be present at your first mass, an' your first sarmon; and next to that I
would like to be stumpin' about wid a dacent staff in my hand, maybe wid
a bit of silver on the head of it, takin' care of your place when you'd
have a parish.”
“At all events, if you're not with me, father, I'll keep you comfortable
wherever you'll be, whether in this world or the other; for, plase
goodness, I'll have some influence in both.--When I get a parish,
however, it is not improbable that I may have occasion to see company;
the neighboring gentlemen will be apt to relish my society, particularly
those who are addicted to conviviality; and our object will be to render
ourselves as populous as possible; now, whether in that case it would be
compatible--but never fear, father, whilst I have the means, you or one
of the family shall never want.”
“Will you let the people be far behind in their dues, Denis?” inquired
Brian.
“No, no--leave that point to my management. Depend upon it, I'll have
them like mice before me--ready to run into the first augerhole they
meet. I'll collect lots of oats, and get as much yarn every year as
would clothe three regiments of militia, or, for that matther, of
dragoons. I'll appoint my stations, too, in the snuggest farmers' houses
in the parish, just as Father Finnerty, our worthy parochial priest,
ingeniously contrives to do. And, to revert secondarily to the
collection of the oats, I'll talk liberally to the Protestant boddaghs;
give the Presbyterians a learned homily upon civil and religious
freedom: make hard hits with them at that Incubus, the Established
Church; and, never fear, but I shall fill bag after bag with good corn
from many of both creeds.”
“That,” said Brian, “will be givin' them the bag to hould in airnest.”
“No, Brian, but it will be makin' them fill the bag when I hold it,
which will be better still.”
“But,” said Susan, “who'll keep house for you? You know that a priest
can't live widout a housekeeper.”
“That, Susy,” replied Denis, “is, and will be the most difficult point
on which to accomplish anything like a satisfactory determination. I
have nieces enough, however. There's Peter Finnegan's eldest daughter
Mary, and Hugh Tracy's Ailsey--(to whom he added about a dozen and a
half more)--together with several yet to be endowed with existence, all
of whom will be brisk candidates for the situation.”
“I don't think,” replied Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, “that you'll ever get any
one who'd be more comfortable about you nor your own ould mother. What
do you think of takin' myself, Denis?”
“Ay, but consider the accomplishments in the culinary art--_in re vel in
arte culinaria_--which will be necessary for my housekeeper to know. How
would you, for instance, dress a dinner for the bishop if he happened to
pay me a visit, as you may be certain he will? How would you make pies
and puddings, and disport your fancy through all the varieties of roast
and boil? How would you dress a fowl that it would stand upon a dish
as if it was going to dance a hornpipe? How would you amalgamate the
different genera of wine with boiling fluid and crystallized saccharine
matter? How would you dispose of the various dishes upon the table
according to high life and mathematics? Wouldn't you be too old to bathe
my feet when I'd be unwell? Wouldn't you be too old to bring me my whey
in the morning soon as I'd awake, perhaps with a severe headache, after
the plenary indulgence of a clerical compotation? Wouldn't you be too
old to sit up till the middle of the nocturnal hour, awaiting my arrival
home? Wouldn't you be--”
“Hut, tut, that's enough, Denny, I'd never do at all. No, no, but I'll
sit a clane, dacent ould woman in the corner upon a chair that you'll
get made for me. There I'll be wid my pipe and tobacco, smokin' at my
aise, chattin' to the sarvints, and sometimes discoorsin' the neighbors
that'll come to inquire for you, when they'll be sittin' in the kitchen
waitin' till you get through your office. Jist let me have that, Dinny
achora, and I'll be as happy as the day's long.”
“And I on the other side,” said his father, naturally enough struck with
the happy simplicity of the picture which his wife drew, “on the other
side, Mave, a snug, dacent ould man, chattin' to you across the fire,
proud to see the bishop an' the gintlemen about him. An' I wouldn't ax
to be taken into the parlor at all, except, maybe, when there would be
nobody there but yourself, Denis; an' that your mother an' I would go
into the parlor to get a glass of punch, or, if it could be spared, a
little taste of wine for novelty.”
