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.”
“No marriage, then,” said Phil. “No marriage; but what keeps Darby O'Drive? the rascal should have been here before—oh no,” said he, looking at his watch, “he has better than half an hour yet.”
“What steps do you intend to take, father?”
“Phil, when I'm prepared, you shall know them. In the meantime leave me—I must write to M'Slime, or send to him. M'Slime's useful at a hint or suggestion, but, with all his wiliness and hypocrisy, not capable of carrying a difficult matter successfully out; he overdoes everything by too much caution, and consequently gets himself into ridiculous scrapes, besides I cannot and will not place full confidence in him. He is too oily, and cants too much, to be trusted; I think, still, we may use him and overreach him into the bargain. Are you going into Castle Cumber?”
“I am.”
“Well, drop these couple of letters in the post office, and tell Rankin he must have the Garts finished by Monday next, at the farthest, or it will be worse for him. By the way, I have that fellow in my eye too—he had the assurance to tell me the other day, that he could not possibly undertake the carts until he had M'Loughlin's job at the manufactory finished. Off with you now, I see O'Drive and Hanlon coming up.”
Graceful Phil in a few minutes was mounted in his usual lofty state on “Handsome Harry,” and dashed off to Castle Cumber.
It may not be improper here, before we proceed farther, to give the reader some additional knowledge of the parentage and personal history of Mr. Valentine M'Clutchy, as well as a brief statement concerning the Castle Cumber property, and the gentleman who acted in the capacity of head agent.
The mother, then, of Valentine M'Clutchy, or as he was more generally called Val the Vulture, was daughter to the county goaler, Christie Clank by name, who had risen regularly through all the gradations of office, until the power of promotion could no farther go. His daughter, Kate Clank, was a celebrated beauty, and enjoyed a considerable extent of local reputation, independently of being a great favorite with the junior portion of the grand jury. Among the latter, however, there was one, a young squire of very libertine principles, named Deaker, whose suit to the fair Miss Clank proved more successful than those of his competitors, and the consequence was the appearance of young Val. The reader, therefore, already perceives that M'Clutchy's real name was Deaker; but perhaps he is not aware that, in the times of which we write, it was usual for young unmarried men of wealth not to suffer their illegitimate children to be named after them. There were, indeed, many reasons for this. In the first place, the mere fact of assuming the true name, was a standing argument of the father's profligacy. Secondly, the morals of the class and the period were so licentious, that the legitimate portion of a family did not like to be either outnumbered or insulted by their namesakes and illegitimate relatives, almost at every turn of the public roads. In the third place, a young man of this description could not, when seeking for a wife, feel the slightest inclination to have a living catalogue of his immoralities enumerated to her, under the names of Tom, or Dick, or Val so and so, all his children. This, of course, was an involuntary respect paid to modesty, and perhaps the strongest argument for suppressing the true name. The practice, however, was by no means universal; but in frequent instances it existed, and Val the Vulture's was one of them. He was named after neither father or mother, but after his grandmother, by the gaoler's side. Deaker would not suffer his name to be assumed; and so far as his mother was concerned, the general tenor of her life rendered the reminiscence of her's anything but creditable to her offspring. With respect to his education, Val's gratitude was principally due to his grandfather Clank, who had him well instructed. He himself, from the beginning, was shrewd, clever, and intelligent, and possessed the power, in a singular degree, of adapting himself to his society, whenever he felt it his interest to do so. He could, indeed, raise or depress his manners in a very surprising degree, and with an effort that often occasioned astonishment. On the other hand, he was rapacious, unscrupulous, cowardly, and so vindictive, that he was never known to forgive an injury. These are qualities to which, when you add natural adroitness and talent, you have such a character as has too frequently impressed itself, with something like the agreeable sensations produced by a red hot burning iron, upon the distresses, fears, and necessities of the Irish people.
