species in Ireland; regular, but loose and careless in the observances
of his church, he could not be taxed with any positive neglect of
pastoral duty. He held his stations at stated times and places, with
great exactness, but when the severer duties annexed to them were
performed, he relaxed into the boon companion, sang his song, told his
story, laughed his laugh, and occasionally danced his dance, the very
_beau ideal_ of a rough, shrewd, humorous divine, who, amidst the
hilarity of convivial mirth, kept an eye to his own interest, and
sweetened the severity with which he exacted his “dues” by a manner at
once jocose and familiar. If a wealthy farmer had a child to christen,
his reverence declined baptizing it in the chapel, but as a proof of his
marked respect for its parents, he and his curate did them the honor
of performing the ceremony at their own house. If a marriage was to
be solemnized, provided the parties were wealthy, he adopted the same
course, and manifested the same flattering marks of his particular
esteem for the parties, by attending at their residence; or if they
preferred the pleasure of a journey to his own house, he and his curate
accompanied them home from the same motives. This condescension, whilst
it raised the pride of the parties, secured a good dinner and a pleasant
evening's entertainment for the priests, enhanced their humility
exceedingly, for the more they enjoyed themselves, the more highly did
their friends consider themselves honored. This mode of life might, one
would suppose, lessen their importance and that personal respect which
is entertained for the priests by the people; but it is not so--the
priests can, the moment such scenes are ended, pass, with the greatest
aptitude of habit, into the hard, gloomy character of men who are
replete with profound knowledge, exalted piety, and extraordinary power.
The sullen frown, the angry glance, or the mysterious allusion to the
omnipotent authority of the church, as vested in their persons, joined
to some unintelligible dogma, laid down as their authority, are always
sufficient to check anything derogatory towards them, which is apt to
originate in the unguarded moments of conviviality.
“Plase your Reverence, I'll put him up myself,” said Denis to Father
Finnerty, as he took his horse by the bridle, and led him towards the
stable, “and how is my cowlt doin' wid you, sir?”
“Troublesome, Denis; he was in a bad state when I got him, and he'll
cost me nearly his price before I have him thoroughly broke.”
“He was pretty well broke wid me, I know,” replied Denis, “and I'm
afear'd you've given him into the hands of some one that knows little
about horses. Mave,” he shouted, passing the kitchen door, “here's
Father Finnerty--go in, Docthor, and put big Brian Buie out o' the
corner; for goodness sake Exltimnicate him from the hob--an' sure you
have power to do that any way.”
The priest laughed, but immediately assuming a grave face, as he
entered, exclaimed--
“Brian Buie, in the name of the forty-seventh proposition of Euclid's
Elements--in the name of the cube and square roots--of Algebra,
Mathematics, Fluxions, and the doctrine of all essential spirits that
admit of proof--in the name of Nebuchadanezar the divine, who invented
the convenient scheme of taking a cold collation under a hedge--by the
power of that profound branch of learning, the Greek Digemma--by the
authority of true Latin, primo, of Beotian Greek, secundo, and of
Arabian Hebrew, tertio; which is, when united by the skill of profound
erudition, primo, secundo, tertio; or, being reversed by the logic of
illustration, _tertio, secundo, primo. Commando te in nomine
botteli potheeni boni drinkandi his oedibus, hac note, inter amicos
excellentissimi amici mei, Dionissii O'Shaughnessy, quem beknavavi ex
excellentissimo colto ejus, causa pedantissimi filii ejus, designali
eccleseae, patri, sed nequaquam deo, nec naturae, nec ingenio;--commando
te inquam, Bernarde Buie, surgere, stare, ambulare, et decedere e
cornero isto vel hobbo, qua nunc sedes!_ Yes, I command thee, Brian
Buie, who sit upon the hob of my worthy and most excellent friend and
parishioner, Denis O'Shaughnessy, to rise, to stand up before your
spiritual superior, to walk down from it, and to tremble as if you were
about to sink into the earth to the neck, but no further; before the
fulminations of him who can wield the thunder of that mighty Salmoneus,
his holiness the Pope, successor to St. Peter, who left the servant of
the Centurion earless--I command and objurgate thee, sinner as thou art,
to vacate your seat on the hob for the man of sancity, whose legitimate
possession it is, otherwise I shall send you, like that worthy
archbishop, the aforesaid Nebuchadanezar, to live upon leeks for seven
years in the renowned kingdom of Wales, where the leeks may be seen to
this day! Presto!”
