor darling," said his mother, as she took him in her
arms, "it may ease his little heart, and then he'll feel satisfied."

"Well, if you're allowed to go to him won't you lie very quiet, and not
speak so as to disturb him?" said Harman.

"I'm tired," said the child, "and I'd like to sleep in his bed. I used
sometimes to do it before, and my father always kept his arms about me."

His mother's features became convulsed, and she looked up in mute
affliction to heaven; but still, notwithstanding her misery, she was
unable to shed one tear.

"Pulse of my heart" (cushla machree), she said, kissing him, "you
must have your innocent and loving wish." She then gently raised the
bed-clothes and placed him beside his father.

The poor pale boy sat up in the bed for about a minute, during which he
glanced at the still features of the departed, then at his mother, and
then at the pool of blood on the floor, and again he shuddered. All at
once, however, he started and looked about him; but in a manner
that betokened delight rather than alarm--his eyes brightened--and an
expression almost of radiance settled upon his face. "Mother," said he,
"kiss me, and let Mr. Harman kiss me."

They both did so, and his poor mother felt her heart relieved, by the
happiness depicted on his face. "Glory be to God," she exclaimed, "see
what a change for the better has come over my blessed child."

Father Roche looked at Harman, and shook his head--"Blessed he will be
soon," said he, in a low whisper, "the child is dying."

The boy started again, and the former serenity lit up his pale features.

"Bryan, you are better, darling of my life; you look a thousand pounds
better than you did awhile ago."

The boy looked into her face and smiled.---"I am," said he, "but did you
not hear it?"

"Hear what, jewel of my heart?"

"There it is again;" said he, looking eagerly and delightfully about
him, "my father's voice;--that's three times it called, me, but it
didn't come from the bed, although he's in it. I will kiss him and then
sleep--but I will miss his arms from about me, I think."

He then fixed himself beside that loving parent, aided by his mother,
and getting his arm around his pulseless neck, he kissed him, and laying
down his fair head, he fell asleep in that affecting posture. There was
a solemn stillness for some minutes, and a strange feeling of fear crept
over his mother's heart. She looked into the eyes of those who were
about her, but the looks they returned to her carried, no consolation to
her spirit.

"My child," she exclaimed--"Oh, my child, what is this? Bryan, my
life--my light, what ails you?" She stooped, and gently turning him
about so as to see his face, she looked keenly into it for a few
moments, and there certainly was the same seraphic expression which so
lately lit it tip. Still she felt dissatisfied, till putting her ear to
his mouth and her hand to his heart, the woeful truth became known to
her. The guiltless spirit of her fair-haired son had followed, that of
his father.

When the afflicted widow saw the full extent of her loss, she clasped
her hands together, and rose up with something of a hasty movement. She
looked about the miserable cabin for a moment, and then peered into
the face of every one in the room--all of whom, with the exception of
Raymond, were in tears. She then pressed her temples, as if striving
to recollect what had happened--sat down again beside her husband and
child, and to their astonishment began to sing an old and melancholy
Irish air, in a voice whose wild sweetness was in singular keeping with
its mournful spirit.

To the bystanders this was more affecting a thousand times than the most
vehement and outrageous grief. Father Roche, however, who had had a
much more comprehensive experience than his companion, knew, or at least
hoped that it would not last long.

Several of the neighbors, having seen the dead body of the constable
borne away, suspected that something extraordinary had occurred on the
mountain, and consequently came flocking to the cabin, anxious to
know the truth. By this means, their acquaintances were brought
about them--aid in every shape, as far as it could be afforded, was
administered, and in a short time they had a little stock of meal,
butter, milk, candles, and such other simple comforts as their poor
friends and neighbors had to bestow. Such is the usual kindness of
the Irish people to each other in moments of destitution and sorrow.
Nothing, on the present occasion, could surpass their anxiety in
ascertaining the wants of this unhappy family: and in such circumstances
it is that the honest prompting of the humble heart, and its sincere
participation in the calamities of its kindred poor, are known to shine
forth with a lustre, which nothing but its distance from the observation
of the great, or their own wilful blindness to it, could prevent it from
being seen and appreciated as it ought.

Having seen her surrounded by friends and neighbors, Father Roche, after
first offering as far as he thought he could reasonably attempt it, some
kind advice and consolation, prepared to take his departure with Harman,
leaving Raymond behind them, who indeed refused to go. "No," said he,
"I can feed Dickey here--but sure they'll want me to run messages--I'm
active and soople, an I'll go to every place, for the widow can't. But
tell me, is the purty boy, the fair haired boy asleep, or what?--tell
me?"

"Why do you ask, Raymond?" said Father Rocche.

"Bekase I love him," replied Raymond, "and I hope he'll waken! I would
like to see him kiss his father again--but I'm afeared somehow I never
will. If he awakens I'll give him the cock any how--bad luck to me but I
will."

"Hush," said the priest, whilst a tear started to his eye at this most
artless exhibition of affection for the child--"don't swear, Raymond.
The sweet boy will never waken in this world; but he will in heaven,
where he is awake already, and where you will see him again."

"I would rather see him here," replied the other; "and I wish I had
gev him the cock first, when he came out of the room; but what'd she do
without his white head before her?--what'll she do, and not have that
to look at? But stop," said Raymond--"wait a minute, and we'll soon see
whether he'll waken or not."

He then went into the little room where the poor child had lain during
his illness, and immediately returned, bearing the cock in his hands--

"Wait," said he; "I was bringing the bird to poor little Brian, for I
promised it to him. We'll see--we'll see."

As he uttered the words, he placed the bird down on the child's bosom
and called out--

"Brian, here's your present for you, that I promised you--won't you
waken?--spake open your blue eyes, achora machree, and look at the fine
bird I brought you."

It was a most affecting little incident; for the contrast between the
fiery scintillations flashed from the eye of the noble bird, the utter
unbroken stillness of death, as character was so mournfully impressed
upon the fair sweet features of innocence, was indeed such as few
parental hearts could withstand. Raymond looked awhile as if even he had
been struck by it.

"Ah no," said he, going down to his mother; "no, Mary, he will never
waken--and then what will you do for Brian's white head?"

"Whisht!" she replied; "whisht, and I'll sing you a song. I have nothing
else to do now but to sing and be happy--

     "'Farewell father, farewell mother,
     Farewell friends, and farewell foes!
     I now will go and court some other,
     For love it was the causer of all my woes."

"An' so it was," she said; "for I did love some one, I think; but who
they were, or where they are gone to, I cannot tell. Is your name,"
she added, her eye blazing as she spoke to Raymond, "is your, name
M'Clutchy?"

"Say it is," suggested one of the neighbors; "may be it may startle the
poor thing into her senses."

"That's not very likely," replied another, "for it has startled her out
of them--God in his mercy pity her!"

Raymond, however, adopted the first suggestion, without knowing why; and
said in a loud voice--

"Ay is it; my name is Val the Vulture, that commands the blood-hounds."

The creature started--became for a moment as if convulsed--then
proceeded at a speed that was incredible, screaming frightfully, across
the dark and desolate scenery that surrounded the house. It was vain to
pursue her; for there was none there capable of doing it with success,
unless Raymond, who understood not that she had become insane.




CHAPTER IX.--A Dialogue, exhibiting Singular Principles of Justice

--Solomon's Tracts and Triumph--A Sincere Convert--Darby's Views of
Religion--Poll Doolin's Honesty--Solomon's Christian Generosity to a
Man in Difficulty--M'Loughlin and his Family.


The extraordinary scene which we have just detailed as occurring in the
mountain hut, took place on Saturday morning and about twelve on the
subsequent Monday, the following dialogue passed between honest Val! and
his son, Philip the graceful.

"That was a most unlucky accident that happened Harpur on Saturday,"
said Val, dryly, and looking with a good deal of significance at the
other.

"Unlucky," said Phil, "faith and honor, my good father, I don't know
what to think."

"You don't, Phil!" replied Val; "why, what the deuce could you deem more
unlucky than to be shot stone dead, without a moment's notice."

Phil's color went a little at the bare notion of such a fate; but on
observing an expression of peculiar complacency lurking in his father's
eye, it returned again, and after a little assurance settled down into
its original hue.

"To himself certainly," said Phil, "it was a bad business; no one can
deny that."

"But, my excellent son, Phil, it may turn out a very lucky incident for
us in the mean time. He is, Phil, a wise man in this world who can
turn the misfortunes or crimes of others to his own advantage. There
is Harman for instance, Phil; now I believe you are not excessively
attached to him."

"I hate him as I do hell," replied Phil.

"Very good--you hate him as you do hell--well, on the other hand, there
is M'Loughlin, his partner in the manufactory, and his joint lessee in
their farm--now I hate him as I do--I was about to say the devil--but I
feel loth to render that misrepresented gentleman an injustice--that
is, if there be such a gentleman--which, with my worthy father, I much
doubt. Don't you think now it is a fortunate thing that we can indict
Harman for Harpur's murder. I really think, and it is said, he murdered
him. We would include the priest in the indictment as accessory, but
that might be attended with personal danger--and the less real danger we
incur the better for ourselves."

"Faith and honor, father, that doctrine's worthy of an oracle--as,
indeed, most of what you say is."

"But mark me, Phil; our object is simply his ruin, not his death. Let
us beggar M'Loughlin and him, and drive them out of the country.
No--no--not the death of either of them; on the contrary, I should wish
them to live, if it was only that they might feel my revenge--and that
I knew they felt it. I would not hang them if I could, for my own sake."
He got pale, ground his teeth, knit his black beetle brow, and exhibited
the diabolical cast of features for which he was remarkable whenever his
evil passions began to stir in his heart.

"Now," said he to Phil, "keep a close mouth above all things, for we
must proceed with caution. I have here a letter from Lord Cumber, in
which, at my private suggestion, he declines to renew their leases.
Indeed, on serious consideration, I have recently advised him to grant
no renewals, except in cases where every reliance can be placed upon
the principles of the parties. The want of a lease is a very wholesome
restriction on the conduct of our enemies. M'Slime opposes me in this,
because he cannot pocket as much as usual; but though I cannot readily
break with him, still, I trust, that in a short time I shall be able to
turn his flank in a manner for which he is but little prepared. I have
reason to think he is tampering with O'Drive--in fact O'Drive told me as
much--O'Drive, however, is at work for me, although honest Solomon
does not suspect him. The pious attorney, who is bestowing more of his
attention to religion than ever, has got bitten by the Conversion mania,
and thinks he will be charged with a neglect of his gifts, as he calls
them, unless he can produce a live convert actually made by his own
hands. I accordingly suggested to O'Drive to consult him on some
religious scruples that he is supposed to have felt from the perusal of
a tract written by M'Slime himself.

"Why," said Phil, "are you not aware that he gave me three or four dozen
of them for gratuitous distribution, as he calls it. Yes, it is called
'The Religious Attorney,' being a reconcilement between honesty and
law, or a blessed union between light and darkness; by Solomon M'Slime,
attorney at law.

"Which tract," continued Val, "was written for the sole purpose of
recommending himself to the notice of the religious world aforesaid,
more, by the way, as an attorney than as a Christian. And a very good
speculation it proved, for, whereas he was then scarcely able to make
both ends meet by mere professional roguery, and dressed in a black
gown--which you know he always wears in court--yet he no sooner threw
the cloak of religion over that, than he advanced rapidly--and the
consequence is that he is now privately a usurious discounter of bills."

"Faith and honor, now, father, do you,tell me so?"

"It's a fact, Philip, my son, and what is more--but the truth is, that
neither he nor I can afford to quarrel with each other."

"Why, father? what's that 'more' you were going to add?"

"At this present time, Phil, it must bo secret--but it is arranged
between him and me, that he is to succeed Harman in Beleveen; whilst you
are to come in for M'Loughlin's holding."

"For which I shall have the pleasure,to drink your health to-night, my
old boy--upon my honor and soul you are an excellent old cock, and I'm
very proud of you."

"Go ahead, Phil; no nonsense. But stay, are those fellows of mine come
yet?--I shall receive their informations, and have Harman in the stone
jug before night. It is a bad case of murder committed upon a man in the
execution of the law, do you see, Phil, and consequently I cannot take
bail."

"No, certainly not, captain--as Darby says, certainly not, plaise your
worship--ha, ha!"

"Come, Phil, keep quiet; it is now time that operations should seriously
commence. I have gained most of my points, thank--Valentine M'Clutchy,
at all events. I am head agent; you are my Deputy-master of an Orange
Lodge--a Magistrate, and write J.P. after my name--Captain and Paymaster
in the Castle Cumber cavalry, and you lieutenant; and though last, not
least, thanks to my zeal and activity in the Protestant cause, I am at
length a member of the Grand Panel of the county. Phil, my boy, there is
nothing like religion and loyalty when well managed, but otherwise--"

"They are not worth a feather," replied Phil; "right, captain--there's
an oracle again."

"And, Phil, my son; what is there wrong in this? In fact there is
scarcely a better capital to trade on than religion and loyalty. You
know what I mean, Phil;--not the things, if there be such things, which
I must beg leave to doubt; but that principle which causes one man to
hate another, in proportion to its influence over him."

"Ay," said Phil, "just as you and I, who have not got a touch of
religion in our whole composition, have the character of being two of
the staunchest Protestants in the county."

"Yes," replied the father, "and in this case the fiction is as good
and better than the truth. The fiction, Phil, under which our religion
appears is our own interests--no, I am wrong--the fiction under which
our interest appeal's is our religion--that is the way of it; and
the truth is, Phil, that ninety-nine men out of every hundred will
go ninety-nine miles for their interests, before they will go one for
either religion or truth--that's the way of it, too. However, pass
that--now about Poll Doolin and the hint I gave you?"

"Why, you know at that time matters were not ripe for it. Don't you
remember telling me so yourself?"

"I do, but I speak of your present intentions."

"Faith, my present intentions would be to marry the girl, Papist though
she be, if I could; but as that's out of the question, I will now follow
up your hint."

"Then you had better see Poll, and go on with it. Are you aware,
besides, that the concern is tottering?"

"The manufactory! No--is that possible?"

"It is a fact; but you know not how honest Solomon and I have been at
work. It is tottering, Lieutenant M'Clutchy, and in a short time you
will see what you shall see."

"Well," said Phil, "so far everything is turning out very fortunate for
us--but I think, Captain, that you are one of those men who are born
under what they call a lucky planet;--eh? old boy?"

"Well, I think so; but in the meantime see Poll Doolin, and after that
pay a visit to my father. The old scoundrel is upon his last legs, and
there can be no harm in paying him some attention now. You are not a
favorite of his; so smooth him down as much as you can. I don't myself
expect that he will remember either of us in his will; but, as he is
hasty and capricious, it is difficult to say what effect a favorable
impression might have upon him."

"Neither are you a favorite with Isabel, or Jezabel, as he calls her."

"No, I made a bad move there--but, after all, what did I, or rather,
what could I lose by neglecting her? Did she not succeed in banishing
every one of his relatives from about him? It was neither her interest
nor her inclination to keep in with his friends:--go and see him, at all
events; reconnoitre, and report accordingly--and now if these fellows
are come let them be sent in."

Phil accordingly withdrew to follow up his own speculations, and in a
few minutes our friends, who so bravely distinguished themselves in the
widow's cabin, entered the office. Val, like most men of his class and
experience, was forced to undergo strong contests between the vanity
occasioned by his success in life, and his own shrewd sense and acute
perception of character. Whenever he could indulge that vanity without
allowing its gratification to be perceived by others, he always did so;
but if he happened to have a person to deal with, whom he suspected of
a sufficiently keen penetration, his own sagacity always checked its
display. No man ever puzzled him so thoroughly as O'Drive, who so
varied and timed his flattery, as to keep him in a state of perpetual
alternation between a perception of the fellow's knavery, and a belief
in his simplicity of heart. On one occasion he would exclaim to himself
or Phil, "This O'Drive is a desperate knave,--it's impossible that he
can be honest;" and again, "Well, well; there is too much simplicity
there, too much truth unnecessarily told, to allow me to consider that
poor devil a rogue--no, he is honest." The consequence was, that Darby
flattered him, and he relished it so strongly because he did not imagine
it was intentional, that Darby understood his weak points, in that
respect, better than any man living. This, in a country where the people
are shrewd observers in general, could scarcely be supposed to escape
their observation; nor did it. Darby's manner was so naturally imitated
by others, that even the keen and vigilant Valentine M'Olutchy was
frequently over-reached without being at all conscious of the fact.

When the men of the Castle Cumber corps came in, they found their
captain sitting, or rather lolling, in a deep-seated arm-chair, dressed
in a morning-gown and red morocco slippers. He was, or appeared to be,
deeply engaged over a pile of papers, parchments, and letters, and for
about a minute raised not his head. At length he drew a long breath,
and exclaimed in a soliloquy--"just so, my lord, just so; every man that
scruples to support the Protestant interests will meet no
countenance from you;--'nor shall he, Mr. M'Clutchy, from you, as my
representative,' you add--'and I beg you'"--he went on to road a few
lines further--"'to transmit me the names and capacities of all
those who are duly active on my property in suppressing disturbance,
convicting criminals, and preserving the peace; especially those who are
remarkable for loyal and constitutional principles; such are the men we
will cherish, such are the men we must and ought to serve.' It is very
true, my lord, it is very true indeed, and--oh! my friends, I beg your
pardon! I hadn't noticed you--oh, dear me! how is this? why I didn't
imagine you had been so sadly abused as all this comes to--this is
dreadful, and all in resisting the king's warrant against the murderer.
But how did it happen that this Harman murdered our poor friend Harpur?"

"Harpur is done for, captain, sure enough; there's no doubt of that."

"Well, it's one comfort that we live in a country where there is
justice, my friends. Of course you will prosecute him for this
diabolical murder; I sent for you to receive your informations, and we
shall lodge him in gaol before night."

"I would rather prosecute that Blackguard Rimon-a-hattha," said a
man, whose head was awfully swollen, and bound up with a handkerchief,
"Rimon, Captain, is the greatest rascal of the two--he is, by, Japurs."

"Yes, but is he not an idiot, Johnston? In point of law he is only a
fiction, and cannot be prosecuted."

"Fiction, Captain! Sowl, I don't know what you call a fiction--but if
I'm guessin' properly, hell to the much of it was in his blows--look at
how my head is, and I wish you could see my ribs, plase your worship."

"Well but let us come to the most important matter first--and before
I go further, my friends and brothers, I would just throw out for
your satisfaction, a few observations that I wish to impress upon you.
Recollect that in this business, and in every business like it, you must
have the pleasure at least of reflecting that you have now a magistrate
who will see that all due care is taken of your interests--who will
accompany your proceedings step by step, and see that all is as it ought
to be. That is not partiality, my dear friends; that is not favor nor
affection, nor leaning to you; no, nor--ha, ha, ha, leaning from you,
either, my friends."

"Long life to your worship! Long life to you, Captain! You're the right
sort, and no mistake."

"M'Dowel, what detained you from your lodge on Thursday night."

"I was buying a springer in Hush fair, and didn't get home in time, your
worship."

"Well, M'Dowel, mark-me,--I neither can, nor will, overlook neglect in
these matters. The man that neglects them wilfully, is a man I won't
depend upon--and two of your neighbors were absent from parade on
Wednesday week. Now, it's really too bad to expect that I, or any other
gentleman in the country, will exert ourselves so strenuously to sustain
and extend our own principles, or! to speak plainly, to keep them up--to
maintain our ascendancy,--if we cannot reckon upon the earnest and
cordial support of those for whose sake we take all this trouble--upon
my honor it's a shame."

"It is a shame, Captain, and I say here's one," placing his hand upon
his heart, "of the right kidney. By the holy William, there is."

"We're all so, your worship," replied Sharpe, "and sure every one knows
it--but, plaise your honor, what's to be done about Harman?"

"Why, prosecute him for the murder of course."

"But then," said one of them, "sure Harman didn't murder him,
Captain--among ourselves, it was all accident."

M'Clutchy seemed surprised at this, and after hearing their individual
opinions, which indeed, conflicted very much, some positively asserting
that he did, and others that he did not, murder the man, he began to
view the matter in a somewhat different and more cautious light. He
mused for some time; however, and after a second and more deliberate
investigation, finding that there were two for the murder and only one
against it, he at length took their informations, resolving to bring the
matter to trial at all hazards. The warrant for Harmon's apprehension
was accordingly issued, and entrusted to a dozen of the most resolute
fellows in his corps; who so far enabled our magistrate to fulfil his
intention, that they lodged his enemy in the county prison that very
night.

The next morning, when reading the papers, our Captain was not a little
surprised at reading in one of them an advertisement to the following
effect:

"To the public--found, in the office of Mr. Solomon M'Slime, a Bank
of Ireland Note, of large amount. The person losing it may have it by
giving a proper description of same, and paying the expenses of this
advertisement. N. B.--It is expected, as the loser of the note must be
in affluent circumstances, that he will, from principles of Christian
sympathy, contribute, or enable some Christian friend to contribute, a
moderate donation to some of our greatest public charities. Thus will
that which at the first view appears to be serious calamity, be made,
under Him, a blessing and a consolation, not only to the wealthy
individual who lost the money, but to some of our destitute fellow
creatures. This, however, is not named as a condition, but merely as a
suggestion offered from motives of benignity and duty.

