thus influencing me originated with you, I would instantly deprive you
of your parish, and make you assistant to your excellent curate, for
whom I entertain a sincere regard. I have already expressed my opinion
of the transaction alluded to in my letter. You have frequently offended
me, Mr. Finnerty, by presuming too far upon my good temper, and by
relying probably upon your own jocular disposition. Take care, sir, that
you don't break down in some of your best jokes. I fear that under
the guise of humor, you frequently avail yourself of the weakness, or
ignorance, or simplicity of your parishioners. I hope, Mr. Finnerty,
that while you laugh at the jest, they don't pay for it.”
The priest here caught the Counsellor's eye, and gave him a dry wink,
not unperceived, however, by the Bishop, who could scarcely repress a
smile.
“You should have known me better, Mr. Finnerty, than to suppose that any
motive could influence me in deciding upon the claims of candidates for
Maynooth, besides their own moral character and literary acquirements.
So long as I live, this, and this alone, shall be the rule of my
conduct, touching persons in the circumstances of young O'Shaughnessy.”
“My gracious lord,” said Denis, “don't be angry wid Mr. Finnerty. I'll
bear it all, for it was my fau't. The horse is mine, and say what
you will, out of your stable I'll never bring him. I think, wid great
sibmission a man may do what he pleases wid his own.”
“Certainly,” said the Bishop; “my consent to permit your son to goto
Maynooth is my own. Now this consent I will not give if you press that
mode of argument upon me.”
“My Reverend Lord, as heaven's above me, I'd give all I'm worth to see
the boy in Maynooth. If he doesn't go afther all our hopes, I'd break my
heart.” He was so deeply affected that the large tears rolled down his
cheeks as he spoke.
“Will your Lordship buy the horse?” he added; “I don't want him, and
you, maybe, do?”
“I do not want him,” said the Bishop, “and if I did, I would not, under
the present circumstances, purchase him from you.”
“Then my boy won't get in, your lordship. And you'll neither buy the
horse, nor take him as a present. My curse upon him for a horse! The
first thing I'll do when I get home will be to put a bullet through him,
for he has been an unlucky thief to us. Is my son aquil to the others,
that came to pass your lordship?” asked Denis.
“There is none of them properly qualified,” said the Bishop. “If there
be any superiority among them your son has it. He is not without natural
talent, Mr. Finnerty; his translations are strong and fluent, but
ridiculously pedantic. That, however, is perhaps less his fault than the
fault of those who instructed him.”
“Are you anxious to dispose of the horse?” said the Counsellor.
“A single day, sir, he'll never pass in my stable,” said Denis; “he has
been an unlucky baste to me an' mine, an' to all that had anything to do
wid him.”
“Pray what age is he?”
“Risin' four, sir; 'deed I believe he's four all out, an' a purty
devil's clip he is, as you'd wish to see.”
“Come,” said the Counsellor, rising, “let us have a look at him.
Mr. Finnerty, you're an excellent judge; will you favor me with your
opinion?”
The priest and he, accompanied by the two O'Shaughnessys, passed out to
the stable yard, where their horses stood. As they went, Father Finnerty
whispered to O'Shaughnessy:--
“Now, Denis, is your time. Strike while the iron is hot. Don't take
a penny!--don't take a fraction! Get into a passion, and swear you'll
shoot him unless he accepts him as a present. If he does, all's right;
he can twine the Bishop round his finger.”
“I see, sir,” said Denis; “I see! Let me alone for managin' him.”
The barrister was already engaged in examining the horse's mouth, as is
usual, when the priest accosted him with--
“You are transgressing etiquette in this instance, Counsellor. You know
the proverb--never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“How, Mr. Finnerty?--a gift horse!”
“His Reverence is right!” exclaimed Denis: “the sorra penny ever will
cross my pocket for the same horse. You must take him as he stands, sir,
barrin' the bridle an' saddle, that's not my own.”
“He will take no money,” said the priest.
“Nonsense, my dear sir! Why not take a fair price for him?”
“Divil the penny will cross my pocket for him, the unlucky thief!”
replied the shrewd farmer.
“Then in that case the negotiation is ended,” replied the barrister.
