indescribably powerful was the apprehension of derangement, that my
hypocritical tongue wagged aloud at the prayers, during these furtive
naps. Nay, I not only slept but dreamed. I experienced also that
singular state of being, in which, while the senses are accessible
to the influence of surrounding objects, the process of thought is
suspended, the man seems to enjoy an inverted existence, in which the
soul sleeps, and the body remains awake and susceptible of external
impressions. I once thought I was washing myself in the lake, and that
the dashing noise of its waters rang in my ears: I also fancied myself
at home in conversation with my friends; yet, in neither case, did I
altogether forget where I was. Still in struggling to bring my mind
back, so paramount was the dread of awaking deranged should I fall
asleep, that these occasional visions--associating themselves with this
terror--and this again broken in upon by the hoarse murmurs about me,
throwing their dark shades on every object that passed my imagination,
the force of reason being too vague at the moment; these occasional
visions I say, and this jumbling together of broken images and
disjointed thoughts, had such an effect upon me, that I imagined several
times that the awful penalty was exacted, and that my reason was gone
for ever. I frequently started, and on seeing two dim lights upon the
altar, and on hearing the ceaseless and eternal murmurs going on--going
on--around me, without being immediately able to ascribe them to their
proper cause, I set myself down as a lost man; for on that terror I
was provokingly clear during the whole night. I more than once gave an
involuntary groan or shriek, on finding myself in this singular state;
so did many others, and these groans and shrieks were wildly and
fearfully contrasted with the never-ending hum, which, like the
ceaseless noise of a distant waterfall, went on during the night. The
perspiration occasioned by this inconceivable distress, by the heat of
the place, and by the unchangeableness of my position, flowed profusely
from every core. About two o'clock in the morning an unhappy young man,
either in a state of lethargic indifference, or under the influence
of these sudden paroxysms, threw himself, or fell from one of the
galleries, and was so shattered by the fall that he died next day at
twelve o'clock,--and, what was not much to the credit of the clergymen
on the island--without the benefit of the clergy; for I saw a priest
with his stole and box of chrism finishing off his extreme unction when
he was quite dead. This is frequently done in the Church of Rome, under
a hope that life may not be utterly extinct, and that consequently the
final separation of the soul and body may not have taken place.
In this prison, during the night, several persons go about with rods and
staves, rapping those on the head whom they see heavy; snuff-boxes
also go around very freely, elbows are jogged, chins chucked, and ears
twitched, for the purpose of keeping each other awake. The rods and
staves are frequently changed from hand to hand, and I thought it would
be a lucky job if I could get one for a little, to enable me to change
my position. I accordingly asked a man who had been a long time banging
in this manner, if he would allow me to take his place for some time,
and he was civil enough to do so. I therefore set out on my travels
through the prison, rapping about me at a great rate, and with
remarkable effect; for, whatever was the cause of it, I perceived that
not a soul seemed the least inclined to doze after a visit from me; on
the contrary, I observed several to scratch their heads, giving me at
the same time significant looks of very sincere thankfulness.
But what I am convinced was the most meritorious act of my whole
pilgrimage, as it was certainly the most zealously performed, was a
remembrance I gave the squat fellow, who visited me in the early part
of the night. He was engaged, tooth and nail, with another man, at a _De
Profundis_, and although not asleep at the time, yet on the principle
that prevention is better than cure, I thought it more prudent to
let him have his rap before the occasion for it might come on: he
accordingly got full payment, at compound interest, for the villanous
knock he had lent me before.
This employment stirred my blood a little, and I got much lighter. I
could now pay some attention to the scene about me, and the first object
that engaged it was a fellow with a hare-lip, who had completely taken
the lead at prayer. The organs of speech seemed to have been transferred
from his mouth to his nose, and, although Irish was his vernacular
language, either some fool or knave had taught him to say his prayers in
English: and you may take this as an observation founded on fact,
that the language which a Roman Catholic of the lower class does not
understand, is the one in which it is disposed to pray. As for him he
had lots of English prayers, though he was totally ignorant of that
language. The twang from the nose, the loud and rapid tone in which he
spoke, and the malaproprian happiness with which he travestied every
prayer he uttered, would have compelled any man to smile. The priests
laughed outright before the whole congregation, particularly one of
them, whom I well knew; the other turned his face towards the altar, and
leaning over a silver pix, in which, according to their own tenets, the
Redeemer of the world must have been at that moment, as it contained
the consecrated wafers, gave full vent to his risibility. Now it is
remarkable that no one present attached the slightest impropriety to
this--I for one did not; although it certainly occurred to me with full
force at a subsequent period.
