be by no means unsavory to you all. Father Finnerty and I had, about
an hour before dinner this day, a long and tedious conversation, the
substance of which was my future celebrity in the church. He has a claim
on the Bishop, which he stated to me will be exercised in my favor,
although there are several candidates for it in this parish, not one of
whom, however, is within forty-five degree's of being so well qualified
for college as myself. Father, is there not a jar--an _amphora_--as that
celebrated satirist Juvenile has it--an _amphora_--in the chimly-brace,
filled with liquor--get it, and let us _inter animosity_--I'll not be
long a member of the domestic circle with you--so, upon the basis of the
communication I have to make, let us, as I said, be--become sextons to
animosity and care. 'Dionysius,' said Father Finnerty, addressing me,
which shows, at all events, that I am not so unimportant as some of my
friends would suppose--'Dionysius,' said he '_inter nos_--between
you and me, I believe I have it in my power to send up a candidate to
Maynooth. 'Tis true, I never make a promise--_nunquam facio votum_,
except in certain cases, or, in other words, Dionysius, _exceptis
excipiendis_--in which is the essence, as it were, of a proper vow.' In
the meantime he proceeded--'With regard to your prospects in the church,
I can only say, in the first place, and I say it with much truth and
sincerity--that I'm badly off for a horse; that, however, is, as I said,
_inter nos--sub sigillo_. The old garran I have is fairly worn out--and,
not that I say it, your father has as pretty a colt as there is within
the bounds--_intra terminos parochii mei_, within the two ends of my
parish: _verbum sat_--which is, I'm sure you're a sensible and discreet
young man. Your father, Dionysius, is a parishioner whom I regard and
esteem to the highest degree of comparison, and you will be pleased to
report my eulogium to himself and to his dacent family--and proud may
they be of having so brilliant a youth among them as you are--ehem!'
“Now, you may all think that this was plain conversation; but I had read
too much for that. In fact, it was logic--complate, convincing logic,
every word of it. So I responded to him in what is called in the books,
the _argumentum ad crumenam_; although I question but it ought to be
designated here the _argumentum ad bestiam_. Said I, 'Father Finnerty,
the colt, my paternal property, which you are pleased to eulogize so
highly, is a good one; it was designed for myself when I should come
out on the mission; however, I will undertake to say, if you get me
into Maynooth, that my father, on my authority, will lend you the colt
tomorrow, and the day of his claiming it will be dependent upon the
fulfilment of your promise or _votum_.'
“'_Signatum et sigttlatum est_,' said he--for, indeed, the best part
of the discussion was conducted in Latin; 'and now,' he continued, 'my
excellent Dionysius, nothing remains but that the colt be presented--'
--“'Lent,' I responded, correcting him, 'you see, even although he was
the priest--'lent,' said I; 'and your Reverence will be good enough to
give the _votum_ before one or two of my friends.'
“He looked at me sharply, not expecting to find such deep logic in one
he conjectured to be but a tyro.
“'You will be a useful man in the church,' he added, 'and you deserve to
be pushed on at all events. In the meantime, tell your father that I'll
ride up and breakfast with him to-morrow, and he can have a friend or
two to talk over the _compactum_.'
“So, father, there's the state of the question at present; the
accomplishment of the condition is dependent upon yourself.”
My readers may perceive that Denis, although a pedant, was not a fool.
It has been said that no man is a hero to his _valet-de-chambre_; but
I think the truth of the sentiment contained in that saying is
questionable. Denis, on the contrary, was nowhere so great a man as in
his own chimney-corner, surrounded by his family. It was there he was
learned, accomplished, profound; next to that, he was great among those
who, although not prejudiced in his favor by the bonds of affection,
were too ignorant to discover those literary pranks which he played off,
because he knew he could do so without detection. The basis, however, of
his character was shrewd humor and good sense; and even at the stage of
life which we have just described, it might have been evident to a close
observer that, when a proper knowledge of his own powers, joined to a
further acquaintance with the world, should enable him to cast off the
boyish assumption of pedantry, a man of a keen, ready intellect and
considerable penetration would remain.