"Also, just published, _The Religious Attorney_; being a reconcilement
between Honesty and Law; or a blessed Union between Light and Darkness.
By S. M'S. Tenth Thousand.

"Also, in the Press, and will soon be published, done up neatly in
foolscap, and rogue's binding for cheapness, by the same author, _The
Converted Bailiff_; being designed as a companion to _The Religious
Attorney_. These productions need not be sought for with any of the
profane booksellers of the city; but only at the Religious Depositories,
or at those godly establishments in Sackville street and College green."

This, however, was not all. In a different column appeared the
following; which, however, did not surprise M'Clutchy:

     "Glorious Triumph of Religious Truth.

"In another part of our paper, our readers will perceive in an
advertisement, an additional proof, if such were necessary, of the
strong integrity of that ornament of his profession, both as an Attorney
and Christian, Mr. Solomon M'Slime. This gentleman, whilst he devotes
himself, with a pure and guileless heart, to the extensive practice
which his high principles and great skill have gained him in his
profession, does not neglect the still higher and more important
interests of himself and his fellow creatures. It is a gracious thing to
know that a spirit of deep and earnest inquiry is now abroad, by which
hundreds are, under God, brought from darkness to light--from the gall
of bitterness and the bond of iniquity, out into the freedom of perfect
day. Verily there is a new Reformation abroad--the strongholds of
Popery are fast falling one after another. In the neighborhood of
Mount-starve-'em, the spirit has been poured out most abundantly;
and this manifestation is the more gracious, when we reflect that the
dreadful famine which now prevails throughout the country, has been made
(always under Him) the precious but trying means of bringing the poor
benighted creatures to taste the fruits of a better faith. Nothing,
indeed, can equal the bounty of that excellent nobleman, Lord------,
who supplies beef and blankets--Bibles and bread--to those who may
be likened to the multitude that were fed so miraculously in the
wilderness--that is to say, who followed the good shepherd for his
doctrine, and were filled with bread. Mr. M'Slime, who has within
his own humble sphere not been inactive, can boast at least of having
plucked one brand out of the burning, in the person of Darby O'Drive,
the respectable bailiff of Valentine M'Clutchy, Esq., the benevolent
agent of the Castle Cumber estate--to which Mr. M'Slime himself is law
agent. It is understood that on next Sabbath (D.V.) Mr. O'Drive will
make a public profession of his faith--or, in other words, "that he will
recant the errors of Popery, and embrace those of Protestantism."* The
merit of his conversion is due--but merit there is none--to Mr.
M'Slime, or rather to his two very popular and searching tracts, called,
'Spiritual Food for Babes of Grace,' and 'The Religious Attorney,'
which he had placed for perusal in Mr. O'Drive's hands. Mr. O'Drive now
declares himself a Babe of Grace, and free from the bonds of sin; or,
as he more simply, but truthfully and characteristically expresses it--a
beautiful specimen indeed of his simplicity of views--'he is replevined
from the pound of human fraility--no longer likely to be brought to
the devil's auction, or knocked down to Satan as a bad bargain.'--For
ourselves, we cannot help thinking that this undoubted triumph of
religious truth, in the person of Darby O'Drive, is as creditable to the
zeal of Mr. M'Slime, as it is to his sincerity. Encouraged by this
great success, Mr. M'Slime, seconded by several of our leading
controversialists, has succeeded in getting up a polemical discussion,
on the merits of the Protestant and Popish creeds. The particulars have
not been decided upon, but they shall probably appear in an early number
of our paper. In the meantime we are authorized by Mr. Darby O'Drive
to issue a formal challenge to any Popish and idolatrous bailiff in
Ireland, to discuss with him the relative powers, warrants, processes,
triumphs, conflagrations, and executions of their resspective churches."

     * This expression has been attributed to Faulkner, the
     printer of Swift's works; but it is much more likely that it
     belongs to the Dean himself.

He had scarcely finished this characteristic paragraph, when O'Drive's
knock, as usual, was heard, and in a few minutes the redoubted champion
and challenger entered. There was a knavish demureness about him, and a
kind of comic solemnity in his small, cunning gray eye, that no painter
could copy.

"Why, you scoundrel," said Val, "you're overdoing the thing altogether;
is it possible that M'Slime is such a spooney as not to see through
you?"

"Ah, Captain, you don't make any allowance for my simplicity; sure you
know, sir, I must grow young and innocent, if I'm to become a babe of
grace, your worship."

"But what's the meaning of all this work about discussions and such
stuff?"

"Faith, sir, it's all thrue enough at any rate; we're to have a
religious field day here in the Sessions house of Castle Cumber; the
whole thing is regulated--the seconds, and bottle houlders, and all is
appointed. There's the Rev. Christopher Gammon, Rev. Vesuvius M'Slug,
who's powerful against Popery, the Rev. Bernard Brimstone, and the Rev.
Phineas Lucre, with many more on the side of truth. On that of Popery
and falsehood there's the Rev. Father M'Stake, the Rev. Father O'Flary,
the Rev. Father M'Fire, and the Rev. Nicholas O'Scorch, D.D. Dr. Sombre
is to be second on our side; and Father M'Fud on the part of Popery and
idolatry."

"And when is this precious spouting match to take place, you rascal?"

"Why, sir, on Monday week; and on next Sunday, sir, I'm to read my
rekintation, plaise God."

"But I didn't intend that you should go to such lengths as
that--however, that's your own affair."

"But, Captain ahagur, sure it's on your account I'm doin' it--won't it
enable me to get the blind side of him about one or two tilings we want
to come at."

"Indeed, I believe certainly, that if he has a blind side at all, it is
his own hypocrisy."

"Be my soul, and it'll go hard or we'll worm out the sacret we want.
There is one tiling I'm sartin of, he thinks, now that I'm turnin' by
the way, that I'm ready to desart and desave you, Captain, an' indeed he
says many things of you that he ought not to' say."

"Let us hear them."

"Why, sir, he said the other day--but sorra one o' me likes to be
repeatin' these things."

"Come, come, you rascal, out with it."

"He said, sir, that he feared the divil had a hard howlt o you--that was
the day I brought him the last letter, sir--that your heart, Captain,
was full o' desate, and damnably wicked, plase your worship, and that if
you didn't improve your morals you'd go where there is--something about
gnashing of teeth, your honor."

"He's a double distilled scoundrel," replied Val, bitterly, "and
although I know him well, I am determined still to know him better."

"Double distilled!--ay, faith, rectified many degrees above proof; but
never mind; if I don't put a spoke in his wheel, I'm not here."

"Well, never mind now, either--give the hypocritical little scoundrel
this letter."

"I will, and thank you, Captain! God bless your honor, and grant you
'long to reign over us, happy and glorious, God save the king! armin.'
You see, captain, I've the right strain of loyalty in me, any how, ha,
ha, ha! Throth, if I ever change in airnest, it isn't among the yallow
bellies I'll go; but into his majesty's own church, Captain Val--the
brave church where they have the bells, and the big blessed lookin'
bishops, and their organs and coaches; aye, faith, and where everything
is dacent and jintlemanly. Sure blood alive, Captain Val, beggin'
your pardon, what's the use of a religion if it's not respectable and
ginteel? What signifies a ministher of any religion, if he hasn't a fat
purse in his pocket, and a good round belly before him, for that shows,
plaise your worship, that religion is more than a name, any how; an'
upon my conscience--oh, holy Moses, Captain Val, if M'Slime was to
hear me swearin' this way! God pardon me! how-and-ever, but upon
my conscience, it isn't the religion that keeps a man poor, but the
religion that puts the flesh on his bones, and keeps it there, that is
the right one--aye, and not only that, but that keeps a good coat on
his back, your honor, and a good pair of breeches to his posterals--for
which raison, whenever I do sariously turn it'll be--but you may
guess--it'll be to the only true and loyal church;--for when a man
can get both fat, and loyal, and religious, all at one move, he's a
confounded fool that won't become religious."

This certainly, though not intended for it, was a true and bitter
comment upon the principles of such men as M'Clutchy, who considered
a profane and licentious attachment to a mere Establishment as a high
duty, not because that establishment was the exponent of divine truth,
but of a mere political symbol, adopted by subordinate and secular aids,
to bind men of the same principles together.

"Begone, you rascal, and confound your dissertation. Go and deliver the
letter, as I desired you, and bring me an answer."

"Sartinly, Captain, and will have an eye about me, into the bargain. How
is Captain Phil, sir, before I go?"

M'Clutchy made a motion of indignation, but could not, in the meantime,
altogether repress a smile; and Darby, taking his hat with a kind of
shrewd and confidential grin, ran out of the office.

Our narrative now passes to the house of Poll Doolin, which was situated
in a row of cottages towards the north side of Castle Cumber. Her son
Raymond and she were its only inmates, and the former was in the act of
replacing a hat among the _tria juncta in uno_, which he always wore.

"Raymond," said his mother, "now that you've got your supper, you must
keep house till I come back."

"Must I indeed?---why must I? answer me that, there now, that's one."

"Becase I'm goin' out on business."

"What business?--where to?--what brought Phil M'Clutchy here
yestherday?--tell me that--eh?"

"Oh, I couldn't tell you that, Raymond."

"Don't do anything for Phil, he's Val's son, that keeps the
blood-hounds. Ah, poor Brian, and his white head--no', he'll never
waken--never waken--an' what has she now to look at! Mother, I'd give
all the cocks I ever had to see him and his white head in his mother's
arms again--God's curse on Val! God's curse on him! I hate him--I hate
Phil--I hate all of them--don't mother; do nothing for them."

"You foolish boy, what do you know about it?--keep the house till I come
back, and I'll bring you a pennyworth of tobaccy?"

"But you will go?" said Raymond.

"I must, you fool."

"Very well, then, take it out o' that--there now, that's one."

It was now drawing on towards dusk, and Poll, assuming her black bonnet,
and throwing her black cloak about her shoulders, sallied out with that
furtive air which always accompanies one who is conscious of something
that requires concealment. Her motions always were rapid, but on
this occasion she walked like one whose mind brooded lover
difficulties--sometimes she went very quick, then slackened her pace,
and once or twice stood still, musing with her right hand to her chin.
At length she reached the residence of Brian M'Loughlin, just after
night had set it--she entered not, but glided about the house, waited,
watched, listened, and peeped into the house, very like a thief that
was setting the premises. Ultimately she took her stand at a particular
window in the rear of the building, where she kept watch with great
patience, though for what purpose it would appear very difficult to
guess. Patience, however, is often rewarded, and it was so in the case
before us. After about half an hour a light fell through the glass, and
Poll, availing herself of the opportunity, tapped gently: at first
it was not noticed, and she tapped again, somewhat louder; this was
successful--a gentle voice inquired in tones more of surprise than
alarm, "who is there, and what is your business!"

"A friend," said Poll.

"Poll Doolin!"

"The same, and I'm here on a case of life and death. Could you come out
for a start--three minutes will do."

"Certainly not--you trifled unnecessarily with my feelings before--I
will have no more mysteries. I can raise the window, however, and
anything you have to say can be said where we stand." She raised the sash
as she spoke. "Now," said she "what is your business, Poll?"

"Life and death, as I said," replied Poll "Do you not know that Mr.
Harman is to be tried for murder, and that the assizes will open in a
few days?"

"Unfortunately I do," replied Mary, sighing deeply, "but there can be no
doubt of his acquittal. Father Roche has been here, who was present, and
told us how the whole circumstance occurred."

"I don't doubt that," said Poll, "but this I tell you, and this you may
rely on, that hang he will, in spite of fate; he's doomed."

"Great God!" exclaimed the now terrified girl, "you chill the blood in
my veins--doomed!--what do you mean, Poll?"

"M'Clutchy will have him hanged in spite of all opposition--you know his
power now--he can carry everything his own way."

"I know," replied the other, "that his influence is unfortunately great,
no doubt, and cruelly is it exercised; but still, I don't know that he
can carry everything his own way."

"Do you know what packing a jury means?"

"Alas!" replied Mary, starting, and getting pale, "I do indeed, Poll. I
have heard of it too frequently."

"What, then, has the Vulture, the blood-hound, to do, but to get twelve
Orangemen upon the jury, and the work is done?"

The unhappy girl burst into tears, and wrung her hands, for, however
questionable the veracity of her present informant, she knew, from the
unfortunate circumstances of the country, that such corrupt influences
had too frequently been exerted.

"Don't you know," added Poll, "that the thing can be done? Isn't the
sheriff himself an Orangeman--isn't the sub-sheriff an Orangeman--isn't
the grand jury Orange, aren't they all Orange through other?"

"I believe so, indeed," said Mary, still weeping bitterly, "and there
is, I fear, little or no hope."

"Well, but," replied Poll, "what if I could give you hope?"

"You, Poll, what can you mean? You!"

"Yes, me," said Poll, "poor as I stand here now."

"Well, but how?"

"Through them that can turn old Val the Vulture round their finger. What
do you think brought me here--or who do you think sent me? Don't you
know that I have no raison to like a bone in the skin of one o' your
family, and that it's more, of coorse, to plaise others than myself that
I'm here; but, over and above that, you, Miss M'Loughlin, never offended
or injured me, and I'm willin' to sarve you in this business, if you
will sarve yourself."

"But, how--but, how?" replied the distracted girl, "only tell me how?"

"There is one, and only one, that can twist Val round his finger, and
in this same business is willing to do so--and that one is his own son,
Phil."

Mary stood for a moment without even breathing; indeed, she exhibited
strong symptoms of disgust at his very name.

"He is a person I detest," she replied, "beyond any human creature."

"That may be," said Poll, "but still he can save the man that is to be
your husband; and that's what you ought to think of--the time is short
now, and the loss of a day may ruin all. Listen Miss M'Loughlin:--Mr.
Phil desired me to say to you, that if you will allow him a few minutes'
conversation with you behind the garden, about dusk or a little after
it, he'll satisfy you that he can and will save him--but it must be on
the condition of seeing you, as I say."

"Let him be generous," she replied, "and impose no such condition."

"He won't interfare on any other terms," replied Poll; "he knows, it
seems, that you have an unfavorable opinion of him, and he wishes to
prove to you that he doesn't desarve it."

Mary paused for some time, and appeared very much distressed. I fear,
thought she, it is selfish in me to think of my own feelings, or to have
a moment's hesitation in sacrificing them to his safety. It is certainly
a disgusting task to meet this man; but what ought I not to do,
consistent with conscious rectitude of motive, to save my dear Harman's
life, for I fear the circumstances come to that.

"Well, then, Poll, if I meet this man, mark me, it is solely for the
purpose of striving to save Mr. Harman's life; and observe, because Mr.
M'Clutchy is ungenerous enough to make my meeting him the condition of
his interference."

"That," said Poll, "is for yourself to consider; but surely you would
be a strange girl, if you refused to meet him for such a purpose. That
would be a quare way of showing your love to Mr. Harman."

"I shall meet him, then," said Mary, "at the stile behind the garden;
and may God direct and protect me in what I purpose!"

Poll gave no amen, to this, as it might be supposed she would have done,
but simply said--

"I'm glad, Miss M'Loughlin, that you're doin' what you are doin'. It'll
be a comfort maybe to yourself to reflect on it hereafther. Good night,
Miss."

Mary bade her good night, and after closing the shutters of her room
which she had come to do, retired; and with an anxious heart returned to
the parlor.

M'Loughlin's family consisted of three sons and but one daughter, Mary,
with whom our readers are already acquainted. The eldest, James, was a
fine young man of twenty-three; the second, Tom, was younger than Mary,
who then was entering her twenty-first; and the youngest, called Brian,
after his father, was only eighteen. The honest fellow's brow was
clouded with a deep expression of melancholy, and he sat for some time
silent after Mary's return to the parlor. At length he said in a kind of
soliloquy--

"I wish, _Raymond-na-hattha_, you had been behind the Slievbeen
Mountains that bitter morning you came for James Harman!"

"If he had," said Tom, "poor James wouldn't be where he is to-night."

"But I hope, father," said Mary, in a voice which though it trembled a
little, yet expressed a certain portion of confidence--"I hope as it
was an accident, that there will not be any serious risk."

"I would be sorry to take any hope out of your heart that's in it,
Mary; but, still, I can't forget that Val the Vulture's his bitterest
enemy--and we all know what he's capable of doing. His son, too,
graceful Phil, is still worse against him than the father, especially
ever since Harman pulled his nose for what he said of Mary here. Did I
ever mention it to you?"

"No, sir," replied Mary, coloring without exactly knowing why, "you
never did."

"I was present," said young Brian, "but it wasn't so much for what he
said, for he got afraid, but the way he looked."

"The scoundrel," said James, indignantly, "well Brian--"

"'Twas at the Ball Alley," proceeded the young fellow, "in Castle
Cumber; Mary was passing homewards, and Phil was speaking to long Tom
Sharpe, father to one of the blood-hounds. 'That's a purty girl,' said
Sharpe, 'who is she?' 'Oh,' says Phil, 'an acquaintance of mine--but I
can say no more honor bright,' and he winked one of his squinting eyes
as he spoke. James Harman who was standing behind him stepped forward,
'but I can say more,' said he, 'she's daughter to Brian M'Loughlin, and
no acquaintance of yours--and what is more, never will be; ay, and what
is more,' said James, 'here's a proof of it;' and as he spoke he pulled
Phil's proboscis, and then wiped his fingers in his purty face. 'Now,
you cowardly scoundrel,' he added, 'let that teach you not to speak of
any respectable female in such a tone, or to claim an acquaintance where
you have it not.'"

"Never mind, my good fellow," said Phil, "I'll make you smoke for this."

"You know where I'm to be found," said James, "and your remedy too; but
you haven't the spirit to take it like a man--and so I leave you with
the white feather in your cap."

This anecdote for various reasons distressed Mary beyond relief. It
increased her detestation of young M'Clutchy to the highest possible
pitch, and rendered the very thought of him doubly odious to her heart.
Her understanding became bewildered, and for a while she knew not
what she said or did. Taking a candle and attempting to conceal her
agitation, she withdrew again to her own room, where she sat for nearly
half an hour endeavoring to shape her tumultuous thoughts into something
of clearness and order.

M'Loughlin's brow, however, after her departure, still remained clouded.
"Misfortunes they say," said he, "never come single; here is our
lease out, and we will not get a renewal notwithstanding the fine we
offered--and to mend the matter some good friend has spread a report
that the firm of M'Loughlin and Harman is unsafe. Our creditors are
coming down upon us fast--but it's the way of the world, every one
striving to keep himself safe. If these men were not set upon us by some
coward in the dark there would be neither loss nor risk to them nor to
us; but if they press on us out of the usual course, I fear we won't be
able to stand it. Then poor Harman, too! heighonee!" After some further
conversation, in which it was clear that M'Clutchy's and M'Slime's
manoeuvres had begun to develop themselves, Mary rejoined them. Her
countenance on her return was evidently more composed, and impressed
with a more decided, perhaps we should say, determined character. She
had made her mind up. M'Clutchy, junior, was no doubt one of the most
detastable of men, but as she knew that she hated him, and felt a
perfect consciousness of all that was truthful, and pure, and cautious
in herself, she came once more to the resolution of sacrificing her own
disgust to the noble object of saving her lover. Besides, it was by no
means an unreasonable hope on her part; for such was the state of party
and political feeling at the time, that wiser and more experienced heads
would have calculated rightly, and calculated as she did.

"Father," said she, on returning to the parlor, "don't be cast down too
much about Harman--I think, considering everything, that his case is far
from being hopeless. There is Father Roche--as for poor Mary O'Regan, in
consequence of her insanity, she unfortunately can be of no use--and
one of the blood-hounds are against the two others. Now, two to two, is
surely strong evidence in his favor."

She did not, however, make the slightest allusion to the grounds
on which she actually did rest her hope--that is to say, on Phil's
influence over his father.

M'Loughlin was glad to see that her spirits were so much more improved
than they had been; and so far from uttering anything calculated,
to depress them, he appeared to feel much more easy in his mind than
before--and, perhaps, actually did so.

"Well," said he to his wife, who was a woman of few words but deep
feeling; "Kathleen, will you see that we get a glass of punch--the boys
and I; there can be no harm surely in drinking a ------; but it's time
enough to drink it when we see the liquor before us. Mary, avourneen,
as you are activer than your mother, will you undertake that duty?--do,
avillish machree."

In a few minutes Mary quietly but actively had the decanter, sugar, and
hot water before them; and Brian, having mixed a tumbler for himself,
and shoved the materials over to his two eldest boys, resumed the
conversation.

"Come, boys; are you mixed?"

"All ready, sir."

"Well, here's that James Harman may triumph over his enemies!"