When morning came, the blessed light of the sun broke the leaden charm
of the prison, and infused into us a wonderful portion of fresh vigor.
This day being the second from our arrival, we had our second station to
perform, and consequently all the sharp spikes to re-traverse. We were
not permitted at all to taste food during these twenty-four hours, so
that our weakness was really very great. I beg leave, however, to return
my special acknowledgments for the truly hospitable allowance of wine
with which I, in common with every other pilgrim, was treated. This
wine is made by filling a large pot with the lake water, and making it
lukewarm. It is then handed round in jugs and wooden noggins--to their
credit be it recorded--in the greatest possible abundance. On this alone
I breakfasted, dined, and supped, during the second or prison day of my
pilgrimage.
At twelve o'clock that night we left prison, and made room for another
squadron, who gave us their kennels. Such a luxury was sleep to me,
however, that I felt not the slightest inconvenience from the vermin,
though I certainly made a point to avoid the Scotchman and the cripple.
On the following day I confessed; and never was an unfortunate soul so
grievously afflicted with a bad memory as I was on that occasion--the
whole thing altogether, but particularly the prison scene, had knocked
me up, I could not therefore remember a tithe of my sins; and the
priest, poor man, had really so much to do, and was in such a hurry,
that he had me clean absolved before I had got half through the preface,
or knew what I was about. I then went with a fresh batch to receive the
sacrament, which I did from the hands of the good-natured gentleman who
enjoyed so richly the praying talents of the hare-lipped devotee in the
prison.
I cannot avoid mentioning here a practice peculiar to Roman Catholics,
which consists in an exchange of one or more prayers, by a stipulation
between two persons: I offer up a pater and ave for you, and you
again for me. It is called swapping or exchanging prayers. After I had
received the sacrament, I observed a thin, sallow little man, with a
pair of beads, as long as himself, moving from knot to knot, but never
remaining long in the same place. At last he glided up to me, and in a
whisper asked me if I knew him. I answered in the negative. “Oh, then, a
lanna, ye war never here before?” “Never.” “Oh, I see that, acushla, you
would a known me if you had: well then, did ye never hear of Sol Donnel,
the pilgrim?”
“I never did,” I replied, “but are we not all pilgrims while here?”
“To be sure, aroon, but I'm a pilgrim every place else, you see, as well
as here, my darlin' sweet young man.”
“Then you're a pilgrim by profession?”
“That's it, asthore machree; everybody that comes here the second time,
sure, knows Sol Donnel, the blessed pilgrim.”
“In that case it was impossible for me to know you, as I was-never here
before.”
“Acushla, I know that, but a good beginnin' are ye makin' of it--an' at
your time of life too; but, avick, it must prosper wid ye, comin' here I
mane.”
“I hope it may.” “Well yer parents isn't both livin' it's likely?”
“No.” “Aye! but yell jist not forget that same, ye see; I b'lieve I sed
so--your father dead, I suppose?” “No, my mother.” “Your mother; well,
avick, I didn't say that for a sartinty; but still, you see, avourneen,
maybe somebody could a tould ye it was the mother, forhaps, afther
all.” “Did you know them?” I asked. “You see, a lanna, I can't say that,
without first hearin' their names.” “My name is B------.” “An' a dacent
bearable name it is, darlin'. Is yer father of them da-cent people, the
B------s of Newtownlimavady, ahagur!” “Not that I know of.” “Oh, well,
well, it makes no maxim between you an' me, at all, at all; but the Lord
mark you to grace, any how; it's a dacent name sure enough, only if yer
mother was livin', it's herself 'ud be the proud woman, an' well she
might, to see such a clane, promisin' son steppin' home to her from
Lough Derg.” “Indeed I'm obliged to you,” said I; “I protest I'm obliged
to you, for your good opinion of me.” “It's nothin' but what ye desarve,
avick! an' more nor that--yer the makin's of a clargy I'm guessin'?” “I
am,” said I, “surely designed for that.” “Oh, I knew it, I knew it,
it's in your face; you've the sogarth in yer very face; an' well will ye
become the robes when ye get them on ye: sure, an' to tell you the truth
(in a whisper, stretching up his mouth to my ear), I feel my heart warm
towardst you, somehow.” “I declare I feel much the same towards you,”
I returned, for the fellow in spite of me was gaining upon my good
opinion; “you are a decent, civil soul.” “An' for that raison, and for
your dacent mother's sake (_sobies-coat inpassy, amin_), (* Requiescat
in pace.) I'll jist here offer up the _gray profungus_ (* De profundis)
for the release of her sowl out o' the burning flames of pur-gathur.” I
really could not help shuddering at this. He then repeated a psalm for
that purpose, the 130th in our Bible, but the 129th in theirs. When it
was finished, with all due gesticulation, that is to say, having thumped
his breast with great violence, kissed the ground, and crossed himself
repeatedly, he says to me, like a man confident that he had paved his
way to my good graces, “Now, avick, as we _did_ do so much, you're the
very darlin' young man that I won't lave, widout the best, maybe, that's
to come yet, ye see; bekase I'll swap a prayer wid you, this blessed
minute.” “I'm very glad you mentioned it,” said I. “But you don't know,
maybe, darlin', that I'm undher five ordhers.” “Dear me! is it possible
you're under so many?” “Undher five ordhers, acushla!”--“Well,” I
replied, “I am ready.”--“Undher five ordhers--but I'll lave it to
yourself; only when it's over, maybe, ye'll hear somethin' from me
that'll make you thankful you ever gave me silver any way.”
