Non 'haeret lateri lethalis arundo,'

as Virgil says. Yet I can't say, but if a friend were to become

spokesman for me, and insinuate in my behalf a small taste of amorous

sintimintality, why--hem, hem, hem! The company's health! Lad, James

M'Evoy, your health, and success to you, my good boy!--hem, hem!”

“Here's wishin' him the same!” said the farmer.

“James,” said the schoolmaster, “you are goin' to Munsther, an' I can

say that I have travelled it from end to end, not to a bad purpose, I

hope--hem! Well, a bouchal, there are hard days and nights before you,

so keep a firm heart. If you have money, as 'tis likely you have, don't

let a single rap of it into the hands of the schoolmaster, although the

first thing he'll do will be to bring you home to his own house, an'

palaver you night an' day, till he succeeds in persuading you to leave

it in his hands for security. You might, if not duly pre-admonished,

surrender it to his solicitations, for--

'Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit.'

Michael, what case is mortalium?” added he, suddenly addressing one of

the farmer's sons; “come, now, Michael, where's your brightness? What

case is mortalium?”

The boy was taken by surprise, and for a few minutes could not reply.

“Come man,” said the father, “be sharp, spake out bravely, an' don't be

afraid; nor don't be in a hurry aither, we'll wait for you.”

“Let him alone--let him alone,” said Corcoran; “I'll face the same boy

agin the county for cuteness. If he doesn't expound that, I'll never

consthru a line of Latin, or Greek, or Masoretic, while I'm livin'.”

His cunning master knew right well that the boy, who was only confused

at the suddenness of the question, would feel no difficulty in answering

it to his satisfaction. Indeed, it was impossible for him to miss it, as

he was then reading the seventh book of Virgil, and the fourth of Homer.

It is, however, a trick with such masters to put simple questions of

that nature to their pupils, when at the houses of their parents, as

knotty and difficult, and when they are answered, to assume an air of

astonishment at the profound reach of thought displayed by the pupil.

When Michael recovered himself, he instantly replied, “_Mortalium_ is

the genitive case of nemo, by '_Nomina Partiva_.'”

Corcoran laid down the tumbler, which he was in the act of raising to

his lips, and looked at the lad with an air of surprise and delight,

then at the farmer and his wife, alternately, and shook his head with

much mystery. “Michael,” said he to the lad; “will you go out and tell

us what the night's doin'.”

The boy accordingly went out--“Why,” said Corcoran, in his absence, “if

ever there was a phanix, and that boy will be the bird--an Irish phanix

he will be, a

_Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno!_

There's no batin' him at anything he undher-takes. Why, there's thim

that are makin' good bread by their larnin', that couldn't resolve that;

and you all saw how he did it widout the book! Why, if he goes on at

this rate, I'm afraid he'll soon be too many for myself--hem!”

“Too many for yourself! Fill the masther's tumbler, Alley. Too many for

yourself! No, no! I doubt he'll never see that day, bright as he is, an'

cute. That's it--put a hape upon it. Give me your hand, masther. I thank

you for your attention to him, an' the boy is a credit to us. Come over,

Michael, avourneen. Here, take what's in this tumbler, an' finish it.

Be a good boy and mind your lessons, an' do everything the masther

here--the Lord bless him!--bids you; an' you'll never want a frind,

masther, nor a dinner, nor a bed, nor a guinea, while the Lord spares me

aither the one or the other.”

“I know it, Mr. Lanigan, I know it; and I will make that boy the pride

of Ireland, if I'm spared. I'll show him _cramboes_ that would puzzle

the great Scaliger himself; and many other difficulties I'll let him

into, that I have never let out yet, except to Tim Kearney, that bate

them all at Thrinity College in Dublin up, last June.”

“Arrah, how was that, Masther?”

“Tim, you see, went in to his Entrance Examinayshuns, and one of the

Fellows came to examine him, but divil a long it was till Tim sacked

him.

“'Go back agin', says Tim, 'and sind some one that's able to tache me,

for you're not.'

“So another greater scholar agin came to yry Tim, and did thry him, and

Tim made a _hare_ of _him_, before all that was in the place--five or

six thousand ladies and gintlemen, at laste!

“The great learned Fellows thin began to look odd enough; so they picked

out the best scholar among them but one, and slipped him at Tim; but

well becomes Tim, the never a long it was till he had him, too, as dumb

as a post. The fellow went back--

“'Gintlemen,' says he to the rest, 'we'll be disgraced all out,' says

he, 'for except the Prowost sacks that Munsther spalpeen, he'll bate us

all, an' we'll never be able to hould up our heads afther.'

“Accordingly, the Prowost attacks Tim; and such a meetin' as they had,

never was seen in Thrinity College since its establishment. At last when

they had been nine hours and a half at it, the Prowost put one word to

him that Tim couldn't expound, so he lost it by one word only. For

the last two hours the Prowost carried on the examinashun in Hebrew,

thinking, you see, he had Tim there; but he was mistaken, for Tim

answered him in good Munsther Irish, and it so happened that they

understood each other, for the two languages are first cousins, or, at

all evints, close blood relations. Tim was then pronounced to be the

best scholar in Ireland except the Prowost; though among ourselves, they

might have thought of the man that taught him. That, however, wasn't

all. A young lady fell in love wid Tim, and is to make him a present of

herself and her great fortune (three estates) the moment he becomes a

counsellor; and in the meantime she allows him thirty pounds a year to

bear his expenses, and live like a gintleman.

“Now to return to the youth in the corner: _Nemo mortalium omnibus horis

sapit_, Jemmy keep your money, or give it to the priest to keep, and

it will be safest; but by no means let the Hyblean honey of the

schoolmaster's blarney deprive you of it, otherwise it will be a _vale,

vale, longum vale_ between you. _Crede experto!_”

“Masther,” said the farmer, “many a sthrange accident you met wid on yer

thravels through Munsther?”

“No doubt of that, Mr. Lanigan. I and another boy thravelled it in

society together. One day we were walking towards a gintleman's house

on the road side, and it happened that we met the owner of it in the

vicinity, although we didn't know him to be such.

“'_Salvete Domini!_' said he, in good fresh Latin.

“'_Tu sis salvus, quoque!_' said I to him, for my comrade wasn't cute,

an' I was always orathor.

“'_Unde veniti?_' said he, comin' over us wid another deep piece of

larnin' the construction of which was, 'where do yez come from?'

“I replied, '_Per varios casus et tot discrimina rerum, venimus a

Mayo._'

“'Good!' said he, 'you're bright; follow me.'

“So he brought us over to his own house, and ordered us bread and cheese

and a posset; for it was Friday, an' we couldn't touch mate. He, in the

mane time, sat an chatted along wid us. The thievin' cook, however, in

makin' the posset, kept the curds to herself, except a slight taste here

and there, that floated on the top; but she was liberal enough of the

whey, any how.

“Now I had been well trained to fishing in my more youthful days; and no

gorsoon could grope a trout wid me. I accordingly sent the spoon through

the pond before me wid the skill of a connoisseur; but to no purpose--it

came up wid nothin' but the whey.

“So, said I off hand to the gintleman, houlding up the bowl, and looking

at it with a disappointed face,

'Apparent _rari_ nantes in gurgite vasto.'

'This,' says I, 'plase your hospitality, may be Paotolus, but the divil

a taste o' the proper sand is in the bottom of it.'

“The wit of this, you see, pleased him, and we got an excellent treat

in his _studium_, or study: for he was determined to give myself another

trial.

“'What's the wickedest line in Virgil?' said he.

“Now I had Virgil at my fingers' ends, so I answered him:

'Flectere si nequeo superos, Aeheronta movebo,'

“'Very good,' said he, 'you have the genius, and will come to somethin'

yet: now tell me the most moral line in Virgil.'

“I answered:

'Discere justitiam moniti et non temnere divos.' *

* He is evidently drawing the long-bow here; this

anecdote has been told before.

“'Depend upon it,' said he, 'you will be a luminary. The morning star

will be but a farthing candle to you; and if you take in the learning as

you do the cheese, in a short time there won't be a man in Munsther

fit to teach you,' and he laughed, for you see he had a tendency to

jocosity.

“He did not give me up here, however, being determined to go deeper wid

me.

“'Can you translate a newspaper into Latin prose?' said he.

“Now the divil a one o' me was just then sure about the prose, so I was

goin' to tell him; but before I had time to speak, he thrust the paper

into my hand, and desired me to thranslate half-a-dozen barbarous

advertisements.

“The first that met me was about a reward offered for a Newfoundland dog

and a terrier, that had been stolen from a fishing-tackle manufacturer,

and then came a list of his shabby merchandise, ending with a

long-winded encomium upon his gunpowder, shot, and double-barrelled

guns. Now may I be shot with a blank cartridge, if I ever felt so much

at an amplush in my life, and I said so.

“'Your honor has hooked me wid the fishing hooks,' said I; 'but I grant

the cheese was good bait, any how.'

“So he laughed heartily, and bid me go on.

“Well, I thought the first was difficult: but the second was Masoretic

to it--something about drawbacks, excisemen, and a long custom-house

list, that would puzzle Publius Virgilius Maro, if he was set to

translate it. However, I went through wid it as well as I could; where I

couldn't find Latin, I laid in the Greek, and where the Greek failed

me, I gave the Irish, which, to tell the truth, in consequence of its

vernacularity, I found to be the most convanient. Och, och many a larned

scrimmage I have signalized myself in, during my time. Sure my name's

as common as a mail-coach in Thrinity College; and 'tis well known

there isn't a fellow in it but I could sack, except may be, the prowost.

That's their own opinion. 'Corcoran,' says the prowost, 'is the most

larned man in Ireland; an' I'm not ashamed,' says he, 'to acknowledge

that I'd rather decline meeting him upon deep points.' Ginteels, all

your healths--hem! But among ourselves I could bog him in a very short

time; though I'd scorn to deprive the gintleman of his reputaytion or

his place, even if he sent me a challenge of larnin' to-morrow, although

he's too cute to venture on doing that--hem, hem!”