This was drank, we need not say, with an anxious and sincere heart.

"Do you know now," said M'Loughlin, "that I think there's a very great
difference between little M'Slime, and that Vulture of hell, M'Clutchy.
The little fellow came riding past to-day, and seeing me in the field,
he beckoned to me:--

"'I hope,' says he, 'that certain reports, which I was sorry to hear of,
are unfounded?'

"'What reports, Mr. M'Slime?' says I to him.

"'Why,' said he, 'it is not out of idle curiosity that I make the
inquiry, but I trust from better and more Christian motives;' and, upon
my conscience, the little fellow turned up his eyes towards heaven, in a
way that would shame Father Roche himself. Faith, if there wasn't truth
there, I don't know where you could get it. 'The reports I speak of,'
says he, 'touch the solvency of your firm.'

"'Able to pay fifty shillings in a pound,' said I, not willing to
encourage the outcry.

"'I'm delighted to hear it,' says generous little Solomon; 'but all I
have to say is, that if it had been otherwise, or should it actually be
otherwise, so far as a few hundred pounds go, you may draw upon a man--a
sinner--a frail mortal and an unworthy--named Solomon M'Slime. This,' he
went on, 'is not mere worldly friendship, Mr. M'Loughlin, that promises
much until the necessity arrives, and then do all such promises flee
as it were into the wilderness. No, my friend,' says the warm-hearted
little saint, 'no my friend, these offers are founded not on my own
strength, so to say, but upon those blessed precepts, Mr. M'Loughlin,
which teach us to love our neighbors as ourselves--and to do unto
others even as we wish they should do unto us.' He squeezed my hand,
and whispered in my ear--'As far as three hundred pounds go, should you
require it, rely on me; but harkee,' says he, 'and now,'--well, here's
his health--'and now,' says he, 'and now,'--oh! I knew he was in
earnest--'and now,' says he, 'one word with you--I trust--I hope, I may
say, that I am a Christian man, who would not speak aught against my
neighbor; but this, out of a principle of Christian kindness, I will
say;--beware of Valentine M'Clutchy. It is known there!' said he,
pointing his finger, and turning up his eyes to heaven--'it is known
there from what motives I speak this. I am glad I saw thee--peace be
with thee--farewell, and do not despise or overlook my services, or my
poor sinful offers.'"

"Now," said the simple-minded but upright and unsuspicious man, "I do
say that was no every-day offer. I would be glad to hear M'Clutchy
make such an offer to any man--for which reason here's little Solomon's
health once more, and long life to him!"




CHAPTER X.--A Dutiful Grandson and a Respectable Grandmother

--Military Dialogue --Disobedience of Orders--Solomon's Candor--A
Confidential Communication--Solomon Dances the Swaggering jig--Honest
Correspondence--Darby's Motion of Spiritual Things--Two Religions Better
than One--Darby's Love of Truth.

We believe our readers may understand, that although we have ourselves
taken the liberty of insinuating that little Solomon, as M'Loughlin
called him, was not precisely--but we beg pardon, it is time enough
to speak of that yet. All we have to say in the mean time is, that
Solomon's character, up to the period we speak of, was not merely
spotless, but a burning and a shining light in the eyes of all the
saints and sinners of the religious world, not only in Castle Cumber,
but in the metropolis itself. Solomon was an Elder of his congregation,
in which Sabbath after Sabbath he took his usual prominent part as
collector--raised the psalms--sang loudest--and whenever the minister
alluded to the mercy that was extended to sinners, Solomon's groan of
humility--of sympathy with the frail, and of despair for the impenitent;
his groan, we say, under these varied intimations of Gospel truth,
was more than a sermon in itself. It not only proclaimed to the
whole congregation that he was a sinner, but that he felt for
sinners--rejoiced in their repentance, which he often did in a
nondescript scream, between a groan and a cackle of holy joy, that
alarmed the congregation; but also wept for their hardness of heart,
when he imagined that it was likely to terminate in final reprobation,
with such a pathetic fervency, that on many such occasions some of those
who sat beside him were obliged to whisper--"Brother M'Slime, you are
too much overcome--too piously excited--do not allow yourself to exhibit
such an excess of Christian sympathy, or there will be many instances
among the weaker vessels of relapses and backslidings, from not
understanding that it is more for others thou art feeling than for
thyself."

Solomon then took his hands from before his face, wiped his eyes with
his handkerchief on which they had been embedded, and with a serene and
rather heavenly countenance looked up to the preacher, then closing his
eyes as if in a state of ethereal enjoyment, he clasped his hands with
a sweet smile, twirling his thumbs and bowing his head, as the speaker
closed every paragraph of the discourse.

These observations account very plainly for the opinions touching
Solomon which were expressed by M'Loughlin. Solomon was at this time an
unadulterated saint--a professor--in fact one of the elect who had cast
his anchor sure. But as the proverb gays, time will tell.

That night M'Loughlin and his family retired to bed for the first time
overshadowed, as it were, by a gloomy presentiment of some change, which
disturbed and depressed their hearts. They slept, however, in peace and
tranquillity, free from those snake-like pangs which coil themselves
around guilt, and deaden its tendencies to remorse, whilst they envenom
its baser and blacker purposes.

M'Slime himself at this crisis was beginning privately to feel some of
the very natural consequences of his own oft acknowledged frailty. Phil,
who had just left Constitution Cottage a few minutes before Darby's
arrival, had not seen him that morning. The day before he had called
upon his grandfather, who told him out of the pallor window to "go to
h---; you may call tomorrow, you cowardly whelp, if you wish to see
me--but in the meantime," he added as before, "go where I desired you."

Phil, who possessed a great deal of his father's selfishness and also of
his low cunning, but none at all of his ability, turned back indignantly
and rode home again. He had not passed more than about a hundred yards
from the avenue out into the highway, when he met Sharpe, one of the
heroes of the cabin.

We shall not detail their conversation, which, of course, embraced
many of the circumstances connected with their duties, excepting a few
interjectional imprecations which Phil in an occasional parenthesis
dutifully bestowed upon his grandfather.

"So, Sharpe, the fool Rimon made such a devil of a fight (the infernal
old scoundrel)--and took the gun."

"Why, Captain Phil, if he hasn't the strength of ten men, I'll never
manoeuvre on parade while I live--he's a bloody rascal."

"(A double distilled old scoundrel, and I wish the devil had him,)--he's
a bad bird, Sharpe, fool and all as he is, there's no doubt of that.
What did the priest do?"

"Why, your honor, I can't say that he took much part in it, barrin' once
that he went between us and the woman."

"He had no right to do that--(the blaspheming old vagabond,)--none at
all, Sharpe, and he ought to be prosecuted."

"He ought, Captain, and will, I hope."

"But then, Shaj-pe, if we swing Harman it will be enough, for
Harman--(he'll fiz for it, and that soon I hope)--is another bad bird."

"Oh, devil a worse, Captain, but even if he escapes us now, we'll manage
him yet."

They now came to a turn in the road, and found themselves at a bridge, a
little beyond which two roads met. On approaching, they observed an old
woman sitting on a large stone that lay a little beyond the arch. She
was meagrely and poorly dressed, had no cap on, her gray locks were only
bound by a red ribbon that encircled her head, but did not confine her
hair, which floated in large masses about her shoulders, a circumstance
that added to the startling vehemence of character that appeared in
her face, and gave to her whole person an expression which could not be
overlooked. When they had come up to where she sat, and were about to
pass without further notice, she started up, and with steps surprisingly
rapid, and full of energy, seized upon. Phil's bridle.

"Well!" she exclaimed, "I saw you going, and I see you coming, but you
cannot tell me that he is dead. No, the death damp of his blaspheming
carcase is not yet on the air, because if it was," and she turned her
nose against the wind, like a hound, "I would snuff it. No, no; he
is not gone, but he will soon go, and what a catalogue of crimes will
follow after him! The man's conscience is a gaol where every thought and
wish of his guilty life and godless heart is a felon; and the blackest
calendar that ever was spread before God was his. Oh! I wonder do the
chains in his conscience rattle? they do, but his ears are deaf, and he
doesn't hear them; but he will, and feel them too, yet."

Phil, who had got alarmed at the extraordinary energy of her manner,
as well as of her language, said, "what do you want, and who are you
speaking of?"

"Who am I speaking of? who should I be speaking of but of old Deaker,
the blasphemer?--and who am I speaking to but the son of the ungodly
villain who threatened to horsewhip the mother that bore him. Do you
know me now?"

"Let go my bridle," exclaimed Phil, "let go my bridle, you old faggot,
or upon my honor and soul I'll give you a cut of my whip."

"No," she replied, no whit daunted, "no, I'm near my eightieth year. I'm
old, and wrinkled, and gray--my memory forgets everything now but my own
crimes, and the crimes of those that are still worse than myself--old I
am, and wicked, and unrepenting--but I shall yet live to pour the curses
that rise out of an ill-spent life into his dying oar, until his very
soul will feel the scorches of perdition before its everlasting tortures
come upon it in hell. I am old," she proceeded, "but I will yet live
to see the son that cursed his mother, and threatened to raise his
sacrilegious hand against her that bore him, laid down like a tree,
rooted up and lopped--lying like a rotten log, without sap, without
strength, and only fit to be cut up and cast into the fire. I am old,"
she replied, "but I shall live to see out the guilty race of you all."

"Go to the devil, you croaking old vagabond," exclaimed Phil, raising
his whip, and letting it fall upon her almost naked shoulders, with a
force as unmanly, as it was cruel, and impious, and shocking.

She uttered a scream of anguish, and writhed several times, until her
eyes became filled with tears. "My cup is not full yet," she exclaimed,
sobbing, "neither is yours, but it soon will be, you knew me well when
you gave that blow; but go now, and see how you'll prosper after it."

Sharpe, even Sharpe, felt shocked at the cowardly spirit which could
inflict such an outrage upon old age, under any circumstances; but much
less under those which even he understood so well.

"Captain," said he, "if it was only for the credit of the Castle Cumber
cavalry, I'm sorry that you gave that blow; those men on the other side
of the road there were looking at you, and you may take my word it will
spread."

"How dare you speak to me in that style?" asked Phil in a rage, and
availing himself of his authority over him, "what is it your business,
Sharpe? Sharpe, you're a scoundrel, for speaking to me in this
style--damn my honor and blood, but you are. What do you know about that
old vagabond?"

"Captain," said Sharpe, who was a sturdy fellow in his way, "I'm no
scoundrel; and I do know that you have just horsewhipped your notorious
ould grandmother."

"Fall back," said Phil, "and consider yourself arrested."

"Arrest and be hanged," replied Sharpe, "I don't care a fig about you--I
was in Deaker's corps this many a year, and if you attempt to come the
officer over me, let me tell you you're mistaken. We're not on duty now,
my buck, and you have no more authority over me than you have over the
devil--me a scoundrel! my good fellow, I know who is the scoundrel."

"My good fellow! Damn my honor and blood, do you apply that to me?"

"No, I don't," said Sharpe, "for you're a cursed bad fellow, and no
gentleman--didn't Harman pull your nose in Castle Cumber, and you
wanted the courage then that you had for your ould grandmother--me, a
scoundrel!"

"I'll tell you what, Sharpe; is this respect, sir, to your commanding
officer? Sharpe I'll mark you out for this."

"Don't you know," replied Sharpe, "that two of us c&n play at that game;
you had better keep yourself quiet, if you're wise--a man that's in the
habit of getting his nose pulled should be very inoffensive."

"Very well," said gallant Phil, "I'll say no more, but--" He then put
spurs to handsome Harry, and rode off, full of vengeance against Sharpe,
and of indignation at the contumelious reception he experienced at the
hands of his grandfather.

Val's letter to M'Slime was, as our readers know, anything but an index
to the state of regard in which he held that worthy gentleman. As we
said, however, that ground was beginning to break a little under his
feet, in spite of all his unction and Christian charity, we shall, while
Darby is on his way to deliver his letter, take that opportunity of
detailing a conversation between honest Solomon and Poll Doolin, upon
one or two topics connected with our tale.

"Sam," said Solomon to his clerk, "you were not present with us at
prayer this morning! You know we do not join in family worship until
you come; and it is but our duty to take an interest in your spiritual
welfare. In the meantime, I should regret, for your own sake, that
anything in the shape of a falling away from your opportunities should
appear in you. I speak now as your friend, Sam, not as your master--nay,
rather as your brother, Sam--as a man who is not without his own
lapses and infirmities, but who still trusts--though not by his own
strength--that he may be looked upon, in some faint degree, as an
example of what a man, wrestling with the cares and trials of life,
ought at, least, to strive to be. To Him be the praise!"

"I certainly overslept myself this morning, sir--that is the truth."

"Yes, Sam; sloth is one of the disguises under which the enemy often
assails and overcomes us. But to business, Sam. There is an old woman in
Castle Cumber, whose name I scarcely remember. She goes dressed in faded
black, and has a son, to whom, for wise purposes of course, it pleased
Him to deny a full measure of ordinary sense?"

"Poll Doolin, sir, the old child-cadger, and her foolish son, Raymond of
the hats."

"Don't say foolish, Sam; don't say foolish--we know not well what the
true difference between wisdom and folly is, nor how much wisdom is
manifested in the peculiar state of this person. We know not, indeed,
whether what we blindly, perhaps, term folly, may not be a gift to
be thankful for. You know the Word says, that the wisdom of man is
foolishness before God. Our duty therefore is, to be thankful and
humble."

"Well, sir; but about Poll Doolin, the child-cadger?"

"Child-cadger! that is a term I don't understand, Sam."

"Why, sir, it means a woman who carries--"

"Sam, hold; if it be associated with human frailty, it is best left
unspoken. The woman, however, be she what she may--and I know not what
she is--but that she is a responsible being--a partaker of our common
nature, and is entitled to our sympathy. She is, I understand, in some
difficulty, out of which, it seems, professional advice may help to take
her. I expect her, therefore, about this time; and will you, Samuel,
just stand at that window, and when you see her approach the house,
do just, quietly, and without noise, open the hall door. Something has
occurred to discompose the Christian tone which usually prevails in our
household; and poor Susanna is going. But, at all events, Sam, you are
aware, it is said, that we ought not to let our left hand know what our
right hand doeth."

"I know the text, sir, well; it ends with--'and he that giveth in
secret, will reward thee openly.'"

"He--hem--ahem! yes it does so end; heigho! I feel, Sam, slightly
depressed in spirit, as it were, and moved, as if somewhat of my usual
support were withdrawn from me."

"Here she is, sir," said Sam.

"Very well, Sam; please to let her in as quietly as may be, and then
take this declaration to the back office, and copy it as soon as you
can--it is of importance. We should always endeavor to render services
to our fellow creatures."

In the mean time, Sam very softly opened the hall door, and the next
moment Poll entered.

Solomon, as usual, was certainly seated at his office, and held his
features composed and serious to a degree; still, in spite of everything
he could do, there was an expression half of embarrassment, and half
of the very slightest perceptible tendency to a waggish simile, we can
scarcely call it--but, whatever it might be, there it certainly was,
betraying to Poll, in spite of all his efforts, that there was still the
least tincture imaginable of human frailty associated with such a vast
mass of sanctity.

Polly, when she entered, took a seat, and loosening the strings of her
bonnet, raised it a little, and without uttering a word sat silently
looking in M'Slime's face, with a very comic and significant expression
on her own.

"No, Polly," said he, with a serious smile, "no, you are mistaken
indeed--frail we all are, I grant you; but in this case am acting for
another. No, no, Polly--I trust those days of vanity are gone."

"Well, then, what else am I to do? I sent the reports abroad about
M'Loughlin and Harman's being about to break; and of M'Loughlin I'll
soon have my revenge, by the way--I and somebody else have the train
laid for it."

"Polly, it was from no unchristian spirit of ill-will to them--for I
trust that of such a spirit I am incapable--but to prevent them, by
an unjust act, from injuring, perhaps from ruining others. That is my
motive; but, at the same time, the whole matter is understood to be
strictly confidential between you and me."

"Don't you know, Mr. M'Slime, that when there was an occasion for
trustin' me, I didn't betray you to the world?"

"No--you did not; and it is for that reason that I trust you now."

"Ay, and you may, too; honor bright is my motive. You remember the
day you passed Darby O'Drive and me, on our way to M'Clutchy's? Did I
pretend to know you then?"

"You acted then, Poll, with great and commendable discretion, which you
will please to remember I did not overlook."

"No," said Poll, "you behaved decently enough."

"But observe me now, Poll; if this report concerning the firm of
M'Loughlin and Harman should by any possibility be traced to us, or
rather to yourself, and that you should be pressed to disclose it,
which, of course, you could not be; but if a weak moment should ever
come--it is best then to speak the truth, and put the saddle as they
rather profanely say, upon Valentine M'Clutchy, the right horse here."

"Upon M'Clutchy! why bad as he is, he never opened his lips to me on
this subject."

"But he did to me, Poll, because it was from him I first heard the
suggestion; so that in point of truth and justice, you are bound by your
own conscience, or you ought at least--to lay it at his door--and that
now you understand better"--he smiled a little as he uttered these
words--"But why don't you get a better bonnet, that one is very shabby?"

"It's aisier said than done," replied Poll, "the poor must always look
poor, and will too."

"There then, are ten shillings, Poll; bestow them on that, or on any
other purpose you prefer."

"Thank you, Mr. M'Slime, troth in the little job I did for you at our
first acquaintance I found you--any way not worse than another. Well,
but you can't desave me now--I see it in your eye--you have something
else to say to me."

"Oh, nothing to signify. Merely a serious young person would wish to
remove for change of air to some quiet nook until health--which, indeed,
is the chiefest of temporal blessings, might be recovered."

"Man or woman?"

"A serious young woman, Poll."

"I see, I see, Mr. M'Slime; I know nothing more about it."

"Poll, listen--I shall no longer withhold confidence from you in
this matter--unfortunately a member, indeed, I may say, two of our
congregation have had a woeful fall. He ranks very high in it, and this
is an act of the greater Christian friendship in me, inasmuch as in
undertaking the management of this for him, I certainly run great risks
of suffering in my own reputation. I cannot name him, for that would
be a breach of confidence in me, but you are called upon to perform the
duty required, and through me he shall compensate you for your trouble."

"Very well," replied Poll, "it must be done--and I can tell him whoever
he is, that he could not come to any one that understands such matters
betther."

"Good morning, Poll! Let me hear from you as soon as you can. Peace be
with thee! but Poll, remember one thing, Harman and the M'Loughlins are
going to America." Poll nodded significantly, but made no reply.

The moment she had gone, which she did by the aid of Solomon himself,
who opened and closed the hall door after her, with a quietness of
manner that seemed to communicate oil to the hinges themselves, he
touched the bell, and in due time Susanna looked in.

"You rang, sir," said she.

"That arrangement is made;" said he, "so far all is well, or nearly
so--go now." Susanna immediately withdrew, the few words he said seeming
to have diffused sunshine into a face which appeared doubly serious.

When she was gone, Solomon laid his head down upon the desk before him,
and remained in that position for some time. At length without at all
raising it he began to play his knuckles against the lid, with a
degree of alacrity which would not have disgraced the activity of a
sleight-of-hand man. He at last rose, drew a long breath, and wore a
very smiling face; but this was not all--O sanctity! O religion! Instead
of going to his Bible, as one would imagine he ought to have done,
instead of even taking up a psalm-book, and indulging in a spiritual
song, he absolutely commenced whistling the Swaggering Jig, which he
accompanied with as nimble a foot, and in as good time as if he had been
a dancing-master all his life.

"Ah," said he, "I could have done it once, and would like to do it
still, only for this wicked and censorious world." A knock from Darby
O'Drive recalled him to a perception of his gifts, and when Darby
entered he looked calm and serious as usual. Little could Darby have
imagined, although perfectly aware of M'Slime's knavery, that the pious
little man had just concluded "a short exercise," in performing the
Swaggering Jig. As it was, however, he found him in a state which might
either be termed a religious meditation, or an intense application to
business--a Bible being on the one hand, and a brief on the other; but
to which of the two he had devoted himself, neither Darby, nor indeed
any one else, could guess. There, however, he sat, a kind of holy link
between the law and the gospel.

When Darby entered, and delivered the letter, M'Slime on receiving it
exclaimed, "Ah, from my excellent friend, M'Clutchy. Sit down, Darby,
sit down, and whilst I am casting my eye over this note, do now, in
order that we may make the most of our opportunities, do, I say, Darby,
just read a chapter in this--" handing him over the Bible as he spoke. In
the meantime he read as follows:--

"Strictly confidential.