M'Clutchy rose from the humble office of process-server to that of bailiff's follower, bailiff, head-bailiff, barony constable, until, finally, he felt himself a kind of factotum on the Castle Cumber property; and in proportion as he rose, so did his manners rise with him. For years before his introduction to our readers, he was the practical manager of the estate; and so judiciously did he regulate his own fortunes on it, that without any shameless or illegal breach of honesty, he actually contrived to become a wealthy man, and to live in a respectable manner. Much, however, will have more, and Val was rapacious. On finding himself comparatively independent, he began to take more enlarged, but still very cautious measures to secure some of the good things of the estate to him and his. This he was the better able to do, as he had, by the apparent candor of his manner, completely wormed himself into the full confidence of the head agent—a gentleman of high honor and integrity, remarkable alike for humanity and benevolence; but utterly without suspicion. Two or three farms, whose leases dropped, he most iniquitously took into his own hands, and so far wheedled the agent, that he induced that gentleman to think he was rendering a service to the property by doing so. The tenantry now began to murmur—a complaint came here, and another there—here was an instance of private and disguised oppression; and this was followed by a, vindictive attempt to injure either the property or character of some one who had the courage to tell him what he thought of his conduct.
Val apprehending that he might be out-borne by too powerful a mass of testimony, contrived just then, through his misrepresentations to the agent, who still confided in him, and by the political influence of his father, the squire, who was the landlord's strongest electioneering supporter in the county, to get himself formally appointed under-agent. Feeling now quite confident in his strength, and that his hold on the prejudices, and, we may add, the ignorance of the absentee landlord, was as strong, if not stronger than those of the agent himself, he began to give a greater and less guarded scope to his natural principles. Mr. Hickman, the agent, had been strongly disgusted by the political profligacy with which the union was carried; and had, on more than one occasion, intimated a doubt whether, as an honest man, he could render political support to any one who had participated in its corruption or recognized the justice of those principles on which it had been carried. All this gave M'Clutchy that imperturbable insolence which is inseparable from petty tyranny and licensed extortion. Day after day did his character come out in all its natural deformity. The outcry against him was not now confined to this portion of the property, or that—it became pretty general; and, perhaps, at the time we have brought him on the stage, there was not a man in Ireland, holding the situation he did, who was more feared and more detested.
Some time previous to this, however, Hickman's eyes were opened to his undisguised character, and what he could do he did. On finding that the Vulture was reviving all the oppressive usages with which property in Ireland is so penally taxed, he immediately gave orders that such exactions should be discontinued by M'Clutchy, and resisted by the tenants. In spite of all this, however, there were upon the property many timid persons, who, dreading his malignity of purpose, still continued to yield to his avarice and rapacity, that which nothing else but a dread of his vengeance could extort from them. Thus did he feather his nest at the expense of their terrors.
Hickman, who had also been agent to old Topertoe, felt a kind of personal attachment to that good-humored reprobate, so long as he believed him to be honest. Old Tom's venality, however, at the union, made him rather sick of the connection, and the conduct, or rather expensive profligacy of the young absentee Lord, rendered his situation, as an honest and humane agent, one of great pain to himself, considering his position between landlord and tenant.
He knew besides, that many men of his class had taken most scandalous advantages of the embarrassments which their dishonesty had occasioned in the affairs of their employers, and lent them their own rents in the moments of distress, in order to get a lien on their property. For this reason, and out of a feeling of honor and self-respect, Mr. Hickman had made it a point of principle to lend the young Lord, no money under any circumstances. As far as he could legitimately, and within the ordinary calculations of humanity, feed Lord Cumber's prodigality of expenditure he did it. This, however, was not exactly the kind of agent which his lordship wanted, and however highly he respected, and honored him, still that direful word necessity goaded him into a forgetfulness of his own real interests, and of what was due to Hickman. He wanted an agent with less feeling, less scruple, less independence, and more of that accommodating principle which would yield itself to, and go down with, the impetuous current of his offensive vices, and satisfy their cravings even at his own ruin. Such, then, was M'Clutchy—such the position of Mr. Hickman, the agent—and such the general state of the Castle Cumber property. As to the principles and necessities of its proprietor, if they are not already known, we may assure our readers that they soon will be.
