his Riv'rence, "and how do you know whether what you thought was
thundher, was thundher at all? Them operations on the sinses," says he,
"comprises only particular corporal emotions, connected wid sartain
confused perciptions called sinsations, and isn't to be depended upon at
all. If we were to follow them blind guides we might jist as well turn
heretics at onc't. 'Pon my secret word, your Holiness, it's neither
charitable nor orthodox ov you to set up the testimony ov your eyes and
ears agin the characther ov a clergyman. And now, see how aisy it is to
explain all them phwenomena that perplexed you. I ris and went over
beside the young woman because the skillet was boiling over, to help
her to save the dhrop ov liquor that was in it; and as for the noise you
heard, my dear man, it was neither more nor less nor myself dhrawing the
cork out ov this blissid bottle."
"Don't offer to thrape that upon me!" says the Pope; "here's the cork in
the bottle still, as tight as a wedge."
"I beg your pardon," says his Riv'rence, "that's not the cork at all,"
says he; "I dhrew the cork a good two minits ago, and it's very purtily
spitted on the end ov this blessed corkshcrew at this prisint moment;
howandiver you can't see it, because it's only its real prisince that's
in it. But that appearance that you call a cork," says he, "is nothing
but the outward spacies and external qualities of the cortical nathur.
Them's nothing but the accidents of the cork that you're looking at and
handling; but, as I tould you afore, the real cork's dhrew and is here
prisint on the end ov this nate little insthrument, and it was the noise
I made in dhrawing it, and nothing else, that you mistook for the sound
ov the _pogue_."
You know there was no conthravening what he said; and the Pope couldn't
openly deny it. Howandiver he thried to pick a hole in it this way.
"Granting," says he, "that there is the differ you say betwixt the
reality ov the cork and these cortical accidents; and that it's quite
possible, as you allidge, that the thrue cork is really prisint on the
end ov the shcrew, while the accidents keep the mouth ov the bottle
stopped--still," says he, "I can't undherstand, though willing to acquit
you, how the dhrawing ov the real cork, that's onpalpable and widout
accidents, could produce the accident of that sinsible explosion I heard
jist now."
"All I can say," says his Riv'rence, "is that it was a rale accident,
anyhow."
"Ay," says the Pope, "the kiss you gev Eliza, you mane."
"No," says his Riv'rence, "but the report I made."
"I don't doubt you," says the Pope.
"No cork could be dhrew with less noise," says his Riv'rence.
"It would be hard for anything to be less nor nothing, barring algebra,"
says the Pope.
"I can prove to the conthrary," says his Riv'rence. "This glass ov
whiskey is less nor that tumbler ov punch, and that tumbler ov punch is
nothing to this jug ov _scaltheen_."
"Do you judge by superficial misure or by the liquid contents?" says the
Pope.
"Don't stop me, betwixt my premises and my conclusion," says his
Riv'rence: "_Ergo_, this glass ov whiskey is less nor nothing; and for
that raison I see no harm in life in adding it to the contents ov the
same jug, just by way ov a frost-nail."
"Adding what's less nor nothing," says the Pope, "is subtraction
according to algebra, so here goes to make the rule good," says he,
filling his tumbler wid the blessed stuff, and sitting down again at the
table, for the anger didn't stay two minits on him, the good-hearted
ould sowl.
"Two minuses make one plus," says his Riv'rence, as ready as you plase,
"and that'll account for the increased daycrement I mane to take the
liberty of producing in the same mixed quantity," says he, follying his
Holiness's epistolical example.
"By all that's good," says the Pope, "that's the best stuff I ever
tasted; you call it a mix'd quantity, but I say it's prime."
"Since it's ov the first ordher, then," says his Riv'rence, "we'll have
the less deffeequilty in reducing it to a simple equation."
"You'll have no fractions at my side anyhow," says the Pope. "Faix, I'm
afeared," says he, "it's only too aisy ov solution our sum is like to
be."
"Never fear for that," says his Riv'rence, "I've a good stick ov surds
here in the bottle; for I tell you it will take us a long time to
exthract the root ov it, at the rate we're going on."
"What makes you call the blessed quart an irrational quantity?" says the
Pope.
"Because it's too much for one and too little for two," says his
Riv'rence.
"Clear it ov its coefficient, and we'll thry," says the Pope.
"Hand me over the exponent then," says his Riv'rence.
"What's that?" says the Pope.
"The shcrew, to be sure," says his Riv'rence.
"What for?" says the Pope.
"To dhraw the cork," says his Riv'rence.
"Sure, the cork's dhrew," says the Pope.