“And so you shall, both of you--you, father, at one side of the hob,
and my mother here at the other, the king and queen of my culinarian
dominions. But practice taciturnity a little--I'm visited by the muse,
and must indulge in a strain of vocal melody--hem--'tis a few lines of
my own composure, the offspring of a moment of inspiration by the nine
female Heliconians; but before I incipiate, here's to my own celebrity
to-morrow, and afterwards all your healths!”
He then proceeded to sing in his best style a song composed, as he said,
by himself, but which, as the composition was rather an eccentric one,
we decline giving.
“Denis,” said his brother, “you'll have great sport at the Station's.”
“Yes, Brian, most inimitable specimen of fraternity, I do look into the
futurity of a station with great complacency. Hem--in the morning I
rise up in imagination, and after reading part of my office, I and my
curate--_ego et coadjutor metis_--or, if I get a large parish, perhaps I
and my two curates--_ego et coudjutores mei_--order our horses, and
of a fine, calm summer morning we mount them as gracefully as three
throopers. The sun is up, and of coorse the moon is down, and the
glitter of the light, the sparkling of the dew, the canticles of the
birds, and the _melodiotis_ cowing of the crows in Squire Grimshaw's
rookery--”
“Why, Denis, is it this parish you'll have?”
“Silence, silence, till I complate my rural ideas--in some gentleman's
rookery at all events; the thrush here, the blackbird there, the
corn-craik chanting its varied note in another place, and so on. In the
meantime we reverend sentimentalists advance, gazing with odoriferous
admiration upon the prospect about us, and expatiating in the purest
of Latin upon the beauties of unsophisticated nature. When we meet the
peasants going out to their work, they put their hands to their hats
for us; but as I am known to be the parochial priest, it is to me the
salutation is directed, which I return with the air of a man who thinks
nothing of such things; but, I on the contrary, knows them to be his
due. The poor creatures of curates you must know, don't presume to
speak of themselves, but simply answer whenever I condescend to propose
conversation, for I'll keep them down, never fear. In this edifying
style we proceed--I a few steps in advance, and they at a respectful
distance behind me, the heads of their horses just to my saddle
skirts--my clerical boots as brilliant as the countenance of Phoebus,
when decked with rosy smiles, theirs more subordinately polished, for
there should be gradations in all things, and humility is the first of
virtues in a Christian curate. My bunch of gold sales stands out proudly
from my anterior rotundity, for by this time, plase God, I'll be getting
frolicsome and corpulent: they with only a poor bit of ribbon, and a
single two-penny kay, stained with verdigrace. In the meantime, we come
within sight of the wealthy farmer's house, wherein we are to hold the
edifying solemnity of a station. There is a joyful appearance of study
and bustle about the premises: the peasantry are flocking towards it,
dressed in their best clothes; the proprietors of the mansion itself are
running out to try if we are in appearance, and the very smoke disports
itself hilariously in the air, and bounds up as if it was striving
to catch the first glimpse of the clargy. When we approach, the
good man--_pater-familias_--comes out to meet us, and the good
woman--_mater-farmilias_--comes curtseying from the door to give the
head _milliafailtha_. No sooner do we parsave ourselves noticed, then
out comes the Breviary, and in a moment we are at our morning devotions.
I being the rector, am particularly grave and dignified. I do not speak
much, but am rather sharp, and order the curates, whom I treat, however,
with great respect before the people, instantly to work. This impresses
those who are present with awe and reverence for us all, especially for
Father O'Shaughnessy himself--(that's me).--I then take a short turn or
two across the floor, silently perusing my office, after which I lay
it aside, and relax into a little conversation with the people of the
house, to show that I can conciliate by love as readily as I can impress
them with fear; for, you see _divide et impera_ is as aptly applied
to the passions as to maxims of state policy--ehem. I then go to my
tribunal, and first hear the man and woman and family of the house, and
afther them the other penitents according as they can come to me.
