THE PRIEST’S SUPPER—FATHER MALACHI AND THE COADJUTOR—MAJOR JONES AND
THE ABBE
[Illustration: The Sentry Challenging Father Luke and the Abbé]
At the conclusion of our last chapter we left our quondam antagonist,
Mr. Beamish, stretched at full length upon a bed practising homeopathy
by administering hot punch to his fever, while we followed our
chaperon, Doctor Finucane, into the presence of the Reverend Father
Brennan.
The company into which we now, without any ceremony on our parts,
introduced ourselves, consisted of from five and twenty to thirty
persons, seated around a large oak table, plentifully provided with
materials for drinking, and cups, goblets, and glasses of every shape
and form. The moment we entered, the doctor stepped forward, and,
touching Father Malachi on the shoulder,—for so I rightly guessed him
to be,—presented himself to his relative, by whom he was welcomed with
every demonstration of joy. While their recognitions were exchanged,
and while the doctor explained the reasons of our visit, I was enabled,
undisturbed and unnoticed, to take a brief survey of the party.
Father Malachi Brennan, P.P. of Carrigaholt, was what I had often
pictured to myself as the beau ideal of his caste; his figure was
short, fleshy, and enormously muscular, and displayed proportions which
wanted but height to constitute a perfect Hercules; his legs so thick
in the calf, so taper in the ancle, looked like nothing I know, except
perhaps, the metal balustrades of Carlisle-bridge; his face was large
and rosy, and the general expression, a mixture of unbounded good
humour and inexhaustible drollery, to which the restless activity of
his black and arched eye-brows greatly contributed; and his mouth, were
it not for a character of sensuality and voluptuousness about the
nether lip, had been actually handsome; his head was bald, except a
narrow circle close above the ears, which was marked by a ring of curly
dark hair, sadly insufficient however, to conceal a development behind,
that, if there be truth in phrenology, bodes but little happiness to
the disciples of Miss Martineau.
Add to these external signs a voice rich, fluent, and racy, with the
mellow “doric” of his country, and you have some faint resemblance of
one “every inch a priest.” The very antipodes to the ‘bonhomie’ of this
figure, confronted him as croupier at the foot of the table. This, as I
afterwards learned, was no less a person than Mister Donovan, the
coadjutor or “curate;” he was a tall, spare, ungainly looking man of
about five and thirty, with a pale, ascetic countenance, the only
readable expression of which vibrated between low suspicion and intense
vulgarity: over his low, projecting forehead hung down a mass of
straight red hair; indeed—for nature is not a politician—it almost
approached an orange hue. This was cut close to the head all around,
and displayed in their full proportions a pair of enormous ears, which
stood out in “relief,” like turrets from a watch-tower, and with pretty
much the same object; his skin was of that peculiar colour and texture,
to which, not all “the water in great Neptune’s ocean” could impart a
look of cleanliness, while his very voice, hard, harsh, and inflexible,
was unprepossessing and unpleasant. And yet, strange as it may seem,
he, too, was a correct type of his order; the only difference being,
that Father Malachi was an older coinage, with the impress of Donay or
St. Omers, whereas Mister Donovan was the shining metal, fresh stamped
from the mint of Maynooth.
[Illustration: Supper at Father Malachi’s]
While thus occupied in my surveillance of the scene before me, I was
roused by the priest saying—
“Ah, Fin, my darling, you needn’t deny it; you’re at the old game as
sure as my name is Malachi, and ye’ll never be easy nor quiet till
ye’re sent beyond the sea, or maybe have a record of your virtues on
half a ton of marble in the church-yard, yonder.”
“Upon my honour, upon the sacred honour of a De Courcy—.”
“Well, well, never mind it now; ye see ye’re just keeping your friends
cooling themselves there in the corner—introduce me at once.”
“Mr. Lorrequer, I’m sure—.”
“My name is Curzon,” said the adjutant, bowing.
“A mighty pretty name, though a little profane; well, Mr. Curse-on,”
for so he pronounced it, “ye’re as welcome as the flowers in May; and
it’s mighty proud I am to see ye here.
“Mr. Lorrequer, allow me to shake your hand—I’ve heard of ye before.”
There seemed nothing very strange in that; for go where I would through
this country, I seemed as generally known as ever was Brummell in
Bond-street.
“Fin tells me,” continued Father Malachi, “that ye’d rather not be
known down here, in regard of a reason,” and here he winked. “Make
yourselves quite easy; the king’s writ was never but once in these
parts; and the ‘original and true copy’ went back to Limerick in the
stomach of the server; they made him eat it, Mr. Lorrequer; but it’s as
well to be cautious, for there are a good number here. A little dinner,
a little quarterly dinner we have among us, Mr. Curseon, to be social
together, and raise a ‘thrifle’ for the Irish college at Rome, where we
have a probationer or two, ourselves.”