To hear an obscure creature, whose name was but faintly known in the

remote parts even of the parish in which he lived, draw the long-bow

at such a rate, was highly amusing. The credulous character of his

auditory, however, was no slight temptation to him; for he knew that

next to the legends of their saints, or the Gospel itself, his fictions

ranked in authenticity; and he was determined that it should not be his

fault if their opinion of his learning and talents were not raised to

the highest point. The feeling experienced by the poor scholar, when

he awoke the next morning, was one both of satisfaction and sorrow. He

thought once more of his home and kindred, and reflected that it might

be possible he had I seen the last of his beloved relations. His grief,

however, was checked when he remembered the warm and paternal affection

with which he was received on the preceding night by his hospitable

countryman. He offered up his prayers to God; humbly besought his grace

and protection; nor did he forget to implore a blessing upon those who I

had thus soothed his early sorrows, and afforded him, though a stranger

and friendless, I shelter, comfort, and sympathy.

“I hope,” thought he, “that I will meet many such, till I overcome my

difficulties, an' find myself able to assist my poor father an' mother!”

And he did meet many such among the humble, and despised, and neglected

of his countrymen; for--and we say it with pride--the character of this

excellent farmer is thoroughly that of our peasantry within the range of

domestic life.

When he had eaten a comfortable breakfast, and seen his satchel stuffed

with provision for his journey, the farmer brought him up to his own

room, in which were also his wife and children.

“God,” said he, “has been good to me; blessed be his holy name!--betther

it appears in one sinse, than he has been to you, dear, though maybe I

don't desarve it as well. But no matther, acushla; I have it, an' you

want it; so here's a thrifle to help your forrid in your larnin'; an'

all I ax from you is to offer up a bit of a prayer for me, of an odd

time, an' if ever you live to be a priest, to say, if it wouldn't be

throublesome, one Mass for me an' those that you see about me. It's not

much, James agra--only two guineas. They may stand your friend, whin

friends will be scarce wid you; though, I hope, that won't be the case

aither.”

The tears were already streaming down. Jemmy's cheeks. “Oh,” said the

artless boy, “God forever reward you! but sure I have a great dale of

money in the--in the--cuff o' my coat. Indeed I have, an' I won't want

it!”

The farmer, affected by the utter simplicity of the lad, looked at his

wife and smiled, although a tear stood in his eye at the time. She wiped

her eyes with her apron, and backed the kind offer of her husband.

“Take it, asthore,” she added, “in your cuff! Musha, God help you! sure

it's not much you or the likes of you can have in your cuff, avourneen!

Don't be ashamed, but take it; we can well afford it, glory be to God

for it! It's not, agra, bekase you're goin' the way you are--though that

same's an honor to you--but bekase our hearts warmed to you, that we

offered it, an' bekase we would wish you to be thinkin' of us now an'

thin, when you're in a strange part of the country. Let me open your

pocket an' put them into it. That's a good, boy, thank you, an' God

bless an' prosper you! I'm sure you were always biddable.”

“Now childre,” said the farmer, addressing his sons and daughters,

“never see the sthranger widout a friend, nor wantin' a bed or a dinner,

when you grow up to be men an' women. There's many a turn in this world;

we may be strangers ourselves; an' think of what I would feel if any of

you was far from me, widout money or friends, when I'd hear that you

met a father in a strange counthry that lightened your hearts by his

kindness. Now, dear, the carts 'll be ready in no time--eh? Why there

they are at the gate waitin' for you. Get into one of them, an' they'll

lave you in the next town. Come, roan, budan' age, be stout-hearted, an'

don't cry; sure we did nothin' for you to spake of.”

He shook the poor scholar by the hand, and drawing his hat over his

eyes, passed hurriedly out of the room. Alley stooped down, kissed his

lips, and wept; and the children each embraced him with that mingled

feeling of compassion and respect which is uniformly entertained for the

poor scholar in Ireland.

The boy felt as if he had been again separated from his parents; with a

sobbing bosom and wet cheeks he bid them farewell, and mounting one of

the carts was soon beyond sight and hearing of the kind-hearted farmer

and his family.

When the cart had proceeded about a mile, it stopped, and one of the

men who accompanied it addressing a boy who passed with two sods of turf

under his arm, desired him to hurry on and inform his master that they

waited for him.

“Tell Misther Corcoran to come into coort,” said the man, laughing, “my

Lordship's waitin' to hear his defince for intindin' not to run away wid

Miss Judy Malowny. Tell him Lord Garty's ready to pass sintince on him

for not stalin' the heart of her wid his Rule o' Three. Ha! by the holy

farmer, you'll get it for stayin' from school to this hour. Be quick,

abouchal!”

In a few minutes the trembling urchin, glad of any message that might

serve to divert the dreaded birch from himself, entered the, uproarious

“Siminary,” caught his forelock, bobbed down his head to the master,

and pitched his “two sods” into a little'heap of turf which lay in the

corner of the school.

“Arrah, Pat Roach, is this an hour to inter into my establishment wid

impunity? Eh, you Rosicrusian?”

“Masther, sir,” replied the adroit monkey, “I've a message for you, sir,

i' you plase.”

“An' what might the message be, Masther; Pat Roach? To dine to-day wid

your worthy father, abouchal?”

“No, sir; it's from one o' Mr. Lanigan's boys--him that belongs to the

carts, sir; he wants to spake to you, sir, i' you plase.”

“An' do you give that by way of an apologetical oration for your absence

from the advantages of my tuition until this hour? However, non constat

Patrici; I'll pluck the crow wid you on my return. If you don't find

yourself a well-flogged youth for your 'mitchin,' never say that this

right hand can administer condign punishment to that part of your

physical theory which constitutes the antithesis to your vacuum caput.

En et ewe, you villain,” he added, pointing to the birch, “it's newly

cut and trimmed, and pregnant wid alacrity for the operation. I correct,

Patricius, on fundamental principles, which you'll soon feel to your

cost.”

“Masther, sir,” replied the lad, in a friendly, conciliating tone, “my

father 'ud be oblaged to you, if you'd take share of a fat goose wid him

to-morrow.”

“Go to your sate, Paddy, avourneen; devil a dacent boy in the seminary I

joke--so much wid, as I do wid yourself; an' all out of respect for your

worthy parents. Faith, I've a great regard for them, all out, an' tell

them so.”

He then proceeded to the carts, and approaching Jemmy, gave him such

advice touching his conduct in Munster, as he considered to be most

serviceable to an inexperienced lad of his years.

“Here,” said the kind-hearted soul--“here, James, is my mite; it's but

bare ten shillings; but if I could make it a pound for you, it would

give me a degree of delectability which I have not enjoyed for a long

time. The truth is, there's something like the _nodus matrimonii_, or

what they facetiously term the priest's gallows, dangling over my head,

so that any little thrifle I may get must be kept together for that

crisis, James, abouchal; so that must be my apology for not giving

you more, joined to the naked fact, that I never was remarkable for a

superfluity of cash under any circumstances. Remember what I told you

last night. Don't let a shilling of your money into the hands of the

masther you settle wid. Give it to the parish priest, and dhraw it from

him when you want it. Don't join the parties or the factions of the

school. Above all, spake ill of nobody; and if the; masther is harsh

upon you, either bear it patiently, or mintion it to the priest, or

to some other person of respectability in the parish, and you'll be

protected. You'll be apt to meet cruelty enough, my good boy: for there

are larned Neros in Munster, who'd flog if the province was in flames.

“Now, James, I'll tell you what you'll do, when you reach the larned

south. Plant yourself on the highest hill in the neighborhood wherein

the academician with whom you intend to stop, lives. Let the hour of

reconnoitring be that in which dinner is preparing. When seated there,

James, take a survey of the smoke that ascends from the chimneys of the

farmer's houses, and be sure to direct your steps to that from which

the highest and merriest column issues. This is the old plan and it is

a sure one. The highest smoke rises from the largest fire, the largest

fire boils the biggest pot, the biggest pot generally holds the fattest

bacon, and the fattest bacon is kept by the richest farmer. It's a

wholesome and comfortable climax, my boy, and one by which I myself was

enabled to keep a dacent portion of educated flesh between the master's

birch and my ribs. The science itself is called Gastric Geography, and

is peculiar only to itinerant young gintlemen who seek for knowledge in

the classical province of Munster.

“Here's a book that thravelled along wid myself through all my

peregrinations--Creech's Translation of Horace. Keep it for my sake;

and when you accomplish your education, if you return home this way, I'd

thank you to give me a call. Farewell! God bless you and prosper you as

I wish, and as I am sure you desarve.”

He shook the lad by the hand; and as it was probable that his own former

struggles with poverty, when in the pursuit of education, came with all

the power of awakened recollection to his mind, he hastily drew his hand

across his eyes, and returned to resume the brief but harmless authority

of the ferula.

After arriving at the next town, Jemmy found himself once more

prosecuting his journey alone. In proportion as he advanced into a

strange land, his spirits became depressed, and his heart cleaved more

and more to those whom he had left behind him. There is, however, an

enthusiasm in the visions of youth, in the speculations of a young

heart, which frequently overcomes difficulties that a mind taught by

the experience of life would often shrink from encountering. We may all

remember the utter recklessness of danger, with which, in our

youthful days, we crossed floods, or stood upon the brow of yawning

precipices--feats which, in after years, the wealth of kingdoms could

not induce us to perform. Experience, as well as conscience, makes

cowards of us all.

The poor scholar in the course of his journey had the satisfaction

of finding himself an object of kind and hospitable attention to his

countrymen. His satchel of books was literally a passport to their

hearts. For instance, as he wended his solitary way, depressed and

travel-worn, he was frequently accosted by laborers from behind a ditch

on the roadside, and, after giving a brief history of the object he had

in view, brought, if it was dinner-hour, to some farm-house or cabin,

where he was made to partake of their meal. Even those poor creatures

who gain a scanty subsistence by keeping what are called “dhry lodgins,”

like _lucus a non lucendo_, because they never keep out the rain, and

have mostly a bottle of whiskey for those who know how to call for

it, even they, in most instances, not only refused to charge the poor

scholar for his bed, but declined to receive any remuneration for his

subsistence.

“Och, och, no, you poor young cratlrur, not from you. No, no; if we

wouldn't help the likes o' you, who ought we to help? No dear; but

instead o' the _airighad_, (* money) jist lave us your blessin',

an' maybe we'll thrive as well wid that, as we would wid your little

'pences, that you'll be wanting for yourself whin your frinds won't be

near to help you.”