“Thus we go on absolving in great style, till it is time for the
_matutinal_ meal--vulgarly called breakfast; when the whiskey, eggs,
toast, and tea as strong as Hercules, with ham, fowl, beef-steaks,
or mutton-chops, all pour in upon us in the full tide of hospitality.
Helter-skelter, cut and thrust, right and left, we work away, till the
appetite reposes itself upon the cushion of repletion: and off we go
once more, full an' warm, to the delicate employment of adjudicating
upon sin and transgression, until dinner comes, when, having despatched
as many as possible--for the quicker we get through them the better--we
set about despatching what is always worth a ship-load of such
riff-raff--_videlicet_, a good and extensive dinner. Oh, ye pagan gods
of eating and drinking, Bacchus and--let me see who the presiding deity
of good feeding was in the Olympian synod--as I'm an unworthy candidate
I forget that topic of learning; but no matter, _non constat_. Oh, ye
pagan professors of ating and drinking, Bacchus, and Epicurus, and St.
Heliogabalus, Anthony of Padua, and Paul the Hermit, who poached for his
own venison, St. Tuck, and St. Takem, St. Drinkem, and St. Eatem, with
all the other reverend worthies, who bore the blushing honors of the
table thick upon your noses, come and inspire your unworthy candidate,
while he essays to chant the praises of a Station dinner!
“Then, then, does the priest appropriate to himself his due share of
enjoyment Then does he, like Elias, throw his garment of inspiration
upon his coadjutors. Then is the goose cut up, and the farmer's
distilled Latin is found to be purer and more edifying than the
distillation of Maynooth.
'Drink deep, or taste not that Pierian spring,
A little learning here's a dangerous thing.'
And so it is, as far as this inspiring language is concerned. A station
dinner is the very pinnacle of a priest's happiness. There is the fun
and frolic; then does the lemon-juice of mirth and humor come out of
their reverences, like secret writing, as soon as they get properly
warm. The song and the joke, the laugh and the leer, the shaking of
hands, the making of matches, and the projection of weddings,--och, I
must conclude, or my brisk fancy will dissolve in the deluding vision!
Here's to my celebrity to-morrow, and may the Bishop catch a Tartar
in your son, my excellent and logical father!--as I tell you among
ourselves he will do. Mark me, I say it, but it's _inter nos_, it won't
go further; but should he trouble me with profundity, may be I'll make a
_ludibrium_ of him.”
“But you forget the weddings and christenings, Denis; you'll have great
sport at them too.”
“I can't remember three things at a time, Brian; but you are mistaken,
however, I had them snug in one corner of my cranium. The weddings and
the christenings! do you think I'll have nothing to do in them, you!
_stultus_ you?”
“But, Denis, is there any harm in the priests enjoying themselves, and
they so holy as we know they are?” inquired his mother.
“Not the least in life; considering what severe fasting, and great
praying they have; besides it's necessary for them to take something to
put the sins of the people out of their heads, and that's one reason why
they are often jolly at Stations.”
“My goodness, what light Denis can throw upon anything!”
“Not without deep study, mother; but let us have another portion of
punch each, afther which I'll read a Latin De Profundis, and we'll go to
bed, I must be up early tomorrow; and, Brian, you'll please to have the
black mare saddled and my spur brightened as jinteely as you can, for I
must go in as much state and grandeur as possible.” Accordingly, in due
time, after hearing the De Profundis, which Denis read in as sonorous a
tone, and as pompous a manner, as he could assume, they went to bed for
the night, to dream of future dignities for their relative.
When Denis appeared the next morning, it was evident that the spirit
of prophecy in which he had contemplated the enjoyments annexed to his
ideal station on the preceding night, had departed from him. He was pale
and anxious, as in the early part of the,previous evening. At breakfast,
his very appetite treacherously abandoned him, despite the buttered
toast and eggs which his mother forced upon him with such tender
assiduity, in order, she said, to make him stout against the Bishop.