By this time I saw his drift: but he really had managed his point so
dexterously--not forgetting the De profundis--that I gave him tenpence
in silver: he pocketed it with great alacrity, and was at the prayer
in a twinkling, which he did offer up in prime,style--five paters, five
aves, and a creed, whilst I set the same number to his credit. When we
had finished, he made me kneel down to receive his blessing, which he
gave in great form:--“Now,” said he, in a low, important tone, “I'm
goin' to show you a thing that'll make you bless the born day you ever
seen my face; and it's this--did ye ever hear of the blessed Thirty
Days' Prayer?” * “I can't say I did.” “Well, avick, in good time still;
but there's a blessed book, if you can get it, that has a prayer in it,
named the Thirty Bays' Prayer, an' if ye jist repate that same, every
day for thirty days fastin', there's no request ye'll ax from heaven,
good, bad, or indifferent, but ye'll get. And now do you begrudge
givin'me what I got?” “Not a bit,” said I, “and I'll certainly look
for the book.” “No, no, the darlin' fine young man,” soliloquizing
aloud--“Well and well did I know you wouldn't, nor another along wid
it--sensible and learned as ye are, to know the blessed worth of what
ye got for it; not makin', at the same time, any comparishment at all at
all atween it and the dirty thrash of riches of this earth, that every
wan has their heart fixed upon--exceptin' them that the Lord gives the
larnin' an' the edication to, to know betther.”
* There is such a prayer, and I have often seen it in
Catholic Prayer-books.
Oh, flattery! flattery! and a touch of hypocrisy on my part! Between ye,
did ye make another lodgment on my purse, which was instantly lightened
by an additional bank token, value tenpence, handed over to this
sugar-tongued old knave. When he Pocketed this, he shook me cordially
by the band, bidding me “not to forgit the Thirty Days' Prayer, at any
rate.” He then glided off with his small, sallow face, stuck between his
little shrugged shoulders, fingering his beads, and praying audibly with
great apparent fervor, whilst his little keen eye was reconnoitering for
another pigeon. In the course of a few minutes, I saw him lead a large,
soft, warm-looking, countryman, over to a remote corner, and enter into
an earnest conversation with him, which, I could perceive, ended by
their both kneeling down, I suppose, to swap a prayer; and I have no
doubt but he lightened the honest countryman's purse, as well as mine.
On the third day I was determined, if possible, to leave it early; so
I performed my third and last station round the chapel and the beds,
reduced to such a state of weakness and hunger, that the coats of my
stomach must have been rubbing against each other; my feet were quite
shapeless. I therefore made the shortest circuit and the longest strides
possible, until I finished it.
I witnessed this day, immediately before my departure from this gloomy
and truly purgatorial settlement, a scene of some interest. A priest was
standing before the door of the dwelling-house, giving tickets to such
as were about to confess, this being a necessary point. When he had
despatched them all, I saw an old man and his son approach him, the man
seemingly sixty, the boy about fourteen. They had a look of peculiar
decency, but were thin and emaciated, even beyond what the rigor of
their penance here could produce. The youth tottered with weakness, and
the old man supported him with much difficulty. It is right to mention
here, that this pilgrimage was performed in a season when sickness and
famine prevailed fearfully in this kingdom. They advanced up to the
priest to pay their money on receiving the tickets; he extended his palm
from habit, but did not speak. The old man had some silver in his hand;
and as he was about to give it to the priest, I saw the child look up
beseechingly in his father's face, whilst an additional paleness came
over his own, and his eyes filled with tears. The father saw and felt
the appeal of the child, and hesitated; the priest's arm was still
extended, his hand open:--“Would you, sir,” said the old man, addressing
the priest, “be good enough to hear a word from me?” “For what?” replied
the priest, in a sharp tone. “Why, sir,” answered the old man, “I am
very much distressed.” “Ay--it is the common story! Come, pay the money;
don't you see I've no time to lose?” “I won't detain you a minute, sir,”
said the man; “this child”----“You want to keep the money, then? that's
your object; down with it on the instant, and begone.”
The old man dropped it into the priest's hand, in a kind of start,
produced by the stern tone of voice in which he was addressed. When the
priest got the money he seemed in a better humor, not wishing, I could
see, to send the man away with a bad impression of him. “Well, now
what's that you were going to say to me?” “Why, sir,” resumed the old
man, “that I have not a penny in my possession behind what I have just
now put into your hand--not the price of a morsel for this child or
myself, although we have forty miles to travel!” “Well, and how am I to
remedy that? What brought you here, if you had not what would bear your
expenses?” “I had, sir, on setting out; but my little boy was five
days sick in Petigo, and that took away with it what we had to carry
us home.” “And you expect me, in short, to furnish you with money to do
that? Do you think, my good man, there are not paupers in my own parish,
that have a better right to assistance than you have!” “I do not doubt
it, sir,” said he, “I do not doubt it; and as for myself I could crawl
home upon anything; but what is this child to do? he is already sinking
with hunger and--” The poor man's utterance here failed him as he cast
his eyes on the poor, pale boy. When he had recovered himself a little,
he proceeded:-- “He is all that it has pleased God to leave to his
afflicted mother and me, out of seven of them. His other brother and
sister and him were all we had living for some years; they are seven
weeks dead yesterday, of the fever; and when he was given over, sir, his
mother and I vowed, that if God would spare him to us, either she or
I would bring him to the 'Island,' as soon as he would be able for the
journey. He was but weakly settin' out, and we had no notion that the
station was so tryin' as it is: it has nearly overcome my child, and how
he will be able to walk forty miles in this weak, sickly state, God only
knows?” “Oh! sir,” said the boy, “my poor father is worse off and weaker
than I am, and he is sick too, sir; I am only weak, but not sick; but
my poor father's both weak and sick,” said he, his tears streaming from
him, as he pressed his father's arm to his breast--“my poor father is
both weak and. sick, ay, and hungry too,” said he. “Take this,” said the
priest, “it is as much as I can afford to give you,” putting a silver
fivepenny-piece into his hand; “there's a great deal of poor in my own
parish.” “Alas I thought, you are not a father. Indeed, sir,” said the
poor man, “I thought you would have allowed me to keep the silver I gave
you, as how can we travel two-and-forty miles on this?” “I tell you,
my good man,” said the priest, resuming a sterner tone, “I have done as
much for you as I can afford: and if every one gives you as much, you
won't be ill off.”
The tears stood in the old man's eyes, as he fixed them hopelessly upon
his boy whilst the child looked ravenously at the money, trifling as it
was, and seemed to think of nothing except getting the worth of it of
food. As they left the priest, “Oh, come, come father,” said the little
fellow, “come and let us get something to eat.” “Easy, dear, till I draw
my breath a little, for, John I am weak; but the Lord is strong, and
will bring us home, if we put our trust in him; for if he's not more
merciful to his poor creatures, than some that acts in his name here,
John, we would have a bad chance.” They here sat down on the ledge of
a rock, a few yards from the chapel, and I still remained bound to the
spot by the interest I felt in what I had just witnessed. “What do you
want, sir,” said the priest to me; “did you get your ticket?” “I did,
sir,” I replied; “but I hope you will permit me to become an advocate
for that poor man and his son, as I think their case is one in which
life and death are probably concerned!” “Really, my good young man, you
may spare your advocacy, I'm not to be duped with such tales as you've
heard.” “By the tale, sir, if tale you call it,” I returned, “which the
father told, I think, any man might be guided in his charity; but really
I think the most pitiful story was to be read in their faces.” “Do
you think so? Well, if that's your opinion, I'm sure you have a fair
opportunity of being charitable; as for me, I have no more time to
lose with either you or them,” said he, going into a comfortable house,
whilst I could have fairly seen him up to the neck in the blessed
element about us. I here stepped over, and instantly desired the old man
to hand me the fivepence, telling him at the same time that there
was something better in prospect, as a proof of which I gave him
half-a-crown. I then returned to the priest, and laid his fivepence down
on the table before him; for I had the generosity, the fire, and the
candor of youth about me, unrepressed by the hardening experience of
life. “What's this, sir?” said he. “Your money, sir,” I replied--“it
is such a very trifle, that it would be of no service to them, and they
will be enabled to go home without it; the old man returns it.” “That is
as much as to say,” he replied, sarcastically, “that you will patronize