Constitution Cottage, M'Clutchy's residence, was, in fact, no cottage at all, as we have said, but a very respectable house, and of considerable size. Attached to it was an extensive yard and office houses, an excellent garden, orchard, pigeon house, and everything, in fact, that could constitute substantial comfort and convenience. It was situated beside a small clump of old beeches, that sheltered it from the north—to the front lay, at a few miles distance, a range of fine mountains—and between them stretched as rich a valley, both in fertility and beauty, as the eye of man could rest upon. The ground before the door fell by an easy and gradual descent, until a little further down it reached a green expanse of level meadow, through which a clear river wound its lingering course, as if loth to pass away from between the rich and grassy banks that enclosed it. It was, in fact, a spot of that calm and perfectly rural character which draws the heart unconsciously to the secret charm that rests upon it, and which even the casual traveler leaves behind him with regret. Some improvements were at the present time in an incipient state—such as plantations—garden walls—and what seemed the lines of an avenue, or approach to the house, which, by the way, stood in the centre of a farm that consisted of about eighty Irish acres.
At length a single knock came, which was given by O'Drive, for Hanlon, who was his assistant, durst not attempt such a thing in his presence; and if ever a knock conveyed the duplicity of the man who gave it, that did. Though, as we said, but a single one, yet there was no mistaking its double meaning. It was impudent and servile; it was impudent, as much as to say to the servants, “why don't you open the door quickly for a man who is so deep in your master's confidence as I am?” while to that master himself, it said, or seemed to say, “I am your creature, your instrument, your slave, ready to execute any oppression, any hardship, or villainy, on which you can employ me.”
It is said, and we believe with truth, that in military life no officer is so severe and oppressive as he who has risen from the ranks, and been most obsequious there. We do not doubt it, for the principle is a strong one in human nature, and is by no means confined to either the army or navy. At all events, shuffling, and cringing, and slinking Darby O'Drive presented himself to Val the Vulture. There was a downcast, cowardly, shy, uneasy, expression in his blank, straggling features, that seemed to say, for God's sake spare my very life—don't annihilate me—here I am—you see through me—heart, spirit, and soul—body, lungs, and lights—could I tell you a lie? No. Could I deceive you—such a man as you, that can look through me as if I was a lanthorn, or a pane of glass without a bull's eye in it. No! only let me live and I'll do your bidding.
“Well,” said Val, in a sharp, imperious;one, “you're punctual for a wonder.”
“God be praised for that,” replied Darby, wiping the top of his nose with the finger and thumb of an old mitten, “heaven be praised that I'm not late.”
“Hold your damned canting, tongue, you knave, what place is this for it?”
“Knave! well I am then.”
“Yes, you know you are—you are all knaves—every bailiff is a knave—ahem—unless, indeed, one in a thousand.”
“It's truth, indeed, plaise your honor.”
“Not but there's worse than you after all, and be damned to you.”
“An' betther, sir, too, i' you please, for sure, God help me, I'm not what I ought to be.”
“Well, mend then, why don't you? for you want it. Come now, no jaw, I tell you, but answer me what I am about to ask you; not a word now.”
“Well, no then, plaise your honor, I won't in throth.”
“Did you warn the townland of Ballymackscud?”
“Yis, plaise your honor.”
“Are they ready—have they the rent?”
“Only some o' them, sir,—an other some is axin' for time, the thieves.”
“Who are asking for time?”
“Why the O'Shaughrans, sir—hopin', indeed, that your honor will let them wait till the markets rises, an not be forced to sell the grain whin the prices is so low now that it would ridin them—but it's wondherful the onraisonableness of some people. Says I, 'his honor, Mr. M'Clutchy, is only doin' his duty; but a betther hearted or a kinder man never bruk the world's bread than he is to them that desarves it at his hands;' so, sir, they began to—but—well, well, it's no matther—I tould them they were wrong—made it plain to them—but they wouldn't be convinced, say what I might.”
“Why, what did they say, were they abusing me—I suppose so?”
“Och! the poor sowls, sure it was only ignorance and foolishness on their part—onraisonable cratures all or most of them is.”
“Let me know at once what they said, you knave, or upon my honor and soul I'll turn you out of the room and bring in Hanlon.”