These words, pronounced with a grave face, in a loud, rapid, and
sonorous tone of voice, startled the good people of the house, who sat
mute and astonished at such an exordium from the worthy pastor: but no
sooner had he uttered Brian Buie's name, giving him, at the same time, a
fierce and authoritative look, than the latter started to his feet, and
stepped down in a kind of alarm towards the door. The priest immediately
placed his hand upon his shoulder in a mysterious manner, exclaiming--
“Don't be alarmed, Brian, I have taken the force of the anathema off
you; your power to sit or stand, or go where you please, is returned
again. I wanted your seat, and Denis desired, me to excommunicate you
out of it, which I did, and you accordingly left it without your own
knowledge, consent, or power; I transferred you to where you stand, and
you had no more strength to resist me than if you were an infant not
three hours in the world!”
“I ax God's pardon, an' your Reverence's,” said Brian, in a tremor,
“if I have given offince. Now, bless my soul! what's this? As sure as I
stand before you, neighbors, I know neither act nor part of how I was
brought from the hob at all--neither act nor part! Did any of yez see me
lavin' it; or how did I come here--can you tell me?”
“Paddy,” said one of his friends, “did you see him?”
“The sorra one o' me seen him,” replied Paddy: “I was lookin' at his
Reverence, sthrivin' to know what he was sayin'.”
“Pether, did you?” another inquired. “Me! I never seen a stim of him
till he was standin' alone on the flure! Sure, when he didn't see or
find himself goin', how could another see him?”
“Glory be to God!” exclaimed Mave; “one ought to think well what they
say, when they spake of the clargy, for they don't know what it may
bring down upon them, sooner or later!”
“Our Denis will be able to do that yet,” said Susan to her elder sister.
“To be sure he will, girsha, as soon as he's ordained--every bit as well
as Father Finnerty,” replied Mary.
The young enthusiast's countenance brightened as her sister spoke: her
dark eye became for a minute or two fixed upon vacancy, during which
it flashed several times; until, as the images of her brother's
future glory passed before her imagination; she became wrapt--her lip
quivered--her cheek flushed into a deeper color, and the tears burst in
gushes from her eyes.
The mother, who was now engaged in welcoming Father Finnerty--a
duty which the priest's comic miracle prevented her from performing
sooner--did not perceive her daughter's agitation, nor, in fact, did
any one present understand its cause. Whilst the priest was taking Brian
Buie's seat, she went once more to watch the return of Denis; and while
she stood upon the stile, her father, after having put up the horse,
entered the house, “to keep his Reverence company.”
“An' pray, Docthor,” he inquired, “where is Father Molony, that he's not
wid you? I hope he won't disappoint us; he's a mighty pleasant gintleman
of an evenin', an', barrin' your Reverence, I don't know a man tells a
better story.”
“He entreated permission from me this morning,” replied Father Finnerty,
“and that was leave to pay a visit to the Bishop, for what purpose I
know not, unless to put in a word in season for the first parish that
becomes vacant.”
“Throth, an' he well desarves a parish,” replied Denis; “an' although
we'd be loath to part wid him, still we'd be proud to hear of his
promotion.”
“He'll meet Denis there,” observed Susan, who had returned from the
stile: “he'll be apt to be present at his trial wid the Bishop; an'
maybe he'll be home along wid him. I'll go an' thry if I can see them
agin;” and she flew out once more to watch their return.