“As good as a station, and more drink,” whispered Fin into my ear.
“And now,” continued the priest, “ye must just permit me to re-christen
ye both, and the contribution will not be the less for what I’m going
to do; and I’m certain you’ll not be worse for the change Mr.
Curseon—though ’tis only for a few hours, ye’ll have a dacent name.”
As I could see no possible objection to this proposal, nor did Curzon
either, our only desire being to maintain the secrecy necessary for our
antagonist’s safety, we at once assented; when Father Malachi took me
by the hand, but with such a total change in his whole air and
deportment that I was completely puzzled by it; he led me forward to
the company with a good deal of the ceremonious reverence I have often
admired in Sir Charles Vernon, when conducting some full-blown dowager
through the mazes of a castle minuet. The desire to laugh outright was
almost irresistible, as the Rev. Father stood at arm’s length from me,
still holding my hand, and bowing to the company pretty much in the
style of a manager introducing a blushing debutante to an audience. A
moment more, and I must have inevitably given way to a burst of
laughter, when what was my horror to hear the priest present me to the
company as their “excellent, worthy, generous, and patriotic young
landlord, Lord Kilkee. Cheer every mother’s son of ye; cheer I say;”
and certainly precept was never more strenuously backed by example, for
he huzzaed till I thought he would burst a blood-vessel; may I add, I
almost wished it, such was the insufferable annoyance, the chagrin,
this announcement gave me; and I waited with eager impatience for the
din and clamour to subside, to disclaim every syllable of the priest’s
announcement, and take the consequences of my baptismal epithet, cost
what it might. To this I was impelled by many and important reasons.
Situated as I was with respect to the Callonby family, my assumption of
their name at such a moment might get abroad, and the consequences to
me, be inevitable ruin; and independent of my natural repugnance to
such sailing under false colours, I saw Curzon laughing almost to
suffocation at my wretched predicament, and (so strong within me was
the dread of ridicule) I thought, “what a pretty narrative he is
concocting for the mess this minute.” I rose to reply; and whether
Father Malachi, with his intuitive quickness, guessed my purpose or
not, I cannot say, but he certainly resolved to out-maneuver me, and he
succeeded: while with one hand he motioned to the party to keep
silence, with the other he took hold of Curzon, but with no peculiar or
very measured respect, and introduced him as Mr. MacNeesh, the new
Scotch steward and improver—a character at that time whose popularity
might compete with a tithe proctor or an exciseman. So completely did
this tactique turn the tables upon the poor adjutant, who the moment
before was exulting over me, that I utterly forgot my own woes, and sat
down convulsed with mirth at his situation—an emotion certainly not
lessened as I saw Curzon passed from one to the other at table, “like a
pauper to his parish,” till he found an asylum at the very foot, in
juxta with the engaging Mister Donovan. A propinquity, if I might judge
from their countenances, uncoveted by either party.
While this was performing, Doctor Finucane was making his recognitions
with several of the company, to whom he had been long known during his
visits to the neighbourhood. I now resumed my place on the right of the
Father, abandoning for the present all intention of disclaiming my
rank, and the campaign was opened. The priest now exerted himself to
the utmost to recall conversation with the original channels, and if
possible to draw off attention from me, which he still feared, might,
perhaps, elicit some unlucky announcement on my part. Failing in his
endeavours to bring matters to their former footing, he turned the
whole brunt of his attentions to the worthy doctor, who sat on his
left.
“How goes on the law,” said he, “Fin? Any new proofs, as they call
them, forthcoming?”
What Fin replied, I could not hear, but the allusion to the “suit” was
explained by Father Malachi informing us that the only impediment
between his cousin and the title of Kinsale lay in the unfortunate
fact, that his grandmother, “rest her sowl,” was not a man.
Doctor Finucane winced a little under the manner in which this was
spoken: but returned the fire by asking if the bishop was down lately
in that quarter? The evasive way in which “the Father” replied having
stimulated my curiosity as to the reason, little entreaty was necessary
to persuade the doctor to relate the following anecdote, which was not
relished the less by his superior, that it told somewhat heavily on Mr.
Donovan.
“It is about four years ago,” said the doctor, “since the Bishop, Dr.
Plunkett, took it into his head that he’d make a general inspection, ‘a
reconnoisance,’ as we’d call it, Mr. Lor—that is, my lord! through the
whole diocese, and leave no part far nor near without poking his nose
in it and seeing how matters were doing. He heard very queer stories
about his reverence here, and so down he came one morning in the month
of July, riding upon an old grey hack, looking just for all the world
like any other elderly gentleman in very rusty black. When he got near
the village he picked up a little boy to show him the short cut across
the fields to the house here; and as his lordship was a ‘sharp man and
a shrewd,’ he kept his eye on every thing as he went along, remarking
this, and noting down that.
