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Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent by William Carleton

W >> William Carleton >> Valentine M\'Clutchy, The Irish Agent




"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."

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