"My Dear M'Slime:

"In order that the thing may be done as much in the shape and form of
a matter of business as possible, don't you think it would be well
for you, as Harman's lease has expired, to send me a regular written
proposal for it--which proposal I may be able to show in justification
of myself, should anything unfavorable turn up afterwards. Harman's
offer was just double yours, but that is burnt; of course you will also
burn this when you have read it. Your offer of assistance to M'Loughlin
was well thought of; and even if we never, I mean you, should be
paid, you are still a gainer by two hundred pounds. Each has offered
a thousand a piece to have the leases renewed at the present rent; you
give five hundred, very good suppose you lose three--that is, suppose
M'Loughlin is driven, as, please God, he shall be, to allow you to
accept a bill for three hundred--don't you see that you are still two
hundred in pocket; no, I am wrong, not two but seven hundred. You can
therefore well afford to lose three by the transaction, although, as I
have said, it is not, in point of fact, losing three, but gaining seven,
or at least five. Phil has also sent me a written proposal, which I
will keep, but M'Loughlin's is gone the way of Harman's, as a matter of
prudence. As for the private consideration between us, that is only
to be glanced at. I give you my honor that Phil has tendered me two
hundred, which I will not take, of course, either from you or him until
the premises are cleared of the present tenants, This must be done
very soon, and, I think it is much to be wished that Harman, who is a
choleric scoundrel, should be put out of the way, if possible, If he is
transported it will save us a good deal of annoyance. I should regret
a meeting between him and Phil very much. Phil tells me that he once
pulled his, Harman's, nose, and it is very natural that he should bear
him a grudge for it. There is half a year's rent due this day, and the
term mentioned in the notice to quit, expires next week. So far,
then, all is right; we have them in our power, and can proceed safely.
Parliament will, it is well ascertained, be certainly dissolved about
the end of May next, so that we must work double tides to bring in
his Lordship. There is a devilish spirit abroad, however, which will
occasion us much trouble; but I cannot agree with you about renewing the
leases, notwithstanding. It is just doing by those who are obstinate and
ill-disposed, precisely as we ought; that is, holding a whip over their
heads, and assuring them that we shall let it fall with rigor, unless
they are agreeable as they ought. The Hon. Richard Topertoe is in
London, but, between you and me, it matters little where he is; you
may judge of what an intermeddling fool he must be, when he had the
presumption to urge his Lordship to come to his native land, and live
on his estate. This d----d Ribbonism and outrage, in spite of all our
efforts, are still increasing; I think, however, that I shall be able
to make a pounce some of these days. I have my spies at work, and let me
tell you, that talk as they may, about its treachery and rascality, the
spy system is an admirable one; in fact, it is like a two-edged sword,
and cuts both ways, just as you wish. If, for instance, you cannot find
Ribbonism made to your hand, you may make it--that is, you can
corrupt first, and betray afterwards; which, at critical moments is
unquestionably (I say this between ourselves) a decided advantage. By
the by, my dear Solomon, the force of religion must be singularly strong
and impressive in your life and conduct, when you have been able so
wholesomely to influence that rascal bailiff of ours, Darby O'Drive. I
have seldom, indeed, never witnessed so striking a change as you have
produced in him; to tell you the truth, I felt a little chagrined and
jealous about it; but as he owes us a kind of divided allegiance, I must
rest contented.

"Believe me to be, my dear M'Slime,
"Yours affectionately and faithfully,
"Val M'Clutchy, J.P."


To this, while Darby was tooth and nail at the Bible, Solomon wrote the
following reply--

"My Dear M'Clutchy:

"I have just read your letter of this date, and agree with you in the
necessity and propriety of my sending you a written proposal which you
can show at a future time, in order to justify yourself should it be
necessary so to do. I also need not say that your conduct in destroying
the proposals of M'Loughlin and Harman was equally creditable to your
head and heart. Prudence and discretion, my dear Val, are not virtues
of every day occurrence, and as to giving the preference to a Christian
friend, I do not see how a man as you are, with a strong sense of
religion, could without injuring your conscience avoid it. What is it
after all, my dear friend, but a spoiling of the Egyptians, as holy
Moses did, when about to lead the children of Israel from bondage. In
that case it was what may be termed in these our days a description of
justifiable theft, such as many professors of the word do, in matters of
business, feel themselves warranted even now in imitating. It requires,
however, to be done carefully, and within the freedom of the perfect
law; but, by no means, with a worldly or secular spirit, otherwise
it will be deprived of that unction which renders the act a gracious
exemplification of our Christian privileges, instead of a departure from
rectitude, which it would be if committed by an ungodly person. These
are distinctions, my dear friend, which I grant you is not permitted to
many to make--only, indeed, I may humbly and fearfully say to such as
have by long wrestling with the spirit been able to see truth, when the
inward eye has been purged from the grossness of passion, for which
to Him be praise and power. Amen! I herewith enclose you the proposal
formally made, and will be ready to hand over the two hundred Christian
manifestations of my gratitude at the proper season. As to Lord Cumber
being a loser by the transaction, such a loss must have been, we are
bound to hope, shaped out for him as a punishment inflicted for gracious
purposes. It is true he is ignorant of it, and I trust he shall remain
so; but then we know that many a blessing comes to us in deep disguise,
and that many a dispensation which we look upon as a favor from above,
is far from being so. If, then, it be true that this thing is vouchsafed
to him as a hidden blessing, let us be thankful that we have been
selected as the unworthy means through whom he is made to receive it; or
if it comes to him as a punishment, still it is our duty to reflect that
we are merely the instruments through whose frailties, or virtues, as
the case may be, he is visited, and that from the beginning this and
many other acts which a blind unenlightened world might censure, were
ordained for us, in order that the perfect scheme of Providence might be
fulfilled.

"With respect to the spy system, I do agree with you fully. Many things
must be done in secret, which the perversity of the world will not bear
to hear of without committing sin. For instance, my dear Val, in sowing
your crop of loyalty, so to speak, it might not, perhaps, be wrong--I
am speaking, now observe, with reference to the cunning of the serpent,
which you know we are enjoined to have, and if to have, of course to use
when necessary; it might not, perhaps, be wrong I say, to cast a tare
or two, if only for the purpose of employing our friends and fellow
creatures to pull them, out again. It is as it were, giving the idle
employment, and enabling ourselves in the mean time to gather an
abundant harvest into our own garners.

"With respect to Darby, I trust, that if my unworthy example and earnest
precept have been successful in rescuing him from the bonds of error
and sin--but what is still more dangerous, from the damnable thrall
of Popery--it is not for me to vainly extol myself therefor. His
conversion, however, will, I trust, be edifying to that interesting, but
neglected class, the bailiffs of Ireland. With reference to them, I
am engaged during the very few leisure hours that I can steal--so
to speak--from my professional employment, in writing a second tract
especially for their improvement. It will be appropriately called, _The
Bailiff's Beacon or a Strengthener for tender Consciences_, By their
friend and brother Christian, Solomon M'Slime, Attorney at Law.

"Verily, my lines have been made to fall in pleasant places. On
yesterday, I had the satisfaction to be appointed _soul_ agent to the
Religious Cosmopolitan Assurance Association, being a branch of the
Grand Junction Spiritual Railway Society for travellers to a better
world. The salary is liberal, but the appointment--especially to a man
of sincere principles--is full of care and responsibility. Allow me, my
dear Val, to recommend you and your friends to purchase shares in
the Spiritual Railway Society--it is under Him the safest of all
associations yet established. The arrangements are admirably adapted
for the projects in view. All the seats are delightfully soft, and as
somnolent as church pews, to which they bear a close resemblance. The
machine men, and all those appointed to situations on the line, are
mostly in orders; but belong to different denominations. The scheme
originated in Oxford, and has spread rapidly throughout the length
and breadth of the land. Several of the stokers are bishops, and the
reverend feeders discharge their respective duties with singular effect.
It is hoped besides, that it may, under divine guidance, be the glorious
means of bringing Popery within the influence of truth, whilst its
enemies--for it has enemies--as who has not--its enemies assert that
whether it shall take in Popery, or Popery take in it, is a matter very
difficult to be determined.

"They are also exceedingly expert at tract writing, which they perform,
if I may say so, without boasting or vanity, very much in my own spirit.
Poor Susanna is ailing--I mean a serious young person in our family
who tended our little olive branches and understood my habits. She is
leaving us, and I shall miss her, for I am one of those persons, my dear
friend, who have a heart for--and I trust I may say, that can sympathize
with--my fellow creatures, however humble. Do you remember that I once
availed myself of a Christian privilege, to mention between us the
subject of family prayer?

"I remain, my dear M'Clutchy, with, may I hope, a few of the graces of
my calling--an earnest wrestler against sin,

"Solomon M'Slime."


"Now, Darby," said he, having folded the letter enclosing his tender for
Harman's farm, and handed, it to him, "now, that so much is despatched,
I trust we may have a word or two upon a subject of still higher
importance. How do you feel in a spiritual way?--Are your views as clear
as ever?--are you supported--I mean inwardly, for that is the only true
support after all?"

"Thrath, Mr. M'Slime, I'm afeard to spake, sir, for fraid I'd say either
more or less than the truth."

"That is a good sign, Darby, but you must avoid profane swearing, which
is a habit you contracted when in the bonds of iniquity; but you must
reform it--or rather, grace will be given you to reform it."

"I hope so," replied Darby, "and that I'll still get a clearer knowledge
of the truth, plaise Goodness."

Darby, as he uttered these words, would have given a trifle to have had
M'Clutchy to look at. Little did Solomon suspect the truth to which his
convert alluded.

"May it in charity be granted!" exclaimed Solomon, slightly twitching up
his eyebrows. "But, Darby, will you be properly prepared on next Sabbath
(D.V.) to bear strong testimony against error and idolatry?"

"Why, I'll do my best, sir," replied Darby, "and you know the best can
do no more."

"Well, but you can faithfully say that you are utterly free from every
taint of Popery."

"Faith, sir, I don't know that that would be altogether prudent. Did you
never hear of the ould proverb, sir--not to throw out the dirty water
till you get in the clane--I'm not sure that I have a sufficient grip
of the new light yet," said Darby, falling unconsciously into his usual
style of conversation, "but, I hope that by next Sunday, I'll be able
to shine;--an', be me sowl, if I don't, sir, it'll be none o' my
fawt--divil resave the purtier convert in Europe than I'll make when I
come to know a little about it."

"Darby," said Solomon, impatiently, "this is really very trying to one
so anxious for your spiritual welfare as I am. This awful swearing--I
really fear that some of your light has been withdrawn since our last
interview."

"Not at all unlikely," replied Darby; "but wid great submission, don't
you think, sir, that two religions is betther than one?"

"How do you mean by adverting to such an impossibility?"

"Why, sir, suppose I kept the ould one, and joined this new reformation
to it, wouldn't I have two chances instead o' one?"

"Darby," said Solomon, "avoid, or rather Pray that you may be enabled
to avoid the enemy; for I fear he is leading you into a darker error.
I tell you--I say unto you--that you would be much better to have no
religion than the Popish. You have reminded me of one proverb, suffer me
to remind you of another; do you not know, to speak in a worldly figure,
that an empty house is better than a bad tenant? why, I looked on you
with pride, with a kind of and joy as one wilom I had wrestled for, and
won from the enemy; but I fear you are elapsing."

"I hope in God sir," very gravely, "that you and he won't have to toss
up for me; for I feel myself sometimes one thing, and sometimes the
other."

"Ah!" replied Solomon, "I fear I must give you up, and in that case it
will not be in my power to employ you in a very confidential matter,
the management of which I imagined I could have entrusted to you.
That, however, cannot be now, as no one not amply provided with strong
religious dispositions, could be relied on in it."

Darby, who, in fact, was playing M'Slime precisely as a skilful
fisherman does his fish; who, in order to induce him the more eagerly to
swallow the bait, pretends to withdraw it from his jaws, by which means
it is certain to be gulped down, and the fish caught.

"Ah, sir," replied Darby, "I'm greatly afeared that every person like me
must struggle with great temptations."

"That is an excellent observation," said Solomon; "and I do suppose,
that since this desirable change took place in your heart, you must have
been woefully beset."

"Never suffered so much in my life," replied the other. "Now there's
your two beautiful tracts, and may I never die in sin--I hope, sir,
there's no great harm in that oath?

"No great harm but you had better omit it, however--it smacks of sin and
superstition."

"Well, sir--may I never--I beg pardon--but any how, the truth is, that
ever since I tuck to readin' them, I feel myself gettin' as dishonest as
if the devil--"

"Do not name him so, Darby--it is profane; say the enemy, or Satan, or
the tempter."

"As if the whole three o' them, then, war at my elbow. Why, for the
last three or four days, I may say, they have cleared me out as clane
of honesty as the black boy himself, and it is worse I am gettin'. Now,
sir, it stands to sense, that that's temptation."

"Unquestionably; and my great hope and consolation is, that you
yourself are conscious of it. All you have to do now, is to pray
unceasingly--wrestle in prayer, and you will ultimately triumph. Sing
spiritual songs, too; read my tracts with attention; and, in short,
if you resist the dev--hem--Satan, they will flee from you. Give
that letter to Mr. M'Clutchy, and let me see you on the day after
to-morrow--like a giant refreshed with new strength."

"Well, now," said Darby, assuming a more serious look--"do you know,
sir, that I think your words have put new strength into me. Somehow
I feel as if there was a load removed from me. May the mother of
heaven--hem--I do, sir; and now, as a proof of it, I wouldn't feel
justified, sir, in leaving you, widout sayin' a word or two about the
same M'Clutchy, who, between you and me--but I hope it won't go farther,
sir?"

"I don't think it would be permitted to me to betray confidence--I
humbly think so. Be not afraid, but speak."

"Why, sir, he has got a dirty trick of speakin' disrespectfully of you
behind your back."

"Human weakness, Darby! poor profligate man! Proceed, what does he say?"

"Why, sir, if it 'ud be agreeable to you, I'd rather not be goin' over
it."

"We should know our friends from our enemies, O'Drive; but I forgive
him, and shall earnestly pray for him this night. What did he say?"

"Why he said, sir--verily, thin, I'm ashamed to say it."

"Did he speak only of myself?" inquired Solomon, with something like a
slight, but repressed appearance of alarm.

"Oh, of nobody else, sir. Well, then, he said, sir--but sure I'm only
repatin' his wicked words--he said, sir, that if you were cut up into
the size of snipe shot, there would be as much roguery in the least
grain of you, as would corrupt a nation of pickpockets."

"Poor man! I forgive him. Do you not see me smile, Darby?"

"I do, indeed, sir."

"Well, that is a smile of forgiveness--of pure Christian
forgiveness--free from the slightest taint of human infirmity. I am
given to feel this delightful state of mind at the present moment--may
He be praised!--proceed."

"It is a blessed state, sir, and as you can bear it--and as I can trust
you, what I could not him--I will go on:--" he said, "besides, sir, that
your example had made the ould boy himself a worse boy now than he had
ever been before he ever knew you I--that in temptin' you, he got new
dodges of wickedness that he was never up to till he met you, and
that he's now receivin' lessons from you in the shape of a convartin'
parson."

"Ah! well!--I see, I see--that is an unchristian allusion to my recent
intercourse with the Rev. Phineas Lucre, the respected and highly
connected rector of Castle Cumber, and his nephew, the Rev. Boanerges
Frothwell, both of whom take a deep interest in the New Reformation
movement which is now so graciously advancing. However, I shall pray for
that man this night."

"Sir, I feel much relieved; I'm a changed man widin these few minutes, I
may say--but what, afther all, is aquil to a good example? I feel, sir,
as if a strong hatred of idolaphry was comin' an me."

"Idolatry, you mean, Darby?"

"Yes, sir, that's what I mean."

"Where is that letter of Mr. M'Clutchy's--oh, I have it. Well, Darby,"
said M'Slime, quietly changing it for another, "here it is; now, do you
see how I commit that letter to the flames?" placing M'Clutchy's under
the side of a brief; "and even as the flames die away before your eyes,
so dies away--not my resentment, Darby, for none do I entertain against
him--but the memory of his offensive expressions."

"Sir," said Darby, "this is wonderful! I often heard of religion and
forgiveness of injuries, but antil this day I never saw them in their
thrue colors. The day after to-morrow I'm to call, sir?"

"The day after to-morrow."

"Well, sir, may the Holy Virgin this day--och, indeed I do not know what
I'm sayin' sir--Religion! well if that's not religion what is or can be?
Good mornin' sir."

"Good morning, Darby, and remember my advice--pray, sing, wrestle--peace
be with you!"




CHAPTER XI.--Darby and Solomon at Prayer

--An Instance of Pure Charity---Candidates for Conversion--An
Appropriate Confidence--The Rev. Phineas Lucre and his Curate, Mr.
Clement--Rev. Father Roche and his Curate, Father M'Cabe.


Darby was opening the hall-door, when, as if struck by a new train
of thought, he again tapped at the office door, and begged pardon for
entering.

"I'm in a sweet state, sir," said he; "and would you forgive me, now
that my heart is, full, by lookin' at such an example, if I tuck
the liberty of axin' you to kneel down and offer a Father an' Ave
an'--hem--och, what am I sayin'--an' offer up a wurd in saison for that
unfortunate blaggard, M'Clutchy--any how, it'll improve myself, and
I feel as if there was new strength put into me. Oh, the netarnal
scoundrel! To spake the way he did of sich a man--sich a scantlin of
grace--of--oh, then, do, sir; let us offer up one prayer for him, the
vagabond!"

The reader will perceive, however, by and by, that Darby's sudden and
enthusiastic principle of charity towards M'Clutchy, wanted that very
simple requisite, sincerity--a commodity, by the way, in which the
worthy bailiff never much dealt. Indeed we may say here, that the object
of his return was connected with anything but religion.

A shade of feeling, somewhat rueful, sat on M'Slime's features, until
he caught Darby's eye fixed upon him, when, after rebuking him for the
terms in which he proposed the, prayer, he knelt down, and with a most
serene smile, commenced an earnest supplication, which became still more
vehement--then louder--bewailed his lost state--deplored his keeping
aloof from the means of grace--feared that the example of his old, and
sinful, and blasphemous father, and his most profligate mother, had
rendered his heart impenetrable to all visitations of conscience or
religion--if conscience he ever had, or religion he ever heard; both of
which, he, the humble and sinful suppliant, doubted. What then was his
state? Oh! how could a charitable or truly religious heart bear to think
of it without being deeply affected"--handkerchief here applied to the
eyes, and some sobs--a nondescript sound from Darby, accompanied by
a most pathetic shaking of the sides--evidently as much affected as
M'Slime.--The prayer was then wound up in a long, heavy, dolorous
cadence, which evidently proceeded from a strong conviction that he who
prayed was laboring against all hope and expectation that the humble
"mean" then adopted would be attended by any gracious result--the voice
consequently quavered off into a most dismal sound, which seemed, as
it were, to echo back a doleful answer to their solicitations,
and accordingly Solomon rose up with a groan that could not be
misunderstood.

"You see, O'Drive," said he, "we have received no answer--or rather
a bad one--I fear his is a hopeless case, as, indeed, that of every
reprobate and castaway is; and this distresses me."

"Mr. M'Slime," said Darby, "will you excuse me, sir--but the thruth
is, I never properly knew you before." These words he uttered in a low
confidential voice, precisely such as we might suppose a man to speak
in, who, under his circumstances, had got new convictions. "I'll appear
next Sabbath, and what is better, I think in a few days I'll be able to
bring three or four more along wid me."

"Do you think so?" said M'Slime, a good deal elated at the thought; for
the attorney was only playing his game, which certainly was not the case
with the greater number of the new reformation men, who were as sincere
in their motives as he was hypocritical in his exertions. "And what are
their names, Darby?"

"I feel, sir," replied O'Drive, "that it's my duty as a Christian,
brought out of the land of cordage--"

"Bondage, Darby."

"Of bondage, to do all I can for the spread o' the gospel. Their names,"
responded Darby, rubbing his elbow with a perplexed face; "don't you
think sir it would be better to wait awhile, till we'd see what could be
done with them privately?"

"No, Darby, give me their names and residences, and I will see, that
however hard the times are, they shall not at least be starved for want
of--truth."

"Well, then," said Darby, "first, there is Paudeen Rafferty, of
Dernascobe; Paudeen, sir, is, at the present spaking, badly given to
drink, and he swears, and fights mortially, too, the hathen; but, then,
he's in darkness, sir, yet; and you know that the greater the sinner the
greater the saint. If Paudeen was dacently convarted he'd make a mighty
fine Christian no doubt. To be sure he has two wives, along wid his love
for liquor and fightin'; but wouldn't it be a good plan to bring them
over, too, sir; the poor lost cratures, sunk, as they are, in hathenism
and vociferation?"

"Very good, I have him down, Darby; we must struggle, however, to win
him over and to induce him to give up his guilty connections. Are they
young, Darby!"

"Two of the best looking young women in the parish."

"We must only see, then, if they can be rescued also; for that is a
duty--a pressing duty, certainly."

"But I'm afeard, sir, it 'ud take a ship load o' Scripture to convart
the three o' them."

"We shall try, however; nothing is to be despaired of under such
circumstances, unless I am afraid the regeneration of that unhappy man
M'Clutchy--(eyes turned up). Who next?"