“‘Are ye regular in yer duties, my son?’ said he to the gossoon.
“‘I never miss a Sunday,’ said the gossoon; ‘for it’s always walking
his reverence’s horse I am the whole time av prayers.’
“His lordship said no more for a little while, when he muttered between
his teeth, ‘Ah, it’s just slander—nothing but slander and lying
tongues.’ This soliloquy was caused by his remarking that on every gate
he passed, or from every cabin, two or three urchins would come out
half naked, but all with the finest heads of red hair he ever saw in
his life.
“‘How is it, my son,’ said he, at length; ‘they tell very strange
stories about Father Malachi, and I see so many of these children with
red hair. Eh—now Father Malachi’s a dark man.’
“‘True for ye,’ said the boy; ‘true for ye, Father Malachi’s dark; but
the coadjutor!—the coadjutor’s as red as a fox.’”
When the laugh this story caused had a little subsided, Father Malachi
called out, “Mickey Oulahan! Mickey, I say, hand his lordship over ‘the
groceries’”—thus he designated a square decanter, containing about two
quarts of whiskey, and a bowl heaped high with sugar—“a dacent boy is
Mickey, my lord, and I’m happy to be the means of making him known to
you.” I bowed with condescension, while Mr. Oulahan’s eyes sparkled
like diamonds at the recognition.
“He has only two years of the lease to run, and a ‘long charge,’”
(anglicé, a large family,) continued the priest.
“I’ll not forget him, you may depend upon it,” said I.
“Do you hear that,” said Father Malachi, casting a glance of triumph
round the table, while a general buzz of commendation on priest and
patron went round, with many such phrases as, “Och thin, it’s his
riv’rance can do it,” “na bocklish,” “and why not,” &c. &c. As for me,
I have already “confessed” to my crying sin, a fatal, irresistible
inclination to follow the humour of the moment wherever it led me; and
now I found myself as active a partizan in quizzing Mickey Oulahan, as
though I was not myself a party included in the jest. I was thus fairly
launched into my inveterate habit, and nothing could arrest my
progress.
One by one the different individuals round the table were presented to
me, and made known their various wants, with an implicit confidence in
my power of relieving them, which I with equal readiness ministered to.
I lowered the rent of every man at table. I made a general jail
delivery, an act of grace, (I blush to say,) which seemed to be
peculiarly interesting to the present company. I abolished all
arrears—made a new line of road through an impassable bog, and over an
inaccessible mountain—and conducted water to a mill, which (I learned
in the morning) was always worked by wind. The decanter had scarcely
completed its third circuit of the board, when I bid fair to be most
popular specimen of the peerage that ever visited the “far west.” In
the midst of my career of universal benevolence, I was interrupted by
Father Malachi, whom I found on his legs, pronouncing a glowing
eulogium on his cousin’s late regiment, the famous North Cork.
“That was the corps!” said he. “Bid them do a thing, and they’d never
leave off; and so, when they got orders to retire from Wexford, it’s
little they cared for the comforts of baggage, like many another
regiment, for they threw away every thing but their canteens, and never
stopped till they ran to Ross, fifteen miles farther than the enemy
followed them. And when they were all in bed the same night, fatigued
and tired with their exertions, as ye may suppose, a drummer’s boy
called out in his sleep—‘here they are—they’re coming’—they all jumped
up and set off in their shirts, and got two miles out of town before
they discovered it was a false alarm.”
Peal after peal of laughter followed the priest’s encomium on the
doctor’s regiment; and, indeed, he himself joined most heartily in the
mirth, as he might well afford to do, seeing that a braver or better
corps than the North Cork, Ireland did not possess.
“Well,” said Fin, “it’s easy to see ye never can forget what they did
at Maynooth.”
Father Malachi disclaimed all personal feeling on the subject; and I
was at last gratified by the following narrative, which I regret deeply
I am not enabled to give in the doctor’s own verbiage; but writing as I
do from memory, (in most instances,) I can only convey the substance:
It was towards the latter end of the year ‘98—the year of the
troubles—that the North Cork was ordered, “for their sins” I believe,
to march from their snug quarters in Fermoy, and take up a position in
the town of Maynooth—a very considerable reverse of fortune to a set of
gentlemen extremely addicted to dining out, and living at large upon a
very pleasant neighbourhood. Fermoy abounded in gentry; Maynooth at
that, time had few, if any, excepting his Grace of Leinster, and he
lived very privately, and saw no company. Maynooth was stupid and
dull—there were neither belles nor balls; Fermoy (to use the doctor’s
well remembered words) had “great feeding,” and “very genteel young
ladies, that carried their handkerchiefs in bags, and danced with the
officers.”
