you to my curate and coadjutor, the Reverend Pether M'Clatchaghan, and
to myself, his excellent friend, but spiritual superior, the Reverend
Edward Deleery, Roman Catholic Rector of this highly respectable and
extensive parish; and I have further the pleasure,” he continued, taking
up Andy Morrow's Punch, “of drinking your very good health, sir.”
“And I have the honor,” returned the stranger, rising up, and diving
his head among the flitches of bacon that hung in the chimney, “of
introducing you and the Rev. Mr. M'--M'--M'----”
“Clatchagan, sir,” subjoined Father Ned.
“Peter M'Illclatchagan, to Mr. Longinus Polysyllabus Alexandrinus.”
“By my word, sir, but it's a good and appropriate name, sure enough,”
said Father Ned, surveying his enormous length; “success to me but
you're an Alexandrine from head to foot--non solum Longinus, sed
Alexandrinus.”
“You're wrong, sir, in the Latin,” said Father Peter.
“Prove it, Peter--prove it.”
“It should be non tantum, sir.”
“By what rule Pether?”
“Why, sir, there's a phrase in Corderius's Colloquies that I could
condimn you from, if I had the book.”
“Pether, you think you're a scholar, and, to do you justice, you're cute
enough sometimes; but, Pether, you didn't travel for it, as I did--nor
were you obliged to lep out of a college windy in Paris, at the time of
the French Revolution, for your larning, as I was: not you, man, you ate
the king's mutton comfortably at home in Maynooth, instead of travelling
like your betters.”
“I appale to this gintleman,” said Father Peter turning to the stranger.
“Are you a classical scholar, sir--that is, do you understand Latin?”
“What kind?” demanded the stranger dryly.
“If you have read Corderius's Colloquies, it will do,” said Father
Peter.
“No, sir,” replied the other, “but I have read his commentator,
_Bardolphus_, who wrote a treatise upon the _Nasus Rubricundus_ of the
ancients.”
“Well, sir, if you did, it's probable that you may be able to understand
our dispute, so”--
“Peter, I'm afeard you've got into the wrong box; for I say he's no
chicken that's read _Nasus Rubricundus_, I can tell you that; I had my
own trouble with it: but, at any rate, will you take your punch, man
alive, and don't bother us with your Latin?”
“I beg your pardon, Father Ned: I insist that. I'm right; and I'll
convince you that you're wrong, if God spares me to see Corderius
to-morrow.”
“Very well then, Pether, if you're to decide it to-morrow, let us have
no more of it tonight.”
During this conversation between the two reverend worthies, the group
around the fire were utterly astonished at the erudition displayed in
this learned dispute.
“Well, to be sure, larnin's a great thing, entirely,” said M'Roarkin,
aside, to Shane Fadh.
“Ah, Tom, there's nothing like it: well, any way, it's wonderful what
they know!”
“Indeed it is, Shane--and in so short a time, too! Sure, it's not more
nor five or six years since Father Pether there used to be digging
praties on the one ridge with myself--by the same token, an excellent
spadesman he was--and now he knows more nor all the Protestant parsons
in the Diocy.”
“Why, how could they know any thing, when they don't belong to the thrue
church?” said Shane.
“Thrue for you, Shane,” replied M'Roaran; “I disremimbered that
clincher.”
This discourse ran parallel with the dispute between the two priests,
but in so low a tone as not to reach the ears of the classical
champions, who would have ill-brooked this eulogium upon Father Peter's
agricultural talent.
“Don't bother us, Pether, with your arguing to-night,” said Father
Ned, “it's enough for you to be seven days in the week at your
disputations.--Sir, I drink to our better acquaintance.”
“With all my heart, sir,” replied the stranger.
“Father Ned,” said Nancy, “the gintleman was going to tell us a sthrange
story, sir, and maybe your Reverence would wish to hear it, docthor?”
“Certainly, Nancy, we'll be very happy to hear any story the gintleman
may plase to tell us; but, Nancy, achora, before he begins, what if
you'd just fry a slice or two of that glorious flitch, hanging over his
head, in the corner?--that, and about six eggs, Nancy, and you'll have
the priest's blessing, gratis.”
“Why, Father Ned, it's too fresh, entirely--sure it's not a week hanging
yet.
“Sorra matter, Nancy dheelish, we'll take with all that--just try your
hand at a slice of it. I rode eighteen miles since I dined, and I feel a
craving, Nancy, a _whacuum_ in my stomach, that's rather troublesome.”
“To be sure, Father Ned, you must get a slice, with all the veins in my
heart; but I thought maybe you wouldn't like it so fresh: but what on
earth will we do for eggs? for there's not an egg under the roof with
me.”