"Why, you may set down Harry M'Murt, of Drinnska. Harry's an unsettled
kind of fellow, or as they call him a Rake. It would be an active
charity to convert him--and that could convert him for he has as many
twists in him as an eel--if it was only for the sake of gettin' him to
spake the truth."

"Who else, Darby?"

"Put down Charley Casey, sir; and if you take my advice, you'll set
in at the convarsion of him while his famine lasts--otherwise, he's a
bitter idolapher as ever welted an Orangeman; but against that, he
has the stomach o' three men--and the best time to come at him wid the
gospel is the present. Bait it wid a flitch of bacon on the one side,
and a collop o' fresh meat on the other, now before the praties comes
in, and you're sure of him."

"Any others, Dairby?--but, indeed, as far as we have gone yet, the cases
appear to me to be difficult ones. However, there is joy in heaven,
Darby, over one sinner--and surely the greater the sin the greater the
joy and the triumph. Any others?"

"Mark down Molly Crudden, sir--she would be a glorious catch if a word
in saison could fasten on her. She goes by the name of Funny Eye. The
poor woman is mother to a large family of childre, sir; and the worst of
it is, that no two o' them goies by the same name. It would be a proud
day that we could make sure of her, especially as Father Roche and Mr.
M'Cabe, his curate, were obliged to give her up, and forbid her the
parish; but Funny Eye only winks and laughs at them and the world. She's
the last, sir--but I'll be on the look out, God willin', for a few more
desperate cases to crown our victory over the dev--ahem! over Satan and
the priests."

"Well, then, let me see you, as I said, the day after to-morrow, and in
the mean time--peace, and joy, and victory be with you!"

"The same to you, sir, and many of them! Amin--I pray the sweet queen o'
heaven this day!"

"Darby," said M'Slime, who looked upon his mingling up religious
expressions peculiar to his class as a proof of his sincerity--"Darby,"
said he in a low, condensed, and collected voice--"I said I had the
execution of a commission to entrust to you."

"But, sir," said Darby, whose ears, could they have shaped themselves
according to his wishes, would have ran into points in order to hear
with more acuteness--"Sir," said he, "I doubt I'm not worthy of such a
trust."

"Perfectly worthy, Darby," continued Solomon, "if I did not think so I
would not employ you--I have engaged another person to prepare, as it
were, the way for you; but the truth is, it would never do to allow that
person and the young person of whom you are going to take charge to
be seen together. Evil constructions would most assuredly be put on
innocent actions, Darby, as they often are; and for this reason it
is that I have partly changed my mind, and will entrust one-half the
commission I speak of to you." As if, however, he feared that the very
walls might justify the old proverb by proving that they had ears,
he stood up and whispered a short, but apparently most interesting
communication to Darby, who appeared to listen to a tale that was
calculated rather to excite admiration than any other feeling. And
we have little doubt, indeed, that the tale in question was given as
illustrating the exertion of as pure an instance of Christian compassion
and benevolence as ever was manifested in the secret depths of that true
piety which shuns the light; for Darby's journey was most assuredly to
be made in the dark and still hours of the night. On opening the door
a party of three or four clients were about to knock, but having given
them admission he went away at rather a brisk, if not a hasty pace.

Darby having concluded this interview was proceeding, not exactly in the
direction of M'Clutchy's, but as the reader shall soon hear, to a very
different person, no other than the Rev. Phineas Lucre, D.D., Rector of
the Parish of Castle Cumber; a living at that time worth about eighteen
hundred a year.

The Rev. Phineas Lucre, then, was a portly gentleman, having a proud,
consequential air stamped upon his broad brow and purple features.
His wife was niece to a nobleman, through whose influence he had been
promoted over the head of a learned and pious curate, whose junior
Mr. Lucre had been in the ministry only about the short period of
twenty-five years. Many persons said that the curate had been badly
treated in this transaction, but those persons must have known that
he had no friends except the poor and afflicted of his parish, whose
recommendation of him to his bishop, or the minister of the day,
would have had little weight. His domestic family, too, was large, a
circumstance rather to his disadvantage; but he himself was of studious,
simple, and inexpensive habits. As for dinners he gave none, except
a few fragments of his family's scanty meal to some hungry, perhaps,
deserted children, or to a sick laborer when abandoned by his landlord
or employer, the moment he became unable to work. From the gentry of
the neighborhood he got no invitations, because he would neither
sing--dance--drink--nor countenance the profligacies of their sons--nor
flatter the pride and vanity of their wives and daughters. For these
reasons, and because he dared to preach home truths from his pulpit, he
and his unpretending children had been frequently made objects of their
ridicule and insolence. What right, then, had any one to assert that the
Rev. Mr. Clement had received injustice by the promotion over his head
of the Rev. Phineas Lucre, to the wealthy living of Castle Cumber,
when he had no plausible or just grounds beyond those to which we have
adverted, on which to rest his claim for preferment? The curate was
pious, we admit, but, then, his wife's uncle was not a lord. He was
learned, but, then, he had neither power nor the inclination to repay
his patrons--supposing him to have such, by a genius for intrigue,
or the possession of political influence. He discharged his religious
duties as well as the health of a frame worn by affliction, toil, and
poverty, permitted him; but, then, he wrote no pamphlets adapted to the
politics by which he might rise in the church. He visited the sick and
prayed with them; but he employed not his abilities in proving to the
world that the Establishment rewarded piety and learning, rather than
venal talents for state intrigue or family influence.

Far different from him was his aforenamed rector, the Rev. Phineas
Lucre. Though immeasurably inferior to his curate in learning, and
all the requisite qualifications for a minister of God, yet was he
sufficiently well read in the theology of his day, to keep up a splendid
equipage. Without piety to God, or charity to man, he possessed,
however, fervent attachment, to his church, and unconquerable devotion
to his party. If he neglected the widow and the orphan whom he could
serve, he did not neglect the great and honorable, who could serve
himself. He was inaccessible to the poor, 'tis true; but on the other
hand, what man exhibited such polished courtesy, and urbanity of manner,
to the rich and exalted. Inferiors complained that he was haughty and
insolent; yet it was well known, in the teeth of all this, that no man
ever gave more signal proofs of humility and obedience to those who
held patronage over him. It mattered little, therefore, that he had
no virtues for the sick, or poverty-stricken, in private life, when he
possessed so many excellent ones for those in whose eyes it was worth
while to be virtuous as a public man.

Mr. Lucre, possessing high political connection, and withal affecting
to be very religious, presented singular points of character for
observation. He was a great disciplinarian in theory, and rendered it
imperative on his poor overworn curate to be so in practice; but being
always engaged in the pursuit of some ecclesiastical windfall, he
consequently spent most of his time, and of his money, either in our
own metropolis or London--but principally in the latter. He did not,
however, leave either his discipline or his devotion as a public
man behind him. In Dublin, he was practical in worshipping the Lord
Lieutenant--and in London, the King; whilst his curate was only
worshipping God in the country. The result of his better sense and more
seasonable piety soon became evident, on his part, in the shape of an
appointment to a second living; and that of his curate, in obscurity,
poverty, and that useless gift, a good conscience.

We have said that Mr. Lucre was not Pious; yet we are far from saying
that he had not all the credit of piety. His name, in fact, was always
conspicuous among the most bountiful contributors to the religious
societies. Indeed he looked upon most of them as excellent auxiliaries
to the cold and scanty labors of those worldly-minded or indolent
pastors, who think, when they have furnished every family in the parish
with a Bible and a sheaf of tracts, that they have done their duty. Mr.
Lucre, consequently, bore an excellent character everywhere but among
the poor, sick, and indigent of his two large parishes; and if a
eulogium had been called for on him, he would have received an admirable
one from the societies to whose funds he contributed, from the gentry of
his respective parishes, and from the grand juries of the two counties
in which they we're situated.

What more than this could be expected? Here was ample testimony for
those who required it, to establish the zeal, efficiency, talents,
integrity, charity and piety of that worthy and useful minister of
God--the Rev. Phineas Lucre, D.D.

Such were a few of the virtues which belonged to this gentleman. His
claims for preferment were, indeed, peculiarly strong; and when we
mention the political influence of himself and his friends, his wife's
powerful connections, added to his able pamphlets, and the great mass
of sound information regarding the state of the country, which in the
discharge of his religious duties, he communicated from time to time to
the government of the day--we think we have said enough to satisfy our
readers that he ought not to be overlooked in the wealthy and pious
Establishment, which the Irish Church then was. Still, in fact, we
cannot stop here, for in good truth Mr. Lucre had yet stronger claims
for preferment than any we have yet mentioned. He did not stand in need
of it. In addition to a large dowry received with his wife, he possessed
a private fortune of fourteen hundred pounds per annum, with which,
joined to his two large livings, he was enabled to turn out a very
primitive and apostolic equipage, such as would have made the hearts
of the Apostles rejoice in reflecting, that so many new virtues were
to spring up in the progress of society from the lowly-religion they
established.

Such is a pretty full sketch of a large class which existed at a former
period in the Established Church of Ireland. Mr. Lucre was, besides,
what may be termed one of the first fruits of that which is called
modern sanctity or saintship, being about two-thirds of the Tory and
High Churchman, and one of the Evangelical.

In the same parish of Castle Cumber resided two other clergyman of
a different creed and character; the Rev. James Roche, the venerable
parish priest, was one of those admirable pastors whose lives are the
most touching and beautiful exponent of the Christian faith. In this
amiable man were combined all these primitive virtues which are so
suitable, and, we may add, necessary, to those who are called upon to
mingle with the cares and affections, joys and sufferings, of an humble
people. Without pride, beyond the serene simplicity which belonged to
his office, he yet possessed the power of engaging the affections and
respect of all who knew him, whether high or low. With the poor, and
those entrusted to his spiritual charge, were all his sympathies, both
as a man and a pastor. His, indeed, was no idle charge, nor idly, nor
with coldness or pride, were its duties entered upon or performed. His
little purse and small means were, less his own than the property of the
poor around him; his eye was vigilant of want and of sorrow, of crime
and frailty--and wherever the painful rebuke, the humble and the
consoling word was necessary, there stood he to I administer it. Such
was Father Roche, as the pastor of a large but poor flock, who had few
sympathies to expect, save those which this venerable man was able to
afford them. Very different from him, on the other hand, was his
curate, the Rev. Patrick M'Cabe, or M'Flail, as he was nicknamed by the
Orangemen of the parish, in consequence of a very unsacerdotal tendency
to use the horsewhip, as a last resource, especially in cases where
reason and the influence of argument failed. He was a powerful young
man, in point of physical strength, but as his temperament was hot and
choleric, the consciousness of this strength often led him, under its
impulse, in desperate cases, to a mode of reasoning, which, after
all, no man more than himself subsequently regretted. Zealous he
unquestionably was, but beyond the bounds prescribed by a spirit of
Christian moderation. I know not how it happened, but the Orangeman
hated him with an intensity of detestation, which, however, he paid back
to them tenfold. His vast strength, which had been much improved by a
strong relish for athletic exercises, at which he was unrivaled, when
joined to a naturally courageous and combative temperament, often
prompted him to manifest, in cases of self-defence, the possession
of powers which they feared to call into exercise. This disposition,
however, which, after all, was not so unnatural, he properly restrained
and kept I in subjection; but, in order to compensate for it, he
certainly did pepper them, in his polemical discourses, with a vehemence
of abuse, which, unquestionably, they deserved at his hands--and got.
With the exception of too much zeal in religious matters, his conduct
was, in every other respect, correct and proper.

To return now to Darby, whose steps have been directed, not exactly
towards Constitution Cottage, but towards the spacious glebe-house of
the Rev. Phineas Lucre, which brought him about a mile or two out of his
way. The fact is he was beginning to tire of M'Slime, who, whenever he
had occasion for his services, was certain to shear him of his fees
on the one hand precisely as M'Clutchy did on the other. The change of
agents was consequently of no advantage to him, as he had expected it
would be; for such was the rapacity of the two harpies that each of
them took as much as they could out of the unfortunate tenants, and left
Darby little to comfort himself, with the exception of what he got
by their virtuous example, an example which he was exceedingly apt to
follow, if not to exceed. For this reason he detested them both, and
consequently felt a natural anxiety to set them together by the ears
whenever he thought the proper occasion for it should arrive. Now, an
event had taken place the very day before this, which opened up to his
mind a new plan of operations altogether. This was the death of the
under gaoler of Castle Cumber. Darby began to think of this as a good
speculation, should it succeed; but alas! upon second reflection there
stood an insurmountable difficulty in his way. He was a Roman Catholic
so far as he was anything; and this being a situation of too much trust
and confidence at the period to be given to any one of that persuasion,
he knew he he could not obtain it. Well, but here again he was
fortunate, and not without the prospect of some consolation. The
extraordinary movement in the religious world, called the New
Reformation, had just then set in with a liveliness of judgment, and a
celerity of conversion among the lower classes of Roman Catholics, which
scarcely anybody could understand. The saints, however, or evangelical
party, headed by an amiable, benevolent, but somewhat credulous
nobleman, on whose property the movement first commenced, ascribed this
extraordinary conversion altogether to themselves.

The season to be sure in which it occurred was one of unprecedented
destitution and famine. Fuel was both scarce and bad--the preceding
crops had failed, and food was not only of a deleterious quality, but
scarcely to be procured at all. The winter, too, was wet and stormy, and
the deluges of rain daily and incessant. In fact, cold, and nakedness,
and hunger met together in almost every house and every cabin, with the
exception of those of the farmers alone, who, by the way, mostly held
land upon a very small scale. In this district, then, and in such a
period of calamity, and misery, and utter famine, did the movement
called the New Reformation originate.

"Sure, blood alive," thought Darby, "now that every one's turnin',
there's no harm to have a thrial at it myself; I can become as good a
Prodestan as most o' them in four and twenty hours, and stand a chance
of the Jaolership for my pains. I'll go to Mr. Lucre, who is a gentleman
at any rate, and allow him to think he has the convartin' o' me. Well,"
he proceeded, with a chuckle, "it's one comfort, divil a much religion
I have to lose; and another, that the divil a much I have to gain in
exchange; and now," he went on, "there's little Solomon thinks I did'nt
see him burnin' the wrong letther; but faith, Solomon, my lad, there
must be something in it that would do neither you nor M'Clutchy much
good, if it was known, or you wouldn't thry that trick--but, in the mean
time, I've secured them both."

Now, the reader must know, that Darby's return in such a truly
charitable spirit to ask Solomon for the virtue of his prayers in behalf
of M'Clutchy, was as knavish a ruse as ever was put in practice. Solomon
had placed M'Clutchy's letter secretly under a brief, as we have said,
and Darby, who knew the identical spot and position in which M'Slime was
in the habit of praying, knew also that he would kneel with his back to
the desk on which the brief lay. It all happened precisely as he wished,
and, accordingly, while Solomon was doing the hypocrite, Darby did the
thief, and having let in those who were approaching, he came away, as we
said.

He lost not a moment after he had got to a lonely part of the road,
in putting them between two flat stones--we mean M'Clutchy's letter to
Solomon, with that gentleman's answer. There, he determined, they should
remain until after dark, when he could secure both without risk, and see
what might be done with them.

"Now," thought he, "that I've Solomon in a double pickle--for he can't
inquire about the letter without letting it be seen that he tould a
lie, and practised a bit of knavery, any how--an' as regwdin' the other
thing, I have him fast."

In the meantime, Father M'Cabe, who had read M'Slime's paragraph in the
Castle Cumber "True Blue," respecting Darby's conversion, had a sharp
eye out for him, as they term it in the country. Indeed, after two or
three vain attempts to see him, the Rev. gentleman was satisfied with
sending him a gentle message of congratulation upon his change of
creed, which was significantly wound up by a slight hint, that he might,
probably, on their next meeting, give him a nice treat, but of what
particular description was not communicated. Darby having secured the
letters as described, was proceeding at a pretty quick pace towards Mr.
Lucre's, when, whom should he meet in a narrow part of the way, which
was enclosed between two immense white thorn hedges, through which any
notion of escape was impracticable--but the Rev. Father M'Cabe. He
tried every shift--looked back as if he expected some friend to follow
him--then to the right--again to the left--then stooped to examine the
ground, as if he had lost something of value or importance. At length,
finding every other trick useless, he adopted that one so common among
boys in desperate cases--we mean the attempt to make a mask of the right
shoulder in order to conceal the face. Even this failed, and he found
himself compelled to meet the fixed and stern gaze of the colossal
priest, who was on horseback, and bore in his huge right hand a whip,
that might, so gripped, have tamed a buffalo, or the centaur himself, if
he were not fabulous.

"Why--my good, honest and most religious friend, Mr. Darby O'Drive--the
odor of whose sanctity, you scoundrel, has already perfumed the whole
Parish--is it possible that Providence in kindness to me, and in pure
justice to yourself, has thrown you into my way at last." This for the
present was accompanied only by a peculiar quivering motion of the whip,
resulting from the quick vibrations which his sense of Darby's hypocrisy
had communicated through the hand to the weapon which it held.

"God save your Reverence!" replied Darby, "an' in troth I'm glad to
see you look so well--faith it's in a glow o' health you are, may God
continue it to you! Be my sowl, it's you that can pepper the Orangemen,
any how, your Reverence--and how is Father Roche, sir--although sure
enough he's no match for you in givin' it home to the thieves."

"Silence, you hypocritical sleeveen, don't think you'll crawl up my
wrist--as you do up M'Clutchy's and M'Slime's. Is it true that you have
become an apostate?"

Darby here attempted to work up a kind of sly significant wheedling
expression into his eye, as he stole a half timid, half confidant glance
at the priest--but it would not do--the effort was a failure, and no
wonder--for there before him sat the terrible catechist like an embodied
thunder cloud--red, lurid, and ready to explode before him--nay he could
see the very lightning playing and scintillating in his eyes, just as
it often does about the cloud before the bursting of the peal. In this
instance there was neither sympathy nor community of feeling between
them, and Darby found that no meditated exposition of pious fraud,
such as "quartering on the enemy," or "doing the thieves," or any other
interested ruse, had the slightest chance of being tolerated by the
uncompromising curate. The consequence was, that the rising roguery died
away from Darby's face, on which there remained nothing but a blank
and baffled expression, that gave strong assurance of his being in a
situation of great perplexity. The most timid and cowardly animals will,
however, sometimes turn upon their captors, and Darby although he
felt no disposition to bandy words with the curate, resolved,
notwithstanding, to abide by the new creed, until he should be able
to ascertain his chance of the gaolership. There was, besides, another
motive. He knew Mr. Lucre's character so well, that he determined to
pursue such a course, during his interview, as might ensure him a sound
horse-whipping; for it occurred to him that a bit of martyrdom would
make a capital opening argument during his first interview with Mr.
Lucre.

"Did you hear me, sir?" again inquired the curate, making his whip
whistle past his own right foot, just as if he had aimed it at the
stirrup--"is it true that you have turned apostate?"

"I thought you knew it, sir," said Darby, "or if you didn't, why did you
read me out the Sunday before last from the althar?"

"Then you acknowledge it," cried the priest, "you have the brass to
acknowledge it, have you?" And here the whip made a most ferocious sweep
in the air.

"Yes," replied Darby, thinking by the admission to increase the
impending castigation--"yes, sir; I don't belong to your flock now--you
have no authority whatsomever over me--mind that."

[Illustration: PAGE 216-- Oh, what a sweet convert you are]

"Haven't I indeed, Mr. Convert--oh, what a sweet convert you are--but
we'll see whether I have or not, by and by. Where are you bound for now?
To taste of Mr. Lucre's flesh pots? eh?"

"I'm bound for Mr. Lucre's, sure enough; and I hope there's no great
harm in that."

"Oh, none in the world, my worthy neophyte, none. Mr. Lucre's argument
and Lord ----'s bacon are very powerful during this hard season. Those
that haven't a stitch to their backs are clothed--those that haven't a
morsel to eat are fed--and if they haven't a fire, they get plenty of
fuel to burn their apostate skins at; and because this heretical crew
avail themselves of the destitution of these wretches--and lure them
from their own faith by a blanket and a flitch of bacon, they call that
conversion--the new Reformation by the way, ha--ha--ha--oh, it's too
good!"

"And do you think, sir," said Darby, "that if they had a hard or an
enlightened hoult of their own creed, that that would do it?"

The whip here described a circle, one part of whose circumference sang
within a few inches of Darby's ear--who, forgetting his relish for
martyrdom, drew back his head to avoid it.

"None of your back jaw," said M'Cabe; "don't you know, sirra, that in
spite of this Methodist Lord and the proud parson's temptations, you
are commanded to renounce the devil, the world, and the flesh? Don't you
know that?"

"But," replied Darby, "are we commanded to renounce the devil, the
world, and a bit o' fresh mait?"

"Ha--you snivelling scoundrel," said the curate, "you've got their
arguments already I see--but I know how to take them out of you, before
you leave my hands."

"Surely," continued Darby, "you wouldn't have a naked man renounce a
warm pair o' breeches, or a good coat to his back--does the Scriptur
forbid him that?"