“Now, Father Finnerty,” said an uncle of Denis's, “you can give a good
guess at what a dacent parish ought to be worth to a parish priest?”
“Mrs. O'Shaughnessy,” said the priest, “is that fat brown goose
suspended before the fire, of your own rearing?”
“Indeed it is, plase your Reverence; but as far as good male an phaties
could go for the last month, it got the benefit of them.”
“And pray, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, have you many of the same kidney? I only
ask for information, as I said to Peery Hacket's wife, the last day I
held the Station in Peery's. There was just such another goose hanging
before the fire; but, you must know, the cream of the joke was, that I
had been after coming from the confessional, as hungry as a man could
conveniently wish himself; and seeing the brown fat goose before the
fire just as that is, why my teeth, Mave, began to get lachrymose. Upon
my Priesthood it was such a goose as a priest's corpse might get up on
its elbow to look at, and exclaim, 'avourneen machree, it's a thousand
pities that I'm not living to have a cut at you!'--ha, ha, ha! God be
good to old Friar Hennessy, I have that joke from him.
“'Well, Mrs. Hacket,' says I, as I was airing my fingers at the fire, 'I
dare say you haven't another goose like this about the house? Now, tell
me, like an honest woman, have you any of the same kidney?--I only ask
for information.'
“Mrs. Hacket, however, told me she believed there might be a few of the
same kind straggling about the place, but said nothing further upon it,
until the Saturday following, when her son brings me down a pair of
the fattest geese I ever cut up for my Sunday's dinner. Now, Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy, wasn't that doing the thing dacent?”
“Well, well, Docthor,” said Denis, “that was all right; let Mave
alone, an' maybe she'll be apt to find out a pair that will match Mrs.
Hacket's. Not that I say it, but she doesn't like to be outdone in
anything.”
“Docthor, I was wishin' to know, sir,” continued the uncle of the absent
candidate, “what the value of a good parish might be.”
“I think, Mave, there's a discrepancy between the goose and the shoulder
of mutton. The fact is, that if it be a disputation between them, as to
which will be roasted first, I pronounce that the goose will have it.
It's now, let me see, half past four o'clock, and, in my opinion, it
will take a full half hour to bring up the mutton. So Mave, if you'll
be guided by your priest, advance the mutton towards the fire about two
inches, and keep the little girsha basting steadily, and then you'll be
sure to have it rich and juicy.”
“Docthor, wid submission, I was wantin' to know what a good parish might
be--”
“Mike Lawdher, if I don't mistake, you ought to have good grazing down
in your meadows at Ballinard. What will you be charging for a month
or two's grass for this colt I've bought from my dacent friend, Denis
O'Shaughnessy, here? And, Mike, be rasonable upon a poor man, for we're
all poor, being only tolerated by the state we live under, and ought
not, of course, to be hard upon one another.”
“An' what did he cost you, Docthor?” replied Mike, answering one
question by another; “what did you get for him, Denis?” he continued,
referring for information to Denis, to whom, on reflection, he thought
it more decorous to put the question.
Denis, however, felt the peculiar delicacy of his situation, and looked
at the priest, whilst the latter, under a momentary embarrassment,
looked significantly at Denis. His Reverence, however, was seldom at a
loss.
“What would you take him to be worth, Mike?” he asked; “remember he's
but badly trained, and I'm sure it will cost me both money and trouble
to make anything dacent out of him.”
“If you got him somewhere between five and twenty and thirty guineas, I
would say you have good value for your money, plase your Reverence. What
do you say, Denis--am I near it?”
“Why, Mike, you know as much about a horse as you do about the
Pentateuch or Paralipomenon. Five and twenty guineas, indeed! I hope you
won't set your grass as you would sell your horses.”
“Why, thin, if your Reverence ped ready money for him, I maintain he
was as well worth twenty guineas as a thief's worth the gallows; an'
you know, sir, I'd be long sorry to differ wid you. Am I near it now,
Docthor?”
“Denis got for the horse more than that,” said his Reverence, “and he
may speak for himself.”