“I certainly will not accept him as a present. Why should I? What claim
have I on Mr. O'Shaughnessy?”
“I don't want you to take him,” said Denis; “I want nobody to take him:
but I know the dogs of the parish 'll be pickin' his bones afore night.
You may as well have him, sir, as not.”
“Is the man serious, Mr. Finnerty?”
“I never saw a man in my life having a more serious appearance, I assure
you,” said the priest.
“By Jove, it's a queer business,” replied the other: “a most
extraordinary affair as I ever witnessed! Why, it would be madness
to destroy such a fine animal as that! The horse is an excellent one!
However, I shall certainly not accept him, until I ascertain whether I
can prevail upon the bishop to elect his son to this vacancy. If I can
make the man no return for him, I shall let him go to the dogs.”
“Go up and set to work,” said the priest; “but remember that _tace_ is
Latin for a candle. Keep his lordship in the dark, otherwise this scion
is ousted.”
“True,” said the other. “In the meantime bring them into the parlor
until I try what can be done.”
“Take the Bishop upon the father's affection for him,” said the priest.
“You are right. I am glad you mentioned it.”
“The poor man will break his heart,” said the priest.
“He will,” responded the Counsellor smiling.
“So will the mother, too,” said the priest, with an arch look.
“And the whole family,” replied the Counsellor.
“Go up instantly,” said the priest; “you have often got a worse fee.”
“And, perhaps, with less prospect of success,” said the other.
“Gentlemen, have the goodness to walk into the parlor for a few minutes,
while I endeavor to soften my brother a little, if I can, upon this
untoward business.”
When the priest and his two friends entered the parlor, which was
elegantly furnished, they stood for a moment to survey it.
Old Denis, however, was too much engaged in the subject which lay
nearest his heart to take pleasure in anything else; at least until he
should hear the priest's opinion upon the posture of affairs.
“What does your reverence think?” said Denis.
“Behave yourself,” replied the pastor. “None of your nonsense! You know
what I think as well as I do myself.”
“But will Dionnisis pass?--Will he go to Maynooth?”
“Will you go to your dinner to-day, or to your bed to-night?”
“God be praised! Well, Docthor, wait till we see him off, then I'll be
spakin' to you!”
“No,” said the priest; “but wait till you tike a toss upon this sofa,
and then you will get a taste of ecclesiastical luxury.”
“Ay,” said Denis, “but would it be right o' me to sit in it? Maybe it's
consecrated.”
“Faith, you may swear that; but it is to the ease and comfort of his
lordship! Come, man, sit down, till you see how you'll sink in it.”
“Oh, murdher!” exclaimed Denis, “where am I at all? Docthor dear, am I
in sight? Do you see the crown o' my head, good or bad? Oh, may I never
sin, but that's great state!--Well, to be sure!”
“Ay,” said the priest, “see what it is to be a bishop in any church! The
moment a man becomes a bishop, he fastens tooth and nail upon luxury,
as if a mitre was a dispensation for enjoying the world that they have
sworn to renounce. Dionysius, look about you! Isn't this worth studying
for?”
“Yes,” replied the hitherto silent candidate, “if it was perusal on the
part of his lordship that got it.”
“Upon my credit, a shrewd observation! Ah, Dionysius, merit
is overlooked in every church, and in every profession; or
perhaps--hem!--ehem!--perhaps some of your reverend friends might be
higher up! I mean nobody; but if sound learning, and wit, and humor,
together with several other virtues which I decline enumerating, could
secure a mitre, why mitres might be on other brows.”
“This is surely great state,” observed the candidate; “and if it be a
thing that I matriculate--”
“And yet,” said the priest, interrupting him, “this same bishop--who is,
no doubt, a worthy man, but who has no natural ear for a jest--was once
upon a time the priest of an indifferent good parish, like myself; ay,
and a poor, cowardly, culprit-looking candidate, ready to sink into the
earth, before his bishop, like you.”
“Me cowardly!” said the candidate: “I decline the insinuation
altogether. It was nothing but veneration and respect, which you know we
should entertain for all our spiritual superiors.”
“That's truth decidedly; though, at the same time, your nerves were
certainly rather entangled, like a ravelled hank. But no matter, man;
we have all felt the same in our time. Did you observe how I managed the
bishop?”
