One day about the middle of November, in the year 18--, Dominick M'Evoy
and his son Jemmy were digging potatoes on the side of a hard, barren
hill, called Esker Dhu. The day was bitter and wintry, the men
were thinly clad, and as the keen blast swept across the hill with
considerable violence, the sleet-like rain which it bore along pelted
into their garments with pitiless severity. The father had advanced
into more than middle age; and having held, at a rack-rent the miserable
waste of farm which he occupied, he was compelled to exert himself
in its cultivation, despite either obduracy of soil, or inclemency of
weather. This day, however, was so unusually severe, that the old man
began to feel incapable of continuing his toil. The son bore it better;
but whenever a cold rush of stormy rain came over them, both were
compelled to stand with their sides against it, and their heads turned,
so as that the ear almost rested back upon the shoulder in order to
throw the rain off their faces. Of each, however, that cheek which was
exposed to the rain and storm was beaten into a red hue; whilst the
other part of their faces was both pale and hunger-pinched.
The father paused to take breath, and, supported by his spade, looked
down upon the sheltered inland which, inhabited chiefly by Prostestants
and Presbyterians, lay rich and warm-looking under him.
“Why, thin,” he exclaimed to the son--a lad about fifteen,--“sure I know
well I oughtn't to curse yez, anyway, you black set! an yit, the Lord
forgive me my sins, I'm almost timpted to give yez a volley, an' that
from my heart out! Look at thim, Jimmy agra--only look at the black
thieves! how warm an' wealthy they sit there in our ould possessions,
an' here we must toil till our fingers are worn to the stumps, upon this
thievin' bent. The curse of Cromwell on it!--You might as well ax the
divil for a blessin', as expect anything like a dacent crop out of
it.--Look at thim two ridges!--such a poor sthring o' praties is in
it!--one here an' one there--an' yit we must turn up the whole ridge for
that same! Well, God sind the time soon, when the right will take place,
Jimmy agra!”
“An' doesn't Pasthorini say it? Sure whin Twenty-five comes, we'll have
our own agin: the right will overcome the might--the bottomless pit will
be locked--ay, double: boulted, if St. Pettier gets the kays, for he's
the very boy that will accommodate the heretics wid a warm corner; an'
yit, faith, there's: many o' thim that myself 'ud put in a good word
for, affcher all.”
“Throth, an' here's the same, Jimmy. There's Jack Stuart, an' if there's
a cool corner in hell, the same Jack will get it--an' that he may, I
pray Gor this day, an' amin. The Lord sind it to him! for he richly
desarves it. Kind, neighborly, and frindly, is he an' all belongin' to
him; an' I wouldn't be where a hard word 'ud be spoken of him, nor a dog
in connection wid the family ill-treated; for which reason may he get a
cool corner in hell, I humbly sufflicate.”
“What do you think of Jack Taylor? Will he be cosey?”
“Throth, I doubt so--a blessed youth is Jack: yit myself 'ud hardly wish
it. He's a heerum-skeemm, divil-may-care fellow, no doubt of it, an'
laughs at the priests, which same I'm thinkin' will get him below
stairs more nor a new-milk heat, any way; but thin agin, he thrates thim
dacent, an' gives thim good dinners, an' they take all this rolliken
in good part, so that it's likely he's not in airnest in it, and surely
they ought to know best, Jimmy.”
“What do you think of Yallow Sam?--honest Sam, that they say was born
widout a heart, an' carries the black wool in his ears, to keep out
the cries of the widows an' the orphans, that are long rotten in their
graves through his dark villany!--He'll get a snug birth!”*
* This was actually said of the person alluded to--a
celebrated usurer and agent to two or three estates,
who was a little deaf, and had his ears occasionally
stuffed with black wool.
“Yallow Sam,” replied the old man, slowly, and a dark shade of intense
hatred blackened his weather-beaten countenance, as he looked in the
direction from which the storm blew: “'twas he left us where we're
standin', Jimmy--undher this blast, that's cowldher an' bittherer nor a
step-mother's breath, this cuttin' day! 'Twas he turned us on the wide
world, whin your poor mother was risin' out of her faver. 'Twas he
squenched the hearth, whin she wasn't able to lave the house, till I
carried her in my arms into Paddy Cassidy's--the tears fallin' from my
eyes upon her face, that I loved next to God. Didn't he give our farm to
his bastard son, a purple Orangeman? Out we went, to the winds an' skies
of heaven, bekase the rich bodagh made intherest aginst us. I tould him
whin he chated me out o' my fifteen goolden guineas, that his masther,
the landlord, should hear of it; but I could never get next or near to
him, to make my complaint. Eh? A snug birth! I'm only afeard that hell
has no corner hot enough for him--but lave that to the divil himself:
if he doesn't give him the best thratement hell can afford, why I'm not
here.”
“Divil a one o' the ould boy's so bad as they say, father; he gives it
to thim hot an' heavy, at all evints.”
“Why even if he was at a loss about Sam, depind upon it, he'd get a hint
from his betthers above, that 'ud be sarviceable.”
“They say he visits him as it is, an' that Sam can't sleep widout some
one in the room wid him. Dan Philips says the priest was there, an'
had a Mass in every room in the house; but Charley Mack tells me there's
no! thruth in it. He was advised to it, he says; but it seems the ould
boy has too strong ahoult of him, for Sam said he'd have the divil any
time sooner nor the priest, and its likest what he would say.”
“Och, och, Jimmy, avick, I'm tir'd out! We had betther give in; the
day's too hard, an' there's no use in standin' agin the weather that's
in it. Lave the ould villain to God, who he can't chate, any way.”
“Well, may our curse go along wid the rest upon him, for dhrivin' us to
sich an unnatural spot as this! Hot an' heavy, into the sowl an'
marrow of him may it penethrate. An' sure that's no more than all the
counthry's wishin' him, whether or not--not to mintion the curses that's
risin' out o' the grave agin him, loud an' piercin'!”
“God knows it's not slavin' yourself on sich a day as this you'd be,
only for him. Had we kep our farm, you'd be now well an in your larnin'
for a priest--an' there 'ud be one o' the family sure to be a gintleman,
anyhow; but that's gone too, agra. Look at the smoke, how comfortable
it rises from Jack Sullivan's, where the priest has a Station to-day.
'Tisn't fishin' for a sthray pratie he is, upon a ridge like this. But
it can't be helped; an' God's will be done! Not himself!--faix, it's
he that'll get the height of good thratement, an' can ride home, well
lined, both inside an' outside. Much good may it do him!--'tis but his
right.”
The lad now paused in his turn, looked down on Jack Sullivan's
comfortable house, sheltered by a clump of trees, and certainly saw
such a smoke tossed up from the chimney, as gave unequivocal evidence of
preparation for a good dinner. He next looked “behind the wind,” with
a visage made more blank and meagre by the contrast; after which he
reflected for a few minutes, as if working up his mind to some sudden
determination. The deliberation, however, was short; he struck his open
hand upon the head of the spade with much animation, and instantly took
it in both hands, exclaiming:
“Here, father, here goes; to the divil once an' for ever I pitch
slavery,” and as he spoke, the spade was sent as far from him as he had
strength to throw it. “To the divil I pitch slavery! An' now, father,
wid the help o' God, this is the last day's work I'll ever put my hand
to. There's no way of larnin' Latin here; but off to Munster I'll start,
an' my face you'll never see in this parish, till I come home either a
priest an a gintleman! But that's not all, father dear; I'll rise you
out of your distress, or die in the struggle. I can't bear to see your
gray hairs in sorrow and poverty.”
“Well, Jimmy--well, agra--God enable you, avourneen; 'tis a good
intintion. The divil a one o' me will turn another spadeful aither, for
this day: I'm _dhrookin'_ (* dripping) wid the rain. We'll go home an'
take an air o' the fire we want it; and aftherwards we can talk about
what you're _on_ (* determined) for.”
It is usual to attribute to the English and Scotch character,
exclusively, a cool and persevering energy in the pursuit of such
objects as inclination or interest may propose for attainment; whilst
Irishmen are considered too much the creatures of impulse to reach
a point that requires coolness, condensation of thought, and efforts
successively repeated. This is a mistake. It is the opinion of
Englishmen and Scotchmen who know not the Irish character thoroughly.
