Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent. William Carleton
to the pursuit of his salvation.
In the mean time, as we authors have peculiar “privileges,” as Mr. M'Slime would say, we think if only due to our readers to let them have a peep at M'Slime's note to our friend Valentine M'Clutchy.
“My dear friend—I felt as deep an interest in the purport of your note as you yourself possibly could. The parties alluded to I appreciate precisely as you do—M'Loughlin has in the most unchristian manner assailed my character as well as yours. So has his partner in the concern—I mean Harman. But then, my friend, are we not Christians, and shall we not return good for evil? Shall we not forgive them? Some whispers, hints, very gentle and delicate have reached my ears, which I do not wish to commit to paper;—but this I may say, until I see you to-morrow, that I think your intentions with respect to M'Loughlin and Harman are premature. There is a screw loose somewhere, so to speak, that is all—but I believe, I can say, that if your father, Deaker, will act to our purposes, all will be as we could wish. This is a delicate subject, my dear friend, but still I am of opinion that if you could, by any practicable means; soften the unfortunate female who possesses such an ascendancy over him, all will be right. I would, myself, undertake the perilous task for your sake—and perilous to ordinary men I admit it would be, for she is beyond question exceedingly comely. In me this would appear disinterested, whilst in you, suspicion would become strong. Cash is wanted in the quarter you know, and cash has been refused in another quarter, and when we meet I shall tell you more about this matter. In the mean time it is well that there is no legitimate issue—but should he will his property to this Delilah, or could she be removed?—I mean to a local distance. But I shall see you to-morrow (D.V.), when we can have freer conversation upon what may be done. With humble but sincere prayers for your best wishes and welfare, I am, my dear friend,
“Thine in the bonds of Christian love,
“Solomon M'Slime.
“P.S.—As it is a principle of mine to neglect no just opportunity of improving my deceitful heart, I bought from a travelling pedlar this morning, a book with the remarkable title of 'The Spiritual Attorney, or A Sure Guide to the Other World.' I have not yet had time to look at anything but the title page, and consequently am not able to inform you which of the worlds he alludes to, ha, ha! You see, my friend, I do not think there is evil in a joke that is harmless, or has a moral end in view, as every joke ought to have.
“Thine as before,
“Sol. M'Slime.”
CHAPTER IV.—Poll Doolin, the Child Cadger
—Raymond, her Son—Short Dialogue on the Times—Polls Opinion on the Causes of Immorality—Solomon is Generous—A Squire of the Old School—And a Moral Dialogue.
The next morning was that on which the Quarter Sessions of Castle Cumber commenced; and of course it was necessary for Darby O'Drive, who was always full of business on such occasions, to see M'Clutchy, in order to receive instructions touching his duties on various proceedings connected with the estate. He had reached the crossroads that ran about half-way between Constitution Cottage and Castle Cumber, when! he met, just where the road turned to M'Clutchy's, a woman named Poll Doolin, accompanied, as she mostly was, by her son—a poor, harmless, idiot, named Raymond; both of whom were well known throughout the whole parish. Poll was a thin, sallow woman, with piercing dark eyes, and a very; gipsy-like countenance. Her dress was always black, and very much worn; in fact, everything about her was black—black stockings, black bonnet, black hair, and black kerchief. Poll's occupation was indeed a singular one, and not very creditable to the morals of the day. Her means of living were derived from the employment of child-cadger to the Foundling Hospital of Dublin. In other words, she lived by conveying illegitimate children from the places of their birth to the establishment just mentioned, which has been very properly termed a bounty for national immorality. Whenever a birth of this kind occurred, Poll was immediately sent for—received her little charge with a name—whether true or false mattered not—pinned to its dress—then her traveling expenses; after which she delivered it at the hospital, got a receipt for its delivery, and returned to claim her demand, which was paid only on her producing it. In the mean time, the unfortunate infant had to encounter all the comforts of the establishment, until it was drafted out to a charter school, in which hot-bed of pollution it received that exquisitely moral education that enabled it to be sent out into society admirably qualified to sustain the high character of Protestantism.
“Morrow, Poll,” said Darby; “what's the youngest news wid you? And Raymond, my boy, how goes it wid you?”
“I don't care for you,” replied the fool; “you drove away Widow Branagan's cow, an' left the childre to the black wather. Bad luck to you!”
Darby started; for there is a superstition among the Irish, that the curse of an “innocent” is one of the most unlucky that can be uttered.
“Don't curse me,” replied Darby; “sure, Raymond, I did only my duty.”
“Then who made you do your duty?” asked the other.
“Why, Val the Vul—hem—Mr. M'Clutchy, to be sure.”
“Bad luck to him then!”
His mother, who had been walking a little before him, turned, and, rushing towards him, put her hand hastily towards his mouth, with the obvious intention of suppressing the imprecation; but too late; it had escaped, and be the consequence what it might, Val had got the exciting cause of it.
“My poor unfortunate boy,” said she, “you oughtn't to curse anybody; stop this minute, and say God bless him.”
“God bless who?”
“Mr. McClutchy.”
“The devil bless him! ha, ha, ha! Doesn't he harry the poor, an' drive away their cows from them—doesn't he rack them an' rob them—harry them, rack them, rob them—
“Harry them, rack them, rob them,
Rob them, rack them, harry them—
Harry them, rack them, rob them,
Rob them, rack them, harry them.”
This he sung in an air somewhat like “Judy Callahan.”
“Ha, ha, ha! Oh the devil bless him! and they say a blessin' from the devil is very like a curse from God.”
The mother once more put up her hands to his face, but only with the intention of fondling and caressing him. She tenderly stroked down his head, and patted his cheek, and attempted to win him out of the evil humor into which the sight of Darby had thrown him. Darby could observe, however, that she appeared to be deeply troubled by the idiot's conduct, as was evident by the trembling of her hands, and a perturbation of manner which she could not conceal.
“Raymond,” she said, soothingly, “won't you be good for me, darlin'—for your own mother, my poor helpless boy? Won't you be good for me?”
“I will,” said he, in a more placid voice.
“And you will not curse anybody any more?”
“No, mother, no.”
“And won't you bless Mr. M'Clutchy, my dear child?”
“There's a fig for him,” he replied—there's a fig for him. Now!”
“But you didn't bless him, my darlin'—you didn't bless him yet.”
As she spoke the words, her eye caught! his, and she perceived that it began to gleam and kindle.
“Well no,” said she hastily; “no, I won't ask you; only hould your tongue—say no more.”
She again patted his cheek tenderly, and the fiery light which began to burn in his eye,