They had not been many weeks in their new quarters, when they began to
pine over their altered fortunes, and it was with a sense of delight,
which a few months before would have been incomprehensible to them,
they discovered, that one of their officers had a brother, a young
priest in the college: he introduced him to some of his confrères, and
the natural result followed. A visiting acquaintance began between the
regiment and such of the members of the college as had liberty to leave
the precincts: who, as time ripened the acquaintance into intimacy,
very naturally preferred the cuisine of the North Cork to the meagre
fare of “the refectory.” At last seldom a day went by, without one or
two of their reverences finding themselves guests at the mess. The
North Corkians were of a most hospitable turn, and the fathers were
determined the virtue should not rust for want of being exercised; they
would just drop in to say a word to “Captain O’Flaherty about leave to
shoot in the demesne,” as Carton was styled; or, they had a “frank from
the Duke for the Colonel,” or some other equally pressing reason; and
they would contrive to be caught in the middle of a very droll story
just as the “roast beef” was playing. Very little entreaty then
sufficed—a short apology for the “dereglements” of dress, and a few
minutes more found them seated at table without further ceremony on
either side.
Among the favourite guests from the college, two were peculiarly held
in estimation—“the Professor of the Humanities,” Father Luke Mooney;
and the Abbé D’Array, “the Lecturer on Moral Philosophy, and Belles
Lettres;” and certain it is, pleasanter fellows, or more gifted with
the “convivial bump,” there never existed. He of the Humanities was a
droll dog—a member of the Curran club, the “monks of the screw,” told
an excellent story, and sang the “Cruiskeen Lawn” better than did any
before or since him;—the moral philosopher, though of a different
genre, was also a most agreeable companion, an Irishman transplanted in
his youth to St. Omers, and who had grafted upon his native humour a
considerable share of French smartness and repartee—such were the two,
who ruled supreme in all the festive arrangements of this jovial
regiment, and were at last as regular at table, as the adjutant and the
paymaster, and so might they have continued, had not prosperity, that
in its blighting influence upon the heart, spares neither priests nor
laymen, and is equally severe upon mice (see Æsop’s fable) and moral
philosophers, actually deprived them, for the “nonce” of reason, and
tempted them to their ruin. You naturally ask, what did they do? Did
they venture upon allusions to the retreat upon Ross? Nothing of the
kind. Did they, in that vanity which wine inspires, refer by word, act,
or inuendo, to the well-known order of their Colonel when reviewing his
regiment in “the Phœnix,” to “advance two steps backwards, and dress by
the gutter.” Far be it from them: though indeed either of these had
been esteemed light in the balance compared with their real crime.
“Then, what was their failing—come, tell it, and burn ye?” They
actually, “horresco referens,” quizzed the Major coram the whole
mess!—Now, Major John Jones had only lately exchanged into the North
Cork from the “Darry Ragement,” as he called it. He was a red-hot
orangeman, a deputy-grand something, and vice-chairman of the
“’Prentice Boys” beside. He broke his leg when a school-boy, by a fall
incurred in tying an orange handkerchief around King William’s August
neck in College-green, on one 12th of July, and three several times had
closed the gates of Derry with his own loyal hands, on the famed
anniversary; in a word, he was one, that if his church had enjoined
penance as an expiation for sin, would have looked upon a trip to
Jerusalem on his bare knees, as a very light punishment for the crime
on his conscience, that he sat at table with two buck priests from
Maynooth, and carved for them, like the rest of the company!
Poor Major Jones, however, had no such solace, and the canker-worm eat
daily deeper and deeper into his pining heart. During the three or four
weeks of their intimacy with his regiment, his martyrdom was awful. His
figure wasted, and his colour became a deeper tinge of orange, and all
around averred that there would soon be a “move up” in the corps, for
the major had evidently “got his notice to quit” this world, and its
pomps and vanities. He felt “that he was dying,” to use Haines Bayley’s
beautiful and apposite words, and meditated an exchange, but that, from
circumstances, was out of the question. At last, subdued by grief, and
probably his spirit having chafed itself smooth by such constant
attrition, he became, to all seeming, calmer; but it was only the calm
of a broken and weary heart. Such was Major Jones at the time, when,
“suadente diabolo,” it seemed meet to Fathers Mooney and D’Array to
make him the butt of their raillery. At first, he could not believe it;
the thing was incredible—impossible; but when he looked around the
table, when he heard the roars of laughter, long, loud, and vociferous;
when he heard his name bandied from one to the other across the table,
with some vile jest tacked to it “like a tin kettle to a dog’s tail,”
he awoke to the full measure of his misery—the cup was full. Fate had
done her worst, and he might have exclaimed with Lear, “spit,
fire—spout, rain,” there was nothing in store for him of further
misfortune.
