Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent Part 48

"And are you yourself not a hireling in every sense of the word? Do you not make merchandise of the crimes and ignorance of your people?"

"Make merchandise! This from you who take away a tenth part of the poor man's labor without the consciousness of even professing his creed?"

"Do you ever wors.h.i.+p the Lord aright, or address him in any language which the people can understand?"

"And do you ever seek salvation with half the zeal displayed when you lay your keen nostril to the trail of a fresh benefice or a fat mitre.

Do you not, most of you, think more of your hounds and kennels, than you do of either your churches or your flocks?"

Mr. Lucre at length pulled up his horse and fixing his eyes on Father M'Cabe, inquired why he should have fastened upon him in so offensive a manner; and Mr. M'Cabe pulling up the hack we spoke of, fixed a pair of fiery orbs on him in return, and replied--

"I haven't done with you yet, my worthy parson. You needn't scowl, I say, for if you had as many chins upon you as there are articles in your creed, I wouldn't be prevented from bringing you to an account for interfering with my flock."

"Rude and wretched man, how?"

"By attempting to pervert Darby O'Drive, the bailiff, and seduce him over to your heresies."

"I would bring him over from his idolatry and superst.i.tion. But why do you, sir, tamper with a man--named--named--let me see--Bob--Bob Beatty, I think, who belongs to my congregation?"

"Simply because I wish to bring him over from a false church to the true one."

"It appears that because this simple person has been afflicted with epilepsy, you have attempted, through some pious juggling or other, to effect his cure, by enjoining him not to enter a church door or eat swine's flesh during his life. Are you not ashamed, sir, of such unG.o.dly frauds as this?"

"Swine's fles.h.!.+ Call it bacon, man alive, like a man. Yes, and I tell you moreover, that I have cured him--and with a blessing shall cure him better still, if that is any consolation to you. From being a purple Orangeman, I have him now hard at work every day at his _Padderheen Partha_. But I now caution you not to unsettle the religious principles of Darby O'Drive, the bailiff."

"Why, sir, the man has no religious opinion, nor ever had; thanks to Mr.

M'Cabe."

"And I'm bound to say, that such a thickheaded villian in religious matters as Bob Beatty I never met. G.o.d knows I had a sore handful of him. So, now remember my caution, and good bye to you; I think you'll know me again when you meet me."

Lucre gave him a haughty scowl ere the priest turned off a bridle road, but made no other reply--not even by inclining his head to him; but, indeed, it was hardly to be expected that he should.

Such is the anxiety to snap up a convert in Ireland, it matters not from what church or to what church, that Mr. Lucre lost no time in securing the appointment of honest Darby to the office of Castle c.u.mber Deputy Goaler--an appointment to which both M'Clutchy and M'Slime strongly recommended him, not certainly from an excess of affection towards that simple and worthy man, but from a misgiving that an important portion of a certain correspondence in the shape of two letters was in his possession, and that so far they were prudent in declining to provoke his enmity.

CHAPTEK XXII.---Castle c.u.mber Grand Jury Room

--A Concientious Hangman--Way to a Glebe House of More Importance than the Way to Heaven--Irish Method of Dispensing Justice--Short Debate on the Spy System--Genealogical Memoranda--Patriotic Presentments--A Riverless Bridge

We pa.s.s now, however, to the Grand Jury Room of the county, and truly as a subordinate tribunal for aiding the administration of justice, it was, at the time of which we write, one of the most anomalous exhibitions that could be witnessed. It was a long room, about thirty-six or forty feet in length, by thirty, with a fire-place at each end, and one or two at the sides. Above the chimney-piece was an oil painting of William the Third, together with a small bronze equestrian statue of the same prince, and another of George the Third. There were some other portraits of past and present jurors, presented by themselves or their friends.

But there was certainly one which we cannot omit, although by whom presented, or on what occasion, we are wholly unable to inform the reader. We are inclined to think it must have been placed there by some satirical wag, who wished to ridicule the extent to which mere royalty was carried in those days, and the warmth of admiration with which its most besotted manifestations were received. The picture in question was the portrait of a pious hangman, who was too conscientious to hang any one but a Papist. They called him Jerry Giles; a little squat fellow, with a face like a triangle, a broken nose, and a pair of misplaced or ill-matched eye-brows, one of them being nearly an inch higher up the forehead than the other. Jerry, it seems, had his own opinions, one of which was, that there existed no law in the const.i.tution for hanging a Protestant. He said that if he were to hang a Protestant felon, he would be forced to consider it in his conscience only another name for suicide; and that, with a blessing, he would string up none but such vile wretches as were out of the pale of the const.i.tution, and consequently not ent.i.tled to any political grace or salvation whatever.