Many of my readers may be inclined to exclaim that the character of
Denny is not to be found in real life; but they are mistaken who think
so. They are not to suppose that Denis O'Shaughnessy was the same person
in his intercourse with intelligent men and scholars, that he appeared
among the illiterate peasantry, or his own relations. Far from it. With
the former, persons like him are awkward and bashful, or modest and
unassuming, according to the bent of their natural disposition. With
scholars Denis made few pretensions to superior knowledge; but, on the
contrary, took refuge, if he dreaded a scrutiny into his acquirements,
in the humblest acknowledgment of his limited reading, and total
unacquaintance with those very topics on which he was, under other
circumstances, in the habit of expatiating so fluently. In fact, were
I to detail some of the scenes of his exhibitions as they were actually
displayed, then I have no doubt I might be charged with coloring too
highly.
When Denis had finished the oration from the chimney-corner, delivered
with suitable gesticulations while he stood drying himself at the fire
after the catastrophe of the swamp, a silence of some minutes followed.
The promise of the colt made to the priest with such an air of
authority, was a finale which the father did not expect, and by which he
was not a little staggered.
“I could like it all very well,” replied the father, “save an' except
givin' away the coult that's worth five-an'-twenty guineas, if he's
worth a _'crona-bawn_. To tell the blessed thruth, Dinis, if you had
settled the business widout _that_, I'd be betther plased.”
“Just exercise your contemplation upon it for a short period,” replied
Denis, “and you will perceive that I stipulated to lend him before
witnesses; and if Father Finnerty does not matriculate me into Maynooth,
then do you walk down some brilliant morning or other, and take your
baste by the head, direct yourself home, hold the bridle as you proceed,
and by the time you're at the rack, you'll find the horse at the manger.
I have now stated the legality of the matter, and you may act as your
own subtility of perception shall dictate. I have laid down the law, do
you consider the equity.”
“Why,” said the father, “if I thought he would get you into”--
“Correct, quite correct: the cardinal point there is the if. If he
does, give him the horse; but if not, reclaim the quadruped without
hesitation. I am not to be kept back, if profundity and erudition can
substantiate a prospect. Still, father, the easiest way is the safest,
and the shortest the most expeditious.”
The embarrassing situation in which the other members of the family
were placed, imposed upon them a profound silence, in reference to
the subject of conversation. Yet, while Denny delivered the aforesaid
harangue from the chimney-corner, every eye was fixed upon him with an
expression of pride and admiration which escaped not his own notice.
Their deportment towards him was affectionate and respectful; but none
of them could so far or so easily violate old habits as to address him
according to his own wishes; they therefore avoided addressing him at
all.
The next morning Father Finnerty paid them his purposed visit, and,
as he had promised, arrived in time for breakfast. A few of Denis's
relations were assembled, and in their presence the arrangements
respecting the colt and Denny's clerical prospects were privately
concluded. So far everything was tight; the time of Denny's departure
for Maynooth was to be determined by the answer which Father Finnerty
should receive from the bishop; for an examination must, of course,
take place, which was to be conducted by the prelate, or by some other
clergyman appointed for that purpose. This and the necessary preparation
usual on such occasions, were the only impediments in the way of his
departure for Maynooth, a place associated with so many dreams of that
lowly ambition which the humble circumstances of the peasantry permit
them to entertain.
The Irish people, I need scarcely observe, are a poor people; they are,
also, very probably, for the same reason, an imaginative people; at all
events, they are excited by occurrences which would not produce the same
vivacity of emotion which they experience upon any other people in the
world. This, after all, is but natural; a long endurance of hunger
will render the coarsest food delicious; and, on the contrary, when the
appetite is glutted with the richest viands, it requires a dish whose
flavor is proportionably high and spicy to touch the jaded palate. It
is so with our moral enjoyments. In Ireland, a very simple accession to
their hopes or comforts produces an extraordinary elevation of mind,
and so completely unlocks the sluices of their feelings, that every
consideration is lost in the elation of the moment. At least it was so
in Denis O'Shaughnessy's family upon this occasion.
