“Come, my old cock, no hypocrisy; what political opinions have you got?”

“Very strong ones, Phil.”

“What are they?—­you hate the papists, I suppose?”

“Cursed stuff, Phil; the papists are as good as other people; but still I hate them, Phil, because it’s my interest to do so.  A man that’s not an anti-papist now is nothing, and has no chance.  No, Phil, I am not without a political opinion, notwithstanding, and a strong one too.”

“What is it, then?”

“Here,” said he, laying his hand upon his breast, “here is my political opinion.  Valentine M’Glutchy, Phil, is my political creed, and my religious one too.”

“After all,” replied Phil, “you are a chip of the old block.”

“Yes, Phil; but I don’t parade it to the world as he does—­and there’s the difference.”

“Well, thank heaven,” said the son, “I have no brains for any creed; but I know I hate Popery and the Papists as I do the devil.”

“And that, Phil, is the enlightened sentiment upon which all bigotry and mutual hatred between creeds is based.  But you, Phil, could never be so vexatious as a foe to Popery as I could—­your very passions and prejudices would occasionally obstruct you even in persecution—­but I—­I can do it coolly, clearly, and upon purely philosophical principles.  I hate M’Loughlin upon personal principles—­I hate the man, not his religion; and here there must be passion:  but in matters of religion, Phil, there is nothing so powerful—­so destructive—­so lasting—­so sharp in persecution—­and so successful, as a passionless resentment.  That, Phil, is the abiding and imperishable resentment of churches and creeds, which has deluged the world with human blood.”

“Curse your philosophy, I don’t understand it; when I hate, I hate—­and I’m sure I hate Popery, and that’s enough.”

CHAPTER XXIX.—­Solomon Suffers a Little Retribution

—­Requests Widow Lenehan to “Wrestle” for Him—­Deaker’s Death-Bed—­Dies Loyally Whistling the Boyne Water.

The conversation had proceeded thus far, when Lanty Gorman, already spoken of, knocked at the door, and asked to see Mr. M’Clutchy.

Val went to the hall.

“Well, Lanty, what’s the matter?—­how is your master?”

“Plaise your honor,” said the lad, “I think you ought to go to him; he’s at the last gasp, sir; if you’d see the way his face is, and his eyes.”

“He is worse, then?”

“I don’t think it’s so much sickness, sir, as—­”

“As what?”

“As the liquor, your honor; he’s at the Glorious Memory, sir, till he’s nearly off; he thinks it’s the Boyne wather he’s drinkin’ it in, sir, otherwise I don’t b’lieve he’d take so much of it. Sheemus a Cocka and the cart’s in the yard, sir; Darby said you wanted them.”

“Take Sheemus a Cocka to h—­l, sir,” said Phil, “we don’t want him—­he’s a kind of papist; take him away to h—­l out of this.”