"You will have it," replied the curate, who felt for the moment
astounded at Darby's, audacity, "you are determined on it; but I will
have patience with you yet, a little, till I see what brought you over,
if I can. Don't you admit, as I said, that you are commanded to renounce
the devil, the world, and the flesh--particularly the flesh, sirra, for
there's a peculiar stress laid upon that in the Greek."

"Well, but does it go in the Greek against a flitch o' bacon and a wisp
o' greens, your reverence? Faith, beggin' your pardon, if you were to
see some o' the new convarts, how comfortable they are wid their good
frieze coats, and their new warm blankets, sittin' beside their good
fires, you'd maybe not blame them so much as you do. Your religion, sir,
only provides for the sowl; but theirs, you see, provides any how for
the body--and faith, I say, the last is a great advantage in these hard
times."

The priest's astonishment increased at the boldness with which Darby
continued the argument, or rather, which prompted him to argue at all.
He looked at him, and gave a smile.

"Well," said he, almost forgetting his anger--for he was by no means
deficient in a perception of the humorous--"but no matter--it will do
by and by. You villain," said he, forced into the comic spirit of the
argument; "do you not know that it said--cursed is he who becometh an
apostate, and eateth the flesh of heretics."

"Aitin' the flesh of heretics is forbidden, I dare say, sure enough,"
replied Darby; "an' troth it's a commandment not likely to be
broken--for dirty morsels they are, God knows; but is there anything
said against aitin' the flesh of their sheep or cows--or that forbids us
to have a touch at a good fat goose, or a turkey, or any harmless little
trifle o' the kind? Troth myself never thought, sir, that beef or mutton
was of any particular religion before."

"Yes, sir; beef and mutton, when they're good, are Catholic--but when
they're lean, why, like a bad Christian, they're Protestant, of course,
and that's well known," said the priest, still amused, against his will,
by Darby's arguments.

"Faith, and wid great respect, the same is but a poor argument for your
own--hem--I mane, sir, for your church; for if the best beef and mutton
be of the thrue religion, the Protestants have it all to nothing.
There, they're infallible, and no mistake. The fat o' the land, your
reverence," said Darby, with a wink; "don't you understand? They've got
that any how."

A slight cut of the whip across the shoulders made him jump and rub
himself, whilst the priest, struck with his utter want of principle,
exclaimed.

"You double-dealing scoundrel, how dare you wink at me, as if we felt
anything in common?"

The blow occasioned Darby's gorge to rise; for like every other knave,
when conscious of his own dishonesty, and its detection, he felt his bad
passions overpower him.

"You must," said the priest, whose anger was now excited by his
extraordinary assurance--"you must renounce their religion, you must
renounce M'Slime and Lucre--their flitches, flannels, and friezes. You
must--"

"Beggin' your pardon," said Darby, "I never received any of their
flitches or their flannels. I don't stand in need of them--it's an
enlightened independent convart I am."

"Well, then," continued the priest, "you must burn their tracts and
their treatises, their books and Bibles of every description, and return
to your own church."

"To become acquainted," replied Darby, "with that piece o' doctrine
in your hand there? Faith and I feel the truth o' that as it is, your
reverence; and it is yourself that can bring it home to one. But, why,
wid submission, don't you imitate Father Roche? By me sowl, I tell you
to your face, that so long; as you take your divinity from the saddler's
shop, so long you will have obedient men, but indifferent Catholics."

"What!" replied M'Cabe, in a rage, "do you dare to use such language to
my face--a reprobate--a brazen contumacious apostate! I've had this
in for you; and now (here he gave him a round half dozen) go off to
M'Slime, and Lucre, and Lord------, and when you see them, tell them
from me, that if they don't give up perverting my flock, I'll give them
enough of their own game."

Darby's face got pale, with a most deadly expression of rage--an
expression, indeed, so very different from that cringing, creeping one
which it usually wore, that M'Cabe, on looking at him, felt startled, if
not awed, intrepid and exasperated as he was. Darby stood and looked at
him coldly, but, at the same time, with unflinching fearlessness in the
face.

"You have done it," he said, "and I knew you would. Now, listen to
me--are you not as aiger to make convarts as either M'Slime or Lucre?"

"You will have it again, you scoundrel," said the curate, approaching
him with uplifted whip.

"Stand back," said Darby, "I've jist got all I wanted--stand back, or by
all the vestments ever you wore, if your whip only touches my body,
as light as if it wouldn't bend a feather, I'll have you in heaven, or
purgatory, before you can cry 'God forgive me.'"

The other still advanced, and was about to let the whip fall, when Darby
stretched his right hand before him, holding a cocked and loaded pistol
presented to the curate's breast.

"Now," said he, "let your whip fall if you like; but if you do, I'll
lodge this bullet," touching the pistol with his left forefinger, "in
your heart, and your last mass is said. You blame Lucre and M'Slime for
making convarts; but ai'en't you every bit as anxious to bring over
the Protestants as they are to bring over us? Aren't you paradin' them
Sunday af'ther Sunday, and boastin' that you are takin' more from the
heretics than they are takin' from you? Wasn't your last convart Bob
Beatty, that you brought over because he had the fallin' sickness, and
you left it upon him never to enter a church door, or taste bacon; and
now you have him that was a rank Orangeman and a blood-hound six weeks
ago, a sound Catholic to-day? Why, your reverence, with regard to
convart makin' divil the laist taste o' differ I see between you on
either side, only that they are able to give betther value in this world
for the change than you are--that's all. You're surprised at seeing my
pistols, but of late I don't go any where unprovided; for, to tell you
the thruth, either as a bailiff or a convart, it's not likely I'd be
safe widout them; and I think that yourself are a very good proof of
it."

"Very well, my good, fine, pious convart; I'll keep my eye on you. I
understand your piety."

"And I can tell you, my good, meek, pious priest, I'll keep mine on you;
and now pass on, if you're wise--and so _bannath lath_."

Each then passed on, pursuing his respective destination. They had
not gone far, however, when both chanced to look back at the same
moment--M'Cabe shook his whip, with a frown, at Darby, who, on the
other side, significantly touched the pocket in which he carried his
fire-arms, and nodded his head in return.

Now, it is an undeniable fact, that characters similar to that of Darby,
were too common in the country; and, indeed, it is to be regretted that
they were employed at all, inasmuch as the insolence of their conduct,
on the one hand, did nearly as much harm as the neglect of the
hard-hearted landlord himself, on the other. Be this as it may, however,
we are bound to say that Darby deserved much more at M'Cabe's hands than
either that Rev. gentleman was aware of then, or our readers now. The
truth was, that no sooner had M'Slime's paragraph touching Darby's
conversion gone abroad, than he became highly unpopular among the
Catholics of the parish. Father M'Cabe, in consequence of Darby's
conduct, and taking him as a specimen, uttered some lively prophecies,
touching' the ultimate fate of the new Reformation. He even admonished
his flock against Darby:--

"I have warned you all now," he said, "and if after this I hear of a
single perversion, woe be unto that pervert, for it is better for his
miserable soul that he had never been born. Is there a man here base
enough to sell his birthright for a mess of Mr. Lucre's pottage? Is
there a man here, who is not too strongly imbued with a hatred of
heresy, to laugh to scorn their bribes and their Bibles. Not a man, or,
if there is, let him go out from amongst us, in order that we may know
him--that we may avoid his outgoings and his incomings--that we may flee
from him as a pestilence--a plague--a famine. No, there is none here so
base and unprincipled as all that--and I here prophesy that from this
day forth, this Reformation has got its death-blow--and that time will
prove it. Now, remember, I warn you against their arts, their bribes,
and their temptations--and if, as I said, any one of this flock shall
prove so wicked as to join them--then, I say again, better for his
unfortunate soul that he had never come into existence, than to come in
contact with this leprous and polluted heresy."

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

In vain, therefore, did Father M'Cabe denounce and prophesy--in vain did
he launch all the dogmas of the church--in vain did he warn, lecture,
and threaten--Darby's private hint had gone abroad precisely a day
or two before their encounter, and the consequence was what might be
expected. Darby, in fact, overreached him, a circumstance of which, at
the period of their meeting, he was ignorant; but he had just learned
how "the word," as it was called, had spread, in so extraordinary a
manner, maugre all his opposition a short time before they met; and our
readers need not feel surprised at the tone and temper with which, after
having heard such intelligence, he addressed Darby, nor at the treatment
which that worthy personage received at his hands. Had he known that it
was Darby's "word" which in point of fact had occasioned "the spread"
we speak of, he would have made that worthy missionary exhibit a much
greater degree of alacrity than he did.

Before Darby arrives at Mr. Lucre's, however, we must take the liberty
of anticipating him a little, in order to be present at a conversation
which occurred on this very subject between the worthy Rector and the
Rev. Mr. Clement, his curate. Mr. Clement, like the pious and excellent
Father Roche, was one of those clergymen who feel that these unbecoming
and useless exhibitions, called religious discussions, instead of
promoting a liberal or enlarged view of religion, are only calculated to
envenom the feelings, to extinguish charity, and to contract the
heart. Nay, more, there never was a discussion, they said--and we join
them--since the days of Ussher and the Jesuit, that did not terminate in
a tumult of angry and unchristian recrimination, in which all the common
courtesies of life, not to mention the professed duties of Christian
men, were trampled on, and violated without scruple. In the preparations
for the forthcoming discussion, therefore, neither of these worthy men
took any part whatsoever. The severe duties of so large a parish, the
calls of the sick, the poor, and the dying, together with the varied
phases of human misery that pressed upon their notice as they toiled
through the obscure and neglected paths of life, all in their opinion,
and, in ours, too, constituted a sufficiently ample code of duty,
without embroiling themselves in these loud and turbulent encounters.

Mr. Clement, who, on this same day, had received a message from Mr.
Lucre, found that gentleman in remarkably good spirits. He had just
received a present of a fine haunch of venison from a fox-hunting
nobleman in the neighborhood, and was gloating over it, ere its descent
into the larder, with the ruddy fire of epicurism blazing in his eyes.
"Clement," said he, with a grave, subdued grunt of enjoyment, "come this
way--turn up the venison, Francis--eh, what say you now, Clement? Look
at the depth of the fat!--what a prime fellow that was!--see the flank
he had!--six inches on the ribs at, least! As our countryman, Goldsmith,
says, 'the lean was so white, and the fat was so ruddy.'"

Clement had often before witnessed this hot spirit of luxury, which
becomes doubly carnal and gross in a minister of God. On this occasion
he did not even smile, but replied gravely, "I am not a judge of
venison, Mr. Lucre; but, I believe you have misquoted the poet, who, I
think, says, 'the fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy.'"

"Well, that's not much, Clement; but, if you were a judge, this would
both delight and astonish you. Now, Francis, I charge you, as you value
your place, your reputation, your future welfare, to be cautious
in dressing it. You know how I wish it done, and, besides, Lord
Mountmorgage, Sir Harry Beevor, Lord ------, and a few clerical friends,
are to dine with me. Come in Clement--Francis, you have heard what
I said! If that haunch is spoiled, I shall discharge you without a
character most positively, so look to it."

When they entered the library, the table of which was covered with
religious magazines, missionary papers, and reports of religious
societies, both at home and abroad, Mr. Lucre, after throwing himself
into a rich cushioned arm-chair, motioned to his curate to take a seat.

"I have sent for you, Clement," said he, "to have your advice and
assistance on a subject, in which, I feel confident, that as a sincere
and zealous Protestant, you will take a warm interest. You have heard of
the establishment of our New Reformation Society, of course."

"I believe it is pretty generally known," replied Clement.

"It is now," replied Lucre; "but our objects are admirable. We propose
to carry controversy into all the strongholds of Popery--to enlighten
both priest and people, and, if possible, to transfer the whole Popish
population--_per satiram_--by the lump, as it were--"

"_Per saturum_, I believe," observed Clement, bowing, "if I may take the
liberty."

"Sati, satu--well, you may be right; my memory, Clement, retains large
passages best, and ever did--to transfer the whole Popish population
to the Established Church. It is a noble, a glorious speculation, if it
only can be accomplished. Think of the advantages it would confer upon
us! What stability would it not give the Church."

"I cannot exactly see what peculiar stability it would give the Church,"
replied Clement, "with the exception of mere numbers alone."

"How so--what do you mean?"

"Why, sir," replied Clement, "if we had the numbers you speak of
to-morrow, we would be certainly worse off than we are today. They could
only pay us our tithes, and that they do as it is; if they formed a
portion, and the largest portion they would form, of our church, think
of the immense number of clergy they would require to look to their
religious wants--the number of churches and chapels of ease that must be
built--the number of livings that must be divided--nay, my dear sir, in
addition to this, you may easily see, that for every one bishop now, we
should have at least four, then, and that the incomes would diminish in
proportion. As it is now, sir, we have the tithes without the trouble of
laboring for them, but it would be a different case in your new position
of affairs."

Mr. Lucre, who, in the heat of his zeal, had neither permitted himself
to see matters in this light, nor to perceive that Clement's arguments
concealed, under a grave aspect, something of irony and satire, looked
upon his curate with dismay--the smooth and rosy cheek got pale, as did
the whole purple face down to the third chin, each of which reminded one
of the diminished rainbows in the sky, if we may be allowed to except
that they were not so heavenly.

"Clement," said he, "you amaze me--that is a most exceedingly clear view
of the matter. Transfer them! no such thing, it would be a most dreadful
calamity, unless church property were proportionately increased; but,
could not that be done, Clement? Yes," said he, exulting at the idea,
as one of which he ought to feel proud, "that could and would be
done--besides I relish the multiplication of the bishoprics, under any
circumstances, and therefore we will proceed with the Reformation. At
all events, it would be a great blessing to get rid of Popery, which we
would do, if we could accomplish this glorious project."

"I must confess, sir," replied Mr. Clement gravely, "that I have never
been anxious for a mere change of speculative opinions in any man,
unless when accompanied by a corresponding improvement in his life and
morals. With respect to the Reformation Society, I beg leave to
observe that I think the plan for the present is unseasonable, and only
calculated to fill the kingdom with religious dissention and hatred.
The people, sir, are not prepared to have their religion taken by storm;
they are too shrewd for that; and I really think we have no just cause
to feel anxious for the conversion of those who cannot appreciate the
principles upon which they embrace our faith, as must be the case with
ninety-nine out of every hundred of them. I have ever been of opinion
that the policy pursued by England towards this country has been the
bane of its happiness. She deprived the Irish Roman Catholics of the
means of acquiring education, and then punished them for the crimes
which proceeded from their ignorance. They were a dissatisfied, a
tumultuous, and an impracticable, because they were an oppressed,
people; and where, by the way, is there a people, worthy to be named
such, who will or ought to rest contented under penal and oppressive
laws. But there was a day when they would have been grateful for the
relaxation of such laws. Oppression, however, has its traditions, and
so has revenge, and these can descend from father to son, without
education. If Roman Catholic disabilities had been removed at a proper
time, they would long since have been forgotten, but they were not, and
now they are remembered, and will be remembered. The prejudices of the
Roman Catholics, however, and their enmity towards those who oppressed
them, increased with their numbers and their knowledge. The religion of
those who kept them down was Protestant; and think you, sir, that, be
the merits of that religion what they may, these are the people to
come over in large masses, without esteem for us, reflection, or any
knowledge of its principles, and embrace the creed of the very men
whom they look upon as their oppressors. Sir, there is but one way of
converting the Irish, and it this:--Let them find the best arguments for
Protestantism in the lives of its ministers, and of all who profess it.
Let the higher Protestant clergy move more among the humbler classes
even of their own flocks--let them be found more frequently where
the Roman Catholic priest always is--at the sick-bed--in the house of
mourning, of death, and of sin--let them abandon the unbecoming pursuits
of an ungodly ambition--cast from them the crooked and dishonest
manoeuvres of political negotiation and intrigue--let them live more
humbly, and more in accordance with the gospel which they preach--let
them not set their hearts upon the church merely because it is a wealthy
corporation, calculated rather to gratify their own worldly ambition or
cupidity, than the spiritual exigencies of their own flocks--let them
not draw their revenues from the pockets of a poor people who disclaim
their faith, whilst they denounce and revile that faith as a thing not
to be tolerated. Let them do this, sir--free Protestantism from the
golden shackles which make it the slave of Mammon, that it may be able
to work--do this, and depend upon it, that it will then flourish as it
ought; but, in my humble opinion, until such a reform first takes place
with ourselves, it is idle to expect that Roman Catholics will come
over to us, unless, indeed, a few from sordid and dishonest motives--and
these we were better without. I think, therefore, that the present
Reformation Society is unseasonable and ill-advised, nor do I hesitate
to predict that the event will prove it so. In conclusion, sir, I am
sorry to say, that I've seldom seen one of those very zealous clergymen
who would not rather convert one individual from Popery than ten from
sin."

"Why, Clement, you are a liberal!"

"I trust, sir, I am a Christian. As for liberalism, as it is generally
understood, no man scorns the cant of it more than I do. But I cannot
think that a Roman Catholic man sincerely worshipping God--even with,
many obvious errors in his forms, or, with what we consider absurdities
in his very creed--I cannot think, I say, that such a man, worshipping
the Almighty according to his knowledge, will be damned. To think so
is precisely the doctrine of exclusive salvation, with which we charge
Popery itself."

Mr. Lucre's face, during the enunciation of these sentiments,
glowed like a furnace thrice heated--he turned up his eyes--groaned
aloud--struck the arm of his chair with his open hand--then commenced
fanning his breast, as if the act were necessary to cool that
evangelical indignation, in which there is said to be no sin.

"Clement," said he, "this--this"--here he kept fanning down his choler
for half a minute--"this is--astonishing--awful--monstrous--monstrous
doctrine to come from the lips of a clergyman--man"--another
fanning--"of the Established Church; but what is still worse,
from--from--the lips of my curate! my curate! I'll trouble you to touch
the bell--thank you, sir. But, Mr. Clement, the circumstance of giving
utterance to such opinions, so abruptly, as if you were merely stating
some common-place fact--without evincing the slightest consideration for
me--without reflecting upon who and what I am--without remembering my
position--my influence--the purity and orthodoxy of my doctrine--the
services I have rendered to religion, and to a Protestant
government--(John, a glass of water; quickly)--you forget, sir, that I
have proved the Romish Church to be both damnable and idolatrous--that
she is without the means of salvation--that her light is out--her
candlestick removed--and that she is nothing now but darkness, and
abomination, and blasphemy. Yes, sir; knowing all this, you could openly
express such doctrines, without giving me a moment's notice, or anything
to, prepare me for such a shock!--sir, I am very much distressed
indeed; but I thank my God that this excitement--(bring it here,
John; quick:)--that this excitement is Christian excitement--Christian
excitement, Mr. Clement; for I am not, I trust, without thai zeal for
the interests of my church, of my King, and of Protestantism at large,
which becomes a man who has labored for them as I have done."

Here, notwithstanding the excessive thirst which seemed to have fastened
on him, he put the glass to his lips; but, sooth to say, like the
widow's cruse, it seemed to have been gifted with the miraculous
property of going from his lips as full as when it came to them.

"I assure you, Mr. Lucre," replied Clement, "in uttering my sentiments,
I most certainly had not the slightest intention of giving you offence.
I spoke calmly, and candidly, and truly, what I think and feel--and I
regret that I should have offended you so much; for I only expressed
the common charity of our religion, which hopeth all things--is slow to
condemn, and forbids us to judge, lest we be judged."

"Clement," said Mr. Lucre, who, to speak truth, had ascribed his
excitement--what a base, servile, dishonest, hypocritical scoundrel of
a word is that excitement--ready to adopt any meaning, to conceal any
failing, to disguise any fact, to run any lying message whatsoever at
the beck and service of falsehood or hypocrisy. If a man is drunk, in
steps excitement--Lord, sir, he was only excited, a little excited;--if
a man is in a rage, like Mr. Lucre, he is only excited, moved by
Christian excitement--out upon it!--but, like every other slavish
instrument, we must use it--had ascribed his excitement, we say, to
causes that had nothing whatsoever to do in occasioning it--the _bona
fide_ one being the indirect rebuke, to him, and the class to which
he belonged, that was contained in Clement's observations upon the
Established Church and her ecclesiastics. "Clement," said he, "I must be
plain with you. For some time past I have really suspected the soundness
of your views--I had doubts of your orthodoxy; but out of consideration
for your large family, I did not press you for an explanation."

"Then, sir," replied Clement, "allow me to say, that as an orthodox
clergyman, jealous of the purity of our creed, and anxious for the
spiritual welfare of your flock, it was your duty to have done so. As
for me, I shall be at all times both ready and willing to render
an account of the faith that is in me. I neither fear nor deprecate
investigation, sir, I assure you."

