reconnoitre the enemy:--
“Denis Oge,” he shouted back, “be on to Maynooth as fast as possible,
except you wish to have my poor child left fatherless entirely. Go way,
an' my blessin' be along wid you; but let there be never another word
about that business while you live.”
“Father,” said Denis, “I'm scandalized at your conduct on this dignified
occasion. I am also angry with Brian and the rest of you. Did you not
observe that the decent man was advanced in liquor? I would have told
you so at once, were it not that he was present while I spoke. Did I not
give you as strong a hint as possible? Did I not tell you that 'I
spoke significantly?' Now hear me. Take the first opportunity of being
reconciled to Owen Connor. Be civil to him; for I assure you he esteems
me very highly. Be also kind to his daughter, who is an excellent girl;
but I repeat it, her father esteems me highly.”
“Does he think highly of you, Denis?”
“I have said so,” he replied.
“Then, throth, we're sorry for what has happened, poor man. But the
never a one o' me, Denis, saw the laste sign of liquor about him.
Throth, we will make it up wid him, thin. An' we'll be kind to his
daughter, too, Denis.”
“Then as a proof that you will follow my advice, I lay it on you as a
duty, to let me know how they are, whenever you write to me.”
“Throth, we will, Denis;--indeed will we. Come in now, dear; this is
the last night you're to be wid us, an' they're all missin! you in the
house.”
On that night no person slept in Denis O'Shaughnessy's, except our hero,
and his mother and sisters. As morning approached a heaviness of spirits
prevailed among the family, which of course was not felt by any except
his immediate relations. The more distant friends, who remained with
them for the night, sang and plied the bottle with a steadiness which
prevented them from feeling the want of rest. About six o'clock,
breakfast was ready, Denis dressed, and every arrangement made for his
immediate departure. His parents--his brothers, and his sisters were
all in tears, and he himself could master his emotions with great
difficulty. At length the hour to which the family of our candidate had
long looked forward, arrived, and Denis rose to depart for Maynooth.
Except by the sobs and weeping, the silence was unbroken when he stood
up to bid them farewell.
The first he embraced was his eldest brother, Brian: “Brian,” said he,
but he could not proceed--his voice failed him: he then extended his
hand, but Brian clasped him in tis arms--kissed his beloved brother, and
wept with strong grief; even then there was not a dry eye in the house.
The parting with his other brothers was equally tender--they wept loudly
and bitterly, and Denis joined in their grief. Then came his sisters,
who, one by one, hung upon him, and sobbed as if he had been dead. The
grief of his youngest sister, Susan, was excessive. She threw her arms
about his neck, and said she would not let him go; Denis pressed her
to his heart, and the grief which he felt, seemed to penetrate his very
soul.
“Susan,” said he, “Susan, may the blessing of God rest upon you till I
see you again!”--and the affectionate girl was literally torn from his
arms.
But how came the most affecting part of the ceremony. His parents had
stood apart--their hands locked in each other, both in tears, whilst
he took leave of the rest. He now approached his mother, and reverently
kneeling down, implored in words scarcely intelligible, her blessing
and forgiveness; he extended both his hands--“Mother,” he added, “I
ask--humbly and penitently, I ask your blessing; it will be sweet to me
from your beloved lips, dear mother;--pardon me if I ever--as I feel I
often did--caused you a pang of sorrow by my disobedience and folly. Oh,
pardon me--pardon me for all now! Bless your son, kindest of mothers,
with your best and tenderest blessing!”
She threw herself in his arms, and locking him in her embrace, imprinted
every part of his face with kisses. “Oh, Denis,” she exclaimed, “there
is but one more who will miss you more nor I will--Oh, my darlin'
son--our pride--our pride--our heart's pride--our honor, and our credit!
Sure, _anim machree_, I have nothin' to forgive you for, my heart's
life; but may the blessin' of God and of a happy mother light on you!
And, Denis _asthore_, wasn't it you that made me happy, and that made us
all happy. May my blessin' and the blessin' of God rest upon you--keep
you from every evil, and in every good, till my eyes will be made glad
by lookin' on you agin!”