A drum-head court-martial—a hint “to sell out”—ay, a sentence of
“dismissed the service,” had been mortal calamities, and, like a man,
he would have borne them; but that he, Major John Jones, D.G.S. C.P.B.,
&c. &c., who had drank the “pious, glorious, and immortal,” sitting
astride of “the great gun of Athlone,” should come to this! Alas, and
alas! He retired that night to his chamber a “sadder if not a wiser
man;” he dreamed that the “statue” had given place to the unshapely
figure of Leo X., and that “Lundy now stood where Walker stood before.”
He humped from his bed in a moment of enthusiasm, he vowed his revenge,
and he kept his vow.
That day the major was “acting field officer.” The various patroles,
sentries, picquets, and out-posts, were all under his especial control;
and it was remarked that he took peculiar pains in selecting the men
for night duty, which, in the prevailing quietness and peace of that
time, seemed scarcely warrantable.
Evening drew near, and Major Jones, summoned by the “oft-heard beat,”
wended his way to the mess. The officers were dropping in, and true as
“the needle to the pole,” came Father Mooney and the Abbé. They were
welcomed with the usual warmth, and strange to say, by none more than
the major himself, whose hilarity knew no bounds.
How the evening passed, I shall not stop to relate: suffice it to say,
that a more brilliant feast of wit and jollification, not even the
North Cork ever enjoyed. Father Luke’s drollest stories, his very
quaintest humour shone forth, and the Abbé sang a new “Chanson a
Boire,” that Beranger might have envied.
“What are you about, my dear Father D’Array?” said the Colonel; “you
are surely not rising yet; here’s a fresh cooper of port just come in;
sit down, I entreat.”
“I say it with grief, my dear colonel, we must away; the half-hour has
just chimed, and we must be within ‘the gates’ before twelve. The truth
is, the superior has been making himself very troublesome about our
‘carnal amusements’ as he calls our innocent mirth, and we must
therefore be upon our guard.”
“Well, if it must be so, we shall not risk losing your society
altogether, for an hour or so now; so, one bumper to our next
meeting—to-morrow, mind, and now, M. D’Abbé, au revoir.”
The worthy fathers finished their glasses, and taking a most
affectionate leave of their kind entertainers, sallied forth under the
guidance of Major Jones, who insisted upon accompanying them part of
the way, as, “from information he had received, the sentries were
doubled in some places, and the usual precautions against surprise all
taken.” Much as this polite attention surprised the objects of it, his
brother officers wondered still more, and no sooner did they perceive
the major and his companions issue forth, than they set out in a body
to watch where this most novel and unexpected complaisance would
terminate.
When the priests reached the door of the barrack-yard, they again
turned to utter their thanks to the major, and entreat him once more,
“not to come a step farther. There now, major, we know the path well,
so just give us the pass, and don’t stay out in the night air.”
“Ah oui, Monsieur Jones,” said the Abbé, “retournez, je vous prie. We
are, I must say, chez nous. Ces braves gens, les North Cork know us by
this time.”
The major smiled, while he still pressed his services to see them past
the picquets, but they were resolved and would not be denied.
“With the word for the night, we want nothing more,” said Father Luke.
“Well, then,” said the major, in the gravest tone, and he was naturally
grave, “you shall have your way, but remember to call out loud, for the
first sentry is a little deaf, and a very passionate, ill-tempered
fellow to boot.”
“Never fear,” said Father Mooney, laughing; “I’ll go bail he’ll hear
me.”
“Well—the word for the night is—‘Bloody end to the Pope,’—don’t forget,
now, ‘Bloody end to the Pope,’” and with these words he banged the door
between him and the unfortunate priests; and, as bolt was fastened
after bolt, they heard him laughing to himself like a fiend over his
vengeance.
“And big bad luck to ye, Major Jones, for the same, every day ye see a
paving stone,” was the faint sub-audible ejaculation of Father Luke,
when he was recovered enough to speak.
“Sacristi! Que nous sommes attrappes,” said the Abbé, scarcely able to
avoid laughing at the situation in which they were placed.
“Well, there’s the quarter chiming now; we’ve no time to lose—Major
Jones! Major, darling! Don’t now, ah, don’t! sure ye know we’ll be
ruined entirely—there now, just change it, like a dacent fellow—the
devil’s luck to him, he’s gone. Well, we can’t stay here in the rain
all night, and be expelled in the morning afterwards—so come along.”
They jogged on for a few minutes in silence, till they came to that
part of the “Duke’s” demesne wall, where the first sentry was
stationed. By this time the officers, headed by the major, had quietly
slipped out of the gate, and were following their steps at a convenient
distance.
The fathers had stopped to consult together, what they should do in
this trying emergency—when their whisper being overheard, the sentinel
called out gruffly, in the genuine dialect of his country, “who goes
that?”