The fact is, that in the attainment of an object, where a sad-faced
Englishman would despair, an Irishman will, probably, laugh, drink,
weep, and fight, during his progress to accomplish it. A Scotchman will
miss it, perhaps, but, having done all that could be done, he will
try another speculation. The Irishman may miss it too; but to console
himself he will break the head of any man who may have impeded him in
his efforts, as a proof that he ought to have succeeded; or if he cannot
manage that point, he will crack the pate of the first man he meets, or
he will get drunk, or he will marry a wife, or swear a gauger never
to show his face in that quarter again; or he will exclaim, if it be
concerning a farm, with a countenance full of simplicity--“God bless
your honor, long life and honor to you, sir! Sure an' 'twas but a
thrifle, anyhow, that your Reverence will make up for me another time.
An' 'tis well I know your Lordship 'ud be the last man on airth to give
me the cowld shoulder, so you would, an' I an ould residenthur on your
own father's estate, the Lord be praised for that same! An' 'tis
a happiness, an' nothjn' else, so it is, even if I payed double
rint--wherein, maybe, I'm not a day's journey from that same, manin'
the double rint, your honor; only that one would do a great deal for
the honor an' glory of livin' undher a raal gintleman--an' that's but
rason.”
There is, in short, a far-sightedness in an Irishman which is not
properly understood, because it is difficult to understand it. I do
not think there is a nation on earth, whose inhabitants mix up their
interest and their feelings together more happily, shrewdly, and yet
less ostensibly, than Irishmen contrive to do. An Irishman will make you
laugh at his joke, while the object of that joke is wrapped up from
you in the profoundest mystery, and you will consequently make the
concession to a certain point of his character, which has been really
obtained by a faculty you had not penetration to discover, or, rather,
which he had too much sagacity to exhibit. Of course, as soon as your
back is turned, the broad grin is on him, and one of his cheeks is stuck
out two inches beyond the other, because his tongue is in it at your
stupidity, simplicity, or folly. Of all the national characters on this
habitable globe, I verily believe that that of the Irish is the most
profound and unfathomable; and the most difficult on which to form a
system, either social, moral, or religious.
It would be difficult, for example, to produce a more signal instance of
energy, system, and perseverance than that exhibited in Ireland during
the struggle for Emancipation. Was there not flattery to the dust?
blarney to the eyes? heads broken? throats cut? houses burned? and
cattle houghed? And why? Was it for the mere pleasure of blarney--of
breaking heads (I won't dispute the last point, though, because I
scorn to give up the glory of the national character),--of cutting
throats--burning houses--or houghing cattle? No; but to secure
Emancipation. In attaining that object was exemplified that Irish method
of gaining a point.
“Yes,” said Jemmy, “to the divil I pitch slavery! I will come home able
to rise yez from your poverty, or never show my face in the parish of
Ballysogarth agin.”
When the lad's determination was mentioned to his mother and the family,
there was a loud and serious outcry against it: for no circumstance is
relished that ever takes away a member from an Irish hearth, no matter
what the nature of that circumstance may be.
“Och, thin, is it for that _bocaun_ (* soft, innocent person) of a boy
to set off wid himself, runnin' through the wide world afther larnin',
widout money or friends! Avourneen, put it out of yer head. No; struggle
on as the rest of us is doin', an' maybe yell come as well off at the
long run.”
“Mother, dear,” said the son, “I wouldn't wish to go agin what you'd
say; but I made a promise to myself to 'rise yez out of your poverty if
I can, an' my mind's made up on it; so don't cross me, or be the manes
of my havin' bad luck on my journey, in regard of me goin' aginst yer
will, when you know 'twould be the last thing I wish to do.”
“Let the gossoon take his way, Vara. Who knows but it was the Almighty
put the thoughts of it into his head. Pasthorini says that there
will soon be a change, an' 'tis a good skame it 'ill be to have him
a _sogarth_ when the fat living will be walkin' back to their ould
owners.”
“Oh, an' may the Man above grant _that_, I pray Jamini this day! for are
not we harrished out of our lives, scrapin' an' scramblin' for the black
thieves, what we ought to put on our backs, an' into our own mouths.
Well, they say it's not lucky to take money from a priest, because
it's the price o' sin, an' no more it can, seein' that they want it
themselves; but I'm sure it's _their_ (* The Protestant clergy) money
that ought to carry the bad luck to them, in regard of their gettin' so
many bitter curses along wid it.”
When a lad from the humblest classes resolves to go to Munster as a poor
scholar, there is but one course to be pursued in preparing his outfit.
This is by a collection at the chapel among the parishioners, to whom
the matter is made known by the priest, from the altar some Sunday
previous to his departure. Accordingly, when the family had all given
their consent to Jemmy's project, his father went, on the following day,
to communicate the matter to the priest, and to solicit his co-operation
in making a collection in behalf of the lad, on the next Sunday but one:
for there is always a week's notice given, and sometimes more, that the
people come prepared.
The conversation already detailed between father and son took place
on Friday, and on Saturday, a day on which the priest never holds a
Station, and, of course, is generally at home, Dominick M'Evoy went to
his house with the object already specified in view. The priest was
at home; a truly benevolent man, but like the worthies of his day, not
over-burdened with learning, though brimful of kindness and hospitality
mixed up with drollery and simple cunning.
“Good morning, Dominick!” said the priest, as Dominick entered.
“Good morrow, kindly, Sir,” replied Dominick: “I hope your Reverence is
well, and in good health.”
“Troth I am, Dominick! I hope there's nothing wrong at home; how is the
wife and children?”
“I humbly, thank your Reverence for axin'! Troth there's no rason for
complainin' in regard o' the health; sarra one o' them but's bravely,
consitherin' all things: I believe I'm the worst o' them, myself, yer
Reverence.. I'm gettin' ould, you see, an' stiff', an' wake; but that's
only in the coorse o' nathur; a man can't last always. Wait till them
that's young an' hearty now, harrows as much as I ploughed in my day,
an' they won't have much to brag of. Why, thin, but yer Reverence stands
it bravely--faix, wondherfully itself--the Lord be praised! an' it warms
my own heart to see you look so well.”
“Thank you, Dominick. Indeed, my health, God be thanked, is very good.
Ellish,” he added, calling to an old female servant--“you'll take a
glass, Dominick, the day is cowldish--Ellish, here take the kay, and
get some spirits--the poteen, Ellish--to the right hand in the cupboard.
Indeed, my health is very good, Dominick. Father Murray says he invies
me my appetite, an' I tell him he's guilty of one of the Seven deadly
sins.”
“Ha, ha, ha!--Faix, an' Invy is one o' them sure enough; but a joke is
a joke in the mane time. A pleasant gintleman is the same Father Murray,
but yer Reverence is too deep for him in the jokin' line, for all that.
Ethen, Sir, but it's you that gave ould Cokely the keen cut about his
religion--ha, ha, ha! Myself laughed till I was sick for two days afther
it--the ould thief!”
“Eh?--Did you hear that, Dominick? Are you sure that's the poteen,
Ellish? Ay, an' the best of it all was, that his pathrun, Lord
Foxhunter, was present. Come, Dominick, try that--it never seen wather.
But the best of it all was--”
--“'Well, Father Kavanagh,' said he, 'who put you into the church?
Now,' said he, 'you'll come over me wid your regular succession from St.
Peter, but I won't allow that.'
“'Why, Mr. Cokely,' says I, back to him, 'I'll giye up the succession;'
says I, 'and what is more, I'll grant that you have been called by the
Lord, and that I have not; but the Lord that called you,' says I, 'was
Lord Foxhunter.' Man, you'd tie his Lordship wid a cobweb, he laughed so
heartily.
“'Bravo, Father Kavanagh,' said he. 'Cokely, you're bale,' said he; 'and
upon my honor you must both dine with me to-day, says he--and capital
claret he keeps.”
“Your health, Father Kavanagh, an' God spare you to us! Hah! wather! Oh,
the divil a taste itself did the same stuff see! Why, thin, I think your
Reverence an' me's about an age. I bleeve. I'm a thrifle oulder; but I
don't bear it so well as you do. The family, you see, an' the childhre,
an' the cares o' the world, pull me down: throth, the same family's a
throuble to me. I wish I had them all settled safe, any way.”
“What do you intind to do with them, Dominick?”
“In throth, that's what brought me to yer Reverence. I've one
boy--Jimmy--a smart chap entirely, an' he has taken it into his head to
go as a poor scholar to Munster. He's fond o' the larnin', there's not
a doubt o' that, an' small blame to him to be sure; but then again, what
can I do? He's bint on goin', an' I'm not able to help him, poor fellow,
in any shape; so I made bould to see yer Reverence about it, in hopes
that you might be able to plan out something for him more betther nor
I could do. I have the good wishes of the neighbors, and indeed of the
whole parish, let the thing go as it may.”