“Thrue for you, sir,” replied Denis; “I surely got above twenty guineas
for him, an' I'm well satisfied wid the bargain.”
“You hear that now, Mike--you hear what he says.”
“There's no goin' beyant it,” returned Mike; “the proof o' the puddin'
is in the atin,' as we'll soon know, Mave--eh, Docthor?”
“I never knew Mave to make a bad one,” said the priest, “except upon the
day Friar Hennessy dined with me here--my curate was sick, and I had
to call in the Friar to assist me at confession; however, to do Mave
justice, it was not her fault, for the Friar drowned the pudding, which
was originally a good one, with a deluge of strong whiskey.”
“'It's too gross,' said the facetious Friar, in his loud, strong
voice--'it's too gross, Docthor Finnerty, so let us spiritualize it,
that it may be Christian atin, fit for pious men to digest,' and then he
came out with his thundering laugh--oigh, oigh, oigh, oigh! but he had
consequently the most of the pudding to himself, an' indeed brought the
better half of it home in his saddle-bags.”
“Faix, an' he did,” said Mave, “an' a fat goose that he coaxed Mary to
kill for him unknownst to us all, in the coorse o' the day.”
“How long is he dead, Docthor?” said Denis; “God rest him any way, he's
happy!”
“He died in the hot summer, now nine years about June last; and talking
about him, reminds me of a trick he put on me about two years before his
death. He and I had not been on good terms for long enough before that
time; but as the curate I had was then sickly, and as I wouldn't be
allowed two, I found that it might be convenient to call in the Friar
occasionally, a regulation he did not at all relish, for he said he
could make far more by questing and poaching about among the old women
of the parish, with whom he was a great favorite, in consequence of the
Latin hymns he used to sing for them, and the great cures he used to
perform--a species of devotion which neither I nor my curate had time to
practise. So, in order to renew my intimacy, I sent him a bag of oatmeal
and a couple of flitches of bacon, both of which he readily accepted,
and came down to me on the following day to borrow three guineas. After
attempting to evade him--for, in fact, I had not the money to spare--he
at length succeeded in getting them from me, on the condition that
he was to give my curate's horse and mine a month's grass, by way of
compensation, for I knew that to expect payment from him was next to
going for piety to a parson.
“'I will,' said he, 'give your horses the run of my best field'--for
he held a comfortable bit of ground; 'but,' he added, 'as you have been
always cutting at me about my principle, I must insist, if it was only
to convince you of my ginerosity, that you'll lave the choosing of the
month to myself.'
“As I really wanted an assistant at the time, in consequence of my
curate's illness, he had me bound, in some degree, to his own will. I
accordingly gave him the money; but from that till the day of his death,
he never sent for our horses, except when there was a foot and a half of
snow on the ground, at which time he was certain to despatch a messenger
for him, 'with Father Hennessy's compliments, and he requested Doctor
Finnerty to send the horses to Father Hennessy's field, to ate their
month's grass.'”
“But is it true, Docthor, that his face was shinin' after his death?”
“True enough, and to my own knowledge, long before that event.”
“Dear me,” exclaimed Mave, “he was a holy man afther all!”
“Undoubtedly he was,” said the priest; “there are spots in the sun, Mrs.
O'Shaugh-nessy--we are not all immaculate. There never was one sent
into this world without less or more sin upon them. Even the saints
themselves had venial touches about them, but nothing to signify.”
“Docthor,” said the uncle, pertinaciously adhering to the original
question, “you have an opportunity of knowin' what a good parish might
be worth to a smart, active priest? For the sake of a son of mine that
I've some notion of--”
“By the by, I wonder Denis is not here before now,” exclaimed his
Reverence, lending a deaf ear to Mike O'Shaughnessy's interrogatory.
Old Denis's favorite topic had been started, and he accordingly launched
out upon it with all the delight and ardor of a fond father.
“Now, Docthor dear, before us all--an' sure you know as well as I do,
that we're all friends together--what's your downright opinion of Denis?