“Father Luke Mooney, and the Abbé D’Array,” said the former, in his
most bland and insinuating tone of voice, a quality he most eminently
possessed.
“Stand and give the countersign.”
“We are coming from the mess, and going home to the college,” said
Father Mooney, evading the question, and gradually advancing as he
spoke.
“Stand, or I’ll shot ye,” said the North Corkian.
Father Luke halted, while a muttered “Blessed Virgin” announced his
state of fear and trepidation.
“D’Array, I say, what are we to do.”
“The countersign,” said the sentry, whose figure they could perceive in
the dim distance of about thirty yards.
“Sure ye’ll let us pass, my good lad, and ye’ll have a friend in Father
Luke the longest day ye live, and ye might have a worse in time of
need; ye understand.”
Whether he did understand or not, he certainly did not heed, for his
only reply was the short click of his gun-lock, that bespeaks a
preparation to fire.
“There’s no help now,” said Father Luke; “I see he’s a haythen; and bad
luck to the major, I say again;” and this in the fulness of his heart
he uttered aloud.
“That’s not the countersign,” said the inexorable sentry, striking the
butt end of the musket on the ground with a crash that smote terror
into the hearts of the priests.
Mumble—mumble—“to the Pope,” said Father Luke, pronouncing the last
words distinctly, after the approved practice of a Dublin watchman, on
being awoke from his dreams of row and riot by the last toll of the
Post-office, and not knowing whether it has struck “twelve” or “three,”
sings out the word “o’clock,” in a long sonorous drawl, that wakes
every sleeping citizen, and yet tells nothing how “time speeds on his
flight.”
“Louder,” said the sentry, in a voice of impatience.
——“to the Pope.”
“I don’t hear the first part.”
“Oh then,” said the priest, with a sigh that might have melted the
heart of anything but a sentry, “Bloody end to the Pope; and may the
saints in heaven forgive me for saying it.”
“Again,” called out the soldier; “and no muttering.”
“Bloody end to the Pope,” cried Father Luke in bitter desperation.
“Bloody end to the Pope,” echoed the Abbé.
“Pass bloody end to the Pope, and good night,” said the sentry,
resuming his rounds, while a loud and uproarious peal of laughter
behind, told the unlucky priests they were overheard by others, and
that the story would be over the whole town in the morning.
Whether it was that the penance for their heresy took long in
accomplishing, or that they never could summon courage sufficient to
face their persecutor, certain it is, the North Cork saw them no more,
nor were they ever observed to pass the precincts of the college, while
that regiment occupied Maynooth.
Major Jones himself, and his confederates, could not have more heartily
relished this story, than did the party to whom the doctor heartily
related it. Much, if not all the amusement it afforded, however,
resulted from his inimitable mode of telling, and the power of mimicry,
with which he conveyed the dialogue with the sentry: and this, alas,
must be lost to my readers, at least to that portion of them not
fortunate enough to possess Doctor Finucane’s acquaintance.
“Fin! Fin! your long story has nearly famished me,” said the padre, as
the laugh subsided; “and there you sit now with the jug at your elbow
this half-hour; I never thought you would forget our old friend Martin
Hanegan’s aunt.”
“Here’s to her health,” said Fin; “and your reverence will get us the
chant.”
“Agreed,” said Father Malachi, finishing a bumper, and after giving a
few preparatory hems, he sang the following “singularly wild and
beautiful poem,” as some one calls Christabel:—
“Here’s a health to Martin Hanegan’s aunt,
And I’ll tell ye the reason why!
She eats bekase she is hungry,
And drinks bekase she is dry.
“And if ever a man,
Stopped the course of a can,
Martin Hanegan’s aunt would cry—
‘Arrah, fill up your glass,
And let the jug pass;
How d’ye know but what your neighbour’s dhry?’”
“Come, my lord and gentlemen, da capo, if ye please—Fill up your
glass,” and the chanson was chorussed with a strength and vigour that
would have astonished the Philharmonic.
The mirth and fun now grew “fast and furious;” and Father Malachi,
rising with the occasion, flung his reckless drollery and fun on every
side, sparing none, from his cousin to the coadjutor. It was not that
peculiar period in the evening’s enjoyment, when an expert and
practical chairman gives up all interference or management, and leaves
every thing to take its course; this then was the happy moment selected
by Father Malachi to propose the little “conthribution.” He brought a
plate from a side table, and placing it before him, addressed the
company in a very brief but sensible speech, detailing the object of
the institution he was advocating, and concluding with the following
words:—“and now ye’ll just give whatever ye like, according to your
means in life, and what ye can spare.”