A grief more deep, and a happiness more full, than had yet been felt,
were now to come forth. Denis turned to his father--his companion
in many a pastime, and in many a walk about their native fields. In
fair--in market--at mass--and at every rustic amusement within their
reach--had he been ever at the side of that indulgent father, whose
heart and soul were placed in him. Denis could not utter a word, but
kept his streaming eyes fixed upon the old man, with that yearning
expression of the heart which is felt when it desires to be mingled
with the very existence of the object that it loves. Old Denis advanced,
under powerful struggles, to suppress his grief; he knelt, and, as the
tears ran in silence down his cheeks, thus addressed himself to God:--
“I kneel down before you, oh, my God a poor sinner! I kneel here in your
blessed presence, with a heart--with a happy heartens day, to return you
thanks in the name of myself and the beloved partner you have given me
through the cares and thrials of this world, to give you our heart's
best thanks for graciously permittin' us to see this day! It is to you
we owe it, good Father of Heaven! It is to you we owe this--an' him--my
heart's own son, that kneels before me to be blessed by my lips!
Yes--yes, he is--he is the pride of our lives!--He is the mornin' star
among us! he was ever a good son; and you know that from the day he was
born to this minute, he never gave me a sore heart! Take him under your
own protection! Oh, bless him as we wish, if it be your holy will to
do so!--Bless him and guard him, for my heart's in him: it is--he knows
it--everybody knows it;--and if anything was to happen him----”
He could proceed no further: the idea of losing his son, even in
imagination, overpowered him;--he rose, locked him to his breast, and
for many minutes the grief of both was loud and vehement.
Denis's uncle now interposed: “The horses,” said he, “are at the door,
an' time's passin'.”
“Och, thrue for you, Barny,” said old Denis; “come, _acushla_, an'
let me help you on your horse. We will go on quickly, as we're to meet
Father Finnerty at the crass-roads.”
Denis then shook hands with them all, not forgetting honest Phadrick
Murray, who exclaimed, as he bid him farewell, “Arrah! Misther Denis,
aroon, won't you be thinkin' of me now an' thin in the College? Faix,
if you always argue as bravely wid the Collegians as you did the day you
proved me to be an ass you'll soon be at the head of them!”
“Denis,” said the uncle, “your father excuses me in regard of havin' to
attend my cattle in the fair to-day. You won't be angry wid me, dear,
for lavin' you now, as my road lies this other way. May the blessin'
of God and his holy mother keep you till I see you agin! an', Denis, if
you'd send me a scrape or two, lettin' me know what a good parish 'ud be
worth; for I intend next spring to go wid little Barny to the Latin!”
This Denis promised to do; and after bidding him farewell, he and
his friends--some on horseback and numbers on foot--set out on their
journey; and as they proceeded through their own neighborhood, many
a crowd was collected to get a sight of Denis O'Shaughnessy going to
Maynooth.
*****
It was one day in autumn, after a lapse of about two years, that the
following conversation took place between a wealthy grazier from the
neighboring parish, and one of our hero's most intimate, acquaintances.
It is valuable only as it throws light upon Denis's ultimate situation
in life, which, after all, was not what our readers might be inclined to
expect.
“Why, then, honest man,” said Denis's friend, “that's a murdherin' fine
dhrove o' bullocks you're bringin' to the fair?”
“Ay!” replied the grazier, “you may say that. I'm thinkin' it wouldn't
be asay to aquil them.”
“Faix, sure enough. Where wor they fed, wid simmission?”
“Up in Teernahusshogue. Arrah, will you tell me what weddin' was that
that passed awhile agone?”
“A son of ould Denis O'Shaughnessy's, God be merciful to his sowl!”
“Denis O'Shaughnessy! Is it him they called the 'Pigeon-house?' An' is
it possible he's dead?”
“He's dead, nabor, an' in throth, an honest man's dead!”
“As ever broke the world's bread. The Lord make his bed in heaven this
day! Hasn't he a son larnin' to be a priest in May-newth?”
“Ah! _Fahreer gairh!_ That's all over.”
“Why, is he dead, too?”