Is he as bright as you tould me the other mornin' he was?”
“Really, Denis O'Shaughnessy,” replied his Reverence, “it's not pleasant
to me to be pressed so often to eulogize a young gintleman of whose
talents I have so frequently expressed my opinion. Is not once
sufficient for me to say what I've said concerning him? But, as we
are all present, I now say and declare, that my opinion of Denis
O'Shaughnessy, jun., is decidedly _peculiar_--decidedly.
“Come, girsha, keep basting the mutton, and never heed my boots--turn it
about and baste the back of it better.”
“God be thanked,” exclaimed the delighted father, “sure it's comfort to
hear that, any how--afther all the pains and throuble we've taken wid
him, to know it's not lost. Why, that boy was so smart, Docthor, that,
may I never sin, when he went first to the Latin, but--an' this no lie,
for I have it from his own lips--when he'd look upon his task two or
three times over night, he'd waken wid every word of it, pat off the
book the next mornin'. And how do you think he got it? Why, the crathur,
you see, used to dhrame that he was readin' it off, and so he used to
get it that way in his sleep!”
At this moment Darby Moran, Denis's old foe entered, and his reception
was cordial, and, if the truth were known, almost magnanimous on the
part of Denis.
“Darby Moran,” said he, “not a man, barrin' his Reverence here, in the
parish we sit in, that I'm prouder to see on my flure--give me your
hand, man alive, and Mave and all of ye welcome him. Everything of what
you know is buried between us, and you're bound to welcome him, if
it was only in regard of the handsome way he spoke of our son this
day--here's my own chair, Darby, and sit down.”
“Throth,” said Darby, after shaking hands with the priest and greeting
the rest of the company, “the same boy no one could spake ill of; and,
although we and his people were not upon the best footin', still the
sarra one o' me but always gave him his due.”
“Indeed, I believe you, Darby,” said his father; “but are you
comfortable? Draw your chair nearer the fire--the evenin's gettin'
cowld.”
“I'm very well, Denis, I thank you;--nearer the fire! Faix, except you
want to have me roasted along wid that shoulder of mutton and goose, I
think I can't go much nearer it.”
“I'm sorry, you wasn't in sooner, Darby, till you'd hear what Docthor
Finnerty here--God spare him long among us--said of Denis a while ago.
Docthor, if it wouldn't be makin' too free, maybe you'd oblage me wid
repatin' it over again?”
“I can never have any hesitation,” replied the priest, “in repeating
anything to his advantage--I stated, Darby, that young Misther
O'Shaughnessy was a youth of whom my opinion was decidedly
_peculiar_--keep basting; child, you're forgetting the goose now; did
you never see a priest's boots before?”
“An' nobody has a better right to know nor yourself, wherever larnin'
and education's consarned,” said the father.
“Why, it's not long since I examined him myself; I say it sitting here,
and I believe every one that hears me is present; and during the course
of the examination I was really astonished. The translations, and
derivations, and conjugations, and ratiocinations, and variations, and
investigations that he gave, were all the most remarkably original
I ever heard. He would not be contented with the common sense of a
passage; but he'd keep hunting, and hawking, and fishing about for
something that was out of the ordinary course of reading, that I was
truly struck with his eccentric turn of genius.”
“You think he'll pass the Bishop with great credit, Docthor?”
“I'll tell you what I think, Denis--which is going further than I went
yet--I think that if he were the Bishop, and the Bishop the candidate
for Maynooth, that his lordship would have but a poor chance of passing.
There's the pinnacle of my eulogium upon him; and now, to give my
opinion on another important subject; I pronounce both the goose and
mutton done to a turn. As it appears that Mrs. O'Shaughnessy has every
other portion of the dinner ready, I move that we commence operations as
soon as possible.”
“But Denis, Docthor? it would be a pleasure to me to have him, poor
fellow, wid all his throuble over, and his mind at ase; maybe if we wait
a weeshy while longer, Docthor, that he'll come, and you know Father
Molony too is to come yet, and some more of our friends.”