The admonition, like the “morale” of an income tax, having the
immediate effect of pitting each man against his neighbour, and
suggesting to their already excited spirits all the ardour of gambling,
without, however, a prospect of gain. The plate was first handed to me
in honour of my “rank,” and having deposited upon it a handful of small
silver, the priest ran his finger through the coin, and called out:—
“Five pounds! at least; not a farthing less, as I am a sinner. Look,
then,—see now; they tell ye, the gentlemen don’t care for the like of
ye! but see for yourselves. May I trouble y’r lordship to pass the
plate to Mr. Mahony—he’s impatient, I see.”
Mr. Mahony, about whom I perceived very little of the impatience
alluded to, was a grim-looking old Christian, in a rabbit-skin
waistcoat, with long flaps, who fumbled in the recesses of his breeches
pocket for five minutes, and then drew forth three shillings, which he
laid upon the plate, with what I fancied very much resembled a sigh.
“Six and sixpence, is it? or five shillings?—all the same, Mr. Mahony,
and I’ll not forget the thrifle you were speaking about this morning
any way;” and here he leaned over as interceding with me for him, but
in reality to whisper into my ear, “the greatest miser from this to
Castlebar.”
“Who’s that put down the half guinea in goold?” (And this time he spoke
truth.) “Who’s that, I say?”
“Tim Kennedy, your reverence,” said Tim, stroking his hair down with
one hand, and looking proud and modest at the same moment.
“Tim, ye’re a credit to us any day, and I always said so. It’s a gauger
he’d like to be, my lord,” said he, turning to me, in a kind of stage
whisper. I nodded and muttered something, when he thanked me most
profoundly as if his suit had prospered.
“Mickey Oulahan—the lord’s looking at ye, Mickey.” This was said
piannisime across the table, and had the effect of increasing Mr.
Oulahan’s donation from five shillings to seven—the last two being
pitched in very much in the style of a gambler making his final coup,
and crying “va banque.” “The Oulahans were always dacent people—dacent
people, my lord.”
“Be gorra, the Oulahans was niver dacenter nor the Molowneys, any how,”
said a tall athletic young fellow, as he threw down three crown pieces,
with an energy that made every coin leap from the plate.
“They’ll do now,” said Father Brennan; “I’ll leave them to themselves;”
and truly the eagerness to get the plate and put down the subscription,
fully equalled the rapacious anxiety I have witnessed in an old maid at
loo, to get possession of a thirty-shilling pool, be the same more or
less, which lingered on its way to her, in the hands of many a fair
competitor.
“Mr. M’Neesh”—Curzon had hitherto escaped all notice—“Mr. M’Neesh, to
your good health,” cried Father Brennan. “It’s many a secret they’ll be
getting out o’ye down there about the Scotch husbandry.”
Whatever poor Curzon knew of “drills,” certainly did not extend to them
when occupied by turnips. This allusion of the priest’s being caught up
by the party at the foot of the table, they commenced a series of
inquiries into different Scotch plans of tillage—his brief and
unsatisfactory answers to which, they felt sure, were given in order to
evade imparting information. By degrees, as they continued to press him
with questions, his replies grew more short, and a general feeling of
dislike on both sides was not very long in following.
The father saw this, and determining with his usual tact to repress it,
called on the adjutant for a song. Now, whether he had but one in the
world, or whether he took this mode of retaliating for the annoyances
he had suffered, I know not; but true it is, he finished his tumbler at
a draught, and with a voice of no very peculiar sweetness, though
abundantly loud, began “The Boyne Water.”
He had just reached the word “battle,” in the second line upon which he
was bestowing what he meant to be a shake, when, as if the word
suggested it, it seemed the signal for a general engagement. Decanters,
glasses, jugs, candlesticks,—aye, and the money-dish, flew right and
left—all originally intended, it is true, for the head of the luckless
adjutant, but as they now and then missed their aim, and came in
contact with the “wrong man,” invariably provoked retaliation, and in a
very few minutes the battle became general.
What may have been the doctor’s political sentiments on this occasion,
I cannot even guess; but he seemed bent upon performing the part of a
“convivial Lord Stanley,” and maintaining a dignified neutrality. With
this apparent object, he mounted upon the table, to raise himself, I
suppose, above the din and commotion of party clamour, and brandishing
a jug of scalding water, bestowed it with perfect impartiality on the
combatants on either side. This Whig plan of conciliation, however well
intended, seemed not to prosper with either party; and many were the
missiles directed at the ill-starred doctor. Meanwhile Father Malachi,
whether following the pacific instinct of his order, in seeking an
asylum in troublesome times, or equally moved by old habit to gather
coin in low places, (much of the money having fallen,) was
industriously endeavouring to insert himself beneath the table; in
this, with one vigorous push, he at last succeeded, but in so doing
lifted it from its legs, and thus destroying poor “Fin’s” gravity,
precipitated him, jug and all, into the thickest part of the fray,
where he met with that kind reception such a benefactor ever receives
at the hands of a grateful public. I meanwhile hurried to rescue poor
Curzon, who, having fallen to the ground, was getting a cast of his
features taken in pewter, for such seemed the operation a stout farmer
was performing on the adjutant’s face with a quart. With considerable
difficulty, notwithstanding my supposed “lordship,” I succeeded in
freeing him from his present position; and he concluding, probably,
that enough had been done for one “sitting,” most willingly permitted
me to lead him from the room. I was soon joined by the doctor, who
assisted me in getting my poor friend to bed; which being done, he most
eagerly entreated me to join the company. This, however, I firmly but
mildly declined, very much to his surprise; for as he remarked—“They’ll
all be like lambs now, for they don’t believe there’s a whole bone in
his body.”