“Be Gorra, no--but the conthrairy to that. 'Twas his weddin' you seen
passin' a minute agone.”
“Is it the young sogarth's? Musha, bad end to you, man alive, an' spake
out. Tell us how that happened. Sowl it's a quare business, an' him was
in Maynewth!”
“Faith, he was so; an' they say there wasn't a man in Maynewth able to
tache him. But, passin' that over--you see, the father, ould Denis--an'
be Gorra, he was very bright, too, till the son grewn up, an' drownded
him wid the languidges--the father, you see, ould Denis himself, tuck
a faver whin the son was near a year in the college, an' it proved too
many for him. He died; an' whin young Dinny hard of it, the divil a one
of him would stay any longer in Maynewth. He came home like a scarecrow,
said he lost his health in it, an' refused to go back. Faith, it was
a lucky thing that his father died beforehand, for it would brake his
heart. As it was, they had terrible work about it. But ould Denis is
never dead while young Denis is livin'. Faix, he was as stiff as they
wor stout, an' wouldn't give in; so, afther ever so much' wranglin',
he got the upper hand by tellin' them that he wasn't able to bear the
college at all; an' that if he'd go back to it he'd soon folly his
father.”
“An' what turned him against the college? Was that thrue?”
“Thrue!--thrue indeed! The same youth was never at a loss for a piece
of invintion whin it sarved him. No, the sarra word of thruth at all
was in it. He soodered an' palavered a daughther of Owen Connor's,
Susy--all the daughther he has, indeed--before he wint to Maynewth at
all, they say. She herself wasn't for marryin' him, in regard of a vow
she had; but there's no doubt but he made her fond of him, for he has a
tongue that 'ud make black white, or white black, for that matther.
So, be Gorra, he got the vow taken off of her by the Bishop; she soon
recovered her health, for she was dyin' for love of him, an'--you seen
their weddin'. It 'ud be worth your while to go a day's journey to get
a sight of her--she's allowed to be the purtiest girl that ever was in
this part o' the counthry.”
“Well! well! It's a quare world. An' is the family all agreeable to it
now?”
“Hut! where was the use of houldin' out aginst him? I tell you, he'd
make them agreeable to any thing, wanst he tuck it into his head.
Indeed, it's he that has the great larnin' all out! Why, now, you'd
hardly b'lieve me, when I tell you that he'd prove you to be an ass in
three minutes; make it as plain as the sun. He would; an' often made an
ass o' myself.”
“Why, now that I look at you--aren't you Dan Murray's nephew?”
“Phadrick Murray, an' divil a one else, sure enough.”
“How is your family, Phadrick? Why, man, you don't know your friends--my
name's Cahill.”
“Is it Andy Cahill of Phuldhu? Why, thin, death alive, Andy, how is
every bit of you? Andy, I'm regulatin' everything at this weddin', an'
you must turn over your horse till we have a dhrop for ould times. Bless
my sowl! sure, I'd know your brother round a corner; an' yourself, too,
I ought to know, only that I didn't see you since you wor a slip of a
gorsoon. Come away, man, sure thim men o' yours can take care o' the
cattle. You'll asily overtake thim.”
“Throth, I don't care if I have a glass wid an ould friend. But, I hope
your whiskey won't overtake me, Phadrick?”
“The never a fear of it, your father's son has too good a head for that.
Ough! man alive, if you could stay for the weddin'! Divil a sich a let
out ever was seen in the county widin the mimory of the ouldest man
in it, as it'll be. Denis is the boy that 'ud have the dacent thing or
nothin'.”
The grazier and Phadrick Murray then bent their steps to Owen Connor's
house, where the wedding was held. It is unnecessary to say that
Phadrick plied his new acquaintance to some purpose. Ere two hours
passed the latter had forgotten his bullocks as completely as if he had
never seen them, and his drovers were left to their own discretion in
effecting their sale. As for Andy Cahill, like many another sapient
Irishman, he preferred his pleasure to his business, got drunk, and
danced, and sung at Denis O'Shaughnessy's wedding, which we are bound to
say was the longest, the most hospitable, and most frolicsome that ever
has been remembered in the parish from that day to the present.