Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent. William Carleton
of the neighborhood. In the times of which we write, the great passport to popularity among one party was the expression of strong political opinions. For this reason, Val, who was too cunning to neglect any subordinate aid to his success in life, had created for himself a certain description of character, which in a great degree occasioned much of his dishonesty and oppression to be overlooked or forgiven. Like his father, old Deaker, he was a furious Orangeman, of the true, loyal, and Ascendancy class—drank the glorious, pious, and immortal memory every day after dinner—was, in fact, master of an Orange Lodge, and altogether a man of that thorough, staunch, Protestant principle, which was then, as it has been since, prostituted to the worst purposes. For this reason, he was looked upon, by those of his own class not so much as a heartless and unscrupulous knave, as a good sound Protestant, whose religion and loyalty were of the right kidney. In accordance with these principles, he lost no time in assuming the character of an active useful man, who considered it the most important part of his duty to extend his political opinions by every means in his power, and to discountenance, in all shapes and under all circumstances, such as were opposed to them. For this purpose, there was only one object left untried and unaccomplished; but time and his undoubted loyalty soon enabled him to achieve it. Not long after his appointment to the agency, he began to experience some of these uneasy sensations which a consciousness of not having deserved well at the hands of the people will occasion. The man, as we have said, was a coward at heart; but like many others of the same class, he contrived on most occasions to conceal it. He now considered that it would, at all events, be a safe and prudent act on his part to raise a corps of yeomanry, securing a commission in it for himself and Phil. In this case he deemed it necessary to be able to lay, before government such satisfactory proofs as would ensure the accomplishment of his object, and at the same time establish his own loyalty and devotion to the higher powers. No man possessed the art of combining several motives, under the simple guise of one act, with greater skill than M'Clutchy. For instance, he had an opportunity of removing from the estate as many as possible of those whom he could not reckon on for political support. Thus would he, in the least suspicious manner, and in the very act of loyalty, occasion that quantity of disturbance just necessary to corroborate his representations to government—free property from disaffected persons, whose consciences were proof against both his threats and promises—and prove to the world that Valentine M'Clutchy was the man to suppress disturbance, punish offenders, maintain peace, and, in short, exhibit precisely that loyal and truly Protestant spirit which the times required, and which, in the end, generally contrived to bring its own reward along with it.
One evening, about this period, our worthy agent was sitting in his back parlor, enjoying with Phil the comforts of a warm tumbler of punch, when the old knock already described was heard at the hall door.
“How the devil does that rascal contrive to give such a knock?” said Phil—“upon my honor and reputation, father, I could know it out of a thousand.”
“It's very difficult to say,” replied the other; “but I agree with you in its character—and yet, I am convinced that Master Darby by no means entertains the terror of me which he affects. However, be this as it may, he is invaluable for his attachment to our interests, and the trust which we can repose in him. I intend to make him a sergeant in our new corps—and talking of that, Phil, you are not aware that I received this morning a letter from Lord Cumber, in which he thanks me for the hint, and says he will do everything in his power to forward the business. I have proposed that he shall be colonel, and that the corps be named the Castle Cumber Yeomanry. I shall myself be captain and paymaster, and you shall have a slice of something off it, Phil, my boy.”
“I have no objection in life,” replied Phil, “and let the slice be a good one; only I am rather quakerly as to actual fighting, which may God of his infinite mercy prevent!”
“There will be no fighting, my hero,” replied the father, laughing; “if there were, Phil, I would myself rise above all claims for military glory; but here there will be nothing but a healthy chase across the country after an occasional rebel or whiteboy, or perhaps the seizing of a still, and the capture of many a keg of neat poteen, Phil—eh? What do you say to that my boy?”
“I have no objection to that,” said Phil, “provided everything is done in an open, manly manner—in broad day-light. These scoundrel whiteboys have such devilish good practice at hedge-firing, that I have already made up my mind to decline all warfare that won't be sanctioned by the sun. I believe in my soul they see better without light than with it, so that the darkness which would be a protection to them, could be none to me.”
At this moment, a tap—such as a thief would give when ascertaining if the master of the house were asleep, in order that he might rob him—came to the door, and upon being desired to “come in and be d——d”
Darby entered.
“You're an hour late, you scoundrel,” said Val; “what have you to say for yourself?”
“Yes,” added Phil, who was a perfect Achilles to every bailiff and driver on the estate—“what have you to say for yourself? If I served you right, upon my honor and reputation, I would kick you out. I would, you scoundrel, and I ought.”
“I know you ought, squire, for I desarve it; but, any how, sure it was the floods that sent me round. The stick was covered above three feet, and I had to go round by the bridge. Throth his honor there ought to make the Grand Jury put a bridge acrass it, and I wish to goodness, Square Phil, you would spake to him to get them to do it next summer.”
When Solomon said, that all was vanity and vexation of spirit, we hope he did not mean that the two terms were at all synonymous; because, if he did, we unquestionably stand prepared to contest his knowledge of human nature, despite both his wisdom and experience. Darby's reply was not a long one, but its effect was powerful. The very notion that Val M'Clutchy could, should, might, or ought to have such influence over the Grand Jury of the county was irresistible with the father; and that he should live to be actually called squire, nay to hear the word with his own ears, was equally so with the son.
Vanity! What sensation can the hearts of thousands—millions feel, that ought for a moment be compared, in an ecstatic sense of enjoyment, with those which arise from gratified vanity?
“Come, you sneaking scoundrel, take a glass of spirits—the night's severe,” said Val.
“Yes, you sneaking scoundrel, take a glass of spirits, and we'll see what can be done about the bridge before next winter,” added Phil.
“All I can say is, gintlemen,” said Darby, “that if you both take it up, it will be done. In the mane time, here's both your healths, your honors; an' may you both be spared on the property, as a pair of blessins to the estate!” Then, running over to Phil, he whispered in a playhouse voice—“Square Phil, I daren't let his honor hear me now, but—here's black confusion to Hickman, the desaver!”
“What is he saying, Phil? What is the cursed sneaking scoundrel saying?”
“Why your honor,” interposed Darby, “I was axin' permission jist to add a thrifle to what I'm goin' to drink.”
“What do you mean?” said Val.
“Just, your honor, to drink the glorious, pious, and immoral mimory! hip, hip, hurra!”
“And how can you drink it, you rascal, and you a papist?” asked Phil, still highly delighted with Darby's loyalty. “What would your priest say if he knew it?”
“Why,” said Darby, quite unconscious of the testimony he was bearing to his own duplicity, “sure they can forgive me that, along with my other sins. But, any how, I have a great notion to leave them and their ralligion altogether.”
“How is that, you scoundrel?” asked Val.
“Yes, you scoundrel; how is that?” added Phil.
“Why, troth,” replied Darby, “I can't well account for it myself, barrin' it comes from an enlightened conscience. Mr. M'Slime gave me a tract, some time ago, called Spiritual Food for Babes of Grace, and I thought in my own conscience, afther