"I certainly knew not, however, that you were so far gone in
latitudinarianism, as I find, unfortunately, to be the case. I hold a
responsible--a sacred situation, as a Protestant minister, Mr. Clement,
and consequently cannot suffer such doctrine to spread through my flock.
Besides, had you taken an active part in promoting this Reformation,
as, with your learning and talents I know you could have done--I make no
allusion now to your unhappy principles--had you done so it was my fixed
intention to have increased your salary ten pounds per annum, out of my
own pocket, notwithstanding the great claims that are upon me."

"My legal salary, I believe, Mr. Lucre, is seventy-five pounds per
annum, and the value of your benefice is one thousand four hundred. I
may say the whole duty is performed by me. Out of that one thousand four
hundred, I receive sixty; but I shall add nothing more--for indeed I
have yet several visits to make before I go home. As to my orthodoxy,
sir, you will take your own course. To my bishop I am ready to explain
my opinions; they are in accordance with the Word of God; and if for
entertaining them I am deprived of the slender support for which I
labor, as your curate, my trust in God will not be the less."

Mr. Lucre declined any reply, but bowed very politely, and rang
the bell, to order his carriage, as a hint to Mr. Clement that the
conversation was closed. The latter bowed, bade him good morning, and
departed.

When Mr. Clement said he had some visits to make, we must, lest the
reader might suppose they are visits of ceremony, follow his steps in
order to learn the nature of these visits.

About half a mile from the Glebe house of Castle Cumber, the meek and
unassuming curate entered into an abode of misery and sorrow, which
would require a far more touching pen than ours to describe. A poor
widow sat upon the edge of a little truckle bed with the head of one of
her children on her lap; another lay in the same bed silent and feeble,
and looking evidently ill. Mr. Clement remembered to have seen the boy
whom she supported, not long before playing about the cottage, his rosy
cheeks heightened into a glow of health and beauty by the exercise, and
his fair, thick-clustered hair blown about by the breeze. The child was
dying, and the tender power of a mother's love prompted her to keep him
as near her breaking heart as she could, during the short space that
remained of his brief existence. When Mr. Clement entered, the lonely
mother looked upon him with an aspect of such bitter sorrow, of such
helpless supplication in her misery, as if she said, am I left to the
affliction of my own heart! Am I cut off from the piety and comfort,
which distress like mine ought to derive from Christian sympathy and
fellowship! Have I not even a human face to look upon, but those of my
dying children! Such in similar circumstances are the questions which
the heart will ask. She could not immediately speak, but with the head
of her dying boy upon her heart she sat in mute and unbroken agony,
every pang of her departing orphan throwing a deeper shade of affliction
over her countenance, and a keener barb of sorrow into her heart.

The champion of God, however, was at his post. He advanced to the
bed-side, and in tones which proclaimed the fulness of his sympathy in
her sufferings, and with a countenance lit up by that trust in heaven
which long trials of his own and similar bereavements had given him, he
addressed her in words of comfort and consolation, and raised her heart
to better hopes than any which this world of care and trial can bestow.
It is difficult, however, to give comfort in such moments, nor is it
prudent to enforce it too strongly. The widow looked upon her boy's
face, which was sweetly marked with the graces of innocence, even in
the throes of death. The light of life was nearly withdrawn from his dim
blue eye; but he felt from time to time for the mother's, hands, and
the mother's bosom. He was striving, too, to utter his little complaint;
attempting probably to describe his sufferings, and to beg relief from
his unhappy parent; but the dissolving power of death was on all his
faculties; his words lapsed into each, other indistinctly, and were
consequently unintelligible. Mrs. Vincent, for such was the widow's
name, heard the words addressed to her by Mr. Clement; she raised her
eyes, to heaven for a moment, and then turned them, heavy with misery,
upon her dying boy. Her heart--her hopes:--almost her whole being
were peculiarly centered in the object before her; and though she had
imagined that sympathy might support her, she now felt that no human
power could give her consolation. The tears were falling fast from Mr.
Clement's cheeks, who felt, that until the agonies of the boy were
over, it would be vain to offer her any kind of support. At length she
exclaimed--

"Oh! Saviour, who suffered the agony of the cross, and who loved little
children like him, let your mercy descend upon my beloved! Suffer him to
come to you soon. Oh! Saviour--hear a mother's prayer, for I loved him
above all, and he was our life! Core of my heart, you are striving to
tell your mother what you suffer, but the weight of death is upon your
tongue, and you cannot do it! I am here, my beloved sufferer--I am
here--you struggle to find my hands to tell me--to tell me--but I cannot
help you."

"Mrs. Vincent," said the curate, "we have reason to believe that what
appears to us to be the agony of death, is not felt so severely as we
imagine; strive to moderate your grief--and reflect that he will soon
be in peace, and joy, and happiness, that will never end. His little
sorrows and sufferings will soon be over, and the bosom of a merciful
God will receive him into life and glory."

"But, sir," replied the widow, the tears fast streaming down her cheeks,
"do you not see what he suffers? Look at the moisture that is on his
little brow, and see how he writhes with the pain. He thinks that I can
stop it, and it is for that he presses my hand. During his whole illness
that was still his cry--'oh, mother, take away this pain, why don't you
take away the pain!'"

Mr. Clement was a father, and an affectionate one, and this allusion
to the innocence of the little sufferer touched his heart, and he was
silent.

The widow proceeded: "there he lies, my only--only son--his departed
father's image, and I looked up to him to be one day my support, my
pride, and my happiness--but see what he is now! Oh! James, James,
wouldn't I lay down my life to save yours!"

"You look at the dark side of the picture, Mrs. Vincent," said the
curate. "Think upon what he may escape by his early and his happy death.
You know not, but that there was crime, and sin, and affliction before
him. Consider how many parents there are now in the world, who would
feel happy that their children, who bring shame, and distress, and
misery upon them, had been taken to God in their childhood. And, surely,
there is still a God to provide for your self and your other little
ones; for remember, you have still those who have tender claims upon
your heart."

"I know you are right, sir," she replied "but in cases like this, nature
must have its way. Death, death, but you're cruel! Oh--blessed Father,
what is this!"

One last convulsive spasm, one low agonizing groan, accompanied by a
relaxation of the little fingers which had pressed her hands, closed the
sufferings of the widow's pride. She stooped wildly over him and pressed
him to her heart, as if by doing so she could draw his pains into her
own frame, as they Were already in her spirit; but his murmurings were
silent, and on looking closely into his countenance, she perceived that
his Redeemer had, indeed, suffered her little one to go unto him; that
all his little pains and agonies were over forever.

"His sufferings are past," she exclaimed, "James, your sufferings are
over!" As she uttered the words, the curate was astonished by hearing
her burst out into one or two wild hysteric laughs, which happily ended
in tears.

"No more," she continued, "you'll feel no more pain now, my precious
boy; your voice will never sound in my ears again; you'll never call
on me to say 'mother, take away my pain;' the Sunday mornin' will never
come when I will take pride in dressing you. My morning and evening kiss
will never more be given--all my heart was fixed on is gone, and I care
not now what becomes of me."

What could the good curate do? He strove to soothe, sustain, and comfort
her, but in vain; the poor widow heard him not.

"Jenny," said she, at length, turning to, the other sick child, "your
brother is at rest! James is at rest; he will disturb your sleep now no
more--nor will you disturb his."

"Oh! but he couldn't help it, mammy; it was the pain that made him."

As the child uttered these words, the widow put her hand to her heart,
gave two or three rapid sobs--her bosom heaved, and her head fell back
over a chair that was accidentally beside her. Mr. Clement caught her
in time to prevent her from falling; he placed her upright on the chair,
which he carried to, the little dresser, where he found a jug of water,
the only drink she had to give her sick children. With this he bathed
her temples and wet her lips, after which he looked upon the scene of
death and affliction by which he was surrounded.

"Gracious Father," he exclaimed, "let, your mercy reach this most
pitiable family! Look with eyes of pity and compassion upon this
afflicted and bereaved woman! Oh, support her--she is poor and nearly
heart-broken, and the world has abandoned her! Oh, do not abandon her,
Father of all mercy, and God of all consolation!"

As he concluded, the widow recovered, and felt his tears falling upon
her face. On looking she perceived how deeply he was affected. Her lips
opened unconsciously with a blessing on him who shared in, and soothed
her sorrows--her voice was feeble, for she had not yet recovered her
strength; but the low murmur of her prayers and blessings rose like the
sounds of sweet but melancholy music to heaven, and was heard there.

Mr. Clement then went over to the bed, and with his own hands smoothed
it down for the little sick sister of the departed boy, adjusting the
bed-clothes about her as well as he could, for the other children were
too., young to do anything. He then divided the hair upon the
lifeless child's forehead--contemplated his beautiful features for a
moment--caught his little hand in his--let it fall--oh! how lifelessly!
he then shook his head, raised his eyes, and pointing to heaven,
exclaimed--

"There--Mrs. Vincent, let your hopes lie there."

He then departed, with a promise of seeing her soon.




CHAPTER XII.--Interview between Darby and Mr. Lucre

--Darby feels Scriptural, and was as Scripturally treated--Mr. Lucre's
Christian Disposition towards Father M'Cabe--A few Brands offer
Themselves to be Plucked from the Burning--Their Qualification, for
Conversion, as stated by Themselves.


Mr. Lucre, like almost every Protestant rector of the day, was a
magistrate, a circumstance which prevented Mr. Clement from feeling
any surprise at seeing a considerable number of persons, of both sexes,
approaching the glebe. He imagined, naturally enough, that they were
going upon law business, as it is termed--for he knew that Mr. Lucre,
during his angel visits to Castle Cumber, took much more delight in
administering the law than the gospel, unless, when ready made, in the
shape of Bibles. When Darby, also, arrived, he found a considerable
number of these persons standing among a little clump of trees in the
lawn, apparently waiting for some person to break the ice, and go in
first--a feat which each felt anxious to decline himself, whilst he
pressed it very strongly upon his neighbor. No sooner had Darby made
his appearance than a communication took place between him and them,
in which it was settled that he was to have the first interview, and
afterwards direct the conduct and motions of the rest. There was,
indeed, a dry, knowing look about him, which seemed to imply, in fact,
that they were not there without some suggestion from himself.

Darby was very well known to Mr. Lucre, for whom he had frequently acted
in the capacity of a bailiff; he accordingly entered with something like
an appearance of business, but so admirably balanced was his conduct on
this occasion, between his usual sneaking and servile manner, and
his privileges as a Christian, that it would be difficult to witness
anything so inimitably well managed as his deportment. One circumstance
was certainly strongly in his favor; Father M'Cabe had taken care to
imprint with his whip a _prima facie_ testimony of sincerity upon
his countenance, which was black, and swollen into large welts by the
exposition of doctrinal truth which he had received at that gentleman's
hands. Lucre, on seeing him, very naturally imagined he was coming
to lodge informations for some outrage committed on him either in the
discharge of his duty as bailiff, or, for having become a convert, a
fact with which he had become acquainted from the True Blue.

"Well, O'Drive," said he, "what is the matter now? you are sadly
abused--how came this to pass?"

Darby first looked upwards, very like a man who was conscientiously
soliciting some especial grace or gift from above; his lips moved as if
in prayer, but he was otherwise motionless--at length he ceased--drew
a lone breath, and assumed the serenity of one whose prayer had
been granted. The only word he uttered that could possibly be at all
understood, was amen; which he pronounced lowly, but still distinctly,
and in as unpopish a manner as he could.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he replied, "but now my heart's aisier--I hope
I have overcome that feeling that was an me--I can now forgive him for
the sake of the spread o' the gospel, and I do."

"What has happened your face?--you are sadly abused!"

"A small taste o' parsecution, sir, which the Lord put into Father
M'Cabe's horsewhip--heart I mane--to give me, bekaise I renounced his
hathenism, and came into the light o' thruth--may He be praised for it!"
Here followed an upturning of the eyes after the manner of M'Slime.

"Do you mean to tell me, O'Drive, that this outrage has been committed
on you by that savage priest, M'Cabe?"

"It was he left me as you see, sir--but it's good to suffer in this
world, especially for the thruth. Indeed I am proud of this face," he
continued, blinking with a visage so comically disastrous at Mr. Lucre,
that had that gentleman had the slightest possible perception of the
ludicrous in his composition, not all the gifts and graces that ever
were poured down upon the whole staff of the Reformation Society
together, would have prevented him from laughing outright. "Of course
you are come," pursued Lucre, "to swear information against this man?"

"I have prayed for it," said Darby in a soliloquy, "and I feel that it
has been granted. Swear information, sir?--I'll strive and do betther
than that, I hope; I must now take my stand by the Bible, sir; that will
be the color I'll hoist while I live. In that blessed book I read these
words this mornin', 'love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do
good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you
and parsecute you.' Sir, when I read these words, I felt them slidin'
into my heart, and I couldn't help repeatin' them to myself, ever
since--and, even when Father M'Cabe was playin' his whip about my ears,
I was as hard at work prayin' for his sowl."

This, we have no doubt, was perfectly true, only we fear that our
blessed convert forgot to state the precise nature and object of the
prayer in question, and to mention whether it was to the upper or lower
settlement he consigned the soul alluded to. This Christian spirit of
Darby's, however, was by no means in keeping with that of Mr. Lucre, who
never was of opinion, in his most charitable of moods, that the gospel
should altogether supersede the law. On this occasion, especially, he
felt an acuteness of anxiety to got the priest within his power, which
the spirit of no gospel that ever was written could repress. M'Cabe and
he had never met, or, at least, never spoke; but the priest had, since
the commencement of the new movement, sent him a number of the most
ludicrous messages, and transmitted to him, for selection, a large
assortment of the most comical and degrading epithets. Here, then,
was an opportunity of gratifying his resentment in a Christian and
constitutional spirit, and with no obstacle in his way but Darby's
inveterate piety. This, however, for the sake of truth, he hoped to
remove, or so modify, that it would not prevent him from punishing that
very disloyal and idolatrous delinquent.

"Those feelings, O'Drive, are all very good and creditable to you, and
I am delighted indeed that you entertain them--but, in the meantime, you
owe a duty to society greater than that which you owe to yourself.
This man, this priest--a huge, ferocious person I understand he is--has
latterly been going about the parish foaming and raging, and seeking
whom he can horsewhip."

"That's thruth, sir, poor dark hathen--an', sir--jist beggin' your
pardon for one minute, half a minute, sir--you know we're desired when
an inimy strikes us upon one cheek to turn the other to him; well, as I
said, sir, I found myself very Scriptural this whole day, so when he hit
me the first welt on this cheek, I turns round the other, an' now look
at the state it's in, sir--but that's not all, sir, he tuck the hint at
once, and gave it to me on both sides, till he left me as you see me.
Still, sir, I can forgive him, and I have done it."

"That, as I said, reflects great credit on your principles--but, in the
meantime, you can still retain these principles and prosecute him.
Your lodging informations against him does not interfere with your own
personal forgiveness of him at all--because it is in behalf of, and for
the safety of society that you come forward to prosecute now."

Darby, who in point of fact had his course already taken, shook his head
and replied, falling back upon the form of M'Slime's language as much as
he could--

"I feel, sir," he replied, "that I'm not permitted."

"Permitted!" repeated the other. "What do you menu?"

"I'm not permitted from above, sir, to prosecute this man. I'm not
justified in it."

"Quite ridiculous, O'Drive, where did you pick up this jargon of the
conventicle--but that reminds me, by the by--you are not a convert
to the Established Church. You belong to the Dissenters, and owe your
change of opinions to Mr. M'Slime."

"If I don't belong to the Established Church now, sir," replied Darby,
"I won't be long so."

"Why," inquired the other, "are you not satisfied with the denomination
of Christians you have joined?"

"M'Slime, sir, converted me--as you say--but I've great objections--and
between you and me, I, fear it's not altogether safe for any man to take
his religion from an attorney."

A smile, as much as he could condescend to, passed over the haughty, but
dignified features of Mr. Lucre.

"O'Drive," said he, "I did not think you possessed so much simplicity
of character as I perceive you do--but touching the prosecution of this
man--you must lodge information, forthwith. You shall bring the warrant
to Mr. M'Clutchy who will back it, and put it into the hands of those
who will lose little time in having it executed."

"I am sorry, sir, that my conscience doesn't justify me in doin' what
you wish."

"What do you mean by conscience, sir?" asked the other, getting warm,
"if you have a conscience you will have no scruple in punishing a man
who is an open enemy to truth, to the gospel, and to the spread of it
through a benighted land. How can you reconcile it to your conscience to
let such a man escape."

"Simply by forgiving him, sir--by lettin' the great, big, ignorant
hathen, have the full benefit of a gospel forgiveness. That's what I
mean, sir, and surely it stands to sense that I couldn't prosecute him
wid these feelin's, barrin' I'd go against the Word."

"O'Drive," said Lucre, evidently mortified at Darby's obstinacy, "one of
two things is true; either you are utterly ignorant, perhaps, with every
disposition to know them, of the sanctions and obligations of religion,
or you are still a Papist at heart, and an impostor. I tell you, sir,
once more, that it is upon religious grounds that you ought to prosecute
this wild priest; because in doing so, you render a most important
service to religion and morality, both of which are outraged in his
person. You ought to know this. Again, sir, if you are a Protestant, and
have thoroughly cast Popery from your heart, you must necessarily be a
loyal man and a good subject; but if you refuse to prosecute him, you
can be neither the one nor the other, but a Papist and an impostor,
and I've done with you. If Mr. M'Clutchy knew, sir, that you refused
to prosecute a priest for such a violent outrage upon your person, I
imagine you would not long hold the situation of bailiff under him."

Darby looked into the floor like a philosopher solving a problem.
"I see, sir," said he, "I see--well--you have made that clear enough
sartinly; but you know, sir, how could you expect such deep raisoning
upon these subjects from a man like me. I see the duty of it now
clearly; but, when, sir, on the other hand if I prosecute him, what's to
become of me? Will you, sir, bear my funeral expenses?"

"Every penny, O'Drive," replied the other, eagerly. "Tut," he exclaimed,
checking himself, "I--I--I thought you meant the expenses of the
prosecution."

"It's much the same, sir," replied Darby, "the one will be sure to
follow the other. You know the state the country's in now, sir, and
how the people on both sides are ready to skiver one another about this
religion, and rents and tithes, and dear knows what besides. As it
is, sir," he proceeded, "you see that I dursn't walk the road without
these," and he produced the pistols as he spoke, "but what chance, sir,
would I have if I prosecuted a priest? Why, my life wouldn't be worth
two hours' purchase."

Mr. Lucre himself could not help feeling and admitting the truth of
this, but as he could devise no plan to obviate the dangers alluded to,
he still scrupled not to urge the prosecution.

"Sir," said Darby starting, as if a gleam of light had shot across his
brain, "a thought has just struck me, and I hope it was something from
above that sent it. If there was any kind of situation, sir, that
I could fill, and that would keep me in a place of safety where the
hathens couldn't get at me, everything would be right; and be the same
token, sir, now that I think of it, isn't the under gaoler-ship of
Castle Cumber vacant this minute."

Lucre who, in fact, had set his heart on prosecuting and punishing the
priest, would have gladly made Darby governor of the best gaol in his
majesty's dominions, rather than lose this opportunity of effecting his
purpose.

"Rest contented, O'Drive," he replied, "you shall have it--I pledge
myself that you shall have it. My influence is sufficient for much more
than so paltry a trifle as that. And now for the informations."

"Ah, sir," replied the other, "that wouldn't mend the matter a bit. Let
it go once abroad that I swore them, and I'd never see to-morrow night.
No, sir, if you wish him properly prosecuted,--and I think I ought to
know how to do it, too;--but if you wish him properly punished, place
me first out of harm's way--out o' the reach o' the hathens; put me into
the situation before we take a single step in the business, then I'll be
safe and can work in it to some purpose."

"It shall be done," said Lucre, "and I will go about it presently, but
in the mean time the matter rests as it is. If what you say is true, and
I believe it is, your own safety depends upon your silence."

"Not a breath," replied Darby; "and now, sir, about what brought me
here--I wanted to say that I'd wish '_to read_' upon Sunday next."

"What do you mean?" asked Lucre.

"Why, sir, as I said, I don't like to take my religion from an
attorney--and I'm afeard, besides, that he's not altogether orthybox,
in regard that he hinted once that God was ------; but, indeed I
disremember his words, for it wasn't aisy to hould them when you got
them."

"He, of course, is a Fatalist and Predestinarian," said Lucre; "but
what is this you were about to say?"

"Why, sir, that I'd wish publicly to read my recompensation in your
church on Sunday next."

"And why in my church?" asked the proud parson, who felt his vanity
touched, not by anything Darby had yet said, but by the indescribable
expression of flattery which appeared in his face.

"Why, sir," he replied, "bekase it's given out on all hands that there's
no end to your larnin'--that it's wondherful the books you wrote--and
as for your preachin', that it 'ud make one think themselves in heaven,
hell, or purgatory, accordin as you wished."

"Very well, O'Drive, very well indeed," exclaimed Lucre, caught on
his weakest side by this artful compliment; "but you must forget
purgatory--however I can conceive that it was the mere force of
habit that prompted you to utter it. Well, then, you shall read your
recantation on Sunday, since you wish it--there will be about a dozen or
two others, and you had better attend early. Good-day, O'Drive!"