“Biddy, a hagur,” said Father Ned, “just slip out to Molshy Johnson,
and tell her to send me six eggs for a rasher, by the same token that
I heard two or three hens cackling in the byre, as I was going to
conference this morning.”
“Well, Docthor,” said Pat Frayne, when Biddy had been gone some time, on
which embassy she delayed longer than the priest's judgment, influenced
by the cravings of his stomach, calculated to be necessary,--“Well,
Docthor, I often pity you, for fasting so long; I'm sure, I dunna how
you can stand it, at all, at all.”
“Troth, and you may well wonder, Pat; but we have that to support us,
that you, or any one like you, know nothing about--inward support,
Pat--inward support.”
“Only for that, Father Ned,” said Shane Fadh, “I suppose you could never
get through with it.”
“Very right, Shane--very right: only for it, we never could do.--What
the dickens is keeping this girl with the eggs?--why she might be at Mr.
Morrow's, here, since. By the way, Mr. Morrow,” he continued, laughing,
“you must come over to our church: you're a good neighbor, and a worthy
fellow, and it's a thousand pities you should be sent down.”
“Why, Docthor,” said Andy, “do you really believe I'll go downwards?”
“Ah, Mr. Morrow, don't ask me that question--out of the pale, you
know--out of the pale.”
“Then you think, sir, there's no chance for me, at all?” said Andy,
smiling.
“Not the laste, Andy, you must go this way,” said Father Ned, striking
the floor with the butt end of his whip, and winking--“to the lower
raigons; and, upon my knowledge, to tell you the truth, I'm sorry for
it, for you're a worthy fellow.”
“Ah, Docthor,” said Ned, “it's a great thing entirely to be born of the
true church--one's always sure, then.”
“Ay, ay; you may say that, Ned,” returned the priest, “come or go what
will, a man's always safe at the long run, except he dies without his
clargy.--Shane, hand me the jug, if you please.--Where did you get this
stuff, Nancy?--faith, it's excellent.”
“You forget, Father Ned, that that's a secret.----But here's Biddy with
the eggs, and now you'll have your rasher in no time.”
When the two clergymen had discussed the rashers and eggs, and while the
happy group were making themselves intimately acquainted with a fresh
jug of punch, as it circulated round the table--
“Now, sir,” said Father Ned to the stranger, “we'll hear your story with
the greatest satisfaction possible; but I think you might charge your
tumbler before you set to it.”
When the stranger had complied with this last hint, “Well, gentlemen,”
said he, “as I am rather fatigued, will you excuse me for the position
I am about to occupy, which is simply to stretch myself along the hob
here, with my head upon the straw hassoch? and if you have no objection
to that, I will relate the story.”
To this, of course, a general assent was given. When he was stretched
completely at his ease--
“Well, upon my veracity,” observed Father Peter, “the gentleman's
supernaturally long.”
“Yes, Pether,” replied Father Ned, “but observe his
position--_Polysyllaba cuncta supina_, as Psorody says.--Arrah,
salvation to me but you're a dull man, afther all!--but we're
interrupting the gentleman. Sir, go on, if you please, with your story.”
“Give me a few minutes,” said he, “until I recollect the particulars.”
He accordingly continued quiescent for two or three minutes more,
apparently arranging the materials of his intended narration, and then
commenced to gratify the eager expectations of his auditory, by emitting
those nasal enunciations which are the usual accompaniments of sleep!
“Why, bad luck to the morsel of 'im but's asleep,” said Ned; “Lord
pardon me for swearin' in your Reverence's presence.”
“That's certainly the language of a sleeping man,” replied Father Ned,
“but there might have been a little more respect than all that snoring
comes to. Your health, boys.”
The stranger had now wound up his nasal organ to a high pitch, after
which he commenced again with somewhat of a lower and finer tone.
“He's beginning a new paragraph,” observed Father Peter with a smile at
the joke.
“Not at all,” said Father Ned, “he's turning the tune; don't you
perceive that he's snoring 'God save the King,' in the key of _bass
relievo?_”
“I'm no judge of instrumental music, as you are,” said the curate, “but
I think it's liker the 'Dead March of Saul,' than 'God save the King;'
however, if you be right, the gentleman certainly snores in a truly
loyal strain.”
“That,” said little M'Roarkin, “is liker the Swine's melody, or the
Bedfordshire hornpipe--he--he--he!”
“The poor gintleman's tired,” observed Nancy, “afther a hard day's
thravelling.”
“I dare say he is,” said Father Ned, in the sincere hospitality of his
country; “at all events, take care of him, Nancy, he's a stranger,
and get the best supper you can for him--he appears to be a truly
respectable and well-bred man.”