Her solicitations, however, were vain; after attempting to eat to no
purpose, he arose and began to prepare himself for his journey. This,
indeed, was a work of considerable importance, for, as they had no
looking-glass, he was obliged to dress himself over a tub of water, in
which, since truth must be told, he saw a very cowardly visage. In due
time, however, he was ready to proceed upon his journey, apparelled in a
new suit of black that sat stiffly and awkwardly upon him, crumpled in
a manner that enabled any person, at a glance, to perceive that it was
worn for the first time. When he was setting out, his father approached
him with a small jug of holy water in his hand. “Denis,” said he, “I
think you won't be the worse for a sprinkle of this;” and he accordingly
was about to shake it with a little brush over his person, when Denis
arrested his hand.
“Easy, father,” he replied, “you don't remember that my new clothes are
on. I'll just take a little with, my fingers, for you know one drop is
as good as a thousand.”
“I know that,” said the father, “but on the other hand you know it's not
lucky to refuse it.”
“I didn't refuse it,” rejoined Denis, “I surely took a quantum suff. of
it with my own hand.”
“It was very near a refusal,” said the father, in a disappointed and
somewhat sorrowful tone; “but it can't be helped now. I'm only sorry
you put it and quantum suff. in connection at all. Quantum suff. is what
Father Finnerty says, when he will take no more punch; and it doesn't
argue respect in you to make as little of a jug of holy wather as he
does of a jug of punch.”
“I'm sarry for it too,” replied Denis, who was every whit as
superstitious as his father; “and to atone for my error, I desire you
will sprinkle me all over with it--clothes and all.”
The father complied with this, and Denis was setting out, when his
mother exclaimed, “Blessed be them above us, Denis More! Look at the
boy's legs! There's luck! Why one of his stockin's has the wrong side
out, and it's upon the right leg too! Well, this will be a fortunate
day for you, Denis, any way; the same thing never happened myself, but
something good followed it.”
This produced a slight conflict between Denis's personal vanity and
superstition; but on this occasion superstition prevailed: he even felt
his spirits considerably elevated by the incident, mounted the mare, and
after jerking himself once or twice in the saddle, to be certain that
all was right, he touched her with the spur, and set out to be examined
by the Bishop, exclaiming as he went, “Let his lordship take care that I
don't make a _ludibrium_ of him.”
The family at that moment all came to the door, where they stood looking
after, and admiring him, until he turned a corner of the road, and left
their sight.
Many were the speculations entered into during his absence, as to the
fact, whether or not he would put down the bishop in the course of the
examination; some of them holding that he could do so if he wished; but
others of them denying that it was possible for him, inasmuch as he had
never received holy orders.
The day passed, but not in the usual way, in Denis More O'Shaughnessy's.
The females of the family were busily engaged in preparing for the
dinner, to which Father Finnerty, his curate, and several of their
nearest and wealthiest friends had been invited; and the men in clearing
out the stables and other offices for the horses of the guests. Pride
and satisfaction were visible on every face, and that disposition to
cordiality and to the oblivion of everything unpleasant to the mind,
marked, in a prominent manner, their conduct and conversation. Old
Denis went, and voluntarily spoke to a neighbor, with whom he had not
exchanged a word, except in anger, for some time. He found him at work
in the field, and, advancing with open hand and heart, he begged his
pardon for any offence he might have given him.
“My son,” said he, “is goin' to Maynooth; and as he is a boy that we
have a good right to be proud of, and as our friends are comin' to
ate their dinner wid us to-day, and as--as my heart is to full to bear
ill-will against any livin' sowl, let alone a man that I know to be
sound at the heart, in spite of all that has come between us--I say,
Darby, I forgive you, and I expect pardon for my share of the offence.
There's the hand of an honest man--let us be as neighbors ought to be,
and not divided into parties and factions against one another, as we
have been too long. Take your dinner wid us to-day, and let us hear no
more about ill-will and unkindness.”