No sooner had Father Finnerty received the colt, and pledged himself
that Denny should have the place at Maynooth that was then vacant, than
a tumultuous expression of delight burst from his family and relations,
business was then thrown aside for the day; the house was scoured and
set in order, as if it were for a festival; their best apparel was
put on; every eye was bright, every heart throbbed with a delightful
impulse, whilst kindness and hilarity beamed from their faces. In
a short time they all separated themselves among their neighbors to
communicate the agreeable tidings; and the latter, with an honest
participation in their happiness, instantly laid aside their avocations,
and flocked to Denis O'Shaughnessy's, that they might congratulate him
and his friends upon what was considered the completion of their hopes.
When the day was more advanced, several of Denny's brothers and sisters
returned, and the house was nearly filled with their acquaintances and
relations. Ere one o'clock had passed they wore all assembled, except
old Denis, of whom, no person could give any intelligence. Talk, loud
laughter, pure poteen, and good-humor, all circulated freely? the
friendly neighbor unshaved, and with his Sunday coat thrown hastily over
his work-day apparel, drank to Denny's health, and wished that he might
“bate all Maynewth out of the face; an' sure there's no doubt of
that, any how--doesn't myself remimber him puttin' the explanations to
Pasthorini before he was the bulk o' my fist?” His brothers and sisters
now adopted with enthusiasm the terms of respect which he had prescribed
for them through his father; he was Sirred and Misthered, and all but
Reverenced, with a glow of affectionate triumph which they strove not
to conceal. He was also overwhelmed with compliments of all hues
and complexions: one reminded him of the victory he obtained over a
hedge-schoolmaster who came one Sunday a distance of fifteen miles to
sack him in English Grammar on the chapel-green; but as the man was no
classical scholar, “Sure,” observed his neighbor, “I remember well that
he couldn't get a word out of Misther Denis's head there but Latin; so
that the poor crathur, afther travellin' fifteen long miles, had to go
home agin, the show o' the world, widout undherstandin' a sintence
of the larnin' that was put an him; an' so here's wishin' you health,
Misther Dinis, agra, an' no fear in life but you'll be the jewel at the
prachin,' sir, plase Goodness!”
Another reminded him of “how often he proved Phaidrick Murray to be an
ass, and showed him how he couldn't make out the differ atween black an'
white.”
“Sure, an' he did,” said Phadrick, scratching his head, for he was
one of the first at the house; “an' no wondher, wid his long-headed
screwtations from the books. Throth, his own father was the best match,
barrin' Father Lawdher that was broke of his bread, he ever met wid,
till he got too many for him by the Latin an' Greek.”
This allusion to old Denis occasioned his absence to be noticed.
“Can nobody tell where Denis More is?” said the wife; “my gracious, but
it's quare he should be from about the place this day, any way. Brian,
mavourneen, did you see him goin' any where?
“No,” said Brian, “but I see him comin' down there carryin' some
aitables in a basket.”
Brian had scarcely ended when his father entered, bearing beef and
mutton, as aforesaid, both of which he deposited upon the kitchen table,
with a jerk of generosity and pride, that seemed to say, as he looked
significantly at Denny--and, in fact, as he did say afterwards--“Never
spare, Dinny; ate like a gintleman; make yourself as bright an' ginteel
as you can; you won't want for beef an' mutton!”
Old Denis now sat down, and, after wiping the perspiration from his
forehead, took the glass of poteen which the wife handed him: he held it
between his finger and thumb for a moment, glanced around him upon the
happy faces present, then laid it down again, fixed his eyes upon his
son, and cast them once more upon the company. The affectionate father's
heart was full; his breast heaved, and the large tears rolled slowly
down his cheeks. By a strong effort, however, he mastered his emotion;
and taking the glass again, he said in broken voice:--
“Neighbors!--God bless yez!--God bless yez!--Dinny--Dinny--I”--
The last words he pronounced with difficulty; and drinking off his
glass, set it down empty upon the table. He then rose up, and shook his
neighbors by the hand--
“I am,” said he, “a happy man, no doubt of it, an' we're all happy; an'
it's proud any father might be to hear the account of his son, that I
did of mine, as I was convoyin' Father Finnerty a piece o' the way home.
'Your son,' says he, when he took that bit of a coult out o' my hand,
'will be an honor to you all. I tell you,' says he, 'that he's nearly as
good a scholar, as myself, an' spakes Latin not far behind my own; an'
as for a pracher,' says he, 'I can tell you that he'll be hard farther
nor any man I know.' He tould me them words wid his own two lips. An'
surely, neighbors,” said he, relapsing into strong feeling, “you can't
blame me for bein' both proud and happy of sich a son.”