“I know that, Dominick, and for the same rason well have a collection at
the three althars. I'll mintion it to them after Mass to-morrow, and let
them be prepared for Sunday week, when we can make the collection. Hut,
man, never fear; we'll get as much as will send him half-way to the
priesthood; and I'll tell you what, Dominick, I'll never be the man to
refuse giving him a couple of guineas myself.”
“May the heavenly Father bless an' keep your Reverence. I'm sure 'tis
a good right the boy has, as well as all of us, to never forget your
kindness. But as to the money--he'll be proud of your assistance
the other way, sir,--so not a penny--'tis only your good-will we
want--hem--except indeed, that you'd wish yourself to make a piece of
kindness of it to the poor boy. Oh, not a drop more, sir,--I declare
it'll be apt to get into my head. Well, well--sure an' we're not to
disobey our clargy, whether or not: so here's your health over agin,
your Reverence! an' success to the poor child that's bint on good!”
“Two guineas his Reverence is to give you from himself, Jimmy,” said the
father, on relating the success of this interview with the priest; “an'
faix I was widin one of refusin' it, for feard it might bring something
unlucky* wid it; but, thought I, on the spur, it's best to take it,
any way. We can asily put it off on some o' these black-mouthed
Presbyterians or Orangemen, by way of changin' it, an' if there's
any hard fortune in it, let them have the full benefit of it, _ershi
misha_.” ( ** Say I.)
* There is a superstitious belief in some parts of
Ireland, that priests' money is unlucky; “because,” say
the people, “it is the price of sin”--alluding to
absolution.
It is by trifles of this nature that the unreasonable though enduring
hatred with which the religious sects of Ireland look upon those of a
different creed is best known. This feeling, however, is sufficiently
mutual. Yet on both sides there is something more speculative than
practical in its nature. When they speak of each other as a distinct
class, the animosity, though abstracted, appears to be most deep; but
when they mingle in the necessary intercourse of life, it is curious
to see them frequently descend, on both sides, from the general rule to
those exceptions of good-will and kindness, which natural benevolence
and mutual obligation, together with a correct knowledge of each other's
real characters, frequently produce. Even this abstracted hatred,
however, has been the curse of our unhappy country; it has kept us too
much asunder, or when we met exhibited us to each other in our darkest
and most offensive aspects.
Dominick's conduct in the matter of the priest's money was also a happy
illustration of that mixture of simplicity and shrewdness with which
an Irishman can frequently make points meet, which superstition, alone,
without such ingenuity, would keep separate for ever. Many another
man might have refused the money from an ignorant dread of its proving
unlucky; but his mode of reasoning on the subject was satisfactory
to himself, and certainly the most ingenious which, according to his
belief, he could have adopted--that of foisting it upon a heretic.
The eloquence of a country priest, though rude, and by no means
elevated, is sometimes well adapted to the end in view, to the feelings
of his auditory, and to the nature of the subject on which he speaks.
Pathos and humor are the two levers by which the Irish character is
raised or depressed; and these are blended, in a manner too anomalous to
be ever properly described. Whoever could be present at a sermon on
the Sunday when a Purgatorian Society is to be established, would hear
pathos and see grief of the first water. It is then he would get
a “nate” and glowing description of Purgatory, and see the broad,
humorous, Milesian faces, of three or four thousand persons, of both
sexes, shaped into an expression of the most grotesque and clamorous
grief. The priest, however, on particular occasions of this nature, very
shrewdly gives notice of the sermon, and of the purpose for which it is
to be preached:--if it be grave, the people are prepared to cry; but
if it be for a political, or any other purpose not decidedly religious,
there will be abundance of that rough, blunt satire and mirth, so keenly
relished by the peasantry, illustrated, too, by the most comical and
ridiculous allusions. That priest, indeed, who is the best master
of this latter faculty, is uniformly the greatest favorite. It is no
unfrequent thing to see the majority of an Irish congregation drowned
in sorrow and tears, even when they are utterly ignorant of the language
spoken; particularly in those districts where the Irish is still the
vernacular tongue. This is what renders notice of the sermon and its
purport necessary; otherwise the honest people might be seriously at a
loss whether to laugh or cry.
“_Elliih avourneen, gho dhe dirsha?_”--“Ellish, my dear, what is he
saying?”
“_Och, musha niel eshighum, ahagur--ta sha er Purgathor, ta
barlhum_.”--“Och, I dunna that, jewel; I believe he's on Purgatory.”
“_Och, och, oh--och, och, oh--oh, i, oh, i, oh!_”
And on understanding that Purgatory is the subject, they commence their
grief with a rocking motion, wringing their hands, and unconsciously
passing their beads through their fingers, whilst their bodies are bent
forward towards the earth.
On the contrary, when the priest gets jocular--which I should have
premised, he never does in what is announced as a solemn sermon--you
might observe several faces charged with mirth and laughter, turned,
even while beaming with this expression, to those who kneel beside them,
inquiring:
“Arrah, Barny, what is it--ha, ha, ha!--what is it he's sayin'? The Lord
spare him among us, anyhow, the darlin' of a man! Eh, Barny, you that's
in the inside the English?” This, of course is spoken in Irish.
Barny, however, is generally too much absorbed in the fun to become
interpreter just then; but as soon as the joke is nearly heard out, in
compliance with the importunity of his neighbors, he gives them a brief
hint or two, and instantly the full chorus is rung out, long, loud, and
jocular.
On the Sunday in question, as the subject could not be called strictly
religious, the priest, who knew that a joke or two would bring in many
an additional crown to Jemmy's _caubeen_,* was determined that they,
should at least have a laugh for their money. The man, besides, was
benevolent, and knew the way to the Irish heart; a knowledge which he
felt happy in turning to the benefit of the lad in question.
* Such collections were generally made in hats--the
usual name for an Irish peasant's hat being--_caubeen_.
With this object in view, he addressed the people somewhat in the
following language: “'_Blessed is he that giveth his money to him that
standeth in need of it._'”
“These words, my brethren, are taken from St. Paul, who, among
ourselves, knew the value of a friend in distress as well as any other
apostle in the three kingdoms--hem. It's a nate text, my friends,
anyhow. He manes, however, when we have it to give, my own true,
well-tried, ould friends!--when we have it to give. It's absence althers
the case, in toto; because you have all heard the proverb--'there is no
takin' money out of an empty purse:' or, as an ould ancient author said
long ago upon the same subject:
'Cantabit whaekuus coram lathrone whiathur!'
--(Dshk, dshk, dshk*--that's the larnin'!)--He that carries an empty
purse may fwhistle at the thief. It's _sing_ in the Latin; but sing or
fwhistle, in my opinion, he that goes wid an empty purse seldom sings
or fwhistl'es to a pleasant tune. Melancholy music I'd call it, an'
wouldn't, may be, be much asthray al'ther--Hem. At all evints, may none
of this present congregation, whin at their devotions, ever sing or
fwhistle to the same time! No; let it be to 'money in both pockets,'
if you sing at all; and as long as you have that, never fear but you'll
also have the 'priest in his boots' into the bargain--(“Ha, ha,
ha!--God bless him, isn't he the pleasant gentleman, all out--ha, ha,
ha!--moreover, an' by the same a token, it's thrue as Gospel, so it
is,”)--for well I know you're the high-spirited people, who wouldn't see
your priest without them, while a fat parson, with half-a-dozen chins
upon him, red and rosy, goes about every day in the week bogged in
boots, like a horse-trooper!--(“Ha, ha, ha!--good, Father Dan! More
power to you--ha, ha, ha! We're the boys that wouldn't see you in want
o' them, sure enough. Isn't he the droll crathur?”)
* This sound, which expresses wonder, is produced by
striking the tip of the tongue against the palate.
“But suppose a man hasn't money, what is he to do? Now this divides
itself into what is called Hydrostatics an' Metaphuysics, and must be
proved logically in the following manner:
“First, we suppose him not to have the money--there I may be wrong or I
may be right; now for the illustration and the logic.
“Pether Donovan.”
“Here, your Reverence.”
“Now, Pether, if I suppose you to have no money, am I right, or am I
wrong?”
“Why, thin, I'd be sarry to prove your Reverence to be wrong, so I
would; but, for all that, I believe I must give it aginst you.”
“How much have you got, Pether?”
“Ethen, but 'tis your Reverence that's comin' close upon me; two or
three small note an' some silver.”