Many, in fact, were the little marks of kindness and attention which the

poor lad received on his way. Sometimes a ragged peasant, if he happened

to be his fellow-traveller, would carry his satchel so long as they

travelled together, or a carman would give him a lift on his empty car;

or some humorous postilion, or tipsy “shay-boy,” with a comical leer in

his eye, would shove him into his vehicle; remarking--

“Bedad, let nobody say you're a poor scholar now, an' you goin' to

school in a coach! Be the piper that played afore Moses, if ever any

rascal upraids you wid it, tell him, says you--'You damned rap,' says

you, 'I wint to school in a coach! an' that,' says you, 'was what

none o' yer beggarly gin oration was ever able to do,' says you; 'an'

moreover, be the same token,' says you, 'be the holy farmer, if you

bring it up to me, I'll make a third eye in your forehead wid the butt

o' this whip,' says you. Whish! darlins! That's the go! There's drivin',

Barny! Eh?”

At length, after much toil and travel, he reached the South, having

experienced as he proceeded a series of affectionate attentions, which

had, at least, the effect of reconciling him to the measure he had

taken, and impressing upon his heart a deeper confidence in the kindness

and hospitality of his countrymen.

Upon the evening of the day on which he terminated his journey, twilight

was nearly falling; the town in which he intended to stop for the night

was not a quarter of a mile before him, yet he was scarcely able to

reach it; his short, yielding steps were evidently those of a young and

fatigued traveller: his brow was moist with perspiration: he had just

begun, too, to consider in what manner he should introduce himself to

the master who taught the school at which he had been advised to stop,

when he heard a step behind him, and on looking back, he discovered a

tall, well-made, ruddy-faced young man, dressed in black, with a book in

his hand, walking after him.

“_Unde et quo viator?_” said the stranger, on coming up to him.

“Oh, sir,” replied Jemmy, “I have not Latin _yet_.”

“You are on your way to seek it, however,” replied the other. “Have you

travelled far?”

“A long way, indeed, sir; I came from the County ------, sir--the upper

part of it.”

“Have you letters from your parish priest?”

“I have, sir, and one from my father's landlord, Square Benson, if you

ever heard of him.”

“What's your object in learning Latin?”

“To be a priest, wid the help o' God; an' to rise my poor father an'

mother out of their poverty.”

His companion, after hearing this reply, bent a glance upon him, that

indicated the awakening of an interest in the lad much greater than he

probably otherwise would have felt.

“It's only of late,” continued the boy, “that my father an' mother got

poor; they were once very well to do in the world. But they were put out

o' their farm in ordher that the agint might put a man that had married

a _get_ (* A term implying illegitimacy) of his own into it. My father

intended to lay his case before Colonel B------, the landlord; but he

couldn't see him at all, bekase he never comes near the estate.

The agint's called Yallow Sam, sir; he's rich through cheatery an'

dishonesty; puts money out at intherest, then goes to law, an' brakes

the people entirely; for, somehow, he never was known to lose a lawsuit

at all, sir. They say it's the divil, sir, that keeps the lawyers on his

side; an' that when he an' the lawyers do be dhrawin' up their writins,

the devil--God betune me an' harm!--does be helpin' them!”

“And is Colonel B------ actually--or, rather, was he your father's

landlord?”

“He was, indeed, sir; it's thruth I'm tellin' you.”

“Singular enough! Stand beside me here--do you see that large house to

the right among the trees?”

“I do, sir; a great big house, entirely--like a castle, sir.”

“The same. Well, that house belongs to Colonel B------, and I am very

intimate with him. I am Catholic curate of this parish; and I was,

before my ordination, private tutor in his family for four years.”

“Maybe, sir, you might have intherest to get my father back into his

farm?”

“I do not know that, my good lad, for I am told Colonel B-----is rather

embarrassed, and, if I mistake not, in the power of the man you call

Yellow Sam, who has, I believe, heavy mortgages upon his property.

But no matter; if I cannot help your father, I shall be able to serve

yourself. Where do you intend to stop for the night?”

“In dhry lodgin', sir, that's where my father and mother bid me stop

always. They war very kind to me, sir, in the dhry lddgins.”

“Who is there in Ireland who would not be kind to you, my good boy? I

trust you do not neglect your religious duties?”

“Wid the help o' God, sir, I strive to attind to them as well as I can;

particularly since I left my father and mother. Every night an' mornin',

sir, I say five Fathers, five Aves, an' a Creed; an' sometimes when I'm

walkin' the road, I slip up an odd Father, sir, an' Ave, that God may

grant me good luck.”

The priest smiled at his candor and artlessness, and could not help

feeling the interest which the boy had already excited in him increase.

“You do right,” said he, “and take care that you neglect not the worship

of God. Avoid bad company; be not quarrelsome at school; study to

improve yourself diligently; attend mass regularly; and be punctual in

going to confession.”

After some further conversation, the priest and he entered the town

together.

“This is my house,” said the former; “or if not altogether mine--at

least, that in which I lodge; let me see you here at two o'clock

to-morrow. In the meantime, follow me, and I shall place you with a

family where you will experience every kindness and attention that can

make you comfortable.”

He then led him a few doors up the street, till he stopped at a

decent-looking “House of Entertainment,” to the proprietors of which he

introduced him.

“Be kind to this strange boy,” said the worthy clergyman, “and whatever

the charges of his board and lodging may be until we get him settled, I

shall be accountable for them.”

“God forbid, your Reverence, that ever a penny belongin' to a poor boy

lookin' for his larnin' should go into our pockets, if he was wid us

twelve months in the year. No--no! He can stay with the _bouchaleens_;

(* little boys) let them be thryin' one another in their books. If he is

fardher on in the Latin then Andy, he can help Andy; an' if Andy has

the foreway of him, why Andy can help him. Come here, boys, all of yez.

Here's a comrade for yez--a dacent boy that's lookin' for his larnin',

the Lord enable him! Now be kind to him, an' whisper,” he added, in an

undertone, “don't be bringin' a blush to the gorsoon's face. Do ye hear?

Ma chorp! if ye do!--Now mind it. Ye know what I can do whin I'm well

vexed! Go, now, an' get him somethin' to ate an' dhrink, an' let him

sleep wid Barney in the feather bed.”

During the course of the next day, the benevolent curate introduced

him to the parish priest, who from the frequent claims urged by poor

scholars upon his patronage, felt no particular interest in his case. He

wrote a short letter, however, to the master with whom Jemmy intended

to become a pupil, stating that “he was an honest boy, the son of

legitimate parents, and worthy of consideration.”

The curate, who saw further into the boy's character than the parish

priest, accompanied him on the following day to the school; introduced

him to the master in the most favorable manner, and recommended him in

general to the hospitable care of all the pupils. This introduction did

not serve the boy so much as might have been expected; there was nothing

particular in the letter of the parish priest, and the curate was but a

curate--no formidable personage in any church where the good-will of the

rector has not been already secured.

Jemmy returned that day to his lodgings, and the next morning, with his

Latin Grammar under his arm, he went to school to taste the first bitter

fruits of the tree of knowledge.

On entering it, which he did with a beating heart, he found the despot

of a hundred subjects sitting behind a desk, with his hat on, a brow

superciliously severe, and his nose crimped into a most cutting and

vinegar curl. The truth was, the master knew the character of the

curate, and felt that because he had taken Jemmy under his protection,

no opportunity remained for him of fleecing the boy, under the pretence

of securing his money, and that consequently the arrival of the poor

scholar would be no windfall, as he had expected.

When Jemmy entered, he looked first at the master for his welcome; but

the master, who verified the proverb, that there are none so blind as

those who will not see, took no notice whatsoever of him. The boy then

looked timidly about the school in quest of a friendly face, and indeed

few faces except friendly ones were turned upon him.

Several of the scholars rose up simultaneously to speak to him; but

the pedagogue angrily inquired why they had left their seats and their

business.

“Why, sir,” said a young Munsterman, with a fine Milesian face--“be

gorra, sir, I believe if we don't welcome the poor scholar, I think you

won't. This is the boy, sir, that Mr. O'Brien came along wid yistherday,

an' spoke so well of.”

“I know that, Thady; and Misther O'Brien thinks, because he himself

first passed through that overgrown hedge-school wid slates upon the

roof of it, called Thrinity College, and matriculated in Maynooth

afther, that he has legal authority to recommend every young vagrant to

the gratuitous benefits of legitimate classicality. An' I suppose, that

you are acting the Pathrun, too, Thady, and intind to take this young

wild-goose under your protection?”

“Why, sir, isn't he a poor scholar? Sure he mustn't want his bit an'

sup, nor his night's lodgin', anyhow. You're to give him his larnin'

only, sir.”

“I suppose so, Mr. Thaddeus; but this is the penalty of celebrity. If I

weren't so celebrated a man for classics as I am, I would have none of

this work. I tell you, Thady, if I had fifty sons I wouldn't make one o'

them celebrated.”

“Wait till you have one first, sir, and you may make him as great a

numskull as you plase, Master.”

“But in the meantime, Thady, I'll have no dictation from you, as to

whether I have one or fifty; or as to whether he'll be an ass or a

Newton. I say that a dearth of larnin' is like a year of famine in

Ireland. When the people are hard pushed, they bleed the fattest

bullocks, an' live on their blood; an' so it is wid us Academicians.

It's always he that has the most larned blood in his veins, and the

greatest quantity of it that such hungry leeches fasten on.”

“Thrue for you, sir,” said the youth with a smile; “but they say the

bullocks always fatten the betther for it. I hope you'll bleed well now,

sir.”

“Thady, I don't like, the curl of your nose; an', moreover, I have

always found you prone to sedition. You remember your conduct at the

'Barring out.' I tell you it's well that your worthy father is a dacent

wealthy man, or I'd be apt to give you a _memoria technica_ on the

_subtratum_, Thady.”

“God be praised for my father's wealth, sir! But I'd never wish to have

a good memory in the way you mention.”

“Faith, an' I'll be apt to add that to your other qualities, if you

don't take care of yourself.”

“I want no such addition, Masther; if you do, you'll be apt to subtract

yourself from this neighborhood, an', maybe, ther'e won't be more than a

cipher gone out of it, afther all.”