My readers, from the knowledge already given them of Denny's character,
are probably disposed to think that his learning was thrown out on this
occasion in longer words and more copious quotations than usual. This,
however, was not the case; so far from that, he never displayed less
pedantry, nor interspersed his conversation with fewer scraps of Latin.
In fact, the proceedings of the day appeared to affect him with a tone
of thought, decidedly at variance with the exuberance of joy experienced
by the family. He was silent, moody, and evidently drawn by some secret
reflection from the scene around him. He held a book in his hand, into
which he looked from time to time, with the air of a man who balances
some contingency in his mind. At length, when the conversation of
those who were assembled became more loud and boisterous, he watched
an opportunity of gliding out unperceived; having accomplished this, he
looked cautiously about him, and finding himself not observed, he turned
his steps to a glen which lay about half a mile below his father's
house.
At the lowest skirt of this little valley, protected, by a few spreading
hawthorns, stood a small white farm-house, more immediately shaded by a
close row of elder or boor-tree, which hung over one of the gables,
and covered the garden gate, together with a neat grassy seat, that
was built between the gate, and the gable. It was impervious to sun
and rain: one of those pretty spots which present themselves on the
road-side in the country, and strike the eye with a pleasing notion of
comfort; especially when, during a summer shower, the cocks and hens of
the little yard are seen by the traveller who takes shelter under it,
huddled up in silence, the white dust quite dry, whilst the heavy shower
patters upon the leaves above, and upon the dark drenched road beside
him.
Under the shade of this sat an interesting girl, aged about seventeen,
named Susan Connor. She was slender, and not above the middle size;
but certainly, in point of form and feature, such as might be called
beautiful--handsome she unquestionably was; but be that as it may, with
this rustic beauty the object of Denis's stolen visit was connected. She
sat knitting under the shade of elder which we have described, a sweet
picture of innocence and candor. Our hero's face, as he approached her,
was certainly a fine study for any one who wished to embody the sad and
the ludicrous. Desperate was the conflict between pedantry and feeling
which he experienced. His manner appeared more pompous and affected than
ever; yet was there blended with the flush of approaching triumph as
a candidate, such woe-begone shades of distress flitting occasionally
across his feature, as rendered his countenance inscrutably enigmatical.
When the usual interchange of preliminary conversation had passed,
Denis took his seat beside her on the grassy bench; and after looking
in several directions, and giving half a dozen hems, he thus accosted
her:--
“Susan, cream of my affections, I may venture to conjecture that the
fact, or _factum_, of my being the subject of _fama clamosa_ today, has
not yet reached your ears?”
“Now, Denis, you are at your deep larning from the books again. Can't
you keep your reading for them that undherstands it, an' not be spakin'
so Englified to a simple girl like me?”
“There is logic in that same, however. Do you know, Susan, I have often
thought that, provided always you had resaved proper instruction, you
would have made a first-rate classical scholar.”
“So you tould me, Denis, the Sunday we exchanged the promise. But sure
when you get me, I can larn it. Won't you tache me, Denis?”
She turned her laughing eyes archly at him as she spoke, with a look of
joy and affection: it was a look, indeed, that staggered for the moment
every ecclesiastical resolution within him. He returned her glance, and
ran over the features of her pure and beautiful countenance for some
minutes; then, placing his open hand upon his eyes, he seemed buried in
reflection. At length he addressed her:--
“Susan, I am thinking of that same Sunday evening on which we exchanged
the hand-promise. I say, Susan,--_dimidium animae meae_--I am in the
act of meditating upon it; and sorry am I to be compel--to be under the
neces--to be reduced, I say--that is redact as in the larned langua--:
in other words--or terms, indeed, is more elegant--in other terms,
then, Susan, I fear that what I just now alluded to, touching the _fama
clamosa_ which is current about me this day, will render that promise a
rather premature one on both our parts. Some bachelors in my situation
might be disposed to call it foolish, but I entertain a reverence--a
veneration for the feelings of the feminine sex, that inclines me to use
the mildest and most classical language in divulging the change that has
taken place in my fortunes since I saw you last.”