“How much silver, Pether?”
“I'll tell your Reverence in a jiffy--I ought to have a ten shillin',
barring the price of a quarther o' tobaccy that I bought at the
crass-roads boyant. Nine shillins an' somo hapuns, yer Reverence.”
“Very good, Pether, you must hand me the silver, till I give the rest of
the illustration wid it.”
“But does your Reverence mind another ould proverb?--'a fool an' his
money's asy parted.' Sure an' I know you're goin' to do a joke upon me.”
(“Give him the money, Pether,” from a hundred voices--“give his
Reverence the money, you nager you--give him the silver, you dirty
spalpeen you--hand it out, you misert.”)
“Pether, if you don't give it dacently, I'll not take it; and in that
case--”
“Here, here, your Reverence--here it is; sure I wouldn't have your
ill-will for all I'm worth.”
“Why, you nager, if I wasn't the first orathor livin', barrin' Cicero or
Demosthenes himself, I couldn't schrew a penny out o' you! Now, Pether,
there's a specimen of logic for you; an' if it wasn't good, depind upon
it the money would be in your pocket still. I've never known you to give
a penny for any charitable purpose, since ever I saw your face: but I'm
doin' a good action in your behalf for once; so if you have any movin'
words to say to the money in question, say them, for you'll never finger
it more.”
A burst of the most uproarious mirth followed this manoeuvre, in which
the simple priest himself joined heartily; whilst the melancholy
of Peter's face was ludicrously contrasted with the glee which
characterized those who surrounded him.
“Hem!--Secondly--A man, you see, may have money, or he may not, when his
follow creature who stands in need of it makes an appale to his dacency
and his feelings; and sorry I'd be to think that there's a man before
me, or a woman either, who'd refuse to assist the distresses of any
one, of any creed, church, or persuasion, whether white, black, or
yallow--no; I don't except even the blue-bellies themselves. It's what I
never taught you, nor never will tache you to the day of my death! To be
sure, a fellow-creature may say, 'Help me, my brother, I am distressed,'
or, 'I am bent on a good purpose, that your kindness can enable me to
accomplish.' But suppose that you have not the money about you at the
time, wouldn't you feel sorry to the back-bone? Ay, would yez--to the
very core of the heart itself. Or if any man--an' he'd be' nothing else
than a bodagh that would say it--if any man would tell me that you would
not, I'd--yes--I'd give him his answer, as good as I gave to ould Cokely
long ago, and you all know what that was.
“The next point is, what would you do if you hadn't it about you?
It's that can tell you what you'd do:--you'd say, 'I haven't got it,
brother,'--for ev'ry created bein' of the human kind is your brother,
barrin' the women, an' they are your sisters--[this produced a grin upon
many faces]--'but,' says you, 'if you wait a bit for a day or two, or a
week, or maybe for a fortnight, I'll try what I can do to help you.'
“Picture to yourselves a fellow-creature in distress--suppose him
to have neither hat, shoe, nor stocking--[this was a touch of the
pathetic]--and altogether in a state of utter destitution! Can there be
a more melancholy picture than this? No, there can't. But 'tisn't
the tithe of it!--a barefaced robbery is the same tithe--think of him
without father, mother, or friend upon the earth--both dead, and ne'er
another to be had for love or money--maybe he has poor health--maybe
he's sick, an' in a sthrange country--[here Jemmy's mother and friends
sobbed aloud, and the contagion began to spread]--the priest, in fact,
knew where to touch--his face is pale--his eyes sunk with sickness and
sorrow in his head--his bones are cuttin' the skin--he knows not where
to turn himself--hunger and sickness are strivin' for him.--[Here the
grief became loud and general, and even the good-natured preacher's own
voice got somewhat unsteady.]--He's in a bad state entirely--miserable!
more miserable!! most miserable!!! [och, och, oh!] sick, sore, and
sorry!--he's to be pitied, felt for, and compassionated!--[a general
outcry!]--'tis a faver he has, or an ague, maybe, or a rheumatism, or an
embargo (* lumbago, we presume) on the limbs, or the king's evil, or
a consumption, or a decline, or God knows but it's the falling
sickness--[ooh, och, oh!--och, och, oh!] from the whole congregation,
whilst the simple old man's eyes were blinded with tears at the force of
the picture he drew.--[Ay, maybe it's the falling-sickness, and in that
case how on earth can he stand it.--He can't, he can't, wurra strew,
wurra strew!--och, och, oh!--ogh, ogh, ogh!]--The Lord in heaven look
down upon him--[amin, amin, this blessed an' holy Sunday that's in
it!--och, oh!]--pity him--[amin, amin!--och, och, an amin!]--with
miseracordial feeling and benediction! He hasn't a rap in his
company!--moneyless, friendless, houseless, an' homeless! Ay, my
friends, you all have homes--but he has none! Thrust back by every
hard-hearted spalpeen, and he, maybe, a better father's son than the
Turk that refuses him! Look at your own childre, my friends! Bring the
case home to yourselves! Suppose he was one of them--alone on the earth,
and none to pity him in his sorrows! Your own childre, I say, in a
strange land.--[Here the outcry became astounding; men, women, and
children in one general uproar of grief.]--An'--this may all be Jemmy
M'Evoy's case, that's going in a week or two to Munster, as a poor
scholar--may be his case, I say, except you befriend him, and show your
dacency and your feelings, like Christians and Catholics; and for either
dacency or kindness, I'd turn yez against any other congregation in the
diocess, or in the kingdom--ay, or against Dublin, itself, if it was
convanient, or in the neighborhood.”
Now here was a coup de main--not a syllable mentioned about Jemmy
M'Evoy, until he had melted them down, ready for the impression, which
he accordingly made to his heart's content.
“Ay,” he went on, “an' 'tis the parish of Ballysogarth that has the
name, far and near, for both, and well they desarve it. You won't see
the poor gossoon go to a sthrange country--with empty pockets. He's the
son of an honest man--one of yourselves; and although he's a poor man,
you know 'twas Yallow Sam that made him so--that put him out of his
comfortable farm and slipped a black-mouth * into it. You won't turn
your backs on the son in regard of that, any way. As for Sam, let him
pass; he'll not grind the poor, nor truckle to the rich, when he gives
up his stewardship in the kingdom come. Lave him to the friend of the
poor--to his God; but the son of them that he oppressed, you will stand
up for. He's going to Munster, to learn 'to go upon the Mission:' and,
on Sunday next, there will be a collection made here, and at the other
two althars for him; and, as your own characters are at stake, I trust
it will be neither mane nor shabby. There will be Protestants here, I'll
engage, and you must act dacently before them, if it was only to set
them a good example. And now I'll tell yez a story that the mintion of
the Protestants brings to my mind:--
* In the North of Ireland the word black-mouth means a
Presbyterian.
“There was, you see, a Protestant man and a Catholic woman once married
together. The man was a swearing, drinking, wicked rascal, and his wife
the same: between them they were a blessed pair to be sure. She never
bent her knee under a priest until she was on her death-bed; nor was he
known ever to enter a church door, or to give a shilling in charity
but once, that being--as follows:--He was passing a Catholic place of
worship one Sunday, on his way to fowl--for he had his dog and gun with
him;--'twas beside a road, and many of the congregration were kneeling
out across the way. Just as he passed they were making a collection
for a poor scholar--and surely they that love the larning desarve to be
encouraged! Well, behold you, says one of them, 'will you remember the
poor scholar,' says he, 'and put something in the hat? You don't know,'
says he, 'but his prayers will be before you.' (* In the other world.)
'True enough, maybe,' says the man, 'and there's a crown to him, for
God's sake.' Well and good; the man died, and so did the wife; but the
very day before her departure, she got a scapular, and died in it. She
had one sister, however, a good crature, that did nothing but fast and
pray, and make her sowl. This woman had strong doubts upon her mind, and
was very much troubled as to whether or not her sister went to heaven;
and she begged it as a favor from the blessed Virgin, that the state of
her sister's sowl might be revaled to her. Her prayer was granted.
One night, about a week after her death, her sister came back to her,
dressed, all in white, and circled round by a veil of glory.
“'Is that Mary?' said the living sister.
“'It is,' said the other; 'I have got liberty to appear to you,' says
she, 'and to tell you that I'm happy.'
“'May the holy Virgin be praised!' said the other. 'Mary, dear, you have
taken a great weight off of me,' says she: 'I thought you'd have a bad
chance, in regard of the life you led.'
“'When I died,' said the spirit, 'and was on my way to the other world,
I came to a place where the road divided itself into three parts;--one
to heaven, another to hell, and a third to purgatory. There was a dark
gulf between me and heaven, and a breach between me and purgatory that
I couldn't step across, and if I had missed my foot there, I would have
dropped into hell. So I would, too, only that the blessed Virgin put my
own scapular over the breach, and it became firm, and I stepped on it,
and got over. The Virgin then desired me to look into hell, and the
first person I saw was my own husband, standing with a green sod under
his feet! 'He got that favor,' said the blessed Virgin, 'in consequence
of the prayers of a holy priest, that had once been a poor scholar, that
he gave assistance to, at a collection made for him in such a chapel,'
says she, 'Then,' continued the sowl, 'Mary,' says she, 'but there's
some great change in the world since I died, or why would the people
live so long? It can't be less than six thousand years since I departed,
and yet I find every one of my friends just as I left them.'
“'Why,' replied the living sister, 'you're only six days dead.'
“'Ah, avourneen!' said the other, 'it can't be--it can't be! for I have
been thousands on thousands of years in pain!'--and as she spoke this
she disappeared.
“Now there's a proof of the pains of purgatory, where one day seems as
long as a thousand years; and you know we oughtn't to grudge a thrifle
to a fellow-crature, that we may avoid it. So you see, my friends,
there's nothing like good works. You know not when or where this lad's
prayers may benefit you. If he gets ordained, the first mass he says
will be for his benefactors; and in every one he celebrates after that,
they must also be remembered: the words are _pro omnibus benefactoribus
meis, per omnia secula secularum!_
“Thirdly--hem--I now lave the thing to yourselves.
“But wasn't I match for Pettier Donovan, that would brake a stone for
the marrow *--Eh?--(a broad laugh at Pother's rueful visage.)--Pettier,
you Turk, will your heart never soften--will you never have dacency, an'
you the only man of your family that's so? Sure they say you're going to
be marrid some of these days. Well, if you get your wife in my parish, I
tell you, Pettier, I'll give you a fleecin', for don't think I'll marry
you as chape as I would a poor honest man. I'll make you shell out the
yallowboys, and 'tis that will go to your heart, you nager you; and then
I'll eat you out of house and home at the Stations. May the Lord grant
us, in the mane time, a dacent appetite, a blessing which I wish you
all,------&c.”
* I know not whether this may be considered worthy of a
note or not. I have myself frequently seen and tasted
what is appropriately termed by the peasantry “Stone
Marrow.” It is found in the heart of a kind of soft
granite, or perhaps I should rather say freestone. The
country people use it medicinally, but I cannot
remember what particular disease it is said to cure. It
is a soft, saponaceous substance, not unpleasant to the
taste, of a bluish color, and melts in the mouth, like
the fat of cold meat, leaving the palate greasy. How
far an investigation into its nature and properties
might be useful to the geologist or physician, it is
not for me to conjecture. As the fact appeared to be a
curious one, and necessary, moreover, to illustrate the
expression used in the text, I thought it not amiss to
mention it. It may be a _bonne bouche_ for the
geologists.
At this moment the congregation was once more in convulsions of laughter
at the dressing which Peter, whose character was drawn with much truth
and humor, received at the hands of the worthy pastor.
Our readers will perceive that there was not a single prejudice, or
weakness, or virtue, in the disposition of his auditory, left untouched
in this address. He moved their superstition, their pride of character,
their dread of hell and purgatory, their detestation of Yellow Sam, and
the remembrance of the injury so wantonly inflicted on M'Evoy's family;
he glanced at the advantage to be derived from the lad's prayers, the
example they should set to Protestants, made a passing hit at tithes;
and indulged in the humorous, the pathetic, and the miraculous. In
short, he left no avenue to their hearts untouched; and in the process
by which he attempted to accomplish his object he was successful.
There is, in fact, much rude, unpolished eloquence among the Roman
Catholic priesthood, and not a little which, if duly cultivated by study
and a more liberal education, would deserve to be ranked very high.
We do not give this as a specimen of their modern pulpit eloquence,
but as a sample of that in which some of those Irish clergy shone,
who, before the establishment of Maynooth, were admitted to orders
immediately from the hedge-schools, in consequence of the dearth of
priests which then existed in Ireland. It was customary in those days to
ordain them even before they departed for the continental colleges, in
order that they might, by saying masses and performing other clerical
duties, be enabled to add something to the scanty pittance which was
appropriated to their support. Of the class to which Father Kavanagh
belonged, there are few, if any, remaining. They sometimes were called
“Hedge-priests,” * byway of reproach; though for our own parts, we wish
their non-interference in politics, unaffected piety, and simplicity of
character, had remained behind them.
* This nickname was first bestowed upon them by the
continental priests, who generally ridiculed them for
their vulgarity. They were, for the most! part, simple
but worthy men.
On the Sunday following, Dominick M'Evoy and his son Jemmy attended
mass, whilst the other members of the family, with that sense of
honest pride which is more strongly inherent in Irish character than is
generally supposed, remained at home, from a reluctance to witness what
they could not but consider a degradation. This decency of feeling was
anticipated by the priest, and not overlooked by the people; for the
former, the reader may have observed, in the whole course of his address
never once mentioned the word “charity;” nor did the latter permit the
circumstance to go without its reward, according to the best of their
ability. So keen and delicate are the perceptions of the Irish, and
so acutely alive are they to those nice distinctions of kindness and
courtesy, which have in their hearts a spontaneous and sturdy growth,
that mocks at the stunted virtues of artificial life.
In the parish of Ballysogarth there were three altars, or places of
Roman Catholic worship; and the reader may suppose that the collection
made at each place was considerable. In truth, both father and son's
anticipations were far under the sum collected. Protestants and
Presbyterians attended with their contributions, and those of the
latter who scrupled to be present at what they considered an idolatrous
worship, did not hesitate to send their quota by some Roman Catholic
neighbor.
Their names were accordingly announced with an encomium from the priest,
which never failed to excite a warm-hearted murmur of approbation.
Nor was this feeling transient, for, we will venture to say, that had
political excitement flamed up even to rebellion and mutual slaughter,
the persons and property of those individuals would have been held
sacred.
At length Jemmy was equipped; and sad and heavy became the hearts of
his parents and immediate relations as the morning appointed for his
departure drew nigh. On the evening before, several of his more distant
relatives came to take their farewell of him, and, in compliance with
the usages of Irish hospitality, they were detained for the night. They
did not, however, come empty-handed: some brought money; some brought
linen, stockings, or small presents--“jist, Jimmy, asthore, to keep me
in yer memory, sure,--and nothin' else it is for, mavourneen.”
Except Jemmy himself, and one of his brothers who was to accompany him
part of the way, none of the family slept. The mother exhibited deep
sorrow, and Dominick, although he made a show of firmness, felt, now
that the crisis was at hand, nearly incapable of parting with the
boy. The conversation of their friends and the cheering effects of the
poteen, enabled them to sustain his loss better than they otherwise
would have done, and the hope of seeing him one day “an ordained
priest,” contributed more than either to support them.
When the night was nearly half spent, the mother took a candle and
privately withdrew to the room in which the boy slept. The youth was
fair, and interesting to look upon--the clustering locks of his white
forehead were divided; yet there was on his otherwise open brow, a shade
of sorrow, produced by the coming separation, which even sleep could not
efface. The mother held the candle gently towards his face, shading
it with one hand, lest the light might suddenly awake him; she then
surveyed his features long and affectionately, whilst the tears fell in
showers from her cheeks.
“There you lie,” she softly sobbed out, in Irish, “the sweet pulse of
your mother's heart; the flower of our flock, the pride of our eyes, and
the music of our hearth! Jimmy, avourneen machree, an' how can I part
wid you, my darlin' son! Sure, when I look at your mild face, and think
that you're takin' the world on your head to rise us out of our poverty,
isn't my heart breakin'! A lonely house we'll have afther you, acushla!
Goin' out and comin' in, at home or abroad, your voice won't be in my
ears, nor your eye smilin' upon me. An' thin to think of what you may
suffer in a sthrange land! If your head aches, on what tendher breast
will it lie? or who will bind the ribbon of comfort * round it? or wipe
your fair, mild brow in sickness? Oh, Blessed Mother!--hunger, sickness,
and sorrow may come upon you when you'll be far from your own, an' from
them that loves you!”
* The following quotation, taken from a sketch called
“The Irish Midwife,” by the author, gives an
illustration of this passage:--“The first, meaning
pain in the head, she cures by a very formal and
serious process called 'measuring the head.' This is
done by a ribbon, which she puts round the cranium,
repeating during the admeasurement a certain prayer or
charm from which the operation is to derive its whole
efficacy. The measuring is performed twice--in the
first instance, to show that its sutures are separated
by disease, or to speak more plainly, that the bones
of the head are absolutely opened, and that as a
natural consequence the head must be much larger than
when the patient is in a state of health. The
circumference of the first admeasurement is marked upon
a ribbon, after which she repeats the charm that is to
remove the headache, and measures the cranium again, in
order to show, by a comparison of the two ribbons,
that the sutures have been closed, the charm successful,
and the headache immediately removed. It is
impossible to say how the discrepancy in the
measurement is brought about; but be that as it may,
the writer of this has frequently seen the operation
performed in such a way as to defy the most
scrutinizing eye to detect any appearance of imposture,
and he is convinced that in the majority of cases there
is not the slightest imposture intended. The operator
is in truth a dupe to a strong and delusive
enthusiasm.”
This melancholy picture was too much for the tenderness of the mother;
she sat down beside the bed, rested her face on her open hand, and wept
in subdued but bitter grief. At this moment his father, who probably
suspected the cause of her absence, came in and perceived her distress.
“Vara,” said he, in Irish also, “is my darlin' son asleep?”
She looked up, with streaming eyes, as he spoke, and replied to him in a
manner so exquisitely affecting, when the circumstances of the boy, and
the tender allusion made by the sorrowing mother, are considered--that
in point of fact no heart--certainly no Irish heart--could withstand
it. There is an old Irish melody unsurpassed in pathos, simplicity,
and beauty--named in Irish “_Tha ma mackulla's na foscal me,_”---or
in English, “I am asleep, and don't waken me.” The position of the boy
caused the recollection of the old melody to flash into the mother's
heart,--she simply pointed to him as the words streamed in a low
melodious murmur, but one full of heartrending sorrow, from her lips.
The old sacred association--for it was one which she had sung for him
a thousand times,--until warned to desist by his tears--deepened the
tenderness of her heart, and she said with difficulty, whilst she
involuntarily held over the candle to gratify the father's heart by a
sight of him. “I was keepin' him before my eye,” she said; “God knows
but it may be the last night we'll ever see him undher our own roof!
Dominick, achora, I doubt I can't part wid him from my heart.”
“Then how can I, Vara?” he replied. “Wasn't he my right hand in
everything? When was he from me, ever since he took a man's work upon
him? And when he'd finish his own task for the day, how kindly he'd
begin an' help me wid mine! No, Vara, it goes to my heart to let him go
away upon sich a plan, and I wish he hadn't taken the notion into his
head at all.”
“It's not too late, maybe,” replied his mother: “I think it wouldn't
be hard to put him off of it; the crathur's own heart is failin' him to
lave us. He has sorrow upon his face where he lies.”
The father looked at the expression of affectionate melancholy which
shaded hia features as he slept; and the perception of the boy's
internal struggle against his own domestic attachments in accomplishing
hia first determination, powerfully touched his heart.
“Vara,” said he, “I know the boy--he won't give it up; and 'twould be a
pity--maybe a sin--to put him from it. Let the child get fair play, and
thry his coorse. If, he fails, he can come back to us, an' our arms an'
hearts will be open to welcome him! But, if God prospers him, wouldn't
it be a blessin' that we never expected, to see him in the white robes,
celebratin' one mass for his parents. If these ould eyes could see that,
I would be continted to close them in pace an' happiness for ever.”
“An' well you'd become them, _avourneen machree!_ Well would your mild
and handsome countenance look wid the long heavenly stole of innocence
upon you! and although it's atin' into my heart, I'll bear it for the
sake of seein' the same blessed sight. Look at that face, Dominick;
mightn't many a lord of the land be proud to have sich a son? May the
heavens shower down its blessin' upon him!”
The father burst into tears. “It is--it is!” said he. “It is the face
that 'ud make many a noble heart proud to look at it! Is it any wondher
it 'ud cut our hearts, thin, to have it taken from afore our eyes? Come
away, Vara, come away, or I'll not be able to part wid it. It is the
lovely face--an' kind is the heart of my darlin' child!” As he spoke,
he stooped down and kissed the youth's cheek, on which the warm tears
of affection fell, soft as the dew from heaven. The mother followed his
example, and they both left the room.
“We must bear it,” said Dominick, as they passed into another apartment;
“the money's gathered, an' it wouldn't look well to be goin' back wid it
to them that befrinded us. We'd have the blush upon our face for it, an'
the child no advantage.”
“Thrue for you, Dominick; and we must make up our minds to live widout
him for a while.”
The following morning was dark and cloudy, but calm and without rain.
When the family were all assembled, every member of it evinced traces
of deep feeling, and every eye was fixed upon the serene but melancholy
countenance of the boy with tenderness and sorrow. He himself maintained
a quiet equanimity, which, though apparently liable to be broken by
the struggles of domestic affection, and in character with his meek and
unassuming disposition, yet was supported by more firmness than might be
expected from a mind in which kindness and sensibility were so strongly
predominant. At this time, however, his character was not developed,
or at least not understood, by those that surrounded him. To strong
feelings and enduring affections he added a keenness of perception and
a bitterness of invective, of which, in his conversation with his father
concerning Yellow Sam, the reader has already had sufficient proofs. At
breakfast little or nothing was eaten; the boy himself could not taste
a morsel, nor any other person in the family. When the form of the meal
was over, the father knelt down--“It's right,” said he, “that we should
all go to our knees, and join in a Rosary in behalf of the child that's
goin' on a good intintion. He won't thrive the worse bekase the last
words that he'll hear from his father and mother's lips is a prayer for
bringin the blessin' of God down upon his endayvors.”
This was accordingly performed, though not without tears and sobs, and
frequent demonstrations of grief; for religion among the peasantry is
often associated with bursts of deep and powerful feeling.
When the prayer was over, the boy rose and calmly strapped to his back
a satchel covered with deer-skin, containing a few books, linen, and a
change of very plain apparel. While engaged in this, the uproar of grief
in the house was perfectly heart-rending. When just ready to set out, he
reverently took off his hat, knelt down, and, with tears streaming from
his eyes, craved humbly and meekly the blessing and forgiveness of his
father and mother. The mother caught him in her arms, kissed his lips,
and, kneeling also, sobbed out a fervent benediction upon his head;
the father now, in the grief of a strong man, pressed him to his heart,
until the big burning tears fell upon the boy's face; his brothers
and sisters embraced him wildly; next his more distant relations; and
lastly, the neighbors who were crowded about the door. After this he
took a light staff in his hand, and, first blessing himself after the
form of his church, proceeded to a strange land in quest of education.
He had not gone more than a few perches from the door, when his mother
followed him with a small bottle of holy water. “Jimmy, _a lanna
voght_,” (* my poor child) said she, “here's this, an' carry it about
you--it will keep evil from you; an' be sure to take good care of the
written correckther you got from the priest an' Square Benson; an',
darlin', don't be lookin' too often at the cuff o' your coat, for feard
the people might get a notion that you have the bank-notes sewed in it.
An', Jimmy agra, don't be too lavish upon their Munster crame; they say
it's apt to give people the ague. Kiss me agin, agra; an' the heavens
above keep you safe and well till we see you once more!”
She then tenderly, and still with melancholy pride, settled his shirt
collar, which she thought did not set well about his neck, and kissing
him again, with renewed sorrow left him to pursue his journey.
M'Evoy's house was situated on the side of a dark hill--one of that
barren description which can be called neither inland nor mountain. It
commanded a wide and extended prospect, and the road along which the lad
travelled was visible for a considerable distance from it. On a small
hillock before the door sat Dominek and his wife, who, as long as their
son was visible, kept their eyes, which were nearly blinded with tears,
rivetted upon his person. It was now they gave full vent to their grief,
and discussed with painful and melancholy satisfaction all the excellent
qualities which he possessed. As James himself advanced, one neighbor
after another fell away from the train which accompanied him, not,
however, until they had affectionately embraced and bid him adieu, and
perhaps slipped, with peculiar delicacy, an additional mite into
his waistcoat pocket. After the neighbors, then followed the gradual
separation from his friends--one by one left him, as in the great
journey of life, and in a few hours he found himself accompanied only by
his favorite brother.