“I can't say I did,” replied the candidate, who felt hurt at the
imputation of cowardice before his father; “but I saw, sir, that the
bishop managed you.”
“Pray for a longer vision, Dionysius. I tell you that no other priest in
the diocese could have got both you and me out of the dilemma in which
we stood but myself. He has taken to the study of weeds and plants in
his old days; and I, who have a natural taste for botany, know it is his
weak side. I tell you, he would give the right of filling a vacancy in
Maynooth, any day in the year, for a rare plant or flower. So much for
your knowledge of human nature. You'll grant I managed the Counsellor?”
“Between my father and you, sir, things look well. We have not, however,
got a certificate of success yet.”
“_Patientia fit levior ferendo!_--Have patience, man. Wait till we see
the Counsellor!”
He had scarcely uttered the last words when that gentleman entered.
“Well, Counsellor,” said the priest, “is it a hit?”
“Pray what is your Christian name, Mr. O'Shaughnessy?” inquired the
lawyer o! young Denis.
“My Christian name, sir,” replied Denis, “is Di-o-ny-si-us
O'Shaughnessy. That, sir, is the name by which I am always appellated.”
“That's quite sufficient,” said the other, “I shall be with you again
in a few minutes.”
“But won't you give us a hint, my good sir, as to how the land lies?”
said the priest, as the lawyer left the room.
“Presently, Mr. Finnerty, presently.”
“Intelligisme, Dionisi?”
“Vix, Domine. Quid sentis?”
“Quid sentis! No, but it was good fortune sent us. Don't you persave,
Dionysius, and you, Denis--don't you know, I say, that this letter of
admission couldn't be written except the bishop knew his name in full?
Unlucky! Faith if ever a horse was lucky this is he.”
“I declare, Docthor,” said the father, “I can neither sit nor stand, nor
think of any one thing for a minute, I'm so much on the fidgets to know
what the Bishop 'ill say.”
“I also,” said Dionysius, “am in state of evaporation and uncertainty
touching the same point. However, this I can affirm with veracity, that
if I am rejected, my mind is made up to pursue an antithetical course of
life altogether. If he rejects me now, he will never reject me again.”
“Musha, how--Denny--Dionysis, avick? What do you mane?” said the father.
“I will give,” said the son, “what is designated a loose translation of
my meaning to Mr. Finnerty here, if I find that I am excluded on this
occasion.”
“And if you do succeed,” said the priest, “I would advise you to hire
a loose translator during the remainder of your residence among us; for
upon my veracity, Dionysius, the King's English will perform hard duty
until you enter Maynooth. Not a word under six feet will be brought into
the ranks--grenadiers every one of them, not to mention the thumpers you
will coin.”
“Come, Docthor Finnerty,” said our candidate, pulling up a little, “if
the base Latin which you put into circulation were compared with
my English thumpers, it would be found that of the two, I am more
legitimate and etymological.”
“I shall be happy to dispute that point with you another time,” said the
priest, “when we can--Silence, here comes the Counsellor.”
“Mr. O'Shaughnessy,” said the lawyer, addressing the candidate, “allow
me to congratulate you on your success! Your business is accomplished.
The Bishop is just finishing a letter for you to the President of
Maynooth. I assure you, I feel great pleasure at your success.”
“Accept my thanks, sir,” said Denis, whose eye was instantly lit up with
delight--“accept my most obsequious thanks to the very furthest extent
of my gratitude.”
The Barrister then shook hands with old Denis. “O'Shaughnessy,” said he,
“I am very happy that I have had it in my power to serve you and your
son.”
“Counsellor,” said Denis, seizing his hand in both of his--“Counsellor,
_ahagur machree_ Counsellor, oh, what--what--can I say!--Is he--is it
possible--is it thruth that my boy is to go to Maynewth this time? Oh,
if you knew, but knew, the heavy, dead weight you tuck off o' my heart!
Our son not cast aside--not disgraced!--for what else would the people
think it? The horse!--a poor bit of a coult--a poor unsignified animal!
