“'Goon,' said Phil, whose language, as well as valor, was fairly exhausted, 'it's well you're a fire-eater, and my father a magistrate, or by my honor, I'd know how to deal with you.'
“Such, my dear Spinageberd, is a domestic sketch of the Agent and Under Agent of that exceedingly sapient nobleman, Lord Cumber; and if ever, excellent landlord that he is, he should by any possible chance come to see these lines, perhaps he might be disposed to think that an occasional peep at his own property, and an examination into the principles upon which it is managed, might open to him a new field of action worth cultivating, even as an experiment not likely to end in any injurious result to either him or it. In a day or two I shall call upon Mr. Solomon M'Slime, with whom I am anxious to have a conversation, as, indeed, I am with the leading characters on the property. You may accordingly expect an occasional batch of observations from me, made upon the spot, and fresh from my interviews with the individuals to whom they relate.”
CHAPTER XVII.—A Moral Survey, or a Wise Man led by a Fool
—Marks of Unjust Agency—Reflections thereon—A Mountain Water-Spout, and Rising of a Torrent—The Insane Mother over the Graves of her Family—Raymond's Humanity—His Rescue from Death.
“Friday, * * *
“I have amused myself—you will see how appropriate the word is by and by—since my last communication, in going over the whole Castle Cumber estate, and noting down the traces which this irresponsible and rapacious oppressor, aided by his constables, bailiffs, and blood-hounds, have left behind them. When I describe the guide into whose hands I have committed myself, I am inclined to think you will not feel much disposed to compliment me on my discretion;—the aforesaid guide being no other than a young fellow, named Raymond-na-Hattha, which means, they tell me, Raymond of the Hats—a sobriquet very properly bestowed on him in consequence of a habit he has of always wearing three or four hats at a time, one within the other—a circumstance which, joined to his extraordinary natural height and great strength, gives him absolutely a gigantic appearance. This Raymond is the fool of the parish; but in selecting him for my conductor, I acted under the advice of those who knew him better than I could. There is not, in fact, a field or farm-house, or a cottage, within a circumference of miles, which he does not know, and where he is not also known. He has ever since his childhood evinced a most extraordinary fancy for game cocks—an attachment not at all surprising, when it is known that not only was his father, Morgan Monahan, the most celebrated breeder and handler of that courageous bird—but his mother, Poll Doolin—married women here frequently preserve, or are called by, their maiden names through life—who learned it from her husband, was equally famous for this very feminine accomplishment. Poor Raymond, notwithstanding his privation, is, however, exceedingly shrewd in many things, especially where he can make himself understood. As he speaks, however, in unconnected sentences, in which there is put forth no more than one phase of the subject he alludes to, or the idea he entertains, it is unquestionably not an easy task to understand him without an interpreter. He is singularly fond of children—very benevolent—and consequently feels a degree of hatred and horror at anything in the shape of cruelty or oppression, almost beyond belief, in a person deprived of reason. This morning he was with me by appointment, about half-past nine, and after getting his breakfast——but no matter—the manipulation he exhibited would have been death to a dyspeptic patient, from sheer envy—we sallied forth to trace this man, M'Clutchy, by the awful marks of ruin, and tyranny, and persecution; for these words convey the principles of what he hath left, and is leaving behind him.
“'Now, Raymond,' said I, 'as you know the country well, I shall be guided by you. I wish to see a place called Drum Dhu. Can you conduct me there?'
“'Ay!' he replied with surprise; 'Why! Sure there's scarcely anybody there now. When we go on farther, we may look up, but we'll see no smoke, as there used to be. 'Twas there young Torly Regan died on that day—an' her, poor Mary—but they're all gone from her—and Hugh the eldest is in England or America—but him—the youngest—he'll never waken—and what will the poor mother do for his white head now that she hasn't it to look at? No, he wouldn't waken, although I brought him the cock.'
“'Of whom are you speaking now, Raymond?'