This to him was the greatest trial he had yet felt; long and
heartrending was their embrace. Jemmy soothed and comforted his beloved
brother, but in vain. The lad threw himself on the spot at which they
parted, and remained there until Jemmy turned an angle of the road which
brought him out of his sight, when the poor boy kissed the marks of his
brother's feet repeatedly, and then returned home, hoarse and broken
down with the violence of his grief.
He was now alone, and for the first time felt keenly the strange object
on which he was bent, together with all the difficulties connected with
its attainment. He was young and uneducated, and many years, he knew,
must elapse e'er he could find himself in possession of his wishes. But
time would pass at home, as well as abroad, he thought; and as there lay
no impediment of peculiar difficulty in his way, he collected all his
firmness and proceeded.
There is no country on the earth in which either education, or the
desire to procure it, is so much reverenced as in Ireland. Next to the
claims of the priest and schoolmaster come those of the poor scholar for
the respect of the people. It matters not how poor or how miserable
he may be; so long as they see him struggling with poverty in the
prosecution of a purpose so laudable, they will treat him with
attention and kindness. Here there is no danger of his being sent to the
workhouse, committed as a vagrant, or passed from parish to parish until
he reaches his own settlement. Here the humble lad is not met by the
sneer of purse-proud insolence, or his simple tale answered only in the
frown of heartless contempt. No--no--no. The best bit and sup are placed
before him; and whilst his poor, but warm-hearted, entertainer can
afford only potatoes and salt to his own half-starved family, he will
make a struggle to procure something better for the poor scholar;
'_Becase he's far from his own, the craihur!_ An' sure the intuition in
him is good, anyhow; the Lord prosper him, an' every one that has the
heart set upon the larnin'!'
As Jemmy proceeded, he found that his satchel of books and apparel gave
as clear an intimation of his purpose, as if he had carried a label to
that effect upon his back.
“God save you, a bouchal!” said a warm, honest-looking countryman, whom
he met driving home his cows in the evening, within a few miles of the
town in which he purposed to sleep.
“God save you kindly!”
“Why, thin, 'tis a long journey you have before you, alanna, for I know
well it's for Munster you're bound.”
“Thrue for you; 'tis there, wid the help of God, I'm goin'. A great
scarcity of larnin' was in my own place, or I wouldn't have to go at
all,” said the boy, whilst his eyes filled with, tears.
“'Tis no discredit in life,” replied the countryman, with untaught
natural delicacy, for he perceived that a sense of pride lingered about
the boy which made the character of poor scholar sit painfully upon him;
“'tis no discredit, dear, nor don't be cast down. I'll warrant you that
God will prosper you; an' that He may, avick, I pray this day!” and as
he spoke, he raised his hat in reverence to the Being whom he invoked.
“An' tell me, dear--where do you intend to sleep to-night?”
“In the town forrid here,” replied Jemmy. “I'm in hopes I'll be able to
reach it before dark.”
“Pooh! asy you will. Have you any friends or acquaintances there that
'ud welcome you, _a bouchal dhas_ (my handsome boy)?”
“No, indeed,” said Jemmy, “they're all strangers to me; but I can stop
in 'dhry lodgin',' for it's chaper.”
“Well, alanna, I believe you; but _I'm no stranger to you_--so come home
wid me to-night; where you'll get a good bed, and betther thratement nor
in any of their dhry lodgins. Give me your books, and I'll carry them
for you. Ethen, but you have a great batch o' them entirely. Can you
make any hand o' the Latin at all yet?”
“No, indeed,” replied Jemmy, somewhat sorrowfully; “I didn't ever open a
Latin book, at all at all.”
“Well, acushla, everything has a beginnin';--you won't be so. An' I know
by your face that you'll be bright at it, an' a credit to them owes (*
owns) you. There's my house in the fields beyant, where you'll be well
kept for one night, any way, or for twinty, or for ten times twinty, if
you wanted them.”
The honest farmer then commenced the song of _Colleen dhas Crotha na
Mho_ (* The pretty girl milking her cow), which he sang in a clear
mellow voice, until they reached the house.
“Alley,” said the man to his wife, on entering, “here's a stranger I've
brought you.”
“Well,” replied Alley, “he's welcome sure, any way; _Cead millia, failta
ghud_, alanna! sit over to the fire. Brian, get up, dear,” said she to
one of the children, “an' let the stranger to the hob.”
“He's goin' on a good errand, the Lord bless him!” said the husband, “up
the country for the larnin'. Put thim books over on the settle; an' whin
the, _girshas_ are done milkin', give him a brave dhrink of the sweet
milk; it's the stuff to thravel on.”
“Troth, an' I will, wid a heart an' a half, wishin' it was betther I had
to give him. Here, Nelly, put down a pot o' wather, an' lave soap an'
a _praskeen_, afore you go to milk, till I bathe the dacent boy's feet.
Sore an' tired they are afther his journey, poor young crathur.”
When Jemmy placed himself upon the hob, he saw that some peculiarly
good fortune had conducted him to so comfortable a resting-place. Ho
considered this as a good omen; and felt, in fact, much relieved, for
the sense of loneliness among strangers was removed.
The house evidently belonged to a wealthy farmer, well to do in
the world; the chimney was studded with sides upon sides of yellow
smoke-dried bacon, hams, and hung beef in abundance. The kitchen tables
were large, and white as milk; and the dresser rich in its shining array
of delf and pewter. Everything, in fact, was upon a large scale. Huge
meal chests were ranged on one side, and two or three settle beds on
the other, conspicuous, as I have said, for their uncommon cleanliness;
whilst hung from the ceiling were the _glaiks_, a machine for churning;
and beside the dresser stood an immense churn, certainly too unwieldy to
be managed except by machinery. The farmer was a ruddy-faced Milesian,
who wore a drab frieze coat, with a velvet collar, buff waistcoat,
corduroy small-clothes, and top-boots* well greased from the tops
down. He was not only an agriculturist, but a grazier--remarkable for
shrewdness and good sense, generally attended fairs and markets, and
brought three or four large droves of fat cattle to England every year.
From his fob hung the brass chain and almost rusty key of a watch, which
he kept certainly more for use than ornament.
* This in almost every instance, is the dress of
wealthy Irish farmer.
“A little sup o' this,” said he, “won't take your life,” approaching
Jemmy with a bottle of as good poteen as ever escaped the eye of an
exciseman; “it'll refresh you--for you're tired, or I wouldn't offer
it, by rason that one bint on what you're bint on, oughtn't to be makin'
freedoms wid the same dhrink. But there's a time for everything, an'
there's a time for this.--Thank you, agra,” he added, in reply to Jemmy,
who had drunk his health. “Now, don't be frettin'--but make yourself as
aisy as if you were at your own father's hearth. You'll have everything
to your heart's contint for this night; the carts are goin' in to the
market to-morrow airly--you can sit upon them, an' maybe you'll get
somethin' more nor you expect: sure the Lord has given it to me, an' why
wouldn't I share it wid them that wants it more nor I do?”
The lad's heart yearned to the generous farmer, for he felt that his
kindness had the stamp of truth and sincerity upon it. He could only
raise his eyes in a silent prayer, that none belonging to him might ever
be compelled, as strangers and way-farers, to commit themselves, as he
did, to the casualties of life, in pursuit of those attainments which
poverty cannot otherwise command. Fervent, indeed, was his prayer; and
certain we are, that because it was sincere, it must have been heard.
In the meantime, the good woman, or _vanithee_, had got the pot of water
warmed, in which Jemmy was made to put his feet. She then stripped up
her arms to the elbows, and, with soap and seedy meal, affectionately
bathed his legs and feet: then, taking the _praskeen_, or coarse towel,
she wiped them with a kindness which thrilled to his heart.
“And now,” said she, “I must give you a cure for blisthers, an' it's
this:--In the mornin', if we're all spared, as we will, plase the
Almighty, I'll give you a needle and some white woollen thread, well
soaped. When your blisthers gets up, dhraw the soapy thread through
them, clip it on each side, an', my life for yours, they won't throuble
you. Sure I thried it the year I went on my Station to Lough Derg, an' I
know it to be the rale cure.”
“Here, Nelly,” said the farmer,--who sat iwith a placid benevolent face,
smoking his pipe on the opposite hob--to one of the maids who came in
from milking,--“bring up a noggin of that milk, we want it here: let it
be none of your washy _foremilk_, but the _strippins_, Nelly, that has
the strinth in it. Up wid it here, a colleen.”
“The never a one o' the man but's doatin' downright, so he is,” observed
the wife, “to go to fill the tired child's stomach wid plash. Can't you
wait till he ates a thrifle o' some-thin' stout, to keep life in him,
afther his hard journey? Does your feet feel themselves cool an' asy
now, ahagur?”