“Thady, you're a wag,” exclaimed the crestfallen pedagogue; “take the

lad to your own sate, and show him his task. How! is your sister's sore

throat, Thady?”

“Why, sir,” replied the benevolent young wit, “she's betther than I am.

She can swallow more, sir.”

“Not of larnin', Thady; there you've the widest gullet in the parish.”

“My father's the richest man in it, Masther,” replied Thady. “I think,

sir, my! gullet and his purse are much about the same size--wid you.”

“Thady, you're first-rate at a reply;--but exceedingly deficient in the

retort courteous. Take the lad to your sate, I say, and see how far he

is advanced, and what he is fit for. I suppose, as you are so ginerous,

you will volunteer to tache him yourself.”

“I'll do that wid pleasure, sir; but I'd like to know whether you intind

to tache him or not.”

“An' I'd like to know, Thady, who's to pay me for it, if I do. A purty

return Michael Rooney made me for making him such a linguist as he is.

'You're a tyrant,' said he, when he grew up, 'and instead of expecting

me to thank you for your instructions, you ought to thank me for not

preparing you for the county hospital, as a memento of the cruelty

and brutality you made me feel, when I had the misfortune to be a poor

scholar! under you.' And so, because he became curate of the parish, he

showed me the outside of it.”

“But will you tache this poor young boy, sir?”

“Let me know who's to guarantee his payments.”

“I have money myself, sir, to pay you for two years,” replied Jemmy.

'They told me, sir, that you were a great scholar, an' I refused to stop

in other schools by rason of the name you have for Latin and Greek.”

“Verbum sat,” exclaimed the barefaced knave. “Come here. Now, you see,

I persave you have dacency. Here is your task; get that half page by

heart. You have a cute look, an' I've no doubt but the stuff's in you.

Come to me afther dismiss, 'till we have a little talk together.”

He accordingly pointed out the task, after which he placed him at his

side, lest the inexperienced boy might be put on his guard by any of the

scholars. In this intention, however, he was frustrated by Thady, who,

as he thoroughly detested the knavish tyrant, resolved to caution

the poor scholar against his dishonesty. Thady, indeed most heartily

despised the mercenary pedagogue, not only for his obsequiousness to the

rich, but on account of his severity to the children of the poor. About

two o'clock the young wag went out for a few minutes, and immediately

returned in great haste to inform the master, that Mr. Delaney, the

parish priest, and two other gentlemen wished to see him over at the

Cross-Keys, an inn which was kept at a place called the Nine Mile

House, within a few perches of the school. The parish priest, though an

ignorant, insipid old man, was the master's patron, and his slightest

wish a divine law to him. The little despot, forgetting his prey,

instantly repaired to the Cross-Keys, and in his absence, Thady,

together with the larger boys of the school, made M'Evoy acquainted with

the fraud about to be practised on him.

“His intintion,” said they, “is to keep you at home to-night, in ordher

to get whatever money you have into his own hands, that he may keep it

safe for you; but if you give him a penny, you may bid farewell to it.

Put it in the curate's hands,” added Thady, “or in my father's, an' thin

it'll be safe. At all evints, don't stay wid him this night. He'll take

your money and then turn you off in three or four weeks.”

“I didn't intind to give him my money,” replied Jemmy; “a schoolmaster I

met on my way here, bid me not to do it. I'll give it to the priest.”

“Give it to the curate,” said Thady--“wid him it'll be safe; for the

parish priest doesn't like to throuble himself wid anything of the

mind.”

This was agreed upon; the boy was prepared against the designs of the

master, and a plan laid down for his future conduct. In the meantime,

the latter re-entered the school in a glow of indignation and

disappointment.

Thady, however, disregarded him; and as the master knew that the

influence of the boy's father could at any time remove him from the

parish, his anger subsided without any very violent consequences. The

parish priest was his avowed patron, it is true; but if the parish

priest knew that Mr. O'Rorke was dissatisfied with him, that moment

he would join Mr. O'Rorke in expelling him: from the neighborhood. Mr.

O'Rorke was a wealthy and a hospitable man, but the schoolmaster was

neither the one nor the other.

During school-hours that day, many a warm-hearted urchin entered into

conversation with the poor scholar; some moved by curiosity to hear his

brief and simple history; others anxious to offer him a temporary asylum

in their father's houses; and several to know if he had the requisite

books, assuring him if he had not they would lend, them to him. These

proofs of artless generosity touched the homeless youth's heart the more

acutely, inasmuch as he could perceive but too clearly that the eye

of the master rested upon him, from time to time, with no auspicious

glance.

When the scholars were dismissed, a scene occurred which was calculated

to produce a smile, although it certainly placed the poor scholar in a

predicament by no means agreeable. It resulted from a contest among

the boys as to who should first bring him home. The master who, by that

cunning for which the knavish are remarkable, had discovered in the

course of the day that his designs upon the boy's money was understood,

did not ask him to his house. The contest was, therefore, among the

scholars; who, when the master had disappeared from the school-room,

formed themselves into a circle, of which Jemmy was the centre, each

pressing his claim to secure him.

“The right's wid me,” exclaimed Thady; “I stood to him all day, and I

say I'll have him for this night. Come wid me, Jimmy. Didn't I do most

for you to-day?”

“I'll never forget your kindness,” replied poor Jemmy, quite alarmed at

the boisterous symptoms of pugilism which already began to appear. In

fact, many a tiny fist was shut, as a suitable, accompaniment to the

auguments with which they enforced their assumed rights.

“There, now,” continued Thady, “that I puts an ind to it; he says he'll

never forget my kindness. That's enough; come wid me, Jimmy.”

“Is it enough?” said a lad, who, if his father was less wealthy than

Thady's, was resolved to put strength of arm against strength of purse.

“Maybe it isn't enough! I say I bar it, if your fadher was fifty times

as rich!--Rich! Arrah, don't be comin' over us in regard of your riches,

man alive! I'll bring the sthrange boy home this very night, an' it

isn't your father's dirty money that'll prevint me.”

“I'd advise you to get a double ditch about your nose,” replied Thady,

“before you begin to say anything disrespectful aginst my father.--Don't

think to ballyrag over me. I'll bring the boy, for I have the best right

to him. Didn't I do (* outwit) the masther on his account?”

“A double ditch about my nose?”

“Aye!”

“Are you able to fight me?”

“I'm able to thry it, anyhow, an' willin too.”

“Do you say you're able to fight me?”

“I'll bring the boy home whether or not.”

“Thady's not your match, Jack Ratigan,” said another boy. “Why don't you

challenge your match?”

“If you say a word, I'll half-sole your eye. Let him say whether he's

able to fight me like a man or not. That's the chat.”

“Half-sole my eye! Thin here I am, an' why don't you do it. You're

crowin' over a boy that you're bigger than. I'll fight you for Thady.

Now half-sole my eye if you dar! Eh? Here's my eye, now! Arrah, be

the holy man, I'd--Don't we know the white hen's in you. Didn't Barny

Murtagh cow you at the black-pool, on Thursday last, whin we wor

bathin'?”

“Come, Ratigan,” said Thady, “peel an' turn out. I say, I am able to

fight you; an' I'll make you ate your words aginst my father, by way of

givin' you your dinner. An' I'll make the dacent strange boy walk home

wid me over your body--that is, if he'd not be afraid to dirty his

feet.”

Ratigan and Thady immediately set to, and in a few minutes there were

scarcely a little pair of fists present that were not at work, either

on behalf of the two first combatants, or with a view to determine their

own private rights in being the first to exercise hospitality towards

the amazed poor scholar. The fact was, that while the two largest boys,

were arguing the point, about thirty or forty minor disputes all ran

parallel to theirs, and their mode of decision was immediately adopted

by the pugnacious urchins of the school. In this manner they were

engaged, poor Jemmy attempting to tranquillize and separate them, when

the master, armed in all his terrors, presented himself.

With the tact of a sly old disciplinarian, he first secured the door,

and instantly commenced the agreeable task of promiscuous castigation.

Heavy and vindictive did his arm descend upon those whom he suspected

to have cautioned the boy against his rapacity; nor amongst the

warm-hearted lads, whom he thwacked so cunningly, was Thady passed over

with a tender hand. Springs, bouncings, doublings, blowing of fingers,

scratching of heads, and rubbing of elbows--shouts of pain, and

doleful exclamations, accompanied by action that displayed surpassing

agility-marked the effect with which he plied the instrument of

punishment. In the meantime the spirit of reaction, to use a modern

phrase, began to set in. The master, while thus engaged in dispensing

justice, first received a rather vigorous thwack on the ear from behind,

by an anonymous contributor, who gifted him with what is called a

musical ear, for it sang during five minutes afterwards. The monarch,

when turning round to ascertain the traitor, received another insult on

the most indefensible side, and that with a cordiality of manner, that

induced him to send his right hand reconnoitring the invaded part. He

wheeled round a second time with more alacrity than before; but nothing

less than the head of James could have secured him on this occasion. The

anonymous contributor sent him a fresh article. This was supported by

another kick behind: the turf began to fly; one after another came in

contact with his head and shoulders so rapidly, that he found himself,

instead of being the assailant, actually placed upon his defence.

[Illustration: PAGE 1099-- Received a rather vigorous thwack on the ear]

The insurrection spread, the turf flew more thickly; his subjects closed

in upon him in a more compact body; every little fist itched to be

at him; the larger boys boldly laid in the facers, punched him in the

stomach, I treated him most opprobriously behind, every kick and cuff

accompanied by a memento of his cruelty; in short, they compelled him,

like Charles the Tenth, ignominiously to fly from his dominions.

On finding the throne vacant, some of them suggested that it ought to be

overturned altogether. Thady, however, who was the ringleader of

the rebellion, persuaded them to be satisfied with what they had

accomplished, and consequently succeeded in preventing them from

destroying the fixtures.

Again they surrounded the poor scholar, who, feeling himself the cause

of the insurrection, appeared an object of much pity. Such was his grief

that he could scarcely reply to them. Their consolation on witnessing

his distress was overwhelming. They desired him to think nothing of it;

if the master, they told him, should wreak his resentment on him, “be

the holy farmer,” they would _pay_ (* pay) the masther. Thady's claim

was now undisputed. With only the injury of a black eye, and a lip

swelled to the size of a sausage, he walked home in triumph, the poor

scholar accompanying him.