“Denis,” said his friend, “it ill becomes you to spake first. 'Tis I
that ought to do that, and to do it long ago too; but you see, somehow,
so long as it was to be decided by blows between the families, I'd never
give in. Not but that I might do so, but my sons, Denis, wouldn't hear
of it. Throth, I'm glad of this, and so will they too; for only for the
honor and glory of houldin' out, we might be all friends through
other long ago. And I'll tell you what, we couldn't do better, the
two factions of us, nor join and thrash them Haigneys that always put
between us.”
“No, Darby, I tell you, I bear no ill-will, no bad thoughts agin any
born Christian this day, and I won't hear of that. Come to us about five
o'clock: we're to have Father Finnerty, and Father Molony, his curate:
all friends, man, all friends; and Denny, God guard him this day, will
be home, afther passin' the Bishop, about four o'clock.”
“I always thought that gorsoon would come to somethin'. Why it was
wondherful how he used to discoorse upon the chapel-green, yourself and
himself: but he soon left you behind. And how he sealed up poor ould
Dixon, the parish dark's mouth, at Barny Boccagh's wake. God rest his
soul! It was talkin' about the Protestant church they wor. 'Why,' said
Misther Denis, 'you ould termagent, can you tell me who first discovered
your church?' The dotin' ould crathur began of hummin', and hawin',
and advisin' the boy to have more sense. 'Come,' said he, 'you ould
canticle, can you answer? But for fear you can't, I'll answer for you.
It was the divil discovered it, one fine mornin' that he went out to get
an appetite, bein' in delicate health.' Why, Denis, you'd tie all that
wor present wid a rotten sthraw.”
“Darby, I ax your pardon over agin for what came between us; and I see
now betther than I did, that the fault of it was more mine nor yours.
You'll be down surely about five o'clock?”
“I must go and take this beard off o' me, and clane myself; and I may as
well do that now: but I'll be down, never fear.”
“In throth the boy was always bright!--ha, ha, ha!--and he sobered
Dixon?”
“Had him like a judge in no time.”
“Oh, he would do it--he could do that, at all times. God be wid you,
Darby, till I see you in the evenin'.
“_Bannaght lhath_, Denis, an' I'm proud we're as we ought to be.”
About four o'clock, the expected guests began to assemble at Denis's;
and about the same hour one might perceive Susan O'Shaughnessy running
out to a stile a little above the house, where she stood for a few
minutes, with her hand shadingher eyes, looking long and intensely
towards the direction from which she expected her brother to return.
Hitherto, however, he could not be discovered in the distance, although
scarcely five minutes elapsed during the intervals of her appearance
at the stile to watch him. Some horsemen she did notice; but after
straining her eyes eagerly and anxiously, she was enabled only to
report, with a dejected air, that they were their own friends coming
from a distant part of the parish, to be present at the dinner. At
length, after a long and eager look, she ran in with an exclamation of
delight, saying--
“Thank goodness, he's comin' at last; I see somebody dressed in black
ridin' down the upper end of Tim Marly's boreen, an' I'm sure an'
certain it must be Denis, from his dress!”
“I'll warrant it is, my colleen,” replied her father; “he said he'd be
here before the dinner would be ready, an' it's widin a good hour of
that. I'll thry myself.”
He and his daughter once more went out; but, alas! only to experience a
fresh disappointment. Instead of Denis, it was Father Finnerty; who,
it appeared, felt as anxious to be in time for dinner, as the young
candidate himself could have done. He was advancing at a brisk trot,
not upon the colt which had been presented to him, but upon his old nag,
which seemed to feel as eager to get at Denis's oats, as its owner did
to taste his mutton.
“I see, Susy, we'll have a day of it, plase goodness,” observed Denis
to the girl; “here's Father Finnerty, and I wouldn't for more nor I'll
mention that he had staid away: and I hope the coidjuther will come as
well as himself. Do you go in, aroon, and tell them he's comin', and
I'll go and meet him.”
Most of Denis's friends were now assembled, dressed in their best
apparel, and Raised to the highest pitch of good humor; no man who knows
the relish with which Irishmen enter into convivial enjoyments, can
be ignorant of the remarkable flow of spirits which the prospect of an
abundant and hospitable dinner produces among them.