And, indeed, upon the principles of the day, the portrait of Jerry was nearly as well ent.i.tled to be hung among the grand jurors as that of any one there.

Seated about a long table, covered with green baize, were a number of men, with papers before them; whilst grouped in different parts of the room were the younger persons, amusing themselves by the accidents of the last meet--if it happened to be the hunting season--or the last duel, or the last female victim to the corruption and profligacy of some of those from whom, the people were to expect justice, and their families protection. Others were whistling or humming some favorite air; and one of them, a poet, was reading a squib which he had prepared for the forthcoming election.

"Deaker, come here," said the Foreman, "you are up to everything. Here is Lucre, the parson, wants to have a presentment for a new line of road running through his glebe, or to his glebe--for I suppose it is the same thing."

"Well," replied Deaker, "and let him have it. Isn't he as well ent.i.tled to a job as any of us? What the devil--why not put a few feathers in his nest, man? The county has a broad back."

"His nest is better feathered than he deserves. He has two enormous livings, a good private fortune, and now, indeed, he must come to saddle himself upon the county in the shape of a job."

"He has rendered good service, Mr. Hartley," replied another of them; "good service to the government, sir, with every respect for your wonderful liberality and honesty."

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Hartley, sternly; "do you throw out any imputation against my honor or my honesty?"

"Oh, Lord, no--by no means; I have no relish at all for your cold lead, Mr. Hartley--only that I don't think you stand the best chance in the world of being returned for Castle c.u.mber, sir--that is all."

"Hartley," asked another, with a loud laugh, "is it true that your cousin, on bringing a message to young Phil M'Clutchy, pulled his nose, and kicked him _a posteriore_ round the room?"

"Ask his father, d.i.c.k," said Hartley, smiling; "I have heard he was present, and, of course, he knows best."

"I say, Vulture," inquired the other, "is it true?"

"Ay," returned old Deaker, "as true as the nose on your face. That precious Phil, was a cowardly whelp all his life--so was his father.

D--n you, sirra; where did you get your cowardice? I'm sure it was not from me; that is if you be mine, which is a rather problematical circ.u.mstance; for I take it you are as likely to be the descent of some rascally turnkey or hatchman, and be hanged to you, as mine."

"Is it true, Val," persisted the former querist, "that young Hartley pulled Phil's nose?"

"We have come here for other purposes, d.i.c.k," said Val. "Certainly Phil did not wish to strike the young man in his own house, and had more sense than to violate the peace in the presence of a magistrate, and that magistrate his own father."

"How the devil did he put his comether on M'Loughlin's pretty daughter, Val?" asked another from a different part of the room.

"That," said Deaker, "is the only spirited thing I ever knew him to manage. Is it true, Val, that he was found in her bedroom?"

"It is certainly true," replied Val, with a smile of peculiar meaning; "and with her own consent too."

"That's false, Val," replied Hartley; "and you know it. That he was in her room for a couple of minutes is true; but that he was there for any purpose prejudicial to her honor, that is, with her own consent, is false. The whole thing was a cowardly trick on the part of your son, concocted by the aid of old Poll Doolin, for the purpose of injuring the girl's reputation."

"Ay," said old Deaker, "I dare say you are right, Hartley, if Poll Doolin was in it; but, d--n her, she's dangerous, even at a distance, if all that's said of her be true. I say, Spavin"--this was a nickname given to the Foreman, in consequence of a slight halt or lameness for which he was remarkable--"are we not to find bills for something, against Harman, who is about to be married to that wench."

"What," said Hartley, laughing, "is it on that account? I think if you said so Deaker, you'd not be very far from the truth."

"He murdered one of my fellows," said M'Clutchy, "one of the staunchest Protestants and loyalest men that ever was in the country; and, what is more, he did it in cold blood."

"You were not present," said Hartley, "and consequently have no right to attempt to prejudice the minds of the jury against him."

"We shall find the bills for all that," said Spavin, "the interference of such fellows in the execution of the laws must be put a stop to."

"You are right, Spavin," said Sir William; "if we can't hang him, let us send him across. He had no business to touch the hair of a blood-hound's head. Gad, Hartley, this is pretty justice, isn't it? why didn't the disloyal rascal stand and let himself be shot in obedience to the spirit of the const.i.tution, rather than molest a blood-hound. I tell you, my good friends, that this method of managing things will bring about its own remedy yet."

"Oh, Sir William, you and Hartley would run well in a chaise together--both always for the rebels."

"Whom do you call the rebels?"

"Why the Papists, to be sure."

"No more rebels, Moore, than you are," replied Hartley--"I find a Papist as good as another man, if he's as well and as fairly treated."