“Plaise your honor, he wasn't present—I left him outside, in regard that I didn't think he was fit to be trust—a safe with—no matther, 'twas for a raison I had.” He gave a look at M'Clutchy as he spoke, compounded of such far and distant cunning, scarcely perceptible—and such obvious, yet retreating cowardice, scarcely perceptible also—-that no language could convey any notion of it.
“Ah!” said Val, “you are a neat lad—but go on—what did they say, for I must have it out of you.”
“That I may die in happiness, your honor, but I'm afeard to tell you—but, sure, if you'd give your promise, sir—your bright word of honor, that you'd not pay me off for it, I'll tell you.”
“Ah! you d——d crawling reptile, out with it—I won't pay you off.”
“Well, then, here it is—oh! the curse o' Cromwell on them this day, for an ungrateful pack! they said, your honor, that—bad luck to them I pray—that there wasn't so black-hearted a scoundrel on the face of the airth as your four quarthers—that the gallows is gapin' for you—and that there's as many curses before you in hell as 'ud blisther a griddle.”
M'Clutchy's face assumed its usual expression of diabolical malignity, whilst, at the same time, he gave a look so piercing at Darby, as if suspecting that the curse, from its peculiar character, was at least partially his own invention,—that the latter, who stood like a criminal, looking towards the floor, felt precisely what was going forward in the other's mind, and knew that he had nothing else for it but to look him steadily in the face, as a mark of his perfect innocence. Gradually, therefore, and slowly he raised his small gray eyes until they met those of M'Clutchy, and thus the gaze continued for nearly a minute between them, and that with such steadiness on both sides, that they resembled a mesmeric doctor and his patient, rather than anything else to which we could compare them. On the part of M'Clutchy the gaze was that of an inquisitor looking into the heart of him whom he suspected; on that of Darby, the eye, unconscious of evil, betrayed nothing but the purest simplicity and candor.
And yet, when we consider that Darby most unquestionably did not only ornament, but give peculiar point to the opinions expressed by the tenantry against the Vulture, perhaps we ought to acknowledge that of the two he possessed a larger share of histrionic talent.
At length M'Clutchy, whose eye, for reasons with which the reader is already acquainted, was never either a firm or a steady one, removed it from Darby, who nevertheless followed it with a simple but pertinacious look, as much as to say, I have told you truth, and am now waiting your leisure to proceed.
“What do you stare at?” said M'Clutchy, strongly disposed to vent his malignity on the next object to him; “and, you beggarly scoundrel, what did you say to that? Tell me, or I'll heave you, head foremost, through the window?”
“Why,” replied Darby, in a quiet, confident, and insinuating tone, “I raisoned wid them—raisoned wid them like a Christian. 'Now, Sheemus O'Shaughran,' says I, 'you've said what I know to be a lie. I'm not the man to put ill between you and his honor, Mr. M'Clutchy, but at the same time,' says I, 'I'm his sarvint, and as an honest man I must do my duty. I don't intend to mintion a syllable of what you said this day; but as his sarvint, and gettin' bread through him, and undher him, I can't, nor I won't, suffer his honor to be backbitten before his own face—for it's next to that. Now,' says I, 'be guided by me, and all will be right. In the first place, you know, he's entitled to duty-fowl*—in the next place, he's entitled to duty-work.' 'Ay, the landlord is,' said they, 'but not the Vul——' 'Whisht,' says I, in a friendly whisper, puttin' my hand across Dan's mouth, an' winkin' both my eyes at him; 'send his honor down a pair of them fine fat turkeys—I know his honor's fond o' them; but that's not all,' says I—'do you wish to have a friend in coort? I know you do. Well and good—he's drawing gravel to make a new avenue early next week, so, Sheemus O'Shaughran, if you wish to have two friends in coort—a great one and a little one'—manin' myself, God pardon me, for the little one, your honor—'you will,' says I 'early on next Monday mornin', send down a pair of horses and carts, and give him a week's duty work. Then,' says I, 'lave the rest to somebody, for I won't name names.'—No, your honor, I did'nt bring Hanlon in.—By the same token, as a proof of it, there's young Bandy Shaughran, the son, wid a turkey under aich arm, comin'up to the hall door.”
“Well,” proceeded M'Clutchy, without a single observation, “did you call on the Slevins?”
“Yes, sir; they're ready.”
“The Magonnels?”
“Not ready, sir; but a pair of geese, and two men on next Thursday and Saturday. On Friday they must go to market to buy two slips.” (* young pigs).
“Widow Gaffney?”
“Not ready, sir; but that I may never die in sin, a 'cute shaver.”
“Why so—what did she say?”
“Oh, Mr. Hickman, sir, the head agent, your honor; that's the go. Throth, the same Mr. Hickman is—but, God forbid, sir, I'd spake a word against the absent; but any way, he's a good round thrifle, one way or the other, out of your pocket, from Jinny-warry to December.”
“Darby, my good man, and most impertinent scoundrel, if you wish to retain your present situation, never open your lips against that excellent gentleman, Mr. Hickman. Mark my words—out you go, if I ever discover that you mention him with disrespect.”
“Well, I won't then; and God forgive me for spakin' the truth—when it's not right.”
“Did you see the Mulhollands?”
“Mr. Hickman again, sir, an' bad luck to—— Beg pardon, sir, I forgot. Throth, sir, when I mentioned the duty work an' the new aveny, they whistled at you.”
“Whistled at me!”
“Yes, sir; an' said that Mr. Hickman tould them to give you neither duty fowl nor duty work, but to do their own business, and let you do yours. Ay, and 'twas the same from all the rest.”
“Well,” said Val, going to the window and looking abroad for a minute or two,—“well—so much for Ballymackscud; now for its next neighbor, Ballymackfud.”
“Mr. Hickman again, sir. The divil sweep the same Hickman, any way,” said Darby, in an aside, which he knew the other could easily hear. “Out of the whole townland, sir, all I got was two men for the aveny—a goose from Barney Scadden, and her last ten, along wid half-a-dozen eggs, from that dacent creature, widow M'Murt. Throth four fine little clildre she has, if they had anything on them, or anything to keep body and sowl together.”
“You warned them all, of course?”
“Every sowl in the townland of Ballymackt 'ud; and there's the upshot. But it's all Mr. Hickman, sir; for he tould them—'I will have none of this work,' says he; 'the tenants musn't be harrished and fleeshed in this manner,' says he. Yes, your honor, that's the upshot from Ballymackfud—two day's work—a sick goose (for I disremembered to mention that Barney said, wid a wink, that she'd require great attintion, as she was in a delicate state of health)—one ould hen, and a half-a-dozen eggs; which wouldn't be the case, only for Hickman—not but he's a very respectable gentleman—by all accounts.”
“I told you before, sirra, that I will have nothing offensive to him mentioned in my presence. Give this letter to Mr. M'Slime, and bring me an answer as soon as you can. Will you have a glass of spirits?”
“Would it be intherfairin' wid my duty, sir?”
“If you think so, don't take it; you ought to know best.”
“Well, then, for this one time, in regard of a Lhin-roe* or the red wather in my stomach, I'll try it. I drank bog-bine last night goin' to bed, but divil a morsel o' good it did me.”
M'Clutchy handed him a full glass, which he held steadily before his eye, till the other put up the decanter.
“Your honor's health, sir,” said he, “and fireside; and if you war to throw me out o' fifty windies, I'll add to that—here's wishin' that the divil had his own, and I know where you'd soon be.”
“How, you villainous scoundrel,” said Val, starting with rising wrath, “what do you mean by that?”
Darby made no reply, but hastily tossing off the glass, he seized his hat, bolted outside the door, and putting in his head, said in a kind of loud but confidential whisper—
“IN HICKMAN'S PLACE, your honor!”
—Solomon M'Slime, a Religious Attorney—His Office—Family Devotions—Substitute for Breakfast—Misprision Blasphemy—Letter on Business.
Pass we now to another worthy character, who had locality upon the aforesaid property of Castle Cumber. Solomon M'Slime, the law agent, was a satisfactory proof of the ease with which religion and law may meet and aid each other in the heart and spirit of the same person. An attorney, no doubt, is at all times an amiable, honest, and feeling individual, simply upon professional principles; but when to all this is added the benignant influence of serious and decided piety, it would not be an easy task to find, among the several classes which compose society in general, anything so truly engaging, so morally taintless, so sweetly sanctimonious, so seductively comely, as is that pure and evengelical exhibition of human character, that is found to be developed in a religious attorney.
Solomon M'Slime was a man in whose heart the two principles kept their constant residence; indeed so beautifully were they blended, that his law might frequently be mistaken for religion, just as his religion, on the other hand, was often known to smack strongly of law. In this excellent man, these principles accommodated each with a benignant indulgence, that manifested the beauty of holiness in a high degree. If, for instance, law in its progress presented to him any obstacle of doubtful morality, religion came forward with a sweet but serious smile, and said to her companion, “My dear friend, or sister, in this case I permit you.” And on the contrary, if religion felt over sensitive or scrupulous, law had fifty arguments of safety, and precedent, and high authority to justify her. But, indeed, we may observe, that in a religious attorney these illiberal scruples do not often occur. Mr. M'Slime knew the advantages of religion too well, to feel that contraction of the mind and principles, which in so many ordinary cases occasions religion and common morality to become almost identical. Religion was to him a friend—a patroness in whose graces he stood so high, that she permitted him to do many things which those who were more estranged from her durst not attempt. He enjoyed that state of blessed freedom which is accorded to so few, and, consequently, had his “permissions” and his “privileges” to go in the wicked wayfares of this trying world much greater lengths than those, who were less gifted and favored by the sweet and consoling principle which regulated and beautified his life.
Solomon was a small man, thin, sharp-featured, and solemn. He was deliberate in his manner and movements, and correct but slow of speech. Though solemn, however, he was not at all severe or querulous, as is too frequently the case with those who affect to be religious. Far from it. On the contrary, in him the gospel gifts appeared in a cheerful gravity of disposition, and a good-humored lubricity of temper, that could turn with equal flexibility and suavity to every incident of life, no matter how trying to the erring heart. All the hinges of his spirit seemed to have been graciously and abundantly oiled, and such was his serenity, that it was quite evident he had a light within him. It was truly a pleasure to speak to, or transact business with such a man; he seemed always so full of inward peace, and comfort, and happiness. Nay, upon some occasions, he could rise to a kind of sanctified facetiousness that was perfectly delightful, and in the very singleness of his heart, would, of an odd time, let out, easily and gently it is true, a small joke, that savored a good deal of secular humor.
Then he was so full of charity and affection for all that were frail and erring among our kind, that he never, or seldom, breathed a harsh word against the offender. Or if, in the fulness of his benevolence, he found it necessary to enumerate their faults, and place them, as it were, in a catalogue, it was done in a spirit of such love, mingled with sorrow, that those to whom he addressed himself, often thought it a pity that he himself did not honor religion, by becoming the offender, simply for the sake of afterwards becoming the patient.
In the religious world he was a very active and prominent man—punctual in his devotional exercises, and always on the lookout for some of those unfortunate brands with which society abounds, that he might, as he termed it, have the pleasure of plucking them out of the burning. He never went without a Bible and a variety of tracts in his pocket, and seldom was missed from the platform of a religious meeting. He received subscriptions for all public and private charities, and has repeatedly been known to offer and afford consolation to the widow and orphan, at a time when the pressure of business rendered the act truly one of Christian interest and affection.
The hour was not more than ten o'clock, a.m. when Darby entered his office, in which, by the way, lay three or four Bibles, in different places. In a recess on one side of the chimney-piece, stood a glass-covered bookcase, filled with the usual works on his profession, whilst hung upon the walls, and consequently nearer observation, were two or three pensile shelves, on which were to be found a small collection of religious volumes, tracts, and other productions, all bearing on the same subject. On the desk was a well-thumbed Bible to the right, which was that used at family prayer; and on the opposite side, a religious almanack and a copy of congregation hymns.
Darby, on reaching the hall door, knocked with considerable more decision than he had done at M'Clutchy's, but without appearing to have made himself heard; after waiting patiently for some time, however, he knocked again, and at length the door was opened by a very pretty servant girl, about seventeen, who, upon his inquiring if her master was at home, replied in a sighing voice, and with a demure face, “Oh, yes—at family prayer.”
“When he's done,” said Darby, “maybe you'd be kind enough to say that Darby O'Drive has a message for him.”
The pretty servant did not nod—an act—which she considered as too flippant for the solemnity of devotion—but she gently bowed her head, and closed her eyes in assent—upon which was heard a somewhat cheerful groan, replete with true unction, inside the parlor, followed by a voice that said, “ah, Susannah!” pronounced in a tone of grave but placid remonstrance; Susannah immediately entered, and the voice, which was that of our attorney, proceeded—“Susannah take your place—long measure, eight lines, four eights, and two sixes.” The psalm was then raised or pitched by Solomon himself, who was followed by six or eight others, each in a different key, but all with such reluctance to approach their leader, that from a principle of unworthiness, they allowed him, as the more pious, to get far in advance of them. In this manner they sang two verses, and it was remarkable, that although on coming to the conclusion, Solomon was far ahead, and the rest nowhere, yet, from the same principle of unworthiness, they left the finish, as they did the start, altogether to himself. The psalm was accordingly wound up by a kind of understanding or accompaniment between his mouth and nose, which seemed each moved by a zealous but godly struggle to excel the other, if not in melody at least in loudness. They then all knelt down, and Solomon launched, with a sonorous voice, into an extempore prayer, which was accompanied by a solemn commentary of groanings, sighings, moanings, and muffled ejaculations, that cannot otherwise be described except by saying that they resembled something between a screech and a scream. Their devotions being over, Darby, having delivered M'Clutchy's letter, was desired to take a seat in the office, until Mr. M'Slime should be at leisure to send a reply.
“Sit down, my good friend, Darby, sit down, and be at ease, at least in your body; I do not suffer any one who has an immortal soul to be saved to stand in my office—and as you have one to be saved, Darby, you must sit. The pride of this vain life is our besetting sin, and happy are they who are enabled to overcome it—may he be praised!—sit down.”
“I'm thankful to you, sir,” said Darby, “oh, thin, Mr. M'Slime, it would be well for the world if every attorney in it was like you, sir—there would be little honesty goin' asthray, sir, if there was.”
“Sam Sharpe, my dear boy, if you have not that bill of costs finished—”
“No sir.”
“A good boy, Sam—well, do not omit thirteen and four pence for two letters, which I ought to have sent—as a part of my moral, independently of my professional duty—to Widow Lenehan, having explained to her by word of mouth, that which I ought in conscience, to have written—but indeed my conscience often leads me to the—what should I say?—the merciful side in these matters. No, Darby, my friend, you cannot see into my heart, or you would not say so—I am frail, Darby, and sinful—I am not up to the standard, my friend, neither have I acted up to my privileges—the freedom of the gospel! is a blessed thing, provided we abuse it not'—well, Sam, my good young friend—”
“That was entered before, sir, under the head of instructions.”
“Very right—apparently very right, Sam, and reasonable for you to think so—but this was on a different occasion, although the same case.”
“Oh, I beg pardon, sir, I did not know that.”
“Sam, do not beg pardon—not of me—nor of any but One—go there, Sam, you require it; we all require it, at least I do abundantly. Darby, my friend, it is a principle with me never to lose an opportunity of throwing in a word in season—but as the affairs of this life must be attended to—only in a secondary degree, I admit—I will, therefore, place you at the only true fountain where you can be properly refreshed. Take this Bible, Darby, and it matters not where you open it, read and be filled.”
Now, as Darby, in consequence of his early attendance upon M'Clutchy, had been obliged to leave home that morning without his breakfast, it must be admitted that he was not just then in the best possible disposition to draw much edification from it. After poring over it with a very sombre face for some time, he at length looked shrewdly at M'Slime closing one eye a little, as was his custom; “I beg pardon, sir,” said he, “but if I'm not mistaken this book I believe is intended more for the sowl than the body.”
“For the body! truly, Darby, that last is a carnal thought, and I am sorry to hear, it from your lips:—the Bible is a spiritual book, my friend, and spiritually must it be received.”
“But, to a man like me, who hasn't had his breakfast to-day yet, how will it be sarviceable? will reading it keep off hunger or fill my stomach?”
“Ah! Darby, my friend, that is gross talk—such views of divine truth are really a perversion of the gifts of heaven. That book although it will not fill your stomach, as you grossly call it, actually will do it figuratively, which in point of fact is the same thing, or a greater—it will enable you to bear hunger as a dispensation, Darby, to which it is your duty as a Christian to submit. Nay, it will do more, my friend; it will exalt your faith to such a divine pitch, that if you read it with the proper spirit, you will pray that the dispensation thus laid on you may continue, in order that the inner man may be purged.”
“Faith, and Mr. M'Slime, with great respect, if that is your doctrine it isn't your practice. The sorra word of prayer—God bless the prayers!—came out o' your lips today,' an til you laid in a good warm breakfast, and afther that, for fraid of disappointments, the very first thing you prayed for was your daily bread—didn't I hear you? But I'll tell you what, sir, ordher me my breakfast, and then I'll be spakin' to you. A hungry man—or a hungry woman, or her hungry childre' can't eat Bibles; although it is well known, God knows, that when hunger, and famine, and starvation are widin them and upon them, that the same Bible, but nothing else, is; handed to them by pious people in the shape of consolation and relief. Now I'm thinkin', Mr. M'Slime, that that is not the best way to make the Bible respected. Are you goin' to give me my breakfast, sir? upon my sowl, beggin' your pardon, if you do I'll bring the Bible home wid me, if that will satisfy you, for we haven't got e'er a one in our own little cabin.”
“Sharpe, my good boy, I'll trouble you to take that Bible out of his hands. I am not in the slightest degree offended, Darby—you will yet, I trust, live to know better, may He grant it! I overlook the misprision of blasphemy on your part, for you didn't know what you said? but you will, you will.
“This is a short reply to Mr. M'Clutchy's note. I shall see him on my way to the sessions to-morrow, but I have told him so in it. And now, my friend, be assured I overlook the ungodly and carnal tenor of your conversation—we are all frail and prone to error; I, at least, am so—still we must part as Christians ought, Darby. You have asked me for a breakfast, but I overlook that also—I ought to overlook it as a Christian; for is not your immortal soul of infinitely greater value than your perishable body? Undoubtedly—and as a proof that I value it more, receive this—this, my brother sinner—oh! that I could say my brother Christian also—receive it, Darby, and in the proper spirit too; it is a tract written by the Rev. Vesuvius M'Slug, entitled 'Spiritual Food for Babes of Grace;' I have myself found it graciously consolatory and refreshing, and I hope that you also may, my friend.”
“Begad, sir,” said Darby, “it may be very good in its way, and I've no doubt but it's a very generous and Christian act in you to give it—espishilly since it cost you nothing—but for all that, upon my sowl, I'm strongly of opinion that to a hungry man it's a bad substitute for a breakfast.”
“Ah! by the way, Darby,” lending a deaf ear to this observation, “have you heard, within the last day or two, anything of Mr. M'Clutchy's father, Mr. Deaker—how he is?”
“Why, sir,” replied Darby, “I'm tould he's breaking down fast, but the divil a one of him will give up the lady. Parsons, and ministers, and even priests, have all been at him; but it is useless: he curses and damns them right and left, and won't be attended by any one but her—hadn't you betther try him, Mr. M'Slime? May be you might succeed. Who knows but a little of the 'Spiritual Food for Babes of Grace' might sarve him as well as others. There's a case for you. Sure he acknowledges himself to be a member of the hell-fire club!”
“He's a reprobate, my friend—impenitent, hopeless. I have myself tried him, spoke with him, reasoned with him, but never was my humility, my patience, so strongly tried. His language I will not repeat—but canting knave, hypocrite, rascal attor—no, it is useless and unedifying to repeat it. Now go, my friend, and do not forget that precious tract which you have thrust so disrespectfully into your pocket.”
Darby, after a shrewd wink at one of the apprentices, which was returned, passed out, and left Mr. M'Slime 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.”