“Indeed,” said Jemmy, “I'm almost as fresh as when I set out. 'Twas
little thought I had, when I came away this mornin', that I'd meet wid
so much friendship on my journey. I hope it's a sign that God's on my
side in my undertakin'!”
“I hope so, avourneen--I hope so, an' it is, too,” replied the farmer,
taking the pipe out of his mouth, and mildly whiffing away the smoke,
“an' God'll be always on your side, as long as your intentions are good.
Now ate somethin'--you must want it by this; an' thin, when you rest
yourself bravely, take a tass into a good feather-bed, where you can
_sleep rings round you_. (* As much as you please.) Who knows but you'll
be able to say mass for me or some o' my family yit. God grant that, any
way, avick!”
Poor James's heart was too full to eat much; he took, therefore, only
a very slender portion of the refreshments set before him; but his
hospitable entertainer had no notion of permitting him to use the free
exercise of his discretion on this important point. When James put away
the knife and fork, as an indication of his having concluded the meal,
the farmer and his wife turned about, both at the same moment, with a
kind of astonishment.
“Eh? is it giving over that way you are? Why, alanna, it's nothin' at
all you've tuck; sure little Brian there would make a fool of you, so
he would, at the atin'. Come, come, a bouchal--don't be ashamed, or make
any way sthrange at all, but ate hearty.”
“I declare I have ate heartily, thank you,” replied James; “oceans
itself, so I did. I couldn't swally a bit more if the house was full.”
“Arrah, Brian,” said the wife, “cut him up more o' that hung beef, it's
ashamed the crathur is! Take it, avick; don't we know the journey you
had! Faix, if one o' the boys was out on a day's thravellin', you'd see
how he'd handle himself.”
“Indeed,” said James, “I can't--if I could I would. Sure I would be no
way backward at all, so I wouldn't.”
“Throth, an' you can an' must,” said the farmer: “the never a rise
you'll rise, till you finish that”--putting over a complement out of all
reasonable proportion with his age and size.
“There now's a small taste, an' you must finish it. To go to ate nothin'
at all! Hut tut! by the tops o' my boots, you must put that clear an'
clane out o' sight, or I'll go mad an' barn them.”
The lad recommenced, and continued to eat as long as he could possibly
hold out; at length he ceased:--
“I can't go on,” said he; “don't ax me: I can't indeed.”
“Bad manners to the word I'll hear till you finish it; you know it's but
a thrifle to spake of. Thry agin, avick, but take your time; you'll be
able for it.”
The poor lad's heart was engaged on other thoughts and other scenes; his
home, and its beloved inmates--sorrow and the gush of young affections,
were ready to burst forth.
“I cannot ate,” said he, and he looked imploringly on the farmer and his
wife, whilst the tears started to his eyes--“don't ax me, for my heart's
wid them I left behind me, that I may never see agin!” and he wept in a
burst of grief which he could not restrain.
Neither the strength nor tenderness of the lad's affection was
unappreciated by this excellent couple. In a moment the farmer's wife
was also in tears; nor did her husband break the silence for some
minutes.
“The Almighty pity an' strengthen him!” said the farmer's wife, “but
he has the good an' the kind heart, an' would be a credit to any
family.--Whisht, acushla machree--whisht, we won't ax you to ate--no
indeed. It was out o' kindness we did it: don't be cast down aither;
sure it isn't the ocean you're crossin'; but goin' from one county
like to another. God 'll guard an' take care o' you, so he will. Your
intintion's good, an' he'll prosper it.”
“He will, avick,” said the farmer himself--“he will. Cheer up, my good
boy! I know thim that's larned an' creditable clargy this day, that went
as you're goin'--ay, an' that ris an' helped their parents, an' put them
above poverty an' distress; an' never fear, wid a blessin', but you'll
do the same.”
“That's what brings me at all,” replied the boy, drying his tears; “if
I was once able to take them out o' their distresses, I'd be happy: only
I'm afeard the cares o' the world will break my father's heart before I
have it in my power to assist him.”
“No such thing, darlin',” said the good woman. “Sure his hopes out o'
you, an' his love for you will keep him up; an' you dunna but God may
give him a blessin' too, avick.”
“Mix another sup o'that for him,” said the fanner: “he's low spirited,
an' it's too strong to give him any more of it as it is. Childhre,
where's the masther from us--eh? Why, thin, God help them, the
crathurs--wasn't it thoughtful o' them to lave the place while he was at
his dinner, for fraid he'd be dashed--manin' them young crathurs, Alley,
But can you tell us where the 'masther' is? Isn't this his night wid us?
I know he tuck his dinner here.”
“Ay did he; but it's up to Larry Murphy's he's gone, to thry his son
in his book-keepin'. Mavrone, but he had time enough to put him well
through it afore this, any way.”
As she spoke, a short thickset man, with black twinkling eyes and ruddy
cheeks entered. This personage was no other than the schoolmaster of
that district, who circulated, like a newspaper, from one farmer's house
to another, in order to expound for his kind entertainers the news
of the day, his own learning, and the very evident extent of their
ignorance.
The moment he came in, the farmer and his wife rose with an air of much
deference, and placed a chair for him exactly opposite the fire, leaving
a respectful distance on each side, within which no illiterate mortal
durst presume to sit.
“Misther Corcoran,” said the farmer, presenting Jemmy's satchel, through
which the shapes of the books were quite plain, “_thig in thu shinn?_”
(* Do you understand this) and as he spoke he looked significantly at
its owner.
“Ah,” replied the man of letters, “thigum, thigum. (* I understand) God
be wid the day when I carried the likes of it. 'Tis a badge of polite
genius, that no boy need be ashamed of. So my young suckling of
litherature, you're bound for Munster?--for that counthry where the
swallows fly in conic sections--where the magpies and the turkey's
confab in Latin, and the cows and bullocks will roar you Doric
Greek--bo-a-o--clamo. What's your pathronymic? _quo nomine gowdes,
Domine doctissime?_”
The lad was silent; but the farmer's wife turned up the whites of her
eyes with an expression of wonder and surprise at the erudition of the
“masther.”
“I persave you are as yet uninitiated into the elementary principia of
the languages; well--the honor is still before you. What's your name?”
“James M'Evoy, sir.”
Just now the farmer's family began to assemble round the spacious
hearth; the young lads, whose instruction the worthy teacher claimed as
his own peculiar task, came timidly forward, together with two or three
pretty bashful girls with sweet flashing eyes, and countenances full of
feeling and intelligence. Behind on the settles, half-a-dozen servants
of both sexes sat in pairs--each boy placing himself beside his favorite
girl. These appeared to be as strongly interested in the learned
conversation which the master held, as if they were masters and
mistresses of Munster Latin and Doric Greek themselves; but an
occasional thump cautiously bestowed by no slender female hand upon the
sturdy shoulder of her companion, or a dry cough from one of the young
men, fabricated to drown the coming blow, gave slight indications that
they contrived to have a little amusement among themselves, altogether
independent of Mr. Corcoran's erudition.
When the latter came in, Jemmy was taking the tumbler of punch which the
farmer's wife had mixed for him; on this he fixed an expressive glance,
which instantly reverted to the _vanithee_, and from her to the large
bottle which stood in a window to the right of the fire. It is a quick
eye, however, that can anticipate Irish hospitality.
“Alley,” said the farmer, ere the wife had time to comply with the hint
conveyed by the black, twinkling eye of the schoolmaster; “why, Alley”--
“Sure, I am,” she replied, “an' will have it for you in less than no
time.”
She accordingly addressed herself to the bottle, and in a few minutes
handed a reeking jug of punch to the _Farithee_, or good man.
“Come, Masther, by the hand o' my body, I don't like dhry talk so long
as I can get anything to moisten the discoorse. Here's your health,
Masther,” continued the farmer, winking at the rest, “and a speedy
conclusion to what you know! In throth, she's the pick of a good
girl--not to mintion what she has for her portion. I'm a friend to the
same family, an' will put a spoke in your wheel, Masther, that'll sarve
you.”
“Oh, Mr. Lanigan, very well, sir--very well--you're becoming quite
facetious upon me,” said the little man, rather confused; “but upon my
credit and reputation, except the amorous inclination and regard to me
is on her side,” and he looked sheepishly at his hands, “I can't say
that the arrows of Cupid have as yet pinethrated the sintimintal side of
my heart. It is not with me as it was wid Dido--hem--