“I think,” said M'Kinley, with a comical grin, “you might know that by
his high-flown manner of sleeping--he snores very politely, and like a
gentleman, all out.”
“Well done, Alick,” said the priest, laughing; “go home, boys, it's near
bed-time; Paddy, ma bouchal, are the horses ready?”
“They'll be at the door in a jiffy, your Reverence,” said Paddy going
out.
In the course of a few minutes, he returned, exclaiming, “Why, thin, is
it thinkin' to venthur out sich a night as it's comin' on yer Reverences
would be? and it plashin' as if it came out of methers! Sure the life
would be dhrownded out of both of ye, and yees might colch a faver into
the bargain.”
“Sit down, gintlemen,” said Ned; “sit down, Father Ned, you and Father
Pether--we'll have another tumbler; and, as it's my turn to tell a
story, I'll give yez something, amuse yez,--the best I can, and, you all
know, who can do more?”
“Very right, Ned; but let us see”--replied father Ned, putting his head
out of the door to ascertain what the night did; “come, pether, it's
good to be on the safe side of any house in such a storm; we must only
content ourselves until it gets fair. Now, Ned, go on with your story,
and let it be as pleasant as possible.”
“Never fear, your Reverence,” replied Ned--“here goes--and healths
a-piece to begin with.”
THE THREE TASKS.
“Every person in the parish knows the purty knoll that rises above the
Routing Burn, some few miles from the renowned town of Knockimdowny,
which, as all the world must allow, wants only houses and inhabitants
to be as big a place as the great town of Dublin itself. At the foot of
this little hill, just under the shelter of a dacent pebble of a rock,
something above the bulk of half a dozen churches, one would be apt to
see--if they knew how to look sharp, otherwise they mightn't be able to
make it out from the gray rock above it, except by the smoke that ris
from the chimbley--Nancy Magennis's little cabin, snug and cosey with
its corrag* or ould man of branches, standing on the windy side of the
door, to keep away the blast. Upon my word, it was a dacent little
residence in its own way, and so was Nancy herself, for that matther;
for, though a poor widdy, she was very _punctwell_ in paying for Jack's
schooling, as I often heard ould Terry M'Phaudeen say, who told me the
story. Jack, indeed, grew up a fine slip; and for hurling, foot-ball
playing, and lepping, hadn't his likes in the five quarters of the
parish. It's he that knew how to handle a spade and a raping-hook, and
what was betther nor all that, he was kind and tindher to his poor ould
mother, and would let her want for nothing. Before he'd go to his day's
work in the morning, he'd be sure to bring home from the clear-spring
well that ran out of the other side of the rock, a pitcher of water to
serve her for the day; nor would he forget to bring in a good creel
of turf from the snug little peat-sack that stood thatched with rushes
before the door, and leave it in the corner, beside the fire; so that
she had nothing to do but put over her hand, without rising off of her
sate, and put down a sod when she wanted it.
*The _Corrag_ is a roll of branches tied together when green
and used for the purposes mentioned the story. It is six
feet high, and much thicker than a sack, and is changed to
either side of the door according to the direction from
which the wind blows.
“Nancy, on her part, kept Jack very clane and comfortable; his linen,
though coorse, was always a good color, his working clothes tidily
mended at all times; and when he'd have occasion to put on his good coat
to work in for the first time, Nancy would sew on the fore-part of each
sleeve a stout patch of ould cloth, to keep them from being worn by the
spade; so that when she'd rip these off them every Saturday night, they
would look as new and fresh as if he hadn't been working in them at all,
at all.
“Then when Jack came home in the winter nights, it would do your heart
good to see Nancy sitting at her wheel, singing, '_Stachan Varagah_,'
or '_Peggy Na Laveen_,' beside a purty clear fire, with a small pot of
_murphys_ boiling on it for their supper, or laid up in a wooden
dish, comfortably covered with a clane praskeen on the well-swept
hearth-stone; whilst the quiet, dancing blaze might be seen blinking in
the nice earthen plates and dishes that stood over against the side-wall
of the house. Just before the fire you might see Jack's stool waiting
for him to come home; and on the other side, the brown cat washing her
face with her paws, or sitting beside the dog that lay asleep, quite
happy and continted, purring her song, and now and then looking over at
Nancy, with her eyes half-shut, as much as to say, 'Catch a happier pair
nor we are, Nancy, if you can.'