Expressing my deep sense of the Christian-like forbearance of the
party, I pleaded fatigue, and bidding him good night, adjourned to my
bed-room; and here, although the arrangements fell somewhat short of
the luxurious ones appertaining to my late apartment at Callonby, they
were most grateful at the moment; and having “addressed myself to
slumber,” fell fast asleep, and only awoke late on the following
morning to wonder where I was: from any doubts as to which I was
speedily relieved by the entrance of the priest’s bare-footed
“colleen,” to deposit on my table a bottle of soda water, and announce
breakfast, with his reverence’s compliments.
Having made a hasty toilet, I proceeded to the parlour, which, however
late events might have impressed upon my memory, I could scarcely
recognise. Instead of the long oak table and the wassail bowl, there
stood near the fire a small round table, covered with a snow—white
cloth, upon which shone in unrivalled brightness a very handsome tea
equipage—the hissing kettle on one hob was vis a vis’d by a gridiron
with three newly taken trout, frying under the reverential care of
Father Malachi himself—a heap of eggs ranged like shot in an ordnance
yard, stood in the middle of the table, while a formidable pile of
buttered toast browned before the grate—the morning papers were airing
upon the hearth—every thing bespoke that attention to comfort and
enjoyment one likes to discover in the house where chance may have
domesticated him for a day or two.
“Good morning, Mr. Lorrequer. I trust you have rested well,” said
Father Malachi as I entered.
“Never better; but where are our friends?”
“I have been visiting and comforting them in their affliction, and I
may with truth assert it is not often my fortune to have three as
sickly looking guests. That was a most unlucky affair last night, and I
must apologise.”
“Don’t say a word, I entreat; I saw how it all occurred, and am quite
sure if it had not been for poor Curzon’s ill-timed melody—”
“You are quite right,” said the father interrupting me. “Your friend’s
taste for music—bad luck to it—was the ‘teterrima causa belli.’”
“And the subscription,” said I; “how did it succeed?”
“Oh, the money went in the commotion; and although I have got some
seven pounds odd shillings of it, the war was a most expensive one to
me. I caught old Mahony very busy under the table during the fray; but
let us say no more about it now—draw over your chair. Tea or coffee?
there’s the rum if you like it ‘chasse.’”
I immediately obeyed the injunction, and commenced a vigorous assault
upon the trout, caught, as he informed me, “within twenty perches of
the house.”
“Your poor friend’s nose is scarcely regimental,” said he, “this
morning; and as for Fin, he was never remarkable for beauty, so, though
they might cut and hack, they could scarcely disfigure him, as Juvenal
says—isn’t it Juvenal?
“‘Vacuus viator cantabit ante Latronem;’
“or in the vernacular:
“‘The empty traveller may whistle
Before the robber and his pistil’ (pistol).”
“There’s the Chili vinegar—another morsel of the trout?”
“I thank you; what excellent coffee, Father Malachi!”
“A secret I learned at St. Omer’s some thirty years since. Any letters,
Bridget?”—to a damsel that entered with a pacquet in her hand.
“A gossoon from Kilrush, y’r reverence, with a bit of a note for the
gentleman there.”
“For me!—ah, true enough. Harry Lorrequer, Esq. Kilrush—try
Carrigaholt.” So ran the superscription—the first part being in a
lady’s handwriting; the latter very like the “rustic paling” of the
worthy Mrs. Healy’s style. The seal was a large one, bearing a coronet
at top, and the motto in old Norman-French, told me it came from
Callonby.
With what a trembling hand and beating heart I broke it open, and yet
feared to read it—so much of my destiny might be in that simple page.
For once in my life my sanguine spirit failed me; my mind could take in
but one casualty, that Lady Jane had divulged to her family the nature
of my attentions, and that in the letter before me lay a cold mandate
of dismissal from her presence for ever.
At last I summoned courage to read it; but having scrupled to present
to my readers the Reverend Father Brennan at the tail of a chapter, let
me not be less punctilious in the introduction of her ladyship’s
billet.