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Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent by William Carleton

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




"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."

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