To the devil wid him. What is he compared to the joy an' delight of
this minute? Take him, sir; take him--an' if he was worth his weight
in goold, I vow to Heaven above me, I'd not think him too good. Too
good!--no, nor half good enough for you. God remimber this to you!
an' he will, too. Little you know the happiness you have given us,
Counsellor! Little you know it. But no matther! An' you, too, Father
Finnerty, helped to bring this about. But sure you were ever an' always
our friend! Well, no matther--no matther! God will reward you both.”
“My brother wishes me to see Mr. Finnerty and your son,” said the
barrister; “I think they had better go up to him. He is anxious to get a
slip of your shrub, Mr. Finnerty.”
“Ah, I thought so,” said the priest--“I thought as much.”
The Bishop, on their reappearance, presented Denis with the long
wished-for letter. He then gave him a suitable exhortation with
reference to the serious and responsible duties for which he was about
to prejjare himself. After concluding his admonition, he addressed
Father Finnerty as follows:
“Now Mr. Finnerty, this matter has ended in a manner satisfactory, not
only to your young friend, but to yourself. You must promise me that
there shall be no more horse-dealing. I do not think jockeying of that
description either creditable or just. I am unwilling to use harsher
language, but I could not conscientiously let it pass without reproof.
In the next place, will you let me have a slip of that flowering shrub
you boast of?”
“Doctor,” said the priest, “is it possible you ask it of me? Why, I
think your lordship ought to know that it's your own, as is every plant
and flower in my garden that you fancy. Do you dine at home to-morrow,
my lord?”
“I do,” said the Bishop. “Well, then, I shall come up with a slip or two
of it, and dine with you. I know the situation in which it grows best;
and knowing this, I will put it down with my own hands. But I protest,
my lord, against you allowing me to be traced in the business of the
shrub at all, otherwise I shall have the whole county on my back.”
“Be under no apprehension of that, Mr. Finnerty. I shall be happy if you
dine with me; but bring it with you. How did you come to get it so early
after its appearance in this country?”
“I got it from headquarters, Doctor---from one of the best botanists in
the three kingdoms; certainly from the best Irish botanist living--my
friend, Mr Mackay, of the College Botanic Gardens. My lord, I wish you
good morning; but before I go, accept my thanks for your kindness to my
young friend. I assure you he will be a useful man; for he is even now
no indifferent casuist.”
“And I, my lord,” said Denis, “return you my most grateful--hem--my most
grateful--and--most supercilious thanks for the favor--the stupendous
favor you have conferred upon me.”
“God bless you, my dear child,” returned the bishop; “but if you be
advised by me, speak more intelligibly. Use plain words, and discard all
difficult and pedantic expressions. God bless you! Farewell!”
On coming down, they found old Denis in the stable-yard in rather a
ridiculous kind of harness. The saddle that had been on the colt was
strapped about him with the bridle, for both had been borrowed from a
neighbor.
“Dionnisis an' I must both ride the same horse,” said he, “an' as we
have two saddles, I must carry one of them.”
An altercation then ensued as to which should ride foremost. The son,
now in high glee, insisted on the father's taking the seat of honor; but
the father would not hear of this. The lad was, in his opinion, at least
semi-clerical, and to ride behind would be a degradation to so learned
a youth. They mounted at length, the son foremost, and the father on the
crupper, the saddle strapped about him, with the stirrups dangling by
the horse's flanks. Father Finnerty, who accompanied them, could not,
however, on turning from the bishop's grounds into the highway, get a
word out of them. The truth is, both their hearts were full; both were,
therefore, silent, and thought every minute an hour until they reached
home.
This was but natural. A man may conceal calamity or distress even from
his dearest friends; for who is there who wishes to be thrust back from
his acknowledged position in life? Or who, when he is thrust back, will
not veil his misfortunes or his errors with the guise of indifference or
simulation? In good fortune we act differently. It is a step advanced;
an elevation gained; there is nothing to fear, or to be ashamed of, and
we are strongly prompted by vanity to proclaim it to the world, as we
are by pride to ascribe its occurrence to our own talents or virtues.