"Plaise your honor," said Darby, who never could be honest to both
parties, "there's a batch o' convarts outside waitin' to see you, but
between you and me, I think you had as well be on your guard wid some o'
them, I know what they want."

"And pray, what is that, O'Drive?"

"Why, thin, for fraid I may be doin' the crathurs injustice, sir, I
won't say; only jist take my hint, any how. Good mornin' kindly, sir!"

As Darby passed the group we have alluded to, he winked at them very
knowingly, "go up," said he, "go up I say:--may be I didn't give yez
a lift since, and mark me, huld to the five guineas a head, and to be
provided for aftherwards. Paddy Cummins do you go up, I say--bannath
lath!"

Paddy went up, and in a few minutes a ragged, famine-wasted creature
entered with his old caubeen between his hands, and after having ducked
down his head, and shrugged his shoulders alternately, stood with an
abashed look before Mr. Lucre.

"Well, my good man, what is your business with me?"

To this the countryman prepared to reply,--first, by two or three
additional shrugs; secondly, by raising his right elbow, and pulling
up all that remained of the collar of his tattered cothamore, or great
coat, after which he gave a hem.

"Have you no tongue, my good fellow?"

A shrug--"hem--why, sir, but that was a great sarmon you praiched
on last Sunda', plaise you honor. Faitha, sir, there was mighty fine
discoorsin' in it about rail-ligion?"

"O! the sermon--did you hear it, my good man?"

"Faitha, sir, I was there sure enough, in spite o' Father M'Cabe, an'
all."

"Sit down, my good friend, sit down--well, you attended the sermon, you
say--pray how did you like it?"

"Faitha, sir, sure nobody could dislike it bedad, sir, we're all greatly
disappointed wid the priests afther hearin' it--it was wondherful to
hear, the deep larnin' you brought forrid, sir, against them, an' our
church in gineral. Begad myself was mightily improved by it."

"Don't swear, though--well you were improved by it, you say--pray what
is your name?"

"I'm one Paddy Cummins, sir, a shister's son of--"

"Well, Cummins, I'm very happy to hear that you were edified, and
happier still that you had sense to perceive the side upon which truth
lay."

"Faitha, thin, your reverence, I seen that widout much throuble; but,
sure they say, sir, there's to be a power of us turnin' over to yez."

"I hope so, Cummins--we are anxious that you should see the errors of
the creed you so ignorantly profess, and abandon them."

"Sure enough, sir--dad, sir, your ministhers is fine men, so you
are--then you're so rich, sir, plaise your honor--they do be sayin',
sir, that the reverend gintlemen of your church have got a great deal of
money among them somehow, in regard that it 'ud be needful to help poor
crathurs that 'ud turn, and keep them from the parsecution, sir."

"Cummins, my good friend, allow me to set you right. We never give
a penny of money to any one for the sake of bringing him over to our
church; if converts come to us it must be from conviction, not from
interest."

"I see, sir--but sure I'm not wantin' the promise at all, your
honor--sure I know you must keep yourselves clear anyway--only the five
guineas a head that I'm tould is to be given."

"Five guineas a head!--pray who told you so?"

"Faitha, sir, I couldn't exactly say, but every one says it. It's said
we're to get five guineas a head, sir, and be provided for afther; I
have nine o' them, sir, eight crathurs and Biddy herself--she can't
spake English, but, wid the help o' God, I could consthre it for her.
Faith, she'd make a choice Prodestan, sir, for wanst she takes a thing
into her head the devil wouldn't get it out. As for me, I don't want a
promise at all, your reverence, barrin' that if it 'ud be plaisin' to
you, jist to lay your forefinger along your nose--merely to show that
we undherstand one another--it 'ud be as good to me as the bank. The
crathur on the breast, your reverence, we'd throw in as a luck penny, or
dhuragh, and little Paddy we give at half price."

"Did you hear all this?"

"Faitha, then, we did, sir--and sure, as you don't like to have the
thing known, I can keep my tongue atween my teeth as well as e'er a
convart livin'--an' as for Biddy, by only keepin' her from the dhrink,
she's as close as the gate of heaven to a heretic. Bedad, sir, this new
light bates everything."

"My good friend, Cummins, I tell you I have no money to give,--neither
is there anything to be given,--for the sake of conversion--but, if
your notions of your own religion are unsettled, put yourself under Lord
------'s chaplain; and, if, in the due course of time, he thinks you
sufficiently improved to embrace our faith, you and your family may be
aided by some comforts suitable to your condition."

Cummins' face lengthened visibly at 'an intimation which threw him so
far from his expectations; the truth being, that he calculated upon
receiving the money the moment he read his recantation. He looked at
Mr. Lucre again as significantly as he could--gave his head a scratch of
remonstrance--shrugged himself as before--rubbed his elbow--turned round
his hat slowly, examined its shape, and gave it a smarter set, after
which he gave a dry hem and prepared to speak.

"I'll hear nothing further on the subject," said the other, "withdraw."

Without more ado Cummins slunk out of the room, highly disappointed, but
still not without hopes from Lord ------, to whom, or his chaplain, he
resolved to apply. In the meantime he made the best of his way home to
his starving wife and children, without having communicated the result
of his visit to those who were assembled at the glebe house.

He had scarcely left the hall door when another claimant for admission
presented himself in the person of a huge, tattered fellow, with red,
stiff hair standing up like reeds through the broken crown of his hat,
which he took off on entering. This candidate for Protestantism had
neither shoe nor stocking on him, but stalked in, leaving the prints of
his colossal feet upon the hall through which he passed.

"Well, friend, what is wrong with you?--why did'nt you rub your filthy
feet, sir, before you entered the room? You have soiled all my carpet."

"I beg your honor's parding," said the huge fellow; "I'll soon cure
that." Having said which he trotted up to the hearth-rug, in which,
before Lucre had time even to speak, by a wipe from each foot, he left
two immense streaks of mud, which we guess took some hard scrubbing to
remove. "Now, your honor, I hope I'll do."

Lucre saw it was useless to remonstrate with him, and said, with more
temper than could be expected--

"Man, what's your business?"

"I come, sirra,"--this man had a habit of pronouncing sir as sirra,
which he could never overcome--"to tell your reverence to enther me down
at wanst."

"For what purpose should I enter you down?"

"For the money, sirra; I have seven o' them, and we'll all go. You
may christen us if you wish, sirra. 'Deed I'm tould we must all be
christened over agin, an' in that case, maybe it 'ud be plaisin' to you
to stand godfather for me, yourself, your reverence."

"What do you mean?--but I suppose I understand you."

"I mean, sirra, to become a Protestan--I an' my family, I'm Nickey
Feasthalagh, that was in on suspicion o' the burnin' of Nugent's hay;
and by them five crasses I was as innocent of that as the child onborn,
so I was. Sure they couldn't prove an me, becoorse I came out wid flying
colors, glory be to God! Here I am now, sir, an' a right good Prodestan
I'll make when I come to understand it. An' let me whisper this, sirra,
I'll be dam useful in fairs and markets to help the Orangemen to lick
ourselves, your honor, in a skrimmage or party fight, or anything o'
that kidney."

"I am sorry, Nick Fistula, as you say your name is--"

"Mickey, sirra."

"Well, Nickey, or Nick, or whatever it may be, I am sorry to say that
you won't do. You are too great an ornament to your own creed ever to
shine in ours. I happen to know your character--begone."

"Is Misthre Lucre widin?" asked a third candidate, whose wife
accompanied him--"if he is, maybe you'd tell him that one Barney Grattan
wishes to have a thrifle o' speech wid his honor."

"Come in," said the servant with a smile, after having acquainted his
master.

The man and his wife accordingly entered, having first wiped their feet
as they had been ordered.

"Well, my good man, what's your business."

"Rosha, will you let his honor know what we wor spakin' about? She'll
tell you, sir."

"Plaise your honor," said she, "we're convarts."

"Well," said Mr. Lucre, "that is at least coming to the point. And pray,
my good woman, who converted you?"

"Faix, the accounts that's abroad, sir, about the gintleman from Dublin,
that's so full of larnin', your reverance, and so rich, they say."

"Then it was the mere accounts that wrought this change in you?"

"_Dhamnu orth a Rosha, go dhe shin dher thu?_" said the husband in
Irish; for he felt that the wife was more explicit than was necessary.
"Never heed her, sir; the crathur, your reverence, is so through other,
that she doesn't know what she's sayin', especially spakin' to so
honorable a gentleman as your reverence."

"Then let us hear your version, or rather your conversion."

"Myself, sir, does be thinkin' a great deal about these docthrines and
jinnyologies that people is now all runnin' upon. I can tell a story,
sir, at a wake, or an my kailee wid a, neighbor, as well as e'er a man
in the five parishes. The people say I'm very long headed all out, and
can see far into a thing. They do, indeed, plaise your reverence."

"Very good."

"Did you ever hear about one Fin M'Cool who was a great buffer in his
day, and how his wife put the trick upon a big bosthoon of a giant that
came down from Munster to bother Fin? Did you ever hear that, sir?"

"No; neither do I wish to hear it just now."

"Nor the song of Beal Derg O'Donnel, sir, nor the 'Fairy River,'
nor 'the Life and Adventures of Larry Dorneen's Ass,' plaise your
reverence."

"No--but I wish you would allow your wife to relate your business here."

"Well, sir, the people say I'm very longheaded, and can see far into a
thing--"

"But, my good man, I care not what the people say--tell your story
briefly."

"--An' can see far into a thing, your reverence, becaise I'm
long-headed. All longheaded people, sir, is cute, an' do you know why
they're cute, sir? No, you don't, but I'll tell you--bekaise they're
long-headed. Now, sir, what 'ud you think to turn Roman Catholic awhile
till I'd malivogue you in arguin' Scripture?--I want to prove to you,
sir, that I'm the boy that understands things."

"What's your business with me?"

"Will you thry it, sir, and you'll see how I'll sober you to your
heart's delight."

"What brought your husband to me, my good woman?"

"_Bhe dha husth; fag a rogarah lumsa_."

"He's comin' to it, plaise your reverence," said the wife.

"Well, sir, so you see, bein' given to deep ways of thinkin' o' my own,
I had many bouts at arguin' Scripthur--as every longheaded man has, of
coorse--an' yestherday meetin' wid Brian Broghan, the mealman--him that
keeps it up on the poor, sir--he challenged me, but, in three skips of
a Scotch Gray, I sacked him cleaner than one of his own meal bags, and
dusted him afterwards:--'so,' says he, misther Grattan, see what it is
to be long-headed."

"It's worse," observed Lucre, "to be long-winded. Come to an end, sir."

"'Long-headed,' says he, 'an', of coorse you'll be takin' the money,'
says Brougham; 'what money?' says I. 'Why, the five guineas,' says he,
'that the Biblemen is givin' to every one that will turn wid them, he
happens to be long-headed--but otherwise, not a penny.' So, sir, myself,
you see, havin' the intention to come over long afore for fraid yez
might think it was for the money I am doin' it. But is there such a
thing, sir?"

"Not a penny, and so you may tell your friends."

"Well, but, sir, grantin' that, still you'll acknowledge that I'm
long-headed."

"No, only long-winded."

"Not long-headed, then?"

"No, certainly not."

"_Damnu orth a veehone bradagh!_ come Rosha. Not long-headed! troth it's
a poor religion to depind on--an' I'll make a show of it yet, if I'm
spared. Come, woman alive."

Honest Barney was the last but one who was honored by a hearing, though
not the last by a score of those who expected it, and, sooth to say, the
appearance of that one threw the whole proceedings into such exquisite
ridicule, that we cannot resist the temptation of giving his claims and
arguments a place among the rest. The convert in question was no other
than our old friend _Raymond-na-hattha_, or Raymond of the hats; who,
moved by the example of others, and only possessed of a dim notion of
the cause that brought them together, came among them from that vague
motive of action which prompts almost every creature like him to make
one in a crowd, wherever it may assemble. The mind of poor Raymond
was of a very anomalous character indeed; for his memory, which was
wonderful, accumulated in one heterogeneous mass, all the incidents
in which he had ever taken any part, and these were called out of the
confusion, precisely as some chord of association happened to be struck
in any conversation which he held. For this reason he sometimes uttered
sentiments that would have come with more propriety from the lips of a
philosopher than a fool, and again fell to the level of pure idiotism,
so singular were his alternations from sense to nonsense. Lucre's
porter, himself a wag, knew perfectly well what was going forward, and,
indeed, took very considerable delight in the movement. When Raymond
presented himself, the porter, to whom he was very well known,
determined, for the joke's sake, that he should have the honor of an
interview as well as the rest. Lucre, as we said, being but seldom at
Castle Cumber, was ignorant of Raymond's person and character, and,
indeed, we may add, that he stood in a position precisely similar with
respect to almost every one of his own flock. When Raymond entered,
then, he was addressed in much the same terms as the others.

"Well, friend, what is your business?--

"John, admit no more, and let the carriage come round--are you a convert
also?"

"Yes, I am; what have you to give me?"

"A pure and peaceful religion, my friend."

"Where is it?"

"In this book--this is the Word of God, that preacheth peace and
salvation to all."

"Has Val M'Clutchy this book?"

"Of course he has--it is not to be supposed that so able and staunch a
friend of Protestantism, of the religion of the state, could be without
this book, or ignorant of it."

Raymond put it tip to his nose, and after seeming to smell it, said,
with a strong shudder, "how did you do this among you? How did you do
it?--look at it--see, see, it's dripping wid blood--here's murder
on this page, there's starvation on that--there's the blood-hounds
huntin'--look, sir, look at the poor creature almost worn down, makin'
his way to hide, but he can't; they have him, they have him--see how
they drag him, as if he was, a--ay, drag, drag, he's yours now, he's
yours--whip and scourge, whip and scourge--more blood, more blood--and
this is it, this--don't you see it, sir, comin' down in drops when I
hould it up that way!"

"My good friend, you are certainly in liquor--your language is that of a
man strongly affected by drink."

"And this is it," Raymond proceeded; "look at this page, that's not the
one the blood is on; no, no, there's nothing here but madness. Ah!" said
he, lowering his voice to a tone of deep compassion, "sure she's mad;
they killed Hugh O'Began, and they killed the two sons, and then she
went mad.--So, you see, there it is now--on that page there's blood,
and, on this one,--with the big letter on it, there's madness. Then agin
comes the Turnin' out. How would you like to walk three long, dreary
miles, in sleet, and frost, and snow, havin' no house to go to--wid
thin breeches to your bottom, an' maybe a hole in them--widout shoe or
stockin' on your hooves--wid a couple of shiverin', half starved, sick
childre, tied by an ould praskeen to your back, an' you sinkin' wid
hunger all the time?--ay, and the tail o' your old coat blown up behind
every minute, like a sparrow before the wind!--Eh, how would you like
it?"

Lucre still stuck to the hypothesis of liquor, and accordingly went and
rang the porter's bell, who immediately appeared.

"John," said his master, "I desire you will immediately show this man
out--he is so scandalously affected with liquor, that he knows not the
purport of his own language."

John approached his master with a face of awful tenor:--"for God's sake,
sir," said he, "don't say a word that might cross him, sure he's the
great madman, _Raymond-na-hattha_. Just sit still, and let him take
his own way, and he'll do no harm in life; appear to listen to him, and
he'll be like a child--but, if you go to harshness, he'd tear you, and
me, and all that's in the house, into minced meat."

Once more did Lucre's countenance lose its accustomed hue; but, on this
occasion, it assumed the color of a duck egg, or something between a bad
white and a bad blue; "my good friend," said he, "will you please to take
a seat--John, stay in the room." This he said in a whisper.

"There," proceeded Raymond, who had been busily engaged in examining the
pages of the Bible, "there is the page where that's on--the puttin' out
in the clouds and storm of heaven--there it is on that page. Look at the
ould man and the ould woman there--see them tremblin'. Don't cry--don't
cry; but they are--see the widow there wid her orphans--there's a
sick boy in that house, and a poor sick girl in that other house--see,
they're all cryin'--all cryin'--for they must go out, and on sich a day!
All that, now, is upon these two other pages, bekaise, you see, no one
page would hould all that. But see here--here's a page wid only one
side of it covered--let vis see what's on it. Oh, ay--here's the poor
craythur's childre, wid the poor father and the poor mother; but they
have the one cow to give milk to moisten their bit. Ha--ha--look again,
there she goes off to the pound! Don't cry, poor helpless crathers; but
how can you help cryin' when your poor mother's cryin'. That's a bitther
thing, too, and it's on this page--see--that--that--that's it I've
between my fingers--look at it--'how wet it is wid the poor craythur's
tears; but there's no blood here--no, no--nothing but tears. Oh,
here--see here--a page as big as the rest, bat wid nothing on it. Ay,
I know that--that's an empty farm that nobody dare take, or woe be to
them. But here--I seen him "--here he shuddered strongly--"I seen him!
His father and mother were both standing undher him--that was the worst
of all. It's in this page. He was only one-and-twenty, and the eyes he
had; but how did it happen, that although they hanged him, every one
loved him? I seen his father and the poor mother looking up to the
gallows where he stood, and then she fainted, and she then got sick,
and poor ould Brian has nobody now but himself; and all that's on this
page." Here poor Raymond shed tears, so completely was he overpowered
by the force of his own imaginings. He again proceeded--"And the poor
white-headed son. What wouldn't the poor mother give to have his white
head to look at? but he will never waken--he will never waken more.
What's the name o' this book?" he inquired of Mr. Lucre.

"My excellent and most intelligent friend," replied that gentleman, in
atone of meekness and humility that would have shamed an apostle; "my
most interesting friend, the name of that book in the Bible."

"The Bible! oh yes; but am I doin' it right?" he inquired; "am I puttin'
the explanation to it as I ought? Sure they all oxplain it, and it's
only fair that Raymond should show his larnin' as well as any of them.
Let us see, then--murdher and bloodshed, hangin' and starvin', huntin',
purshuin, whippin', cowld and nakedness, hunger and sickness, death and
then madness, and then death agin, and then damnation! Did I explain
it?"

"Perfectly, my friend--nothing can do better."

"Well, then, think of it; but these aren't my explanations--but I know
who puts them to that bad book! Don't they take all I said out of it?
They do; and, sure, don't you see the poor people's blood, and tears,
and everything upon it; sure all I said is in it. Here," he exclaimed,
shuddering, "take it away, or may be it'll make me as wicked as the rest
of you. But, after all, maybe it's not the fault of the book, but of the
people." It would indeed be difficult to find a more frightful comment
upon the crimes and atrocities which have been perpetrated in this
divided country, in the name, and under the character of religion, than
that which issued, with a kind of methodical incoherency, from the lips
of _Raymond-na-hattha_. When he had concluded, Mr. Lucre, having first
wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead, politely asked
him if there was anything he could do for him.

"Oh, ay," said he; "but first bring me a lump of good mate, and a quart
of portlier."

"You shall have it, my excellent friend. John, ring the bell. You are a
very interesting person, Mr.--Mr.--

"_Raymond-na-hattha_, sir."

"Mr. Raiment--very interesting, indeed. (Good God! am I to run the risk
of being-strangled in my own house by a madman!) Oh--here, Alick;
bring up some cold meat and a bottle of porter. Anything to make you
comfortable, my good sir."

"I only want to see if all's right, sir," said Raymond, "and I'll tell
you by and by." This was followed by a look of most pitiable distress
from Lucre to his servant, John.

Raymond no sooner saw the cold beef and bread laid down, together with a
bottle of porter, than he commenced an exhibition, which first, awoke
Mr. Lucre's astonishment, next his admiration, and lastly his envy.
Raymond's performance, however, was of that rare description which loses
by too frequent practice, and is only seen to advantage when the
opportunities for exhibition are few. Three mortal pounds having at
length disappeared, together with the greater part of a quartern loaf,
and two bottles of porter, for Raymond had made bold to call for a
second, he now wiped his mouth with the cuff of his coat first, and
afterwards, by way of a more delicate touch, with the gathered palm of
his hand; then, looking at Mr. Lucre, who sat perspiring with terror in
his gorgeous easy chair, our readers may judge of the ease it just then
communicated to that reverend gentleman, when he said, "It's all right
enough, sir."

"I'm delighted to hear it," replied Mr. Lucre, applying the _sudariolum_
once more with a very nervous and quivering hand to his forehead:

"Is there anything else in which I can serve you, my good sir?"

[Illustration: PAGE 231-- Borrow the loan of your religion]

"Yes, there is--all's right, I've now made the thrial, and it will do--I
want to borrow the loan of your religion till the new praties comes in."

"You shall have it, my worthy sir--you shall have it, with very great
pleasure."

"The raison why I came to you for it," said Raymond, who, evidently in
this joke, had been put up by some one, "was bekaise I was tould that
it's as good as new with you--'seldom used lasts long,'