them yourself; I wish you joy of it. Was it to witness the distresses of
others that you came to the island, let me ask?” “Perhaps I came from a
worse motive,” I returned. “I haven't the least doubt of it,” said he;
“but move off--one word of insolence more,” said he, stretching to a
cutting whip, for the use of which he was deservedly famous. “I will cut
you up, sirrah, while I'm able to stand over you.” “Upon my word,” said
I, extending my feet one after another, “you have cut me up pretty
well already, I think; but,” I added, with coolness, “is that, sir, the
weapon of a Christian?” “Is it the weapon of a Christian, sir? whatever
weapon it is, you will soon feel the weight of it,” said he, brandishing
it over my head. “My good father,” said I, “do you remember, since
nothing else will restrain you, that the laws of the country will not
recognize such horsewhip Christianity?” “The laws of the country. Oh,
God help it for a country! Yes! yes! excellent. Here Michael--I say,
come here--drive out this follow. I'll be calm; I'll not, put myself in
a passion--out with him! this fellow.” On turning round to contemplate
the person spoken to, we recognized each other as slight aquaintances.
“Bless me,” said he, “what's the matter? Why,” he added, addressing me,
“what's this?” “How? do you know him, Michael?” “Tut, I do--isn't he
for the mission?” “Oh--ho!--is that it? well, I'm glad I know so much;
good-bye to you, for the present; never fear but I'll keep my eye upon
you.” So saying, we separated. Michael followed me out. “This is an
awkward business,” said he, “you had better make submission, and ask his
pardon; for you know he can injure your prospects, and will do so,
if you don't submit; he is not of the most forgiving cast--but that's
between ourselves.” “What o'clock is it?” said I. “Near three.” “Well,
good-bye, and God bless you; if he had a spark of humanity in him, I
would beg his pardon at once, if I thought I had offended him; but as
to making submission to such a man, as you call it--why--this is a very
sultry day, my friend.” I returned directly to the old man and his son;
and, let purity or motive go as it may, truth to tell, they were no
losers by the priest's conduct; as I certainly slipped them a few
additional shillings, out of sheer contempt for him. On tasting a little
refreshment in one of the cabins, the son fainted--but on the whole they
were enabled to accomplish their journey home; and the father's blessing
was surely a sufficient antidote against the Priest's resentment.
I was now ready to depart; and on my way to the boat, found my two old
female companions watching, lest I should pass, and they might miss my
company on the way. It was now past three o'clock, and we determined to
travel as far as we could that night, as the accommodations were vile
in Petigo; and the spokeswoman mentioned a house of entertainment, about
twelve miles forward, where, she said, we would find better treatment.
When we got on terra firma, the first man I saw was the monosyllabic
humorist, sitting on a hillock resting himself--his eyes fixed on the
earth, and he evidently in a brown study on what he had gone through. He
was drawing in his breath gradually, his cheeks expanding all the while,
until they reached the utmost point of distention, when he would all
at once let it go with a kind of easy puff, ending in a groan, as he
surveyed his naked feet, which were now quite square, and, like my own,
out of all shape. I asked him how he liked the station; he gave me one
of the old looks, shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing--it was,
however, a shrug condemnatory. I then asked him would he ever make
another pilgrimage? He answered me by another shrug, a grave look, dryly
raising his eye-brows, and a second appeal to his feet, all of which
I easily translated into strong negatives. We refreshed ourselves in
Petigo.
When we were on the way home, I observed that, although the singular
and fatal accident which befell the young man in the prison excited very
little interest at the time of its occurrence, yet no sooner had they
who witnessed it got clear of the island, than it was given with every
possible ornament; so that it would be as easy to recognize the
plain fact, when decked out by their elucidations, as it would be to
understand the sense of an original author, after it has come through
the hands of half a hundred commentators. But human nature is a darker
enigma than any you could find, in the “Lady's Magazine.” Who would
suppose, for instance, that it was the same motive which set their
tongues wagging now, that had chained their spirits by the strong force
of the marvellous and the terrible, while they were in prison! Yet this
was the fact; but their influence hung while there, like the tyrant's
sword, over each individual head; and until the danger of falling asleep
in the “Prison” was past, they could feel no interest for anything
beyond themselves. In both cases, however, they were governed by the
force of the marvellous and the terrible.