There are other and purer motives for this. The affections will not be
still; they seek the hearts to which they tend; and having found them,
the mutual interchange of good takes place. Father Finnerty--whose
heart, though a kind one, had, probably, been too long out of practice
to remember the influence and working of the domestic affections--could
not comprehend the singular conduct of the two O'Shaughnessys.
“What the devil is the matter with you?” he inquired. “Have you lost the
use of your speech?”
“Push an' avourneen,” said the father to Denis--“push an; lay the spur to
him. Isn't your spur on the right foot?”
“Most certainly,” said Denis, now as pedantic as ever--“most certainly
it is. You are not to be informed that our family spur is a right-foot
spur.”
“Well, then, Peter Gallagher's spur that I have an is a left-foot spur,
for it's an my left foot.”
“You are a bright pair,” said the priest, somewhat nettled at their
neglect of him--“you are a bright pair, and deeply learned in spurs.
Can't you ride asier?”
“Never heed him,” said the father, in a whisper; “do you, give the mare
the right spur, an' I'll give her the left. Push an! that's it.”
They accordingly dashed forwrard, Denis plying, one heel, and the father
another, until the priest found himself gradually falling behind.
In vain he plied both spurs; in vain he whipped, and wriggled on the
saddle, and pressed forwrard his hack. Being a priest's horse, the
animal had been accustomed for the last twelve years to a certain
jog-trot-pace, beyond which it neither would nor could go. On finding
all his efforts to overtake them unsuccessful, he at last shouted after
them.
“Do you call that gratitude, my worthy friends? To lave me creeping over
the ups and downs of this villanous road without company?”
“Lay an, aroon,” said the father. “Let us get home. Oh, how your poor
mother will die with joy, an' Susy, an' Nanny, an' Brian, an' Michael,
an' Dick, an' Lanty, an' all o' them. Glory be to Heaven! what a meetin'
we'll have! An' the nabors, too! Push an' avick machree.”
“My curse upon you, Friar Hennessy!” exclaimed the priest, in a
soliloquy, “it was you who first taught this four-footed snail to go
like a thief to the gallows. I wish to Heaven you had palmed him on some
one else, for many a dinner I have lost by him in my time. Is that your
gratitude, gentlemen? Do I deserve this?”
“What is he sayin'?” said the father.
“He is declaiming about gratitude,” replied Denis.
“Lay-an' her,” said the father. “Poor Mave!”
“Such conduct does you credit,” shouted the priest. “It's just the way
of the world. You have got what you wanted out of me, an' now you throw
me off. However, go on.”
“What's that?” said the father again.
“He is desiring us to go on,' replied the son.
“Then, in the name o' Goodness, do so, avourneen. Susy will die
downright.”
“Where am I to dine to-day?” shouted the priest, in a louder voice. “I
say, where am I to come in for my dinner, for I'm not expected at home,
and my curate dines out?”
“I can't hear him,” said the father.
“He says the curate dines out; an' he wants to know if he's to dine with
us.”
“Throth, an' he won't; not that we begrudge it to him; but for this day
the sarra one we'll have but our own relations. Push an. An' Brian, too,
poor fellow, that was always so proud of you!”
They had now reached the top of an ascent on the road, whilst the
priest toiled up after them. In a few minutes they began to descend, and
consequently were out of his sight.
No description of mine could give an adequate perception to the reader
of what was felt by the family on hearing that the object of Denis's
hopes, and their own proud ambition, was at length accomplished. The
Bishop's letter was looked at, turned in every direction, and the seal
inspected with a kind of wonderful curiosity, such as a superstitious
person would manifest on seeing and touching some sacred relic. The
period appointed for his departure now depended upon the despatch with
which they could equip him for college. But until this event should
arrive, his friends lost no opportunity of having him among them.
Various were the treats he got in fair and markets. Proud were his
relations when paying' him the respect which he felt right sincere
pleasure in receiving. The medium between dignity and humility which he
hit off in these scenes, was worthy o'f being recorded; but, to do him
justice, his forte lay in humility. He certainly condescended with a
grace, and made them feel the honor done them by his vouchsafing to
associate with such poor creatures as if he was one of themselves. To
do them also justice, they appeared to feel his condescension; and, as
a natural consequence, were ready to lick the very dust under his feet,
considering him, as they did, a priest in everything but ordination.