“Sitting quietly on the roost above the door, were Dicky the cock, and
half-a-dozen hens, that kept this honest pair in eggs and _egg-milk_ for
the best part of the year, besides enabling Nancy to sell two or three
clutches of March-birds every season, to help to buy wool for Jack's
big-coat, and her own gray-beard gown and striped red and blue
petticoat.
“To make a long story short--No two could be more comfortable,
considering every thing. But, indeed, Jack was always obsarved to have
a dacent ginteel turn with him; for he'd scorn to see a bad gown on his
mother, or a broken Sunday coat on himself; and instead of drinking his
little earning in a shebeen-house, and then eating his praties dry, he'd
take care to have something to kitchen* them; so that he was not only
snug and dacent of a Sunday, regarding wearables, but so well-fed and
rosy, that a point of a rush would take a drop of blood out of his
cheek.** Then he was the comeliest and best-looking young man in the
parish, could tell lots of droll stories, and sing scores of merry songs
that would make you split your sides with downright laughing; and when
a wake or a dance would happen to be in the neighborhood, maybe there
wouldn't be many a sly look from the purty girls for pleasant Jack
Magennis!
* The straits to which the poor Irish are put for what is
termed kitchen--that is some liquid that enables them to
dilute and swallow the dry potato--are grievous to think of.
An Irishman in his miserable cabin will often feel glad to
have salt and water in which to dip it, but that alluded to
in the text is absolute comfort. Egg milk is made as
follows:--A measure of water is put down suited to the
number of the family; the poor woman then takes the proper
number of eggs, which she beats up, and, when the water is
boiling, pours it in, stirring it well for a couple of
minutes. It is then made, and handed round in wooden
noggins, every one salting for themselves. In color it
resembles milk, which accounts for its name.
Our readers must have heard of the old and well known luxury
of “potatoes and point,” which, humorous as it is, scarcely
falls short of the truth. An Irish family, of the cabin
class, hangs up in the chimney a herring, or “small taste” of
bacon, and as the national imagination is said to be strong,
each individual points the potato he is going to eat at it,
upon the principle, I suppose, of _crede et habes_. It is
generally said that the act communicates the flavor of the
herring or bacon, as the case may be, to the potato; and
this is called “potatoes and point.”
** This proverb, which is always used as above, but without
being confined in its application, to only one sex, is a
general one in Ireland. In delicacy and beauty I think it
inimitable.
“In this way lived Jack and his mother, as happy and continted as two
lords; except now and thin, that Jack would feel a little consarn for
not being able to lay past anything for the _sorefoot_,* or that might
enable him to think of marrying--for he was beginning to look about him
for a wife; and why not, to be sure? But he was prudent for all that,
and didn't wish to bring a wife and small family into poverty and
hardship without means to support them, as too many do.
* Accidents--future calamity--or old age.
“It was one fine, frosty, moonlight night--the sky was without a cloud,
and the stars all blinking that it would delight anybody's heart to look
at them, when Jack was crassing a bog that lay a few fields beyant his
own cabin. He was just crooning the '_Humors of Glynn_' to himself and
thinking that it was a very hard case that he couldn't save anything at
all, at all, to help him to the wife, when, on coming down a bank in the
middle of the bog, he saw a dark-looking man leaning against a clamp of
turf, and a black dog, with a pipe of tobacky in his mouth, sitting at
his ase beside him, and he smoking as sober as a judge. Jack, however,
had a stout heart, bekase his conscience was clear, and, barring being
a little daunted, he wasn't very much afeard. 'Who is this coming down
towards us?' said the black-favored man, as he saw Jack approaching
them. 'It's Jack Magennis,' says the dog, making answer, and taking the
pipe out of his mouth with his right paw; and after puffing away the
smoke, and rubbing the end of it against his left leg, exactly as a
Christian (this day's Friday, the Lord stand betune us and harm) would
do against his sleeve, giving it at the same time to his comrade--'It's
Jack Magennis,' says the dog, 'honest Widow Magennis's dacent son.' 'The
very man,' says the other, back to him, 'that I'd wish to sarve out of a
thousand. Arrah, Jack Magennis, how is every tether-length of you?' says
the old fellow, putting the _furrawn_* on him--'and how is every bone
in your body, Jack, my darling? I'll hould a thousand guineas,' says he,
pointing to a great big bag that lay beside him, 'and that's only the
tenth part of what's in this bag, Jack, that you're just going to be in
luck to-night above all the nights in the year.'
* That frank, cordial manner of address which brings
strangers suddenly to intimacy.
“'And may worse never happen you, Jack, my bouchal,' says the dog,
putting in his tongue, then wagging his tail, and houlding out his paw
to shake hands with Jack.
“'Gintlemen,' says Jack, never minding to give the dog his hand, bekase
he heