"Well now," said Darby, "that that's over, can you tell me, Poll, what's the news? When were you in Dublin?"

"I've given that up," replied Poll; "I'm too ould and stiff for it now. As for the news, you ought to know what's goin' as well as I do. You're nearly as much on the foot."

"No; nor if every head in the parish was 'ithin side o'mine, I wouldn't know as much in the news line as you, Poll."

"The news that's goin' of late, Darby, is not good, an' you know it. There's great grumlin' an' great complaints, ever since. Val, the lad, became undher agent; and you know that too."

"But how can I prevent that?" said Darby; "sure I'd side wid the people if I could."

"You'd side wid the people, an' you'd side wid the man that oppresses them, even in spite of Mr. Hickman."

"God bless Mr. Hickman!" said Raymond, "and the divil curse him! and sure 'tis well known that the divil's curse is only another name for God's blessin'. God bless, Mr. Hickman!"

"Amen, my darlin' child, wid all my heart," said Poll; "but, Darby," she continued, "take my word for it, that these things won't end well. The estate and neighborhood was peaceable and quiet till the Vulture began his pranks, and now——"

"Very well," said Darby, "the blame be his, an' if it comes to that, the punishment; so far as myself's consarned, I say, let every herrin' hang by its own tail—I must do my duty. But tell me, Poll—hut, woman, never mind the Vulture—let him go to the devil his own way—tell me do you ever hear from your son Frank, that Brian M'Loughlin sent acrass?"

"No," said she, "not a word; but the curse o' heaven on Brian M'Loughlin! Was my fine young man worth no more than his garran of a horse, that he didn't steal either, till he was put to it by the Finigans."

"Well, sure two o' them were sent over soon afther him, if that's any comfort."

"It's no comfort," replied Poll, "but I'll tell you what's a comfort, the thought that I'll never die till I have full revenge on Brian M'Loughlin—ay, either on him or his—or both. Come, Raymond, have you ne'er a spare curse now for Brian M'Loughlin?—you could give a fat one to M'Clutchy this minute and have you none for Brian M'Loughlin?"

"No," replied, the son, "he doesn't be harryin' the poor."

"Well, but he transported your brother.

"No matter; Frank used to beat me—he was bad, an Brian M'Loughlin was good to me, and does be good to me; he gives me my dinner or breakfast whenever I go there—an' a good bed in the barn. I won't curse him. Now!"

"It's no use," continued Poll, whose thin features had not yet subsided from the inflammatory wildness of expression which had been awakened by the curse, "it's no use, he'll only do what he likes himself, an' the best way is to never heed him."

"I believe so," said Darby, "but where's your daughter Lucy now, Poll?"

"Why," said Poll, "she has taken to my trade, an' thravels up to the Foundling; although, dear knows, it's hardly worth her while now—it won't give her salt to her kale, poor girl."

"Why, are the times mendin'?" asked Darby, who spoke in a moral point of view.

"Mendin'!" exclaimed Poll, "oh, ay indeed—Troth they're not fit to be named in the one day with what they used to be. But indeed, of late I'm happy to say that they are improvin' a bit," said she, speaking professionally. "M'Clutchy's givin' them a lift, for I've ever an' always remarked, that distress, and poverty, and neglect o' the poor, and hardship, and persecution, an' oppression, and anything that way, was sure to have my very heart broke wid business."

"And tell me, Poll, did you ever happen to get a job from a sartin pious gentleman, o' the name of M'Slime?—now tell the truth."

"It's a question," replied Poll, "you have no right to axe—you must know, Darby O'Drive, that I've had my private business, as well as my public business, an' that I'd suffer that right hand to be cut off sooner than betray trust. Honor bright, or what's the world good for!"

They now reached a spot where the road branched into two, but Poll still kept to that which led to M'Clutchy's. "Are you for the Cottage too," asked Darby.

"I am," replied Poll, "I've been sent for; but what he wants wid me, I know no more than the man in the moon."

Just then the tramp of a horse's feet was heard behind' them, and in a minute or two, Solomon M'Slime, who was also on his way to the Cottage, rode up to them.

"A kind good morning to you Darby, my friend! I trust you did not neglect to avail yourself of the—Ah!" said he complacently on catching a glimpse of Poll's face, "I think I ought to recollect your features, my good woman—but, no—I can't say I do—No, I must mistake them for those of another—but, indeed, the best of us is liable to mistake and error—all frail—flesh is grass."

"You might often see my face," returned Poll, "but I don't think ever we spoke before. I know you to look at you, sir, that's all—an' it's thrue what you say too, sir, there's nothing but frailty in the world—divil a much else—howsomever, be that as is may, honor bright's my motive."

"And a good motto it is, my excellent woman—is that interesting young man your son?"

"He is, sir; but he's a poor innocent that, hasn't the full complement of wit, sir, God help him!"

"Well, my good woman," continued Solomon, "as he appears to be without shoes to his feet, will you accept of five shillings, which is all the silver I have about me, to buy him a pair."

"Many thanks, Mr. M'Sl—hem—many thanks, sir; honor bright's my motive."

"And let it always be so, my excellent, woman; a good morning to you very kindly! Darby, I bid you also good morning, and peace be with you both."

So saying, he rode on at a quiet, easy amble, apparently at peace with his heart, his conscience, his sleek cob, and all the world besides.

The sessions of Castle Cumber having concluded as sessions usually conclude, we beg our reader to accompany us to Deaker Hall the residence of M'Clutchy's father, the squire. This man was far advanced in years, but appeared to have been possessed of a constitution which sustains sensuality, or perhaps that retrospective spirit which gloats over its polluted recollections, on the very verge of the grave. In the case before us, old age sharpened the inclination to vice in proportion as it diminished the power of being vicious, and presented an instance of a man, at the close of a long life, watching over the grave of a corrupted heart, with a hope of meeting the wan spectres of his own departed passions, since he could not meet the passions themselves; and he met them, for they could not rest, but returned to their former habitation, like unclean spirits as they were, each bringing seven more along with it, but not to torment him. Such were the beings with which the soul of this aged materialist was crowded. During life his well known motto was, "let us eat, and drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die." Upon this principle, expanded into still wider depravity, did he live and act during a protracted existence, and to those who knew him, and well known he was, there appeared something frightfully revolting in the shameless career of this impenitent old infidel.

Deaker was a large man, with a rainbow protuberance before, whose chin, at the time we speak of, rested upon his breast, giving to him the exact character which he bore—that of a man who to the last was studious of every sensual opportunity. His gray, goatish eye, was vigilant and. circumspect, and his under lip protruded in a manner, which, joined to the character of his age, left no one at a loss for the general subject matter of his thoughts. He always wore top boots, and generally went on horseback, having that part of his hat which rested on the collar of his coat, turned up and greasy.

Squire Deaker's language was not more moral than his life—for he not only enforced his principles by his example, but also by his precept. His conversation consequently resolved itself into a mingled stream of swearing and obscenity. Ridicule of religion, and a hardened triumph in his own iniquitous exploits, illustrated and confirmed by a prodigality of blasphemous asservations, constituted the staple of his thoughts and expressions. According to his own principles he could not look forward to another life, and consequently all that remained for him was to look back upon an unbroken line of seduction and profligacy—upon wealth and influence not merely abused, but prostituted to the lowest and grossest purposes of our worst passions—upon systematic crime—unmanly treachery—and that dishonest avarice which constituted the act of heartless desertion in himself the ultimate ruin and degradation of his victims. Such was this well known squire of the old school, whose portrait, taken from life, will be recognized by every one who ever knew him, should any such happen to peruse these pages.

At the period of which we write Squire Deaker was near eighty, and although feeble and broken down, he still exhibited the remains of a large, coarse, strong-boned animal, not without a vigorous twinkle of low cunning in his eye, and a duplicity of character and principle about his angular and ill-shaped eye-brows which could not be mistaken. He was confined to his bed, and for the first time during many years, was unable to attend the Castle Cumber quarter sessions.

It was the second or third day after their close that about the hour of ten o'clock, a.m., he awoke from a heavy and unhealthy doze, which could scarcely be termed sleep, but rather a kind of middle state between that and waking. At length he raised his head, gasped, and on finding no one in the room, he let fly a volley of execrations, and rang the bell.

"Is there any one there? Any one within hearing? I say Isabel, Isabel, jezabel, are you all dead and d——d?"

"No, your honor, not yet—some of us at least," replied a shrewd-looking lad of about eighteen, nicking his appearance.

"Ha, Lanty—it's you, is it? What do you mean by that, you devil's pick-tooth? Where's Isabel? Where's Jezabel? Playing her pranks, I suppose—where is she, you devil's tooth-brush? eh?"

"Do you want your brandy and wather, sir?"

"Brandy and h—l, you scoundrel! Where's Miss Puzzle?"

"Why, she's just rinsing her mouth, sir, wid a drop of "—

"Of what, you devil's imp; but I know—she's drinking—she's drunk, you young candidate for perdition?"

"I'm not an ould one, sir, any how; as to Miss Fuzzle, sir, she bid me say, that she's doin' herself the pleasure of drinkin' your health"—

"Ha, ha, ha! Oh, if I were near her—that's all! drinking my health! She's tipsy, the she scoundrel, she never sends me that message unless when she's tipsy"—

"Not tipsy, your honor, only unwell—she's a little touched wid the falling sickness—she always takes it after rinsing her mouth, sir; for she's fond of a sweet breath, your honor."

"Ah, she's a confounded blackguard—a living quicksand, and nothing else. Lanty, my lad, if the Mississippi was brandy grog, she'd dry the river—drinking at this hour!—well, never mind, I was drunk myself last night, and I'm half drunk yet. Here, you devil's tinder box, mix me a glass of brandy and water."

"Wouldn't you do it better yourself, sir?"

"No, you whelp, don't you see how my hands, and be hanged to them, tremble and shake. Put in another glass, I say—carry it to my mouth now; hold, you croil—here's the glorious, pious, and immortal memory! Ho! Lanty, there's nothing like being a good Protestant after all—so I'll stand to glorious Bill, to the last; nine times nine, and one cheer more! hurra!"

He then laid himself back, and attempted to whistle the Boyne Water, but having only one tusk in front, the sound produced resembled the wild whistle of the wind through the chink of a door—shrill and monotonous; after which he burst out into a chuckling laugh, tickled, probably, at the notion of that celebrated melody proving disloyal in spite of him, as refusing, as it were, to be whistled.

At this moment Miss Isabel, or as he most frequently called her Miss Jezabel Puzzle, came in with a gleaming eye and an unsteady step—her hair partially dishevelled, and her dress most negligently put on. The moment Deaker saw her, his whole manner changed, notwithstanding his previous violence—the swagger departed from him, his countenance fell, and he lay mute and terror-stricken before her. It was indeed clear that her sway over him was boundless, and such was the fact. On this occasion she simply looked at him significantly, held up her hand in a menacing attitude, and having made a mock curtesy, immediately left the room.

"Lanty," said he in an undertone, when she had gone, "Lanty, you clip, go and tell her to forgive me; I said too much, and I'm sorry for it, say—go you scoundrel."

"Faix I'll do no such thing, sir," replied Lanty, alarmed at the nature of the message; "I know better than to come across her now; she'd whale the life out o' me. Sure she's afther flailing the cook out o' the kitchen—and Tom Corbet the butler has one of his ears, he says, hangin' off him as long as a blood-hound's."

"Speak easy," said Doaker, in a voice of terror, "speak lower, or she may hear you—Isn't it strange," he said to himself, "that I who never feared God or man, should quail before this Jezabel!"

"Begad, an' here's one, your honor, that'll make her quail, if he meets her."

"Who is it," asked the other eagerly, "who is it you imp?"

"Why, Mr. M'Clutchy, sir; he's ridin' up the avenue."

"Ay, Val the Vulture—Val the Vulture—I like that fellow—like him for his confoundedly clever roguery; only he's a hypocrite, and doesn't set the world at defiance as I do;—no, he's a cowardly, skulking hypocrite, nearly as great a one as M'Slime, but doesn't talk so much about religion as that oily gentleman."

In a few moments M'Clutchy entered. "Good morrow, Val. Well, Val—well, my Vulture, what's in the wind now? Who's to suffer? Are you ready for a pounce? Eh?"

"I was sorry to hear that your health's not so good, sir, as it was."

"You lie, my dear Vulture, you lie in your throat, I tell you. You're watching for my carcase, snuffing the air at a distance under the hope of a gorge. No—you didn't care the devil had me, provided you could make a haul by it."

"I hope sir, there's no——"

"Hope! You rascally hypocrite, what's hope good for? Hope to rot in the grave is it? To melt into corruption and feed the worms? What a precious putrid carcase I'll make, when I'm a month in the dirt. Maybe you wouldn't much relish the scent of me then, my worthy Vulture. Curse your beak, at all events! what do you want? what did you come for?"

Val, who knew his worthy sire well, knew also the most successful method of working out any purpose with him. He accordingly replied, conscious that hypocrisy was out of the question—

"The fact is, sir, I want you to aid me in a piece of knavery."

"I'll do it—I'll do it. Hang me if I don't. Come—I like that—it shows that there's no mock modesty between us—that we know one another. What's the knavery?"

"Why, sir, I'm anxious, in the first place, to have Hickman, the head agent, out, and in the next, to get into his place, if possible. Now, I know that you can assist me in both, if you wish."

"How?" asked Deaker, who was quite as able a tactician as his son; and who, in fact, had contrived to put himself so completely! in possession of the political influence of the county as to be able to return any one he wished. "How is it to be done? Tell me that?"

"I have understood from George Gamble, Lord Cumber's own man, that he wants money."

"Tut," replied Deaker, who now forgot a great deal of his swearing, and applied himself to the subject, with all the coolness and ability of a thorough man of business.

"Tut, Val, is that your news? When was he ever otherwise? Come to the point; the thing's desirable—but how can it be done?"

"I think it can; but it must be by very nice handling indeed."

"Well—your nice handling then?"

"The truth is, that Hickman, I suspect, is almost sick of the agency—thanks to Lord Cumber's extravagance, and an occasional bit of blister which I, through the tenantry, lay on him at home. Cumber, you know, is an unsteady scoundrel, and in the ordinary I transactions of life, has no fixed principle, for he is possessed of little honor, and I am afraid not much honesty."

"Oh murder! this from Val the Vulture! Let me look at you! Did M'Slime bite you? or have you turned Methodist? Holy Jupiter, what a sermon! Curse your beak, sir; go on, and no preaching."

"Not much honesty as I said. Now, sir, if you, who have him doubly in your power—first, by the mortgage; and, secondly, as his political godfather, who can either put him in, or keep him out of the country—if you were to write him a friendly, confidential letter, in which, observe, you are about to finally arrange your affairs; and you are sorry—quite sorry—but the truth is, something must be done about the mortgage—you are very sorry—mark—but you are old, and cannot leave your property in an unsettled state. Just touch that part of it so—"

"Yes—touch and go."

"Exactly—touch and go. Well, you pass then to the political portion of it. Hickman's political opinions are not well known, or at least doubtful. Indeed you have reason to believe that he will not support his lordship or his family—is not in the confidence of government—displeased at the Union—and grumbles about corruption. His lordship is abroad you know, and cannot think for himself. You speak as his friend—his tried friend—he ought to have a man on his property who is staunch, can be depended on, and who will see that full justice is done him in his absence. Hickman, too, is against Ascendancy principles. Do you see, sir?"

"Proceed—what next?"

"Why, we stop there for the present; nothing more can be done until we hear from the scoundrel himself."

"And what do you imagine will be the upshot?"

"Why, I think it not at all unlikely that he will place himself and his interests, pecuniary and political, altogether in your hands, and consequently you will probably have the guiding of him."

"Well, Val, you are an able knave to be sure; but never mind; I like you all the better. The true doctrine is always—eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow you die,—take as much out of life and your fellow-men as you can. There's no knavery in the grave, my Vulture. There the honest man and the knave are alike; and this being the case, what the devil is public opinion worth?"

"It's worth a great deal if we use it for our own purposes while we're here; otherwise I agree with you that it's valueless in itself."

"You're a cursed clever fellow, Val, an able knave, as I said—but I don't like your son; he's a dishonest blockhead, and I needn't tell you that the man who has not brains enough to be dishonest is a most contemptible scoundrel."

"Are you not able to get up?" asked Val, in a very dutiful and affectionate voice.

"Able enough now, but my head swam a while ago at a deuced rate. I was drunk, as usual, last night, and could do nothing, not even put a tumbler to my mouth, until I took a stiff glass of brandy and water, and that has set me up again. When shall I write to young Topertoe, the Cumber blade?"

"The sooner the better, now; but I think you ought to rise and take some exercise."

"So I shall, immediately, and to-morrow I write then, according to your able instructions, most subtle and sagacious Val. Are you off?"

"Yes, good-bye, sir, and many thanks."

"None of your stuff I say, but be off out of this—" and as he spoke Val disappeared.

So far the first steps for ousting Mr. Hickman were taken by this precious father and his equally valuable son. Val, however, entertained other speculations quite as ingenious, and far more malignant in their tendency. Hickman, of course, he might, by undercurrents and manoeuvering, succeed in ejecting from the agency; but he could not absolutely ruin him. Nothing short of this, however, did he propose to himself, so far as M'Loughlin, and, we may add, every one connected with him, was concerned; for M'Clutchy possessed that kind of economy in his moral feelings, that always prompted him to gratify his interest and his malice by the same act of virtue. How he succeeded in this benevolent resolution, time and the progress of this truthful history will show.



CHAPTER V.—A Mysterious Meeting

—Description of a Summer Evening—A Jealous Vision—Letter from Squire Beaker to Lord Cumber—Lord Cumber's Reply.

The season was now about the close of May, that delightful month which presents, the heart and all our purer sensations with a twofold enjoyment; for in that sweet period have we not all the tenderness and delicacy of spring, combined with the fuller and more expanded charms of the leafy summer—like that portion of female life, in which the eye feels it difficult to determine whether the delicate beauty of the blushing girl, or the riper loveliness of the full grown maid, predominates in the person. The time was evening, about half an hour before that soft repose of twilight, in which may be perceived the subsiding stir of busy life as it murmurs itself into slumber, after the active pursuits of day. On a green upland lawn, that was a sheep walk, some portions of which were studded over with the blooming and fragrant furze, stood an old ecclesiastical ruin, grey from time, and breathing with that spirit of vague but dreamy reverie, which it caught from the loveliness of the season, the calmness and the golden light of the hour, accessories, that, by their influence, gave a solemn beauty to its very desolation. It reminded one somewhat of the light which coming death throws upon the cheek of youth when he treacherously treads in the soft and noiseless steps of decline—or rather of that still purer light, which, when the aged Christian arrives at the close of a well spent life, accompanied by peace, and hope, and calmness, falls like a glory on his bed of death. The ruin was but small, a remnant of one of those humble, but rude temples, in which God was worshipped in simplicity and peace, far from the noisy tumults and sanguinary conflicts of ambitious man.

Through this sweet upland, and close to the ruin, ran a footpath that led to a mountain village of considerable extent. Immediately behind the ruin stood a few large hawthorn trees, now white with blossoms, whose fragrance made the very air a luxury, and from whose branches came forth those gushes of evening melody that shed tenderness and tranquility into the troubled heart. The country in the distance lay charmed, as it were, by the calm spirit of peace which seemed to have diffused itself over the whole landscape—western windows were turned into fire—the motionless lakes shone like mirrors wherever they caught the beams of the evening light, as did several bends of the broad river which barely moved within its winding banks through the meadows below. The sun at length became half concealed behind the summit of the western hills, so that his rich and gorgeous beams fell only upon the surrounding uplands, now lit into purple, leaving the valleys and lower parts of the country to repose in that beautiful shadow which can be looked upon from the higher parts, only through the crimson glory of the departing light. And now the sun has disappeared—is gone—but still how beautiful is the fading splendor that sleeps for a little on the mountain tops, then becomes dimmer and dimmer—then a faint streak which gradually melts away until it is finally lost in the soft shadows of that thoughtful hour. And even thus passeth away all human glory! The ruin which we have mentioned stood about half way between the residence of Brian M'Loughlin and the mountain village to which we have alluded. Proceeding homewards from the latter place, having performed an errand of mercy and charity, was a very beautiful girl, exquisitely formed, but somewhat below the middle size. She was Brian M'Loughlin's only daughter—a creature that breathed of goodness, grace, and all those delightful qualities that make woman a ministering angel amidst the cares, and miseries, and sorrows of life. Her figure, symmetry itself, was so light, and graceful, and elegant, that a new charm was displayed by every motion, as a new beauty was discovered by every change of her expressive countenance; her hair was like the raven's wing, and her black eye, instead of being sharp and piercing, was more in accordance with the benignity of her character, soft, sweet, and mellow. Her bust and arm were perfection, and the small white hand and taper fingers would have told a connoisseur or sculptor, that her foot, in lightness and elegance of formation, might have excited, the envy of Iris or Camilla.

Having reached the ruin, she was surprised to see the figure of a thin woman, dressed in black, issue out of it, and approach her with somewhat of caution in her manner. Mary M'Loughlin was a girl of strong mind and firm character, and not likely to feel alarmed by any groundless cause of apprehension. She immediately recognized the woman, who was no other than our old friend Poll Doolin, and in the phrases peculiar to the country, made the usual kind inquiry after her health and welfare.

"It's a very unusual thing, Poll," she proceeded, "to see you in this part of the neighborhood!"

"It is," returned Poll, "I wasn't so near the mountains this many a day; an' I wouldn't be here now, only on your account. Miss M'Loughlin."

Now, Mary was by no means ignorant of the enmity which this woman entertained against her father and family, in consequence of having prosecuted and transported her profligate son. Without the slightest apprehension on that account, she felt, however, a good deal puzzled as to the meaning which could be attached to Poll's words. "How, on my account, Poll? I don't understand you."

"Neither you nor yours desarve it at my hands; but for all that, I am here to do you a good tarn."

"I hope I never deserved any evil at your! hands, Poll."

"No, but you're your father's daughter for all that, an' it's not usual to hate the tree and spare the branches."

"I suppose you allude to the transportation of your son; but remember, Poll, that I was only a child then; and don't forget that had your son been honest, he might I still be a comfort and a credit to you, instead of a shame and a sorrow. I don't I mean, nor do I wish to hurt your feelings, Poll; but I am anxious that you should not indulge in such bitterness of heart against my father, who only did what he could not avoid."

"Well," said Poll, "never mind that—although it isn't aisy for a mother to forget her child wid all his faults; I am here, as I said, on your 'account—I am here to tell you, that there is danger about you and before you, and to put you on your guard against it. I am here, Miss Mary M'Loughlin, and if I'm not your friend—I'm not sayin' that I am not—still I'm the friend of one that is your friend, and that will protect you if he can."

"That is very strange, Poll, for I know not how I can have an enemy. What danger could a simple inoffensive girl like me feel? I who have never knowingly offended anybody."

"I have said the truth," replied Poll, "and did my duty—you're now warned, so be on your guard and take care of yourself."

"But how, Poll? You mention danger, yet have not told me what it is, where it's to come from, nor how I am to guard myself against it."

"I'm not at liberty," said Poll, "but this I can tell you, it's threatening you, and it comes from a quarther where you'd never look for it."

Mary, who was neither timid nor surprised, smiled with the confidence of innocence, and replied, after a short pause of thought—

"Well, Poll, I have been thinking over my friends, and cannot find one that is likely to be my enemy; at all events I am deeply obliged to you, still if you could mention what the danger is, I would certainly feel the obligation to be greater. As it is, I thank you again. Good evening!"

"Stay, Miss Mary," replied Poll, walking eagerly a step or two after her, "stay a minute; I have run a risk in doin' this—only promise me, to keep what I said to you a saicret for a while—as well as that you ever had any private talk wid me. Promise this."

"I shall certainly not promise any such thing, Poll; so far from that, I will mention every word of your conversation to my father and family, the moment I reach home. If, as you say, there is danger before or around me, there are none whose protection I should so naturally seek."

"But this," said Poll, with an appearance of deep anxiety, "this is a matther of mere indifference to you: it's to me the danger is, if you spake of it—to me, I say—not to you."

"But I can have no secrets from my family."

"Well, but is it ginerous in you to put me—ay', my very life in danger—when all you have to do is merely to say nothing? However, since I must speak out—you'll put more than me in danger—them that you love betther, an' that you'd never carry a light heart if anything happened them."

Mary started—and a light seemed suddenly to break upon her.

"How," said she, "my engagement to Francis Harman is no secret; our marriage at no distant day being sanctioned by both our families. Is he involved in danger connected with your hints?"

"Deep and deadly, both to him and me. You don't know it, Miss Mary. If you love him, as you do—as is well known you do—if you would keep him and my poor worthless self out of danger, may be out of bloodshed—don't mention a syllable of this meetin' to any one; but of all persons livin' to himself, until I give you lave, until I can tell you it will be safe to do so. See, I kneel down with hands clasped, I beg it of you for his sake and safety!"

It was pretty well known through the parish, especially by the initiated, that this same Poll Doolin, had in truth most of its secrets in keeping; and that she had frequently conducted with success those rustic intrigues which are to be found in humble, as well as in high life. The former part of Poll's character, however, was all that had ever reached the youthful ears of poor innocent Mary, whilst of her address as a diplomatist in the plots and pursuits of love, she was utterly ignorant. Naturally unsuspicious, as we have already said, she looked upon the woman's knowing character rather as a circumstance calculated to corroborate the truth of the mystery which she, must have discovered: and was so much moved by the unquestionable sincerity of her manner, and the safety of her own lover, that she assured her she would keep the secret, until permitted to divulge it; which she begged might be at as early a period as possible. Poll thanked her eagerly and gratefully, and in a few minutes, having made a circuit behind the ruin, sought the lower and richer country by a different path.

Mary unconsciously stood for some time after Poll had left her, meditating over the strange and almost unaccountable scene which had just taken place, when a rich voice, with which she was well acquainted, addressed her. She started, and on turning about, found Francis Harman before her. Twilight had now nearly passed away, and the dusk of evening was deepening into the darkness of a summer night.

"What on earth are you thinking of alone in this place, my dear Mary, and who was that woman who just left you?"

Mary, though firm of character, was also tender and warm of heart, and felt deeply for those she loved. The interview with Poll, therefore, had excited apprehensions concerning Harman's safety, which disturbed her far more than any she felt for herself. He gave her his right arm as he spoke, and they went on towards her father's house.

"Good God," he exclaimed, before she had time to answer him, "what has disturbed or alarmed you, my sweet Mary? I feel your heart beating against my arm, in a most extraordinary manner. How is this?"

The consciousness of the injunction so solemnly and recently imposed, distressed her exceedingly. Her love of truth was like her love of life or of heaven, a sacred and instinctive principle which she must now not only violate, but be forced to run into the hateful practice of dissimulation. All this passed through her mind in a moment.

"My dear Francis, I will freely admit that the beatings of my heart are not altogether without cause; I have been somewhat disturbed, but it will not signify; I shall be quite well in a moment—but where did you come from?"

"They told me you had gone up to poor Widow Carrick's—and I took the short way, thinking to find you there. But what has disturbed you, my dear Mary? Something has, and greatly too."

She looked up with an affectionate smile into his face, although there trembled a tear upon her eyelids, as she spoke—

"Do not ask me, my dear Frank; nor don't think the circumstance of much importance. It is a little secret of mine, which I cannot for the present disclose."

"Well, my love, I only ask to know if the woman that left you was Poll Doolin."

"I cannot answer even that, Frank; but such as the secret is, I trust you shall soon know it."

"That is enough, my darling. I am satisfied that you would conceal nothing from either your family or me, which might be detrimental either to yourself or us—or which we ought to know."

"That is true," said she, "I feel that it is true."

"But then on the other hand," said he, playfully, "suppose our little darling were in possession of a secret which we ought not to know—what character should we bestow on the secret?"

This, though said in love and jest, distressed her so much that she was forced to tell him so—"my dear Francis," she replied, with as much composure as she could assume, "do not press me on the subject;—I cannot speak upon it now, and I consequently must throw myself on your love and generosity only for a short time, I hope."

"Not a syllable, my darling, on the subject until you resume it yourself—how are Widow Carrick's sick children?"

"Somewhat better," she replied, "the two eldest are recovering, and want nourishment, which, with the exception of my poor contributions, they cannot get."

"God love and guard your kind and charitable heart, my sweet Mary," said he, looking down tenderly into her beautiful face, and pressing her arm lovingly against his side.

"What a hard-hearted man that under agent, M'Clutchy, is," she exclaimed, her beautiful eye brightening with indignation—"do you know that while her children were ill, his bailiff, Darby O'Drive, by his orders or authority, or some claim or other, took away her goose and the only half-dozen of eggs she had for them—indeed, Frank, he's a sad curse to the property."

"He is what an old Vandal was once called for his cruelty and oppression—the Scourge of God," replied Harman, "such certainly the unhappy tenantry of the Topertoe family find him. Harsh and heartless as he is, however, what would he be were it not for the vigilance and humanity of Mr. Hickman? But are you aware, Mary, that his graceful son Phil was a suitor of yours?"

"Of mine—-ha, ha, ha!—oh, that's too comical, Frank—but I am not—Had I really ever that honor?"

"Most certainly; his amiable father had the modesty to propose a matrimonial union between your family and his!"

"I never heard of it," replied Mary, "never;—but that is easily accounted for—my father, I know, would not insult me by the very mention of it."

"It's a fact though, that the illegitimate son of the blasphemous old squire, and of the virtuous and celebrated Kate Clank, hoped to have united the M'Loughlin blood with his!"

"Hush!" exclaimed Mary, shuddering, "the very thought is sickening, revolting."

"It's not a pleasant subject, certainly," said Harman, "and the less that is said about it the more disgust we shall avoid, at any rate."

Her lover having safely conducted Mary home, remained with her family only a few minutes, as the evening was advanced, and he had still to go as far as Castle Cumber, upon business connected with the manufactory, which M'Loughlin and his father had placed wholly under his superintendence.

Upon what slight circumstances does the happiness of individuals, nay, even of states and kingdoms, too frequently depend! Harman most assuredly was incapable of altogether dismissing the circumstance of the evening—involved in mystery as they unquestionably were—out of his mind; not that he entertained the slightest possible suspicion of Mary's prudence or affection; but he felt a kind of surprise at the novelty of the position in which he saw she was placed, and no little pain in consequence of the disagreeable necessity for silence which she admitted had been imposed on her. His confidence in her, however, was boundless; and from this perfect reliance on her discretion and truth, he derived an assurance that she was acting with strict propriety under the circumstances, whatever might be their character or tendency.

It may be necessary to mention here that a right of passage ran from Beleeven, the name of the village in which M'Loughlin resided, to the Castle Cumber high road, which it joined a little beyond Constitution Cottage, passing immediately through an angle of the clump of beeches already mentioned as growing behind the house. By this path, which shortened the way very much, Harman, and indeed every pedestrian acquainted with it, was in the habit of passing, and on the night in question he was proceeding along it at a pretty quick pace, when, having reached the beeches just alluded to, he perceived two figures, a male and female, apparently engaged in close and earnest conversation. The distance at first was too great to enable him to form any opinion as to who they were, nor would he have even asked himself the question, were it not that the way necessarily brought him pretty near them. The reader may form some conception then of his surprise, his perplexity, and, disguise it as he might, his pain, on ascertaining that the female was no other than Poll Doolin, and her companion, graceful Phil himself—the gallant and accomplished owner of Handsome Harry.

It appeared quite evident that the subject matter of their conversation was designed for no other ears than their own, or why speak as they did in low and guarded tones, that implied great secrecy and caution. Nay, what proved still a plainer corroboration of this—no sooner was the noise of his footsteps heard, than Poll squatted herself down behind the small hedge which separated the pathway from the space on which they stood, and this clearly with a hope of concealing her person from his observation. Phil also turned away his face with a purpose of concealment, but the impression left by his lank and scraggy outline, as it stood twisted before Harman, was such as could not be mistaken. Poll's identity not only on this occasion, but also during her hasty separation from Mary, was now established beyond the possibility of a doubt; a fact which lent to both her interviews a degree of mystery that confounded Harman. On thinking over the matter coolly, he could scarcely help believing that Her appearance here was in some way connected with the, circumstances which had occasioned Mary so much agitation and alarm. This suspicion, however, soon gave way to a more generous estimate of her character, and he could not permit himself for a moment to imagine the existence of anything that was prejudicial to her truth and affection. At the same time he felt it impossible to prevent himself from experiencing a strong sense of anxiety, or perhaps we should say, a feeling of involuntary pain, which lay like a dead weight upon his heart and spirits. In truth, do what he might and reason as he would, he could not expel from his mind the new and painful principle which disturbed it. And thus he went on, sometimes triumphantly defending Mary from all ungenerous suspicion, and again writhing under the vague and shapeless surmises which the singular events of the evening sent crowding to his imagination. His dreams on retiring to seek repose were frightful—several times in the night he saw graceful Phil squinting at him with a nondescript leer of vengeance and derision in his yellow goggle eyes, and bearing Mary off, like some misshapen ogre of old, mounted upon Handsome Harry, who appeared to be gifted with the speed of Hark-away or flying Childers, whilst he himself could do nothing but stand helplessly by, and contemplate the triumph of his hated rival.

In the mean time the respected father and grandfather of that worthy young gentleman were laboring as assiduously for his advancement in life as if he had been gifted with a catalogue of all human virtues. Old Deaker, true to his word, addressed the very next day the following characteristic epistle—

"To the Right Hon. Lord Cumber.

"My Lord—It is unnecessary to tell you that I was, during my life, a plain blunt fellow in all my transactions. When I was honest, I was honest like a man; and when I did the roguery, I did it like a open, fearless knave, that defied the world and scorned hypocrisy. I am, therefore, the same consistent old scoundrel as ever; or the same bluff, good-humored rascal which your old father—who sold his country—and yourself—who would sell it too, if you had one to sell—ever found me. To make short work, then, I want you to dismiss that poor, scurvy devil, Hickman, from your agency, and put that misbegotten spawn of mine in his place. I mean Val M'Clutchy, or Val the Vulture, as they have very properly christened him. Hickman's not the thing, in any sense. He can't manage the people, and they impose upon him—then you suffer, of course. Bedsides, he's an anti-ascendancy man, of late, and will go against you at the forthcoming Election. The fellow pretends to have a conscience, and be cursed to him—prates about the Union—preaches against corruption—and talks about the people, as if they were fit to be anything else than what they are. This is a pretty fellow for you to have as an agent to your property. Now, I'll tell you what, my Lord—you know old Deaker well. His motto is—'Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die—' I'll tell you what, I say; I have a mortgage on your property for fourteen thousand pounds. Now, put in Val or I'll be speaking to my lawyer about it. Put in Val, or you will never warm your posteriors in a seat for this county, so long as I carry the key of it. In doing so, make no wry faces about it—you will only serve yourself and your property, and serve Val into the bargain. Val, to be sure, is as confounded a scoundrel as any of us, but then he is a staunch Protestant; and you ought not to be told at this time of day, that the greater the scoundrel the better the agent. Would you have a fellow, for instance, whose conscience, indeed, must stand between you and your interest? Would you have some honest blockhead, who, when you are to be served by a piece of friendly rascality, will plead scruples. If so, you are a greater fool than I ever took you to be. Make Val your agent, and it is not you that will suffer by him, but the people—whom, of course, no one cares a curse about. I ought to have some claim on you, I think. Many a lift I have given your precious old father, Tom Topertoe, when I did not think of pleading scruples. To tell you the truth, many a dirty trick I played for him, and never brought my conscience to account for it. Make the most of this rascally world, and of the rascals that are in it, for we are all alike in the grave. Put in Val, then, and don't made an enemy of

"Your old friend,

"Randal Deaker.

"P.S.—As to Val, he knows nothing of this transaction—I told him I would say so, and I keep my word. I forgot to say that if you write this beggarly devil, Hickman, a sharp letter for money, he may probably save you the trouble of turning him out. I know him well—he is a thin skinned fool, and will be apt to bolt, if you follow my advice.

"Yours as you deserve it,

"R D."

Now, it is necessary to say here, that amidst all this pretence of open villainy, there ran an undercurrent of cunning that might escape the observation of most men. In truth, old Deaker was not only a knave, but a most unscrupulous oppressor at heart, especially when he happened to get a man in his power from whom he wished to extort a favor, or on whom he wished to inflict an injury. In the present instance he felt perfectly conscious of his power over the heartless profligate, to whom he wrote such a characteristic letter, and the result shows that he neither miscalculated the feeble principles of his correspondent, nor the consequences of his own influence over him. By due return of post he received a reply, of which the following is a copy:—

"Old Deaker—You have me fast, and you know it—so I suppose must is the word; now I'll tell you what I want, you old villain; I want two thousand pounds, and if M'Clutchy is to get the agency, I must have the money—so there is my must as well as yours. In the meantime I have written to Hickman on the same subject, want of money, I mean—what the consequences may be, I know not, but I fancy I can guess them.

"Yours,

"Cumber."



CHAPTER VI.—The Life and Virtues of an Irish Absentee

—Duties of an Irish Landlord—An Apologue on Property—Reasons for Appointing an Agent—M'Clutchy's Notions of His Duties—Receipt to make a Forty Shilling Freeholder.

Lord Cumber to Henry Hickman, Esq.

"London, April 1st, 18—

"My Dear Hickman,

"I wrote to you the day before yesterday, and, as the letter was one of a very pressing nature, I hope its influence won't be lost upon you. To you who are so well acquainted with the cursed pickle in which I am placed, it is unnecessary to say that I shall be fairly done up, unless you can squeeze something for me out of those rascally tenants of mine. Fairly done up is not the proper term either; for between you and me, I strongly suspect a young fellow called Swingler, an ironmonger's son, of giving me a twist too much, on more than one occasion. He was introduced, that is, proposed as a member of our club, by Sir Robert Ratsbane, whose grandfather was a druggist, and seconded by Lord Loadstone, the celebrated lady-killer, as a regular pigeon, who dropped, by the death of old 'burn the wind,' into half a million at least. The fellow did appear to be a very capital speculation, but the whole thing, however, was a trick, as I strongly suspect; for after losing to a tolerably smart tune, our gentleman began to illustrate the doctrine of reaction, and has, under the character of a pigeon, already fleeced half a score of us. Last week I suffered to the tune of eight hundred—Sir Heavyhead to that of twelve—Bill Swag five—and the Hon. Tom Trickman himself, who scarcely ever loses, gave bills for six fifties. I can't stand this, Hickman, that is, I cannot afford to stand it. What is fifteen thousand a year to a man like me, who must support his rank, or be driven to the purgatorial alternative of being imprisoned on his own estate? Hickman, you have no bowels for me, although you can have for the hard-fisted boors on my property, who wont pay up as they ought, and all through your indolence and neglect. You must send me money, get it where you will; beg, borrow, rob, drive, cant, sell out—for money I must have. Two thousand within a fortnight, and no disappointment, or I'm dished. You know not the demands upon me, and therefore you, naturally enough, think very easily—much too easily—of my confounded difficulties. If you had an opera girl to keep, as I have—and a devilish expensive appendage the affectionate jade is—perhaps you might feel a little more Christian sympathy for me than you do. If you had the expense of my yacht—my large stud at Melton Mowbry and Doncaster, and the yearly deficits in my betting book, besides the never ending train of jockies, grooms, feeders, trainers, et hoc genus omne—to meet, it is probable, old boy, you would not feel so boundless an interest, as you say you do, in the peace and welfare of another man's tenantry, and all this at that other man's expense. You're confoundedly unreasonable, Hickman. Why feel, or pretend to feel, more for these fellows, their barelegged wives, and ragged brats, than you do for a nobleman of rank, to whom you are deeply indebted. I mean you no offence, Hickman; you are in other respects an honest fellow enough, and if possessed of only a little less heart, as the times go, and more skill in raising money from these people, you would be invaluable to such a distressed devil as I am. As it is, I regret to say, that you are more a friend to my tenantry than to myself, which is a poor qualification for an agent. In fact, we, the Irish aristocracy living here, or absentees as you call us, instead of being assailed by abuse, want of patriotism, neglect of duties, and all that kind of stuff, have an especial claim upon the compassion of their countrymen. If you knew what we, with limited means and encumbered properties, must suffer in attempting to compete with the aristocracy of this country, who are enormously rich, you would say that we deserve immortal credit for holding out and keeping up appearances as we do—not that I think we always come off scott-free from their ridicule, especially when they see the shifts to which we are put, in order to stretch onward at their own pace. However, we must drink when we are thirsty, as well as they, and if the water happen to be low in the cistern, which, indeed, is mostly the case with us, we must, as the rook in the fable did with the pebbles, throw in rack-renting, drivings, executions, mortgages, loans, &c, in order to bring it within our reach—for there is ingenuity in everything, as the proverb says, except in roasting of eggs.

"Come, then, Hickman, set to work at once. My yacht has been damaged by a foolish wager I made to run her through a creek of reefs at low water, so that the mere repairs will cost me a cool two hundred at least. Besides this, I have pledged myself to buy my charming little Signora a pair of Blenheim spaniels that she has fallen in love with, for which I shall have to fork out a hundred and fifty down. I say, then, again, my dear Hickman, money, money; money by any means, but by all means money; rem, sed quocunque modo rem.

"By the way is there not a man there, a kind of under-fellow in something—agent, I believe—some time appointed, named M'Snitchy, or M'Smatchey, M'Clutchy, or some such euphonious appellative? Somebody, old Deaker I think, once mentioned him to me in strong terms, and said he might become capable of being useful; and you know, Hickman, as well as I do, that every property circumstanced as mine is, requires a useful fellow of that particular description. For instance, I dare say, there are certain proceedings connected with your duty to which you have no great inclination, and, under these circumstances, would it not be prudent at least to resort to the agency of somebody like this M'Clutchy; a fellow not overburthened with too strong a perception of the necessary pressure. But the truth is, if I proceed in this manner, your humanity, as the cant goes, will take the alarm; you will say that my residence abroad has not improved my principles; and that I am rather strongly tainted with club morality, and the ethics of the gaming, house. So would you, perhaps, if you breathed my atmosphere, and were exposed to my temptations. But now I am preaching, and not to the right purpose either; so as I said before, I say again—money, money, money.

"I am, my dear Hickman, "Thy friend in distress, "Cumber."

Henry Hickman, Esq., to the Right Honorable Lord Viscount Cumber:—

Primrose Hill, April 18—

"My Lord:

"I have had the honor of receiving both your communications, and have read them, especially that of the first instant, with great pain. I need not tell you, that I have been your father's friend—that I have been, and still am your friend, and as such, from my age and anxiety for your lordship's welfare and reputation, I must take the liberty of one who has both sincerely at heart, to write to you in terms which a mere agent could not with propriety use. As this letter, therefore, is written for your own eye only, you will be good enough to remember that in everything severe and home-spoken in it, the friend, and not the agent speaks—at the same time, I must admit, that it is from the knowledge gained as an agent that I remonstrate as a friend.

"It is now beyond a doubt, my Lord, that your position is one surrounded with difficulties scarcely to be surmounted, unless by measures which I, as an honest man, cannot permit myself to adopt. So long as the course of life, which it has pleased your lordship's better taste and judgment to pursue, did not bring within the compass of my duties as your agent, the exhibition of principles at variance with humanity and justice, so long did I fulfil those duties with all the ability and zeal for your just interests which I could exert. But now I perceive, that you have driven me to that line beyond which I cannot put my foot, without dishonor to myself. I have been the agent of your property, my Lord, but I shall never become the instrument of your vices; and believe me, this is a distinction which in our unhappy country, is too seldom observed. Many an agent, my Lord, has built himself a fortune out of the very necessities of his employer, and left to his children the honorable reflection that their independence originated from profligacy on the one hand and dishonesty on the other. You see, my Lord, I find it necessary to be very plain with you, and to say, that however you may feel yourself disposed to follow the one course, I shall not rival you in the other. I cannot become a scourge inflicted by your necessities, not to use a harsher word, upon a suffering people, who are already exhausted and provoked by an excess of severity and neglect. Think of the predicament in which you would have me stand—of the defence which you place, in my lips. Should your tenantry ask me—'why are you thus cruel and oppressive-upon us?' what reply could I make but this—'I am thus cruel because his lordship is profligate. He wants money to support his-mistress, to feed her vanities and excesses, and you must endure distress and privation, that the insatiable rapacity of a courtezan may be gratified. His lordship, too, has horses and dogs, in the welfare of which he feels a deep interest.' 'But why does he not feel an interest in us?' 'So he does, for are not you the persons by whose toil and labor he is enabled to support them all?' 'So that in point of fact, we are made indirectly the agents of his crimes. The privations which we suffer—the sweat of our brows—the labor of our hands, go to the-support of his wantonness, his luxury, and his extravagance! This, then, is his interest in us?' 'Yes—work, that you may feed them—starve, that his mistress may riot in wantonness; perish your children that his dogs may be fed!' In such a position as this, my Lord, I shall never place myself, but you may easily find many that will. The moment your necessities are known, knavery will be immediately at work, and assume its guardianship over folly. Indeed there is a monarchical spirit in knavery, which has never yet been observed. The knave keeps his fool, as did the kings of old, with this only difference, and a material one it is—that whilst the fool always lived at the king's expense, the knave lives at the fool's. How your lordship may feel under the new administration I cannot say, but I am inclined to think, you will not find it a distinction without a difference. By this, of course, you understand, my Lord, that I at once resign my agency.

"And now, my Lord, in addition to many other unavailable remonstrances made by me, not only against your licentious habits as a man, but against your still more indefensible conduct as a landlord, allow me to address you in a spirit of honesty, which I fear is not easily found among the class to which I belong. I look upon this as a duty which I owe less to you than to my country, because I am satisfied that the most important service which can be rendered to any man, not ashamed of either your habits or principles, is to lay before him a clear, but short and simple statement, of that which constitutes his duty as a landlord—I should say an Irish landlord—for there is a national idiosyncrasy of constitution about such a man, which appears to prevent him from properly discharging his duties, either as a friend to himself, or a just man to his tenantry.

"The first principle, therefore, which an Irish landlord—or, indeed any landlord—should lay down, as his fixed and unerring guide, is ever to remember that his tenantry are his best friends—his only patrons—and that instead of looking down upon them with contempt, neglect, or even indifference, he should feel that they are his chief benefactors, who prop his influence, maintain his rank, and support his authority.

"The second is—that the duties of the landlord to his tenantry are much greater, and far more important than those of his tenantry to him, and should at least be quite as equitably and attentively discharged.

"The third is—to remember that the great mass of the population in Ireland belong to one creed, and the great bulk of landed proprietors to another; and to take care that none of those fierce and iniquitous prerogatives of power, which are claimed and exercised by those who possess property, shall be suffered, in the name of religion, or politics, or prejudice of any kind, to disturb or abridge the civil or religious rights of the people, and thus weaken the bonds which should render the interests of landlord and tenant identical. Prejudice so exercised is tyranny. Every landlord should remember that the soil is of no religion.

"The fourth is—simply to remember that those who live upon our property have bodies and souls, passions, reflections, and feelings like ourselves. That they are susceptible of hunger, cold, grief, joy, sickness, and sorrow—that they love their children and domestic relatives, are attached to their religion, bound by strong and heartfelt ties to the soil they live on, and are, in fact, moved by all those general laws and principles of life and nature, which go to make up social and individual happiness—to remember, in short, that they are men who have higher destinies in life, than merely administering to the wants, excesses, or crimes of others; and that no condition has ever yet been known to subsist between landlord and tenant, or even between man and man, by which one party is required to surrender comfort, freedom, and enjoyment, in fact, all that life is good for, merely to gratify the wants, vices, or ambition of the other.

"The fifth and last is—not by oppression, cruelty, or rapacity, to goad the people into madness and outrage, under the plausible name of law or justice; or to drive the national mind—which is a clear one—into reflections that may lead it to fall back upon first principles, or force it to remember that the universal consent by which the rights of property are acknowledged, may, under the exasperation of overstrained pressure, in a land so peculiarly circumstanced as Ireland is, be altogether withheld, and thus its whole foundations shaken or overturned, and the justice of individual claims and prescriptive right lost in the tumult.

"These principles are simple, my Lord, but they ought at least to be better known, or what would be still more desirable, better practised. As, however, my paper is nearly filled, I shall finish my communication with a short fab!e, to which I beg your lordship's serious attention.

"There lived a man once, who was foolish enough to entertain a senseless prejudice against cows, because they did not give milk all the year round. This man was married, and of course, had a numerous family of children, and being very lazy and improvident, depended principally upon the kindliness of an excellent cow, whose milk was the chief means of his support and theirs. At length in the due course of time, the poor cow, as every one must know, began to yield it in diminished quantities, and as it happened to be a severe year, and as the lazy man we speak of had made no provision for its occurrence, it is unnecessary to say that he and his family were put to the greatest straits for subsistence. Finding, after much deliberation, that the poor animal, which they kicked and cudgelled to excess could not change the laws of nature, or afford them that which she did not possess, it was determined by her proprietor, that as she failed in supplying them with sufficient milk they should try the fleams, and have recourse to her blood, in order to eke out their support. Accordingly she was bled, along with being milked; but if the quantity of milk she gave before was little, it now became less, so that in proportion as they drew upon the one the other diminished, as was but natural. In this way they proceeded, milking and bleeding the poor animal at the same time, not only without any benefit to themselves, but with a certain prospect of her ultimate loss, when one day the cow, after having ruminated for some time on the treatment she was receiving, began to reflect that she could not be much worse, or rather that she must soon altogether sink under this system of double drainage. 'Well' thought she, 'I feel how matters must close with me at last; I am indeed near the end of my tether; what have I now to fear when I know that I cannot be worse? And if I am to die, as I must, is it not better to have satisfaction for my sufferings'? Accordingly, me next morning when her owner went to get blood for their breakfast, it so happened that the cow thrust a horn into him, and he was found lying a corpse under her lifeless carcase—the last drop of her blood having been expended under the final operation of the fleams. My Lord, the moral of this is as obvious as it is fearful—and fearfully have the circumstances of the country, and the principles of such men as you, caused it to be illustrated. If landlords will press too severely upon the functions of human suffering and patience, it is not to be surprised, although it is to be deplored, that where no legal remedy exists against individual cruelty or rapacity, or that plausible selfishness, which is the worst species of oppression—that the law, I say, which protects only the one party should be forgotten or despised by the other, and a fiercer code of vengeance substituted in its stead.

"With respect to Mr. M'Clutchy, surely your lordship must remember that by your own letter he was appointed under agent more than three years ago.

"If, after the many remonstrances I have had occasion to make against his general conduct to the tenants, you consider him a useful man upon your property, you will, in that case, have to abide the consequences of your confidence in him. You are, at all events, duly forewarned.

"I now must beg leave, my Lord, to render up my trust, to resign my situation as the agent of your estates—I do so with pain, but the course of your lordship's life has left me no other alternative. I cannot rack and goad your tenants, nor injure your own property. I cannot paralyze industry, cramp honest exertion, or distress poverty still further, merely to supply necessities which are little less than criminal in yourself and ruinous to your tenantry.

"Believe me, my Lord, I would not abandon you in your difficulties, if I saw any honorable means of extricating you from them. You know, however, that every practicable step has been taken for that purpose, but without effect—your property should grow rapidly indeed, in order to keep pace with the increasing and incessant demands which are made upon it. We can borrow no more, and the knowledge of that fact alone, ought to set a limit to your extravagance. Excuse this plainness, my Lord, it is well meant and void of intentional offence.

"I shall be ready in a few days to deliver all books, papers, documents, &c, connected With the property, to any person duly authorized by your Lordship to receive them.

"I have the honor to be, &c,

"Henby Hickman."

The Right Honorable Lord Cumber to Valentine M'Clutchy:—

Doncaster, April, 18—

"Sir:

"In consequence of certain communications which have passed between Mr. Hickman and myself, I have determined that he shall no longer act in the capacity of my agent. The situation is therefore open, and, until a competent person shall be appointed, I authorize you to discharge its duties, and receive from him a correct statement of all accounts between us, together with all deeds, leases, books, papers, &c, in his possession; you first having procured me adequate security, the amount of which will be determined by M'Slime, my law agent, who will join or aid you in making all necessary arrangements.

"You will also have the goodness, as soon afterwards as you feel it practicable, to transmit me a bond fide account of the Ballyrocket and Tulygrindem estates, their capability of improvement, condition of the tenantry, what leases are expired, if any, and those which will soon drop, with a view of seeing what can be made out of it. In this, also, M'Slime will aid you.

"As to the person who may succeed Hickman, as a necessary preliminary he must lay down two thousand pounds, in the shape of an equivalent for the appointment. Could you within a fortnight or so, raise so much? If so, let me hear from you without delay, as it is not unlikely in that case, I may appoint yourself.

"By the way, do you understand the manufacture of forty shilling free-holders in an economical way, because if you do, it would be a desideratum. Parliament, it is said, will be dissolved in June, and I want, as well as I can remember, nearly two hundred votes. My brother lost the last election by something about that number, and I know he feels very anxious to get into parliament for many reasons. He is now on the continent, where he has been for the last three years."

Valentine M'Clutchy, Esq., to the Right Hon. Lord Viscount Cumber:—

"My Lord:

"I have had the honor of receiving your Lordship's kind communication, to which I hasten to make the earliest possible reply. And first, my Lord, allow me to return sincere thanks for your warm kindness, in promising to appoint me your agent. You may rest assured, my Lord, that I will go through my duties as such without favor or affection to any one, barring your lordship, whose interests it will night and day become my duty to study. With, respect to the loan your lordship makes allusion to, I fear it will be out of my power to raise it—that is to the full amount; but if one-half would do, I might by the aid of friends get it together. As for security, I trust it is only necessary to say, that Randal Deaker and Cadwallader Tullywagger, Esqrs., are ready to give it to any amount, so that there is no difficulty there at all events.

"On looking again at your lordship's kind letter, it appears possible that I made a mistake in considering the two thousand as a loan; but on the other hand, there is not a man living, who respects the high principles and delicate feelings of our aristocracy more than I do, and the consequence was, that I feared in supposing it otherwise than a loan, I might offend your lordship's keen sense of honor, which I pledge my credit and reputation would grieve my heart even to think of. Under this impression, then, I shall continue to believe it a loan, until I have the honor of hearing from your lordship again.

"Your anxiety, my Lord, to ascertain the state of your property and the condition of your tenantry is certainly honorable to yourself, as being a direct proof of the generous interest you feel in their welfare. It is fortunate in this instance, that your lordship should apply to a man who has had the opportunities of becoming acquainted with both. True, I am a simple-minded man, my Lord, and if I possess one quality more than another it is a love of truth, and a slow, but straightforward perseverance in whatever is right. It is to this, always under Providence, that I owe everything. I grant indeed, that it ill becomes me to speak in this manner of myself, but my object in doing so is, that as I am about to enter into communications touching your lordship's tenants and property, you may be induced to place the fullest confidence in whatever I shall say. Many a time, indeed, my excellent and worthy friend, Mr. Hickman, has made the same observation, and I felt it gratifying in the highest degree to hear this from a man who is truth itself, and whose only fault is—if it be one—that his heart is too kind, and rather easily imposed on by those who deal in fraud and cunning. A man like him, who, if he cannot speak well of an absent friend, will be silent, is a jewel in this life which ought to be worn in the very core of the heart.

"With respect to the Ballyracket estate, of which I shall speak first, I cannot report so favorably as I could wish. The task, in fact, is to me, personally, a very painful one; especially with reference to that well meaning and estimable gentleman, Mr. Hickman. In the first place, my Lord, the tenantry are not at all in arrears, a circumstance which is by no means in favor of the landlord, especially an Irish one. Every one knows that an Irish landlord has other demands upon his tenantry besides the payment of their rents. Is there no stress, for instance, to be laid upon his political influence, which cannot be exerted unless through their agency? Now a tenant not in arrears to his landlord is comparatively independent, but it is not with an independent tenantry that a landlord can work his wishes. No, my Lord; the safe principle is to keep the tenant two or three gales behind, and if he fails in submission, or turns restiff, and becomes openly contumacious, then you have the means of rectifying the errors of his judgment in your own hands, and it can be done with the color of both law and justice, behind which any man may stand without the imputation of harsh motives, or an excessive love of subordination. I am sorry that Mr. Hickman should differ with me on this point, for he is a man whose opinions are very valuable on many things, with the exception of his amiable and kind-hearted obstinacy.

"The next disadvantage to your interests, my Lord, is another error—I am sorry to be forced to say it—of Mr. Hickman. That gentleman is an advocate for education and the spread of knowledge. Now if an agent were as much devoted to the interests of the people as he is and ought to be to those of the landlord, this principle might pass; but as I take it, that the sole duty of an agent is to extend the interest of his employer exclusively, so am I opposed to any plan or practice by which the people may be taught to think too clearly. For let me ask, my Lord, what class of persons, at the approach of an election, for instance, or during its continuance, are most available for our interests? Who are driven without reluctance, without thought, or without reason, in blind and infatuated multitudes, to the hustings? Certainly not those who have been educated, or taught to think and act for themselves; but the poor and the ignorant. And, my Lord, is not the vote of an ignorant man as valid in law as one who is enlightened? For these reasons, then, I do not approve of the new schools which Mr. Hickman has established; and I was pleased to hear that your lordship was sufficiently awake to your own interests, to decline granting them any support. No, my Lord; an educated people will be a thinking people—a thinking people will be an independent people—but an independent people will not be a manageable people; and if that is not placing the subject in a satisfactory light, I know not what is.

"I need scarcely assure you, my Lord, that in my own humble way, I did everything I reasonably could to discountenance the education system. I even went so far as to prevent several of the tenants from sending their children to these schools; but, as usual, I experienced but little gratitude at their hands, or at those of their parents. This, however, was not so much owing to my interference, as to the accidental circumstance of three or four of them having been hanged or transported for crimes which they were base enough to impute to the ignorance occasioned by my principles—for so they spoke.

"Such then is the condition of the Ballyracket tenantry. They are not in arrears, and you may consequently guess at the wretched state of their moral feelings. They are, in fact, every day becoming more aware of the very kind of knowledge which we don't wish them to possess. They do not slink aside when they see you now; on the contrary, they stand erect, and look you fearlessly in the face. Upon my credit and reputation this is truth—melancholy truth, my Lord—and I fear that at the next election you will find it so to your cost.

"I have lost no time in ascertaining the other particulars mentioned in your lordship's letter. The leases of three townlands expired on March last. They are Derrydowny, Cracknaboulteen, and Ballyweltem. The principal tenant of Derrydowny is a very respectable widow—-one Mrs. M'Swaddle—a woman of serious habits, if not of decided piety. She has three daughters, all of whom sit under the ministration of a Mr. Bolthan—which is pronounced Bottom—a young preacher, belonging to the Methodist connection. They are to all appearance well in the world, keep a conversation car, and have the reputation of being very honest and saving—Old M'Swaddle himself was a revenue collector, and it is said, died richer than they are willing to admit. Cracknaboulteen is altogether in the possession of the celebrated family of the M'Kegs—or, as they are called, the Five Sols—the name of each being Solomon, which is shortened into Sol. There is lame Sol, blind Sol, long Sol, uncertain Sol, and Sol of the mountain. They are celebrated distillers of poteen whiskey, but are not rich. The estate, in fact, would be better without them, were it not for their votes. The townland of Ballyweltem is principally the property of a wild faction, named M'Kippeen, whose great delight is to keep up perpetual feud against an opposite faction of the O'Squads, who on their part are every whit as eager for the fray as their enemies. These are also poor enough, and in an election are not to be depended on. I should say, in addition to this, that several renewal, fines will fall in during the course of the winter. I shall, however, examine the leases, and other documents, still more searchingly, and see what can be got out of it, and how far we can go.

"The Tullygrindem estate is, I am sorry to say, in a still more disheartening condition. There is a very bitter and knowing family living on the townland of Beleeven, named M'Loughlin, who contrive to spread dangerous and destructive principles among the tenantry. They are cunning, unscrupulous, and vindictive, but cautious, plausible, and cloaked with the deepest hypocrisy. I have been endeavoring for years to conciliate, or rather, reform them by kindness, but hitherto without effect; whether I shall ultimately succeed in purifying this fountain-head of bigotry and unconstitutional principle—I do not wish to use a shorter, but a much stronger term—I cannot yet say. I shall, at all events, from a sense of justice to you, my Lord, and of kindness—mistaken it may be, I grant you—to them, continue to make the desirable attempt. My amiable friend, Hickman, has certainly been made the dupe of their adroitness, but, indeed, he is too simple and credulous for this world, as every kind-hearted man, with great benevolence and little judgment, usually is. If I had not risen honestly and honorably, as I trust I may say, through the gradations of office upon this property, I think it probable I, might myself have been deceived and misled by the natural and seductive tact of this dangerous family. Mr. Hickman espouses their quarrel, not exactly their quarrel, but their cause against me; but that is so completely in accordance with his easy simplicity of character, and his pardonable love of popularity, that it rather endears him to, me than otherwise.

"Indeed, I may say, my Lord, candidly and confidentially, that there is a spirit abroad upon your estates, which requires to be vigilantly watched, and checked with all due and reasonable promptitude; I allude principally to these M'Loughlins, and when I state that my excellent and well disposed friend is absolutely popular among your tenantry, even although he made them pay up to the very last gale, and that I am by no means in good odor with them, you will not be surprised when I furnish your lordship with a key to this same state of feeling which exists so generally in this country. This, then, my Lord, is the secret:—whenever an Irish agent devotes himself honestly to the wants, wishes, and interests of his employer, especially if he be needy and pressed for money, so sure will he become unpopular with the tenantry. Now, I am somewhat unpopular with the tenantry, and my amiable friend, Hickman, is beloved by them; but I think your lordship by this time understands the why and the wherefore on both sides. As your agent, my Lord, I should regret such popularity, at the same time, I think the intentions of poor, sweet, amiable Hickman's heart, are such as we must all love and admire.

"With respect, my Lord, to the manufacture of the "forties," as a certain comical class of freeholders are termed, I could have easily undertaken to double the number you mention, on the most reasonable terms, were it not for the discouraging system adopted by Mr. Hickman. As it is, I must see what can be done; but your lordship knows that I can take no step either in this or anything else, until my appointment shall be finally confirmed. Perhaps you are not aware of the remarkable document, on the subject in question, which has recently gone its rounds in this country. It is called—

"'A RECEIPT TO MAKE A FORTY SHILLING FREEHOLDER.'

"'Take the poorest Irishman you can get, he must be destitute and ignorant, for then he will be slavish, give him a mud cabin, but no education; let the former be a bad model of an indifferent pig-stye, and held at thrice its value. Put him to repose on a comfortable bed of damp straw, with his own coat and his wife's petticoat, for bed-clothes. Pamper him on two half meals of potatoes and point per day—with water ad libitum. For clothing—let him have a new shirt once every three years—to give him exercise and keep him clean—a hat once in every seven, and brogues whenever he can get them. His coat and breeches—lest he might grow too independent—must be worn upon the principle of the Highlander's knife, which, although a century in the family, was never changed, except sometimes the handle and sometimes the blade. Let his right to vote be founded upon a freehold property of six feet square, or as much as may be encompassed by his own shift, and take care that there be a gooseberry bush in the centre of it; he must have from four to ten children, as a proof of his standing in society, all fashionably dressed, and coming at the rate of one every twelve months. Having thus, by a liberal system of feeding and clothing, rendered him strong for labor, you must work him from dark to dark—pay him fourpence a day for three quarters of the year, with permission to beg or starve for the remainder. When in health task him beyond his strength, and when sick neglect him—for there is nothing so beautiful as kindness in a landlord, and gratitude in a tenant—and thus will your virtues become reciprocal. He must live under a gradation of six landlords, so that whoever defaults, he may suffer—and he will have the advantage of six tyrants instead of one. Your agent is to wheedle, and your bailiff to bully him; the one must promise, and the other threaten; but if both fail, you must try him yourself. Should he become intractable under all this, you must take purer measures.—Compliment him on his wife—praise and admire his children—play upon his affections, and corrupt him through his very virtues—for that will show that you love your country and her people better than your own interests. Place a promise of independence on one side of him, but a ruined cottage and extermination on the other. When all his scruples are thus honorably overcome, and his conscience skilfully removed, take him for twenty minutes or so out of his rags, put him into a voting suit that he may avoid suspicion, bring him up to the poll—steep him in the strongest perjury, then strip him of his voting suit, clap him into his rags, and having thus fitted him for the perpetration of any treachery or crime, set him at large once more, that he may disseminate your own principles upon your own property, until you may require him again. Having thus honestly discharged your duty to God and your country, go calmly to your pillow, where you can rest in the consciousness of having done all that a virtuous man and true patriot can do, to promote the comfort and independence of his fellow creatures.'

"I have the honor to be, &c., &c., "VAL M'CLUTCHY,"



Lord Cumber to Solomon M'Slime, Esq., Attorney at Law:

"DEAR SIR:

"Enclosed is a letter to Mr. M'Clutchy, which I will trouble you to forward to him as soon as you can. It contains his appointment to the vacant agency, together with the proper power of attorney, and I have every reason to hope that my property will improve under him. I did think it no breach of any honorable principle to make him advance, by way of compensation, the sum of two thousand pounds. It is a thing very usually done, I am aware, and by men who would not bear any imputation against their honor. But I know not how it is, his letter has deterred me from taking the money in that light. It would be certainly too bad to allow a person of his birth and standing in the world to teach one of mine a lesson in delicacy of feeling. For this reason, then, let him advance the money on the usual terms of loan:—that you can adjust between you. All I ask is, that you will not lose one moment of unnecessary time in accomplishing this business, and remitting the money. Two thousand in a fortnight will be of more value to me than four in a month, owing to the peculiar difficulties in which I am placed.

"Yours, CUMBER.

"P.S.—I say, my little saint, I hope you are as religious as ever—but in the meantime as it is not unlikely—but on the contrary very probable—if not altogether certain—that I shall be in Ireland should the election take place, I trust you will have the kindness to let me know if there's e'er a pretty girl in the neighborhood—that wants a friend and protector—ha, ha, ha—as great a sinner as ever, you see—but for that reason you know the more entitled to your prayers for my conversion. The greater the saint, the greater the sinner now-a-days—or is it the other way? I forget.

"CUMBER."

Lord Cumber to Val M'Clutchy, enclosed in the above:

"Dear Sir:

"I am very happy in appointing you to the important situation of my agent, with all the necessary powers and authority to act as may best seem to you for my advantage. The money I will take on your own terms, only I beg that you will lose no time in remitting it. I agree with you in thinking that Mr. Hickman, however well meaning, was deficient in firmness and penetration of character, so far as the tenants were concerned; and I would recommend you to avoid the errors which you perceived in him. With many principles laid down in your letter I agree, but not with all. For instance, if I understand you right, you would appear to advocate too much indulgence to the tenantry at my expense; for what else is allowing them to run into arrears. This certainly keeps the money out of my pocket, and you cannot surely expect me to countenance such a proceeding as that:—whilst I say this, it is due to you that I consider your ultimate object a correct one. Property loses a great portion of its value, unless a landlord's influence over the people be as strong as his right to the soil; and for this reason, the duty of every landlord is to exercise as powerful a control over the former, and get as much out of the latter as he can. The landlords, to be sure, are of one religion and the people of another; but so long as we can avail ourselves of the latter for political purposes, we need care but little about their creed. The results in this case are precisely the same as if the country were Protestant, and that is as much as we want. Indeed I question if the whole Irish population were Protestant to-morrow, whether the fact would not be against us. I now speak as identifying myself with British interests. Would we find them as manageable and as easily shaped to our purposes? I fear not. They would demand education, knowledge, and all the fulness of civil liberty; they would become independent, they would think for themselves, and in what predicament would that place us? Could we then work our British interests, foster British prejudices, and aid British ambition as we do? Certainly not, unless we had the people with us, and without them we are nothing.

"On the whole, then, so long as we continue to maintain our proper influence over them, I think, without doubt, we are much safer as we stand.

"With respect to the discharge of your duty, your own judgment will be a better guide than mine. As I said before, avoid Hickman's errors; I fear he was too soft, credulous, and easily played upon. Excess of feeling, in fact, is a bad qualification in an agent. Humanity is very well in its place; but a strong sense of duty is worth a thousand of it. It strikes me, that you would do well to put on a manner in your intercourse with the tenants, as much opposed to Hickman's as possible. Be generally angry, speak loud, swear roundly, and make them know their place. To bully and browbeat is not easily done with success, even in a just cause, although with a broken-spirited people it is a good gift; but after all I apprehend the best method is just to adapt your bearing to the character of the person you have to deal with, if you wish, as you ought, to arrive at that ascendency of feeling on your part, and subserviency on theirs, which are necessary to keep them in proper temper for your purposes.