The master, who feared, that this open contempt of his authority,

running up, as it did, into a very unpleasant species of retaliation,

was something like a signal for him to leave the parish, felt rather

more of the penitent the next morning than did any of his pupils. He was

by no means displeased, therefore, to see them drop in about the usual

hour. They came, however, not one by one, but in compact groups, each

officered by two or three of the larger boys; for they feared that,

had they entered singly, he might have punished them singly, until his

vengeance should be satisfied. It was by bitter and obstinate struggles

that they succeeded in repressing their mirth, when he; appeared at his

desk with one of his eyes literally closed, and his nose considerably

improved in size and richness of color. When they were all assembled,

he hemmed several times, and, in a woo-begone tone of voice, split--by

a feeble attempt at maintaining authority and suppressing his

terrors--into two parts, that jarred most ludicrously, he briefly

addressed them as follows:--

“Gintlemen classics, I have been now twenty-six years engaged in

the propagation of Latin and Greek litherature, in conjunction wid

mathematics, but never, until yesterday, has my influence been spurned;

never, until yesterday, have sacrilegious hands been laid upon my

person; never, until yesterday, have I been kicked--insidiously,

ungallantly, and treacherously kicked--by my own subjects. No,

gintlemen,--and, whether I ought to bestow that respectable epithet

upon you after yesterday's proceedings is a matter which admits of

dispute,--never before has the lid of my eye been laid drooping, and

that in such a manner that I' must be blind to the conduct of half of

my pupils, whether I will or not. You have complained, it appears, of

my want of impartiality; but, God knows, you have compelled me to be

partial for a week to come. Neither blame me if I may appear to look

upon you with scorn for the next fortnight; for I am compelled to turn

up my nose at you much against my own inclination. You need never want

an illustration of the _naso adunco_ of Horace again; I'm a living

example of it. That, and the doctrine of projectile forces, have been

exemplified in a manner that will prevent me from ever relishing these

subjects in future. No king can consider himself properly such until

after he has received the oil of consecration; but you, it appears,

think differently. You have unkinged me first, and anointed me

afterwards; but, I say, no potentate would relish such unction. It

smells confoundedly of republicanism. Maybe this is what you understand

by the Republic of Letters; but, if it be, I would advise you to change

your principles. You treated my ribs as if they were the ribs of a

common man; my shins you took liberties with even to excoriation;

my head you made a target of, for your hardest turf; and my nose you

dishonored to my fage. Was this ginerous? was it discreet? was it

subordinate? and, above all, was it classical? However, I will show you

what greatness of mind is. I will convince you that it is more noble and

god-like to forgive an injury, or rather five dozen injuries, than to

avenge one; when--hem---yes, I say, when I--I--might so easily avenge

it. I now present you wid an amnesty: return to you allegiance; but

never, while in this seminary, under my tuition, attempt to take the

execution of the laws into your own hands. Homerians, come up!”

This address, into which he purposely threw a dash of banter and mock

gravity, delivered with the accompaniments of his swelled nose and

drooping eye, pacified his audience more readily than a serious one

would have done. It was received without any reply or symptom of

disrespect, unless the occasional squeak of a suppressed laugh, or the

visible shaking of many sides with inward convulsions, might be termed

such.

In the course of the day, it is true, their powers of maintaining

gravity were put to a severe test, particularly when, while hearing a

class, he began to adjust his drooping eye-lid, or coax back his nose

into its natural, position. On these occasions a sudden pause might be

noticed in the business of the class; the boy's voice, who happened

to read at the time, would fail him; and, on resuming his sentence by

command of the master, its tone was tremulous, and scarcely adequate to

the task of repeating the words without his bursting into laughter. The

master observed all this clearly enough, but his mind was already made

up to take no further notice of what had happened.

All this, however, conduced to render the situation of the poor scholar

much more easy, or rather less penal, than it would otherwise have been.

Still the innocent lad was on all possible occasions a butt for this

miscreant. To miss a word was a pretext for giving him a cruel blow. To

arrive two or three minutes later than the appointed hour was certain

on his part to be attended with immediate punishment. Jemmy bore it all

with silent heroism. He shed no tear--he uttered no remonstrance; but,

under the anguish of pain so barbarously inflicted, he occasionally

looked round upon his schoolfellows with an I expression of silent

entreaty that was seldom lost upon them. Cruel to him the master often

was; but to inhuman barbarity the large scholars never permitted him to

descend. Whenever any of the wealthier farmers'-sons had neglected their

lessons, or deserved chastisement, the mercenary creature substituted a

joke for the birch; but as soon as the son of a poor man, or, which was

better still, the poor scholar, came before him, he transferred

that punishment which the wickedness or idleness of respectable boys

deserved, to his or their shoulders. For this outrageous injustice the

hard-hearted: old villain had some plausible excuse ready, so that

it was in many cases difficult for Jemmy's generous companions to

interfere; in his behalf, or parry the sophistry of such: a petty

tyrant.

In this miserable way did he pass over the tedious period of a year,

going about every night in rotation with the scholars, and severely

beaten on all possible occasions by the master. His conduct and manners

won him: the love and esteem of all except his tyrant instructor. His

assiduity was remarkable, and his progress in the elements of English

and classical literature surprisingly rapid. This added considerably

to his character, and procured him additional respect. It was not long

before he made himself useful and obliging to all the boys beneath his

standing in the school. These services he rendered with an air of such

kindness, and a grace so naturally winning, that the attachment of

his schoolfellows increased towards him from day to day. Thady was his

patron on all occasions: neither did the curate neglect him. The latter

was his banker, for the boy had very properly committed his purse to his

keeping. At the expiration of every quarter the schoolmaster received

the amount of his bill, which he never failed to send in, when due.

Jemmy had not, during his first year's residence in the south, forgotten

to request the kind curate's interference with the landlord, on behalf

of his father. To be the instrument of restoring his family to their

former comfortable holding under Colonel B------; would have afforded

him, without excepting the certainty of his own eventual success, the

highest gratification. Of this, however, there was no hope, and nothing

remained for him but assiduity in his studies, and patience under the

merciless scourge of his teacher. In addition to an engaging person and

agreeable manners, nature had gifted him with a high order of intellect,

and great powers of acquiring knowledge. The latter he applied to the

business before him with indefatigable industry. The school at; which

he settled was considered the first in Munster; and the master,

notwithstanding his known severity, stood high, and justly so, in

the opinion of the people, as an excellent classical and mathematical

scholar. Jemmy applied himself to the study of both, and at the

expiration of his second year had made such progress that he stood

without a rival in the school.

It is usual, as we have said, for the poor scholar to go night after

night, in rotation, with his schoolfellows; he is particularly welcome

in the houses of those farmers whose children are not so far advanced

as himself. It is expected that he should instruct them in the evenings,

and enable them, to prepare their lessons for the following day, a task

which he always performs with pleasure, because in teaching them he

is confirming his own mind in the knowledge which he has previously

acquired. Towards the end of the second year, however, he ceased

to circulate in this manner. Two or three of the most independent

parishioners, whose sons were only commencing their studies, agreed to

keep him week about; an arrangement highly convenient to him, as by that

means he was not so frequently dragged, as he had been, to the remotest

parts of the parish. Being an expert penman, he acted also as secretary

of grievances to the poor, who frequently employed him to draw up

petitions to obdurate landlords, or to their more obdurate agents, and

letters to soldiers in all parts of the world, from their anxious and

affectionate relations. All these little services he performed kindly

and promptly; many a blessing was fervently invoked upon his head; the

“good word” and “the prayer” were all they could afford, as they said,

“to the bouchal dhas oge * that tuck the world an him for sake o' the

larnin', an' that hasn't the kindliness o' the mother's breath an' the

mother's hand near him, the crathur.”

* The pretty young boy. Boy in Ireland does not always

imply youth.

About the middle of the third year he was once more thrown upon the

general hospitality of the people. The three farmers with whom he had

lived for the preceding six months emigrated to America, as did many

others of that class which, in this country, most nearly approximates to

the substantial yeomanry of England. The little purse, too, which he

had placed in the hands of the kind priest, was exhausted; a season of

famine, sickness, and general distress had set in; and the master, on

understanding that he was without money, became diabolically savage.

In short, the boy's difficulties increased to a perplexing degree. Even

Thady and his grown companions, who usually interposed in his behalf

when the master became excessive in correcting him, had left the school,

and now the prospect before him was dark and cheerless indeed. For a few

months longer, however, he struggled on, meeting every difficulty with

meek endurance. From his very boyhood he had reverenced the sanctity of

religion, and was actuated by a strong devotional spirit. He trusted in

God, and worshipped Him night and morning with a sincere heart.

At this crisis he was certainly an object of pity; his clothes, which,

for some time before had been reduced to tatters, he had replaced by a

cast-off coat and small-clothes, a present from his friend the Curate,

who never abandoned him. This worthy young man could not afford him

money, for as he had but fifty pounds a year, with which to clothe,

subsist himself, keep a horse, and pay rent, it was hardly to be

expected that his benevolence could be extensive. In addition to this,

famine and contagious disease raged with formidable violence in the

parish; so that the claims upon his bounty of hundreds who lay huddled

together in cold cabins, in out-houses, and even behind ditches, were

incessant as well, as heart-rending. The number of interments that took

place daily in the parish was awful; nothing could be seen but funerals

attended by groups of ragged and emaciated creatures from whose hollow

eyes gleamed forth the wolfish fire of famine. The wretched mendicants

were countless, and the number of coffins that lay on the public

roads--where, attended by the nearest relatives of the deceased, they

had been placed for the purpose of procuring charity--were greater than

ever had been remembered by the oldest inhabitant.

Such was the state of the parish when our poor scholar complained one

day in school of severe illness. The early symptoms of the prevailing

epidemic were well known; and, on examining more closely into his

situation, it was clear that, according to the phraseology of the

people, he had “got the faver on his back”--had caught “a heavy load

of the faver.” The Irish are particularly apprehensive of contagious

maladies. The moment it had been discovered that Jemmy was infected, his

schoolfellows avoided him with a feeling of terror scarcely credible,

and the inhuman master was delighted at any circumstance, however

calamitous, that might afford him a pretext for driving the friendless

youth out of the school.

“Take,” said he, “every thing belongin' to you out of my establishment:

you were always a plague to me, but now more so than ever. Be quick,

sirra, and nidificate for yourself somewhere else. Do you want to

thranslate my siminary into an hospital, and myself into Lazarus, as

president? Go off, you wild goose! and conjugate _aegroto_ wherever

you find a convenient spot to do it in.” The poor boy silently and with

difficulty arose, collected his books, and, slinging on his satchel,

looked to his schoolfellows, as if he had said, “Which of you will

afford me a place where to lay my aching head?” All, however, kept aloof

from him; he had caught the contagion, and the contagion, they knew, had

swept the people away in vast numbers. At length he spoke. “Is there any

boy among you,” he inquired, “who will bring me home? You know I am a

stranger, an' far from my own, God help me!”

This was followed by a profound silence. Not one of those who had so

often befriended him, or who would, on any other occasion, share their

bed and their last morsel with him, would even touch his person, much

less allow him, when thus plague-stricken, to take shelter under their

roof. Such are the effects of selfishness, when it is opposed only by

the force of those natural qualities that are not elevated into a sense

of duty by clear and profound views of Christian truth. It is one thing

to perform a kind action from constitutional impulse, and another to

perform it as a fixed duty, perhaps contrary to that impulse.

Jemmy, on finding himself avoided like a Hebrew leper of old, silently

left the school, and walked on without knowing whither he should

ultimately direct his steps. He thought of his friend the priest, but

the distance between him and his place of abode was greater, he felt,

than his illness would permit him to travel. He walked on, therefore,

in such a state of misery as can scarcely be conceived, much less

described. His head ached excessively, an intense pain shot like

death-pangs through his lower back and loins, his face was flushed, and

his head giddy. In this state he proceeded, without money or friends;

without a house to shelter him, or a bed on which to lie, far from

his own relations, and with the prospect of death, under circumstances

peculiarly dreadful, before him! He tottered on, however, the earth, as

he imagined, reeling under him; the heavens, he thought, streaming with

fire, and the earth indistinct and discolored. Home, the paradise of the

absent--home, the heaven of the affections--with all its tenderness and

blessed sympathies, rushed upon his heart. His father's deep but quiet

kindness, his mother's sedulous love; his brothers, all that they had

been to him--these, with their thousand heart-stirring associations,

started into life before him again and again. But he was now ill, and

the mother--Ah! the enduring sense of that mother's love placed her

brightest, and strongest, and tenderest, in the far and distant group

which his imagination bodied forth.

“Mother!” he exclaimed--“Oh, mother, why--why did I ever lave you?

Mother! the son you loved is dyin' without a kind word, lonely and

neglected, in a strange land! Oh, my own mother! why did I ever lave

you?”

The conflict between his illness and his affections overcame him; he

staggered--he grasped as if for assistance at the vacant air--he fell,

and lay for some time in a state of insensibility.

The season was then that of midsummer, and early meadows were falling

before the scythe. As the boy sank to the earth, a few laborers were

eating their scanty dinner of bread and milk so near him, that only

a dry low ditch ran between him and them. They had heard his words

indistinctly, and one of them was putting the milk bottle to his lips

when, attracted by the voice, he looked in the direction of the speaker,

and saw him fall. They immediately recognized “the poor scholar,” and in

a moment were attempting to recover him.

“Why thin, my poor fellow, what's a shaughran wid you?”

Jemmy started for a moment, looked about him, and asked, “Where am I?”

“Faitha, thin, you're in Rory Connor's field, widin a few perches of the

high-road. But what ails you, poor boy? Is it sick you are?”

“It is,” he replied; “I have got the faver. I had to lave school;

none o' them would take me home, an' I doubt I must die in a Christian

counthry under the open canopy of heaven. Oh, for God's sake, don't lave

me! Bring me to some hospital, or into the next town, where people may

know that I'm sick, an' maybe some kind Christian will relieve me.”

The moment he mentioned “faver,” the men involuntarily drew back, after

having laid him reclining against the green ditch.

“Thin, thundher an' turf, what's to be done?” exclaimed one of them,

thrusting his spread fingers into his hair. “Is the poor boy to die

widout help among Christyeens like us?”

“But hasn't he the sickness?” exclaimed another: “an' in that case,

Pether, what's to be done?”

“Why, you gommoch, isn't that what I'm wantin' to know? You wor ever and

always an ass, Paddy, except before you wor born, an' thin you wor like

Major M'Curragh, worse nor nothin'. Why the sarra do you be spakin'

about the sickness, the Lord protect us, whin you know I'm so timersome

of it?”

“But considher,” said another, edging off from Jemmy, however, “that

he's a poor scholar, an' that there's a great blessin' to thim that

assists the likes of him.”

“Ay, is there that, sure enough, Dan; but you see--blur-an-age, what's

to be done? He can't die this way, wid nobody wid him but himself.”

“Let us help him!” exclaimed another, “for God's sake, an' we won't be

apt to take it thin.”

“Ay, but how can we help him, Frank? Oh, bedad, it 'ud be a murdherin'

shame, all out, to let the crathur die by himself, widout company, so it

would.”

“No one wul take him in, for fraid o' the sickness. Why, I'll tell

you what we'll do:--Let us shkame the remainder o' this day off o' the

Major, an' build a shed for him on the road-side here, jist against the

ditch. It's as dhry as powdher. Thin we can go through the neighbors,

an' git thim to sit near him time about, an' to bring him little

_dhreeniens_ o' nourishment.”

“Divil a purtier! Come thin, let us get a lot o' the neighbors, an' set

about it, poor bouchal. Who knows but it may bring down a blessin' upon

us aither in this world or the next.”

“Amin! I pray Gorra! an' so it will sure I doesn't the Catechiz say

it? 'There is but one Church,' says the Catechiz, 'one Faith, an' one

Baptism.' Bedad, there's a power o' fine larnin' in the same Catechiz,

so there is, an' mighty improvin'.”

An Irishman never works for wages with half the zeal which he displays

when working for love. Ere many hours passed, a number of the neighbors

had assembled, and Jemmy found himself on a bunch of clean straw, in a

little shed erected for him at the edge of the road.

Perhaps it would be impossible to conceive a more gloomy state of misery

than that in which young M'Evoy found himself. Stretched on the side

of the public road, in a shed formed of a few loose sticks covered

over with “scraws,” that is, the sward of the earth pared into thin

stripes--removed above fifty perches from any human habitation--his body

racked with a furious and oppressive fever--his mind conscious of all

the horrors by which he was surrounded--without the comforts even of a

bed or bedclothes--and, what was worst of all, those from whom he might

expect kindness, afraid; to approach him! Lying helpless, under these

circumstances, it ought not to be wondered at, if he wished that death

might at once close his extraordinary sufferings, and terminate those

straggles which filial piety had prompted him to encounter.

This certainly is a dark picture, but our humble hero knew that even

there the power and goodness of God could support him. The boy trusted

in God; and when removed into his little shed, and stretched upon his

clean straw, he felt that his situation was, in good sooth, comfortable

when contrasted with what it might have been, if left to perish behind a

ditch, exposed to the scorching-heat of the sun by day, and the dews

of heaven by night. He felt the hand of God even in this, and placed

himself, with a short but fervent prayer, under his fatherly protection.

Irishmen however, are not just that description of persons who can

pursue their usual avocations, and see a fellow-creature-die, without

such attentions as they can afford him; not precisely so bad as that,

gentle reader! Jemmy had not been two hours on his straw, when a second

shed much larger than his own, was raised within a dozen yards of it:

In this a fire was lit; a small pot was then procured, milk was sent

in, and such other little comforts brought together, as they supposed

necessary for the sick boy. Having accomplished these matters, a kind of

guard was set to watch and nurse-tend him; a pitchfork was got, on the

prongs of which they intended to reach him bread across the ditch; and

a long-shafted shovel was borrowed, on which to furnish him drink with

safety to themselves. That inextinguishable vein of humor, which in

Ireland mingles even with death and calamity, was also visible here. The

ragged, half-starved creatures laughed heartily at the oddity of their

own inventions, and enjoyed the ingenuity with which they made shift

to meet the exigencies of the occasion, without in the slightest degree

having their sympathy and concern for the afflicted youth lessened.

When their arrangements were completed, one of them (he of the scythe)

made a little whey, which, in lieu of a spoon, he stirred with the

end of his tobacco-pipe; he then extended it across the ditch upon the

shovel, after having put it in a tin porringer.

“Do you want a taste o' whay, avourneen?”

“Oh, I do,” replied Jemmy; “give me a drink for God's sake.”

“There it is, _a bouchal_, on the shovel. Musha if myself rightly knows

what side you're lyin' an, or I'd put it as near your lips as I could.

Come, man, be stout, don't be cast down at all at all; sure, bud-an-age,

we' shovelin' the way to you, any how.”

“I have it,” replied the boy--“oh, I have it. May God never forget this

to you, whoever you are.”

“Faith, if you want to know who I am; I'm Pettier Connor the mower, that

never seen to-morrow. Be Gorra, poor boy, you mustn't let your spirits

down at all at all. Sure the neighbors is all bint to watch an' take

care of you.--May I take away the shovel?--an' they've built a brave

snug shed here beside yours, where they'll stay wid you time about until

you get well. We'll feed you wid whay enough, bekase we've made up our

minds to stale lots o' sweet milk for you. Ned Branagan an' I will milk

Kody Hartigan's cows to-night, wid the help o' God. Divil a bit sin in

it, so there isn't, an' if there is, too, be my sowl there's no harm in

it any way--for he's but a nager himself, the same Rody. So, acushla,

keep a light heart, for, be Gorra, you're sure o' the thin pair o'

throwsers, any how. Don't think you're desarted--for you're not. It's

all in regard o' bein' afeard o' this faver, or it's not this way you'd

be; but, as I said a while agone, when you want anything, spake, for

you'll still find two or three of us beside you here, night an' day.

Now, won't you promise to keep your mind asy, when you know that we're

beside you?”

“God bless you,” replied Jemmy, “you've taken a weight off of my heart.

I thought I'd die wid nobody near me at all.”