"But the sperets can't get out on account ov the accidents that's stuck
in the neck ov the bottle," says his Riv'rence.
"Accident ought to be passable to sperit," says the Pope, "and that
makes me suspect that the reality ov the cork's in it afther all."
"That's a barony-masia," says his Riv'rence, "and I'm not bound to
answer it. But the fact is, that it's the accidents ov the sperits too
that's in it, and the reality's passed out through the cortical spacies,
as you say; for, you may have observed, we've both been in real good
sperits ever since the cork was dhrawn, and where else would the real
sperits come from if they wouldn't come out ov the bottle?"
"Well, then," says the Pope, "since we've got the reality, there's no
use throubling ourselves wid the accidents."
"O, begad," says his Riv'rence, "the accidents is very essential too;
for a man may be in the best ov good sperits, as far as his immaterial
part goes, and yet need the accidental qualities ov good liquor to hunt
the sinsible thirst out ov him." So he dhraws the cork in earnest, and
sets about brewing the other skillet ov _scaltheen_; but, faiz, he had
to get up the ingradients this time by the hands ov ould Moley; though
devil a taste ov her little finger he'd let widin a yard ov the same
coction.
But, my dear, here's the "Freeman's Journal," and we'll see what's the
news afore we finish the residuary proceedings of their two Holinesses.
V.
THE REASON WHY FATHER TOM WAS NOT MADE A CARDINAL.
_Hurroo_, my darlings!--didn't I tell you it 'ud never do? Success to
bould John Tuam and the ould siminary ov Firdramore! O, more power to
your Grace every day you rise, 'tis you that has broken their Boord into
shivers undher your feet! Sure, and isn't it a proud day for Ireland,
this blessed feast ov the chair ov Saint Pether? Isn't Carlisle and
Whateley smashed to pieces, and their whole college of swaddling
teachers knocked into smidhereens. John Tuam, your sowl, has tuck his
pasthoral staff in his hand and heathen them out o' Connaught as fast as
ever Pathric druve the sarpints into Clew Bay.
Poor ould Mat Kevanagh, if he was alive this day, 'tis he would be the
happy man. "My curse upon their g'ographies and Bibles," he used to say;
"where's the use ov perplexing the poor childre wid what we don't
undherstand ourselves?" No use at all, in troth, and so I said from the
first myself.
Well, thank God and his Grace, we'll have no more thrigonomethry nor
scripther in Connaught. We'll hould our lodges every Saturday night, as
we used to do, wid our chairman behind the masther's desk, and we'll
hear our mass every Sunday morning wid the blessed priest standing afore
the same.
I wisht to goodness I hadn't parted wid my Seven Champions ov
Christendom and Freney the Robber: they're books that'll be in great
requist in Leithrim as soon as the pasthoral gets wind. Glory be to God!
I've done wid their lecthirs,--they may all go and be d--d wid their
consumption and production.
I'm off to Tallymactaggart before daylight in the morning, where I'll
thry whether a sod or two o' turf can't consume a cart-load ov heresy,
and whether a weekly meeting ov the lodge can't produce a new thayory ov
rints.
But afore I take my lave ov you, I may as well finish my story about
poor Father Tom that I hear is coming up to slate the heretics in Adam
and Eve during the Lint.
The Pope--and indeed it ill became a good Catholic to say anything agin
him--no more would I, only that his Riv'rence was in it--but you see the
fact ov it is, that the Pope was as envious as ever he could be, at
seeing himself sacked right and left by Father Tom; and bate out o' the
face, the way he was, on every science and subjec' that was started. So,
not to be outdone altogether, he says to his Riv'rence, "you're a man
that's fond of the brute crayation, I hear, Misther Maguire?"
"I don't deny it," says his Riv'rence. "I've dogs that I'm willing to
run agin any man's, ay, or to match them agin any other dogs in the
world for genteel edication and polite manners," says he.
"I'll hould you a pound," says the Pope, "that I've a quadhruped in my
possession that's a wiser baste nor any dog in your kennel."
"Done," says his Riv'rence, and they staked the money.
"What can this larned quadhruped o' yours do?" says his Riv'rence.
"It's my mule," says the Pope, "and, if you were to offer her goolden
oats and clover off the meadows o' Paradise, sorra taste ov aither she'd
let pass her teeth till the first mass is over every Sunday or holiday
in the year."
"Well, and what 'ud you say if I showed you a baste ov mine," says his
Riv'rence, "that, instead ov fasting till first mass is over only, fasts
out the whole four-and-twenty hours ov every Wednesday and Friday in the
week as reg'lar as a Christian?"
"O, be asy, Masther Maguire," says the Pope.
"You don't b'lieve me, don't you?" says his Riv'rence; "very well, I'll
soon show you whether or no." And he put his knuckles in his mouth, and
gev a whistle that made the Pope stop his fingers in his ears. The
aycho, my dear, was hardly done playing wid the cobwebs in the cornish,
when the door flies open, and in jumps Spring. The Pope happened to be
sitting next the door, betuxt him and his Riv'rence, and, may I never
die, if he didn't clear him, thriple crown and all, at one spring.
"God's presence be about us!" says the Pope, thinking it was an evil
spirit come to fly away wid him for the lie that he had told in regard
ov his mule (for it was nothing more nor a thrick that consisted in
grazing the brute's teeth): but, seeing it was only one ov the greatest
beauties ov a greyhound that he'd ever laid his epistolical eyes on, he
soon recovered ov his fright, and began to pat him, while Father Tom ris
and went to the sideboord, where he cut a slice ov pork, a slice ov
beef, a slice ov mutton, and a slice ov salmon, and put them all on a
plate thegither. "Here, Spring, my man," says he, setting the plate down
afore him on the hearthstone, "here's your supper for you this blessed
Friday night." Not a word more he said nor what I tell you; and, you may
believe it or not, but it's the blessed truth that the dog, afther jist
tasting the salmon, and spitting it out again, lifted his nose out o'
the plate, and stood wid his jaws wathering, and his tail wagging,
looking up in his Riv'rence's face, as much as to say, "Give me your
absolution, till I hide them temptations out o' my sight."
"There's a dog that knows his duty," says his Riv'rence; "there's a
baste that knows how to conduct himself aither in the parlor or the
field. You think him a good dog, looking at him here: but I wisht you
seen him on the side ov Sleeve-an-Eirin! Be my soul, you'd say the hill
was running away from undher him. O, I wisht you had been wid me," says
he, never letting on to see the dog stale, "one day, last Lent, that I
was coming from mass. Spring was near a quarther ov a mile behind me,
for the childher was delaying him wid bread and butther at the chapel
door; when a lump ov a hare jumped out ov the plantations ov Grouse
Lodge and ran acrass the road; so I gev the whilloo, and knowing that
she'd take the rise of the hill, I made over the ditch, and up through
Mullaghcashel as hard as I could pelt, still keeping her in view, but
afore I had gone a perch, Spring seen her, and away the two went like
the wind, up Drumrewy, and down Clooneen, and over the river, widout his
being able onc't to turn her. Well, I run on till I come to the
Diffagher, and through it I went, for the wather was low and I didn't
mind being wet shod, and out on the other side, where I got up on a
ditch, and seen sich a coorse as I'll be bound to say was never seen
afore or since. If Spring turned that hare onc't that day, he turned her
fifty times, up and down, back and for'ard, throughout and about. At
last he run her right into the big quarryhole in Mullaghbawn, and when I
went up to look for her fud, there I found him sthretched on his side,
not able to stir a foot, and the hare lying about an inch afore his nose
as dead as a door-nail, and divil a mark of a tooth upon her. Eh,
Spring, isn't that thrue?" says he. Jist at that minit the clock sthruck
twelve, and, before you could say thrap-sticks, Spring had the plateful
of mate consaled. "Now," says his Riv'rence, "hand me over my pound, for
I've won my bate fairly."
"You'll excuse me," says the Pope, pocketing his money, "for we put the
clock half an hour back, out ov compliment to your Riv'rence," says he,
"and it was Sathurday morning afore he came up at all."
"Well, it's no matther," says his Riv'rence, putting back his pound-note
in his pocket-book. "Only," says he, "it's hardly fair to expect a brute
baste to be so well skilled in the science ov chronology."
In troth his Riv'rence was badly used in the same bet, for he won it
clever; and, indeed, I'm afeard the shabby way he was thrated had some
effect in putting it into his mind to do what he did. "Will your
Holiness take a blast ov the pipe?" says he, dhrawing out his dhudeen.
"I never smoke," says the Pope, "but I haven't the least objection to
the smell of the tobaccay."
"O, you had betther take a dhraw," says his Riv'rence, "it'll relish the
dhrink, that 'ud be too luscious entirely, widout something to flavor
it."
"I had thoughts," said the Pope, wid the laste sign ov a hiccup on him,
"ov getting up a broiled bone for the same purpose."
"Well," says his Riv'rence, "a broiled bone 'ud do no manner ov harm at
this present time; but a smoke," says he, "'ud flavor both the devil and
the dhrink."
"What sort o' tobaccay is it that's in it?" says the Pope.
"Raal nagur-head," says his Riv'rence, "a very mild and salubrious
spacies ov the philosophic weed."
"Then, I don't care if I do take a dhraw," says the Pope. Then Father
Tom held the coal himself till his Holiness had the pipe lit; and they
sat widout saying anything worth mentioning for about five minutes.
At last the Pope says to his Riv'rence, "I dunna what gev me this plaguy
hiccup," says he. "Dhrink about," says he--"Begorra," he says, "I think
I'm getting merrier'an's good for me. Sing us a song, your Riv'rence,"
says he.
Father Tom then sung him Monatagrenage and the Bunch o' Rushes, and he
was mighty well pleased wid both, keeping time wid his hands, and
joining in the choruses, when his hiccup 'ud let him. At last, my dear,
he opens the lower button ov his waistcoat, and the top one of his
waistband, and calls to Masther Anthony to lift up one ov the windys. "I
dunna what's wrong wid me, at all at all," says he; "I'm mortal sick."
"I thrust," says his Riv'rence, "the pasthry that you ate at dinner
hasn't disagreed wid your Holiness's stomach."
"O my! oh!" says the Pope, "what's this at all?" gasping for breath, and
as pale as a sheet, wid a could swate bursting out over his forehead,
and the palms ov his hands spread out to cotch the air. "O my! O my!"
says he, "fetch me a basin!--Don't spake to me. Oh!--oh!--blood
alive!--O, my head, my head, hould my head!--oh!--ubh!--I'm
poisoned!--ach!"
"It was them plaguy pasthries," says his Riv'rence. "Hould his head
hard," says he, "and clap a wet cloth over his timples. If you could
only thry another dhraw o' the pipe, your Holiness, it 'ud set you to
rights in no time."
"Carry me to bed," says the Pope, "and never let me see that wild Irish
priest again. I'm poisoned by his manes--ubplsch!--ach!--ach!--He dined
wid Cardinal Wayld yestherday," says he, "and he's bribed him to take me
off. Send for a confessor," says he, "for my latther end's approaching.
My head's like to split--so it is!--O my! O my!--ubplsch!--ach!"
Well, his Riv'rence never thought it worth his while to make him an
answer; but, when he seen how ungratefully he was used, afther all his
throuble in making the evening agreeable to the ould man, he called
Spring, and put the but-end ov the second bottle into his pocket, and
left the house widout once wishing "Good night, an' plaisant dhrames to
you"; and, in troth, not one of _them_ axed him to lave them a lock ov
his hair.
That's the story as I heard it tould: but myself doesn't b'lieve over
one half of it. Howandiver, when all's done, it's a shame, so it is,
that he's not a bishop this blessed day and hour: for, next to the
goiant ov Saint Garlath's, he's out and out the cleverest fellow ov the
whole jing-bang.
JOHNNY DARBYSHIRE.
BY WILLIAM HOWITT.
John Darbyshire, or, according to the regular custom of the country,
Johnny Darbyshire, was a farmer living in one of the most obscure parts
of the country, on the borders of the Peak of Derbyshire. His fathers
before him had occupied the same farm for generations; and as they had
been Quakers from the days of George Fox, who preached there and
converted them, Johnny also was a Quaker. That is, he was, as many
others were, and no doubt are, habitually a Quaker. He was a Quaker in
dress, in language, in attendance of their meetings, and, above all, in
the unmitigated contempt which he felt and expressed for everything like
fashion, for the practices of the world, for the Church, and for music
and amusements. There never was a man, from the first to the present day
of the society, who so thoroughly embodied and exhibited that quality
attributed to the Quaker, in the rhyming nursery alphabet,--"Q was a
Quaker, and would not bow down."
No, Johnny Darbyshire would not have bowed down to any mortal power. He
would have marched into the presence of the king with his hat on, and
would have addressed him with just the same unembarrassed freedom as
"The old chap out of the West Countrie" is made to do in the song. As to
any of the more humble and conceding qualities usually attributed to the
peaceful Quaker, Johnny had not an atom of those about him. Never was
there a more pig-headed, arbitrary, positive, pugnacious fellow. He
would argue anybody out of their opinions by the hour; he would "threep
them down," as he called it, that is, point blank and with a loud voice
insist on his own possession of the right, and of the sound common-sense
of the matter; and if he could not convince them, would at least
confound them with his obstreperous din and violence of action. That was
what he called clearing the field, and not leaving his antagonist a leg
to stand on. Having thus fairly overwhelmed, dumfoundered, and tired out
some one with his noise, he would go off in triumph, and say to the
bystanders as he went, "There, lads, you see he hadn't a word to say for
himself"; and truly a clever fellow must he have been who could have got
a word in edgeways when Johnny had once fairly got his steam up, and was
shrinking and storming like a cat-o'-mountain.
Yet had anybody told Johnny that he was no Quaker, he would have
"threeped them down" that they did not know what a Quaker meant. What!
were not his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather
before him all Quakers? Was not he born in the Society, brought up in
it? Hadn't he attended first-day, week-day, preparative, monthly,
quarterly, and sometimes yearly meetings too, all his life? Had not he
regularly and handsomely subscribed to the monthly, and the national,
and the Ackworth School Stocks? Had he not been on all sorts of
appointments; to visit new members, new comers into the meeting; to warn
disorderly walkers; nay, had he not sate even on committees in London at
yearly meetings? Had he not received and travelled with ministers when
they came on religious visits into these parts? Had he not taken them in
his tax-cart to the next place, and been once upset in a deep and dirty
lane with a weighty ministering friend, and dislocated his collar-bone?
What? He not a Quaker! Was George Fox one, did they think; or William
Penn, or Robert Barclay, indeed?
Johnny Darbyshire _was_ a Quaker. He had the dress, and address, and all
the outward testimonies and marks of a Quaker; nay, he was more; he was
an overseer of the meeting, and broke up the meetings. Yes, and he would
have them to know that he executed his office well. Ay, well indeed;
without clock to look at, or without pulling out his watch, or being
within hearing of any bell, or any other thing that could guide him, he
would sit on the front seat of his meeting where not a word was spoken,
exactly for an hour and three quarters to a minute, and then break it up
by shaking hands with the Friend who sate next to him. Was not that an
evidence of a religious tact and practice? And had not the Friends once
when he was away, just like people in a ship which had lost both rudder
and compass, gone drifting in unconsciousness from ten in the morning
till three in the afternoon, and would not then have known that it was
time to break up the meeting, but that somebody's servant was sent to
see what had happened, and why they did not come home to dinner?
Johnny could see a sleeper as soon as any, were he ensconced in the
remotest and obscurest corner of the meeting, and let him hold up his
head and sleep as cleverly as he might from long habit. And did not he
once give a most notable piece of advice to a _rich_ Friend who was a
shocking sleeper? Was not this Friend very ill, and didn't Johnny go to
see him; and didn't he, when the Friend complained that he could get no
sleep, and that not all the physic, the strongest opium even of the
doctor's shop, could make him,--didn't Johnny Darbyshire say right
slap-bang out, which not another of the plainest-spoken Friends dare
have done to a rich man like that,--"Stuff and nonsense; and a fig for
opium and doctor's stuff,--send, man, send for the meeting-house bench,
and lie thee down on that, and I'll be bound thou'lt sleep like one of
the seven sleepers."
Undoubtedly Johnny was a Quaker; a right slap-dash Quaker of the old
Foxite school; and had anybody come smiling to him in the hope of
getting anything out of him, he would have said to him as George Fox
said to Colonel Hackett, "Beware of hypocrisy and a rotten heart!" True,
had you questioned him as to his particular religious doctrines or
articles of faith, he would not have been very clear, or very ready to
give you any explanation at all, for the very best of reasons,--he was
not so superstitious as to have a creed. A creed! that was a rag of the
old woman of Babylon. No, if you wanted to know all about doctrines and
disputations, why, you might look into Barclay's Apology. There was a
book big enough for you, he should think. For himself, like most of his
cloth, he would confine himself to his _feelings_. He would employ a
variety of choice and unique phrases; such as, "If a man want to know
what religion is, he must not go running after parsons, and bishops, and
all that sort of man-made ministers, blind leaders of the blind, who can
talk by the hour, but about what neither man, woman, nor child, for the
life of them, can tell, except when they come for their tithes, or their
Easter dues, and then they speak plain enough with a vengeance. One of
these Common-Prayer priests," said he, "once came to advise me about the
lawfulness of paying Church-rates, and, instead of walking into my
parlor, he walked through the next door, and nearly broke his neck, into
the cellar. A terrible stramash of a lumber, and a plunging and a
groaning we heard somewhere; and rushing out, lo and behold! it was no
other than Diggory Dyson, the parish priest, who had gone headlong to
the bottom of the cellar steps, and had he not cut his temples against
the brass tap of a beer-barrel and bled freely, he might have died on
the spot. And that was a man set up to guide the multitude! Had he been
only led and guided by the Spirit of God, as a true minister should be,
he would never have gone neck-foremost down my cellar steps. That's your
blind leader of the blind!"