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.