“Oh, the sorra fear of it. Keep your heart up. We'll stale lots o' milk

for you. Bad scran to the baste in the parish but we'll milk, sooner nor

you'd want the whay, you crathur you.”

The boy felt relieved, but his malady increased; and were it not that

the confidence of being thus watched and attended to supported him, it

is more than probable he would have sunk under it.

When the hour of closing the day's labor arrived, Major ------ came down

to inspect the progress which his mowers had made, and the goodness of

his crop upon his meadows. No sooner was he perceived at a distance,

than the scythes were instantly resumed, and the mowers pursued their

employment with an appearance of zeal and honesty that could not be

suspected.

On arriving at the meadows, however, he was evidently startled at the

miserable day's work they had performed.

“Why, Connor,” said he, addressing the nurse-tender, “how is this? I

protest you have not performed half a day's labor! This is miserable and

shameful.”

“Bedad, Major, it's thrue for your honor, sure enough. It's a poor day's

work, the I never a doubt of it. But be all the books; that never was

opened or shut, busier men! than we wor since mornin' couldn't be had;

for love or money. You see, Major, these meadows, bad luck to them!--God

pardon me for cursin' the harmless crathurs, for sure 'tisn't their

fau't, sir: but you see, Major, I'll insinse you into it. Now look

here, your honor. Did you ever see deeper: meadow nor that same, since

you war foal---hem--sintce you war born, your honor? Maybe, your honor,

Major, 'ud just take the scythe an' sthrive to cut a swaythe?”

“Nonsense, Connor; don't you know I cannot.”

“Thin, be Gorra, sir, I wish you could; thry it. I'd kiss the book, we

did more labor, an' worked harder this day, nor any day for the last

fortnight. If it was light grass, sir--see here, Major, here's alight

bit--now, look at how the scythe runs through it! Thin look at here

agin--just observe this, Major--why, murdher alive, don't you see how

slow she goes through that where the grass is heavy! Bedad, Major,

you'll be made up this suson wid your hay, any how. Divil carry the

finer meadow ever I put the scythe in nor this same meadow, God bless

it!”

“Yes, I see it, Connor; I agree with you as to its goodness. But the

reason of that is, Connor, that I always direct my steward myself in

laying it down for grass. Yes, you're right, Connor; if the meadow were

light, you could certainly mow comparatively a greater space in a day.”

“Be the livin' farmer, God pardon me for swearin', it's a pleasure to

have dalins wid a gintleman like you, that knows things as cute as

if you war a mower yourself, your honor. Bedad, I'll go bail, sir, it

wouldn't be hard to tache you that same.”

“Why, to tell you the truth, Connor, you have hit me off pretty well.

I'm beginning to get a taste for agriculture.”

“But,” said Connor, scratching his head, “won't your honor allow us the

price of a glass, or a pint o' portlier, for our hard day's work. Bad

cess to me, sir, but this meadow 'ill play the puck wid us afore we

get it finished.--Atween ourselves, sir--if it wouldn't be takin'

freedoms--if you'd look to your own farmin' yourself. The steward, sir,

is a dacent kind of a man; but, sowl, he couldn't hould a candle to your

honor in seein' to the best way of doin' a thing, sir. Won't you allow

us glasses apiece, your honor? Faix, we're kilt entirely, so we are.”

“Here is half-a-crown among you, Connor; but don't get drunk.”

“Dhrunk! Musha, long may you reign, Sir! Be the scythe in my hand, I'd

rather--Och, faix, you're one o' the ould sort, sir--the raal Irish

gintleman, your honor. An' sure your name's far and near for that, any

how.”

Connor's face would have done the heart of Brooke or Cruikshank good,

had either of them seen it charged with humor so rich as that which

beamed upon it, when the Major left them to enjoy their own comments

upon what had happened.

“Oh, be the livin' farmer,” said Connor, “are we all alive at all afther

doin' the Major! Pp., thin, the curse o' the crows upon you, pijor,

darlin', but you are a Manus!* The damn' rip o' the world, that wouldn't

give the breath he breathes to the poor for God's sake, and he'll threwn

a man half-a-crown that 'll blarney him for farmin', and him doesn't

know the differ atween a Cork-red a Yellow-leg.” **

* A soft booby easily hoaxed.

**Different kinds of potatoes.

“Faith, he's the boy that knows how to make a Judy of himself any way,

Pether,” exclaimed another. “The divil a hapurt'h asier nor to

give these Quality the bag to hould, so there isn't. An' they think

themselves so cute, too!”

“Augh!” said a third, “couldn't a man find the soft side o' them as asy

as make out the way to' his own nose, widout being led to it. Divil a

sin it is to do them, any way. Sure, he thinks we wor tooth an' nail at

the meadow all day; an' me thought I'd never recover it, to see Pether

here--the rise he tuck out of him! Ha, ha, ha--och, och, murdher, oh!”

“Faith,” exclaimed Connor, “'twas good, you see, to help the poor

scholar; only for it we couldn't get shkamin' the half-crown out of him.

I think we ought to give the crathur half of it, an' him so sick: he'll

be wantin' it worse nor ourselves.”

“Oh, be Gorra, he's fairly entitled to that. I vote him fifteen pince.”

“Surely!” they exclaimed unanimously. “Tundher-an'-turf! wasn't he the

manes of gettin' it for us?”

“Jemmy, a bouchal,” said Connor, across the ditch to M'Evoy, “are you

sleepin'?”

“Sleepin'! Oh, no,” replied Jemmy; “I'd give the wide world for one wink

of asy sleep.”

“Well, aroon, here's fifteen pince for you, that we skham--Will I tell

him how we cot it?”

“No, don't,” replied his neighbors; “the boy's given to devotion, and

maybe might scruple to take it.”

“Here's fifteen pince, avourneen, on the shovel, that we're givin' you

for God's sake. If you over * this, won't you offer up a prayer for us?

Won't you, avick?”

*That is--to get over--to survive.

“I can never forget your kindness,” replied Jemmy; “I will always pray

for you, and may God for ever bless you and yours!

“Poor crathur! May the Heavens above have prosthration on him! Upon my

sowl, it's good to have his blessin' an' his prayer. Now don't fret,

Jemmy; we're lavin' you wid a lot o' neighbors here. They'll watch

you time about, so that whin you want anything, call, avourneen, an'

there'll still be some one here to answer. God bless you, an' restore

you, till we come wid the milk we'll stale for you, wid the help o' God.

Bad cess to me, but it 'ud be a mortual sin, so it would, to let the

poor boy die at all, an' him so far from home. For, as the Catechiz

says 'There is but one Faith, one Church, and one Baptism!' Well, the

readin' that's in that Catechiz is mighty improvin', glory be to God!”

It would be utterly impossible to detail the affliction which our poor

scholar suffered in this wretched shed, for the space of a fortnight,

notwithstanding the efforts of those kind-hearted people to render his

situation comfortable.

The little wigwam they had constructed near him was never, even for a

moment, during his whole illness, without two or three persons ready to

attend him. In the evening their numbers increased; a fire was always

kept burning, over which a little pot for making whey or gruel was

suspended. At night they amused each other with anecdotes and laughter,

and occasionally with songs, when certain that their patient was not

asleep. Their exertions to steal milk for him were performed with

uncommon glee, and related among themselves with great humor. These

thefts would have been unnecessary, had not the famine which then

prevailed through the province been so excessive. The crowds that

swarmed about the houses of wealthy farmers, supplicating a morsel to

keep body and soul together, resembled nothing which our English readers

ever had an opportunity of seeing. Ragged, emaciated creatures, tottered

about with an expression of wildness and voracity in their gaunt

features; fathers and mothers reeled under the burthen of their beloved

children, the latter either sick, or literally expiring for want of

food; and the widow, in many instances, was compelled to lay down her

head to die, with the wail, the feeble wail, of her withered orphans

mingling with her last moans! In such a state of things it was difficult

to procure a sufficient quantity of milk to allay the natural thirst

even of one individual, when parched by the scorching heat of a fever.

Notwithstanding this, his wants were for the most part anticipated, so

far as their means would allow them; his shed was kept waterproof; and

either shovel or pitchfork always ready to be extended to him, by way of

substitution for the right hand of fellowship.

When he called for anything, the usual observation was, “Husht! the

crathur's callin'. I must take the shovel an' see what he wants.”

There were times, it is true, when the mirth of the poor fellows was'

very low, for hunger was generally among themselves; there were

times when their own little shed presented a touching and melancholy

spectacle--perhaps we ought also to add, a noble one; for, to

contemplate a number of men, considered rude and semi-barbarous,

devoting themselves, in the midst of privations the most cutting and

oppressive, to the care and preservation of a strange lad, merely

because they knew him to be without friends and protection, is to

witness a display of virtue truly magnanimous. The food on which some

of the persons were occasionally compelled to live, was blood boiled up

with a little oatmeal; for when a season of famine occurs in Ireland,

the people usually bleed the cows and bullocks to preserve themselves

from actual starvation. It is truly a sight of appalling misery to

behold feeble women gliding across the country, carrying their cans and

pitchers, actually trampling upon fertility, and fatness, and collected

in the corner of some grazier's farm waiting, gaunt and ravenous as

Ghouls, for their portion of blood. During these melancholy periods of

want, everything in the shape of an esculent disappears. The miserable

creatures will pick up chicken-weed, nettles, sorrell, bug-loss,

preshagh, and sea-weed, which they will boil and eat with the voracity

of persons writhing under the united agonies of hunger and death! Yet

the very country thus groaning under such a terrible sweep of famine is

actually pouring from all her ports a profusion of food, day after day;

flinging it from her fertile bosom, with the wanton excess of a prodigal

oppressed by abundance.