“If the examination was a long one, I tell you that Mr. O'Shaughnessy
may not be here this hour to come; and you may be sure, the Bishop,
meeting such a bright boy, wouldn't make it a short one. As for Father
Molony, he'll be here time enough, so I move again that we attack the
citadel.”
“Well, well, never say it again--the sarra one o' me will keep it back,
myself bein' as ripe as any of you, barrin' his Reverence, that we're not
to take the foreway of in anything. Ha! ha! ha!”
Whilst Mave and her daughters were engaged in laying dinner, and in
making all the other arrangements necessary for their comfort, the
priest took Denis aside, and thus addressed him:--
“Denis, I need scarcely remark that this meeting of our friends is upon
no common occasion; that it's neither a wedding, nor a Station, nor a
christening, but a gathering of relations for a more honorable purpose
than any of them, excepting the Station, which you know is a religious
rite. I just mention this privately, lest you might not be properly on
your guard, and to prevent any appearance of maneness; or--in short, I
hope you have abundance of everything; I hope you have, and that, not
for your own sake so much as for that of your son. Remember your boy,
and what he's designed for, and don't let the dinner or its concomitants
be discreditable to him; for, in fact, it's his dinner, observe, and not
yours.”
“I'm thankful, I'm deeply thankful, an' for ever oblaged to your
Reverence for your kindness; although, widout at all makin' little of
it, it wasn't wanted here; never fear, Docthor, there'll be lashings and
lavins.”
“Well, but make that clear, Denis; here now are near two dozen of us,
and you say there are more to come, and all the provision I see for
them is a shoulder of mutton, a goose, and something in that large pot
on the fire, which I suppose is hung beef.”
“Thrue for you, sir, but you don't know that we've got a tarin' fire
down in the barn, where there's two geese more and two shouldhers of
mutton to help what you seen--not to mintion a great big puddin', an'
lots of other things. Sure you might notice Mave and the girls runnin'
in an' out to attind the cookin' of it.”
“Enough, Denis, that's sufficient; and now, between you and me, I say
your son will be the load-star of Maynooth, winch out-tops anything I
said of him yet.”
“There's a whole keg of whiskey, Docthor.”
“I see nothing, to prevent him from being a bishop; indeed, it's almost
certain, for he can't be kept back.”
“I only hope your Reverence will be livin' when he praches his first
sarmon. I have the dam of the coult still, an a wink's as good as a nod,
please your Reverence.”
“A strong letter in his favor to the President of Maynooth will do him
no harm,” said the priest.
They then joined their other friends, and in a few minutes an excellent
dinner, plain and abundant, was spread out upon the table. It consisted
of the usual materials which constitute an Irish feast in the house of
a wealthy farmer, whose pride it is to compel every guest to eat so
long as he can swallow a morsel. There were geese and fowl of all
kinds--shoulders of mutton, laughing-potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and
cabbage, together with an immense pudding, boiled in a clean sheet,
and ingeniously kept together with long straws* drawn through it in all
directions. A lord or duke might be senseless enough to look upon such
a substantial, yeoman-like meal with a sneer; but with all their wealth
and elegance, perhaps they might envy the health and appetite of those
who partook of it. When Father Finnerty had given a short grace, and the
operations of the table were commenced,--Denis looked around him with a
disappointed air, and exclaimed:
“Father Finnerty, there's only one thing, indeed I may say two, a
wantin' to complate our happiness--I mean Denis and Father Molony! What
on earth does your Reverence think can keep them?”
* This, about thirty years ago, was usual at weddings
and other feasts, where everything went upon a large
scale.
To this he received not a syllable of reply, nor did he consider it
necessary to urge the question any further at present. Father Finnerty's
powers of conversation seemed to have abandoned him; for, although
there were some few expressions loosely dropped, yet the worthy priest
maintained an obstinate silence.