“What do you mane, Denis?” inquired Susan, suddenly ceasing to knit, and
fixing her eyes upon him with a glance of alarm.
“To be plain, Susy, I find that Maynooth is my destination. It has been
arranged between my father and Docthor Finnerty, that I must become
a laborer in the vineyard; that is, that I must become a priest, and
cultivate the grape. It's a sore revelation to make to an amorous
maiden; but destiny will be triumphant:--
_Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis_.”
The poor girl suddenly laid down the work on which she had been engaged,
her face became the color of ashes, and the reply she was about to make
died upon her lips. She again resumed her stocking, but almost instantly
laid it down a second time, and appeared wholly unable either to believe
or comprehend what he said.
“Denis,” she at length asked, “Did you say that all is to be over
between us?”
“That was my insinuation,” replied Denis, “The fact is, Susy, that
destiny is adverse; clean against our union in the bonds of matrimonial
ecstacy. But, Susy, my charmer, I told you before that you were not
destitute of logic, and I hope you will bear this heavy visitation as
becomes a philosopher.”
“Bear it, Denis! How ought I to bear it, after your saying and swearing,
too, that neither father, nor mother, nor priest, nor anybody else would
make you desart me?”
“But, Susan, my nightingale, perhaps you are not aware that there is
an authority in existence to which father, mother, and all must knuckle
down. That is the church, Susan. Reflect--_dulce decus meum_--that the
power of the church is able to loose and unloose, to tie and untie, to
forgive and to punish, to raise to the highest heaven, or to sink to
the profoundest Tartarus. That power, Susan, thinks proper to claim your
unworthy and enamored swain as one of the brightest Colossuses of
her future glory. The Irish hierarchy is plased to look upon me as a
luminary of almost superhuman brilliancy and coruscation: my talents
she pronounces to be of the first magnitude; my eloquence classical and
overwhelming, and my learning only adorned by that poor insignificant
attribute denominated by philosophers unfathomability!--hem!--hem!”
“Denis,” replied the innocent girl, “you sometimes speak that I can
undherstand you; but you oftener spake in a way that I can hardly make
out what you say. If it's a thing that my love for you, or the solemn
promise that passed between us, would stand in your light, or prevint
you from higher things as a priest, I am willing to--to--to give you
up, whatever I may suffer. But you know yourself, that you brought me on
from time to time undher your promise, that nothing would ever lead
you to lave me in sorrow an' disappointment. Still, I say, that--But,
Denis, is it thrue that you could lave me for anything?”
The innocent confidence in his truth expressed by the simplicity of her
last question, staggered the young candidate; that is to say, her words,
her innocence, and her affection sank deeply into his heart.
“Susan,” he replied, “to tell the blessed truth, I am fairly dilemma'd.
My heart is in your favor; but--but--hem--you don't know the prospect
that is open to me. You don't know the sin of keeping back such
a--a--a--galaxy as I am from the church. I say you don't know the sin of
it. That's the difficulty. If it was a common case it would be nothing!
but to keep back a person like me--a _rara avis in terris_--from the
priesthood, is a sin that requires a great dale of interest with the
Pope to have absolved.”
“Heaven above forgive me!” exclaimed the artless girl. “In that case I
wouldn't for the riches of the wide earth stand between you and. God.
But I didn't know that before, Denis; and if you had tould me, I think,
sooner than get into sich a sin I'd struggle to keep down my love for
you, even although my heart should break.”
“Poor darling,” said Denis, taking her passive hand in his, “and would
it go so hard with you? Break your heart! Do you love me so well as
that, Susan?”
Susan's eyes turned on him for a moment, and the tears which his
question drew forth gave it a full and a touching reply. She uttered
not a word, but after a few deep sobs wiped her eyes, and endeavored to
compose her feelings.
Denis felt the influence of her emotions; he remained silent for a short
time, during which, however, ambition drew in the background all those
dimly splendid visions that associate themselves with the sacerdotal
functions, in a country where the people place no bounds to the
spiritual power of their pastors.
“Susan,” said he, after a pause, “do you know the difference between a
Christian and a hathen?”
“Between a Christian an' a hathen? Why aren't hathens all sinners?”