Despite, however, of all the poor scholar's nurse-guard suffered, he was

attended with a fidelity of care and sympathy which no calamity could

shake. Nor was this care fruitless; after the fever had passed through

its usual stages he began to recover. In fact, it has been observed

very truly, that scarcely any person has been known to die under

circumstances similar to those of the poor scholar. These sheds, the

erection of which is not unfrequent in case of fever, have the advantage

of pure free air, by which the patient is cooled and refreshed. Be the

cause of it what it may, the fact has been established, and we feel

satisfaction in being able to adduce our humble hero as an additional

proof of the many recoveries which take place in situations apparently

so unfavorable to human life. But how is it possible to detail what

M'Evoy suffered during this fortnight of intense agony? Not those

who can command the luxuries of life--not those who can reach

its comforts--nor those who can supply themselves with its bare

necessaries--neither the cotter who struggles to support his wife and

helpless children--the mendicant who begs from door to door--nor even

the felon in his cell--can imagine what he felt in the solitary misery

of his feverish bed. Hard is the heart that cannot feel his sorrows,

when, stretched beside the common way, without a human face to look

on, he called upon the mother whose brain, had she known his situation,

would have been riven--whose affectionate heart would have been broken,

by the knowledge of his affliction. It was a situation which afterwards

appeared to him dark and terrible. The pencil of the painter could

not depict it, nor the pen of the poet describe it, except like a dim

vision, which neither the heart nor the imagination are able to give to

the world as a tale steeped in the sympathies excited by reality.

His whole heart and soul, as he afterwards acknowledged, were, during

his trying illness, at home. The voices of his parents, of his sisters,

and of his brothers, were always in his ears; their countenances

surrounded his cold and lonely shed; their hands touched him; their eyes

looked upon him in sorrow--and their tears bedewed him. Even there, the

light of his mother's love, though she herself was distant, shone upon

his sorrowful couch; and he has declared, that in no past moment

of affection did his soul ever burn with a sense of its presence so

strongly as it did in the heart-dreams of his severest illness. But God

is love, and “temporeth the wind to the shorn lamb.”

Much of all his sufferings would have been alleviated, were it not that

his two best friends in the parish, Thady and the curate, had been

both prostrated by the fever at the same time with himself. There was

consequently no person of respectability in the neighborhood cognizant

of his situation. He was left to the humbler class of the peasantry, and

honorably did they, with all their errors and ignorance, discharge those

duties which greater wealth and greater knowledge would, probably, have

left unperformed.

On the morning of the last day he ever intended to spend in the shed,

at eleven o'clock he hoard the sounds of horses' feet passing along

the road, The circumstance was one quite familiar to him; but these

horsemen, whoever they might be, stopped, and immediately after, two

respectable looking men, dressed in black, approached him. His forlorn

state and frightfully wasted appearance startled them, and the younger

of the two asked, in a tone of voice which went directly to his heart,

how it was that they found him in a situation so desolate.

The kind interest implied by the words, and probably a sense of his

utterly destitute state, affected him strongly, and he burst into tears.

The strangers looked at each other, then at him; and if looks could

express sympathy, theirs expressed it.

“My good boy,” said the first, “how is it that we find you in a

situation so deplorable and wretched as this? Who are you, or why is it

that you have not a friendly roof I to shelter you?”

“I'm a poor scholar,” replied Jemmy, “the son of honest but reduced

parents: I came to this part of the country with the intention of

preparing myself for Maynooth and, if it might plase God, with the hope

of being able to raise them out of their distress.”

The strangers looked more earnestly at the boy; sickness had touched his

fine intellectual features into a purity of expression almost ethereal.

His fair skin appeared nearly transparent, and the light of truth and

candor lit up his countenance with a lustre which affliction could not

dim.

The other stranger approached him more nearly, stooped for a moment, and

felt his pulse.

“How long have you been in this country?” he inquired.

“Nearly three years.”

“You have been ill of the fever which is so prevalent; how did you come

to be left to the chance of perishing upon the highway?”

“Why, sir, the people were afeard to let me into their houses in

consequence of the faver. I got ill in school, sir, but no boy would

venture to bring me home, an' the master turned me out, to die, I

believe. May God forgive him!”

“Who was your master, my child?”

“The great' Mr.------, sir. If Mr. O'Brien, the curate of the parish,

hadn't been ill himself at the same time, or if Mr. O'Rorke's son,

Thady, hadn't been laid on his back, too, sir, I wouldn't suffer what I

did.”

“Has the curate been kind to you?”

“Sir, only for him and the big boys I couldn't stay in the school, on

account of the master's cruelty, particularly since my money was out.”

“You are better now--are you not?” said the other gentleman.

“Thank God, sir!--oh, thanks be to the Almighty, I am! I expect to be

able to lave this place to-day or to-morrow.”

“And where do you intend to go when you recover?”

The boy himself had not thought of this, and the question came on him so

unexpectedly, that he could only reply--

“Indeed, sir, I don't know.”

“Had you,” inquired the second stranger, “testimonials from your parish

priest?”

“I had, sir: they are in the hands of Mr. O'Brien. I also had a

character from my father's landlord.”

“But how,” asked the other, “have you existed here during your illness?

Have you been long sick?”

“Indeed I can't tell you, sir, for I don't know how the time passed

at all; but I know, sir, that there were always two or three people

attendin' me. They sent me whatever they thought I wanted, upon a shovel

or a pitchfork, across the ditch, because they were afraid to come near

me.”

During the early part of the dialogue, two or three old hats, or

caubeens, might have been seen moving steadily over from the wigwam

to the ditch which ran beside the shed occupied by M'Evoy. Here they

remained stationary, for those who wore them were now within hearing of

the conversation, and ready to give their convalescent patient a good

word, should it be necessary.

“How were you supplied with drink and medicine?” asked the younger

stranger.

“As I've just told you, sir,” replied Jemmy; “the neighbors here let me

want for nothing that they had. They kept me in more whey than I could

use; and they got me medicine, too, some way or other. But indeed, sir,

during a great part of the time I was ill, I can't say how they attended

me: I wasn't insinsible, sir, of what was goin' on about me.”

One of those who lay behind the ditch now arose, and after a few hems

and scratchings of the head, ventured to join in the conversation.

“Pray have you, my man,” said the elder of the two, “been acquainted

with the circumstances of this boy's illness?”

“Is it the poor scholar, my Lord?* Oh thin bedad it's myself that has

that. The poor crathur was in a terrible way all out, so he was. He

caught the faver in the school beyant, one day, an' was turned out by

the nager o' the world that he was larnin' from.”

* The peasantry always address a Roman Catholic Bishop

as “My Lord.”

“Are you one of the persons who attended him?”

“Och, och, the crathar! what could unsignified people like us do for

him, barrin' a thrifle? Any how, my Lord, it's the meracle o' the world

that he was ever able to over it at all. Why, sir, good luck to the one

of him but suffered as much, wid the help o' God, as 'ud overcome fifty

men!”

“How did you provide him with drink at such a distance from any human

habitation?”

“Throth, hard enough we found it, sir, to do that same: but sure,

whether or not, my Lord, we couldn't be sich nagers as to let him die

all out, for want o' sometlrm' to moisten his throath wid.”

“I hope,” inquired the other, “you had nothing to do in the

milk-stealing which has produced such an outcry in this immediate

neighborhood?”

“Milk-stalin'! Oh, bedad, sir, there never was the likes known afore

in the caunthry. The Lord forgive them, that did it! Be gorra, sir, the

wickedness o' the people': mighty improving if one 'ud take warnin' by

it, glory be to God!”

“Many of the fanners' cows have been milked at night, Connor--perfectly

drained. Even my own cows have not escaped; and we who have suffered are

certainly determined, if possible, to ascertain those who have committed

the theft. I, for my part, have gone even beyond my ability in relieving

the wants of the poor, during this period of sickness and famine; I

therefore deserved this the less.”

“By the powdbers, your honor, if any gintleman desarved to have his cows

_unmilked_, it's yourself. But, as I said this minute, there's no end to

the wickedness o' the people, so there's not, although the Catechiz is

against them; for, says it, 'there is but one Faith, one Church, an' one

Baptism.' Now, sir, isn't it quare that people, wid sich words in the

book afore them, won't be guided by it? I suppose they thought it only a

_white_ sin, sir, to take the milk, the thieves o' the world.”

“Maybe, your honor,” said another, “that it was only to keep the life in

some poor sick crathur that wanted it more nor you or the farmers, that

they did it. There's some o' the same farmers desarve worse, for they're

keepin' up the prices o' their male and praties upon the poor, an' did

so all along, that they might make money by our outlier destitution.”

“That is no justification for theft,” observed the graver of the two.

“Does any one among you suspect those who committed it in this instance?

If you do, I command you, as your Bishop, to mention them.”

“How, for instance,” added the other, “were you able to supply this sick

boy with whey during his illness?”

“Oh thin, gintlemen,” replied Connor, dexterously parrying the question,

“but it's a mighty improvin' thing to see our own Bishop,--God spare

his Lordship to us!--an the Protestant minister o' the parish joinin'

together to relieve an' give good advice to the poor! Bedad, it's

settin' a fine example, so it is, to the Quality, if they'd take

patthern by it.”

“Reply,” said the Bishop, rather sternly, “to the questions we have

asked you.”

“The quistions, your Lordship? It's proud an' happy we'd be to do what

you want; but the sarra man among us can do it, barin' we'd say what we

ought not to say. That's the thruth, my Lord; an' surely 'tisn't your

Gracious Reverence that 'ud want us to go beyant that?”

“Certainly not,” replied the Bishop. “I warn you both against falsehood

and fraud; two charges which might frequently be brought against you in

your intercourse with the gentry of the country, whom you seldom scruple

to deceive and mislead, by gliding into a character, when speaking to

them, that is often the reverse of your real one; whilst at the same

time you are both honest and sincere to persons of your own class. Put

away this practice, for it is both sinful and discreditable.”

“God bless your Lordship! an' many thanks to your Gracious Reverence

for advisin' us! Well we know that it's the blessed thing to folly your

words.”

“Bring over that naked, starved-looking man, who is stirring the fire

under that pot,” said the Hector. “He looks like Famine itself.”

“Paddy Dunn! will you come over here to his honor, Paddy! He's goin'

to give you somethin,” said Connor, adding of his own accord the last

clause of his message.

The tattered creature approached him with a gleam of expectation in his

eyes that appeared like insanity.

“God bless your honor for your goodness,” exclaimed Paddy. “It's me

that's in it, sir!--Paddy Dunn, sir, sure enough; but, indeed, I'm the

next thing to my own ghost, sir, now God help me!”

“What, and for whom are you cooking?”

“Jist the smallest dhrop in life, sir, o' gruel, to keep the sowl in

that lonely crathur, sir, the poor scholar.”

“Pray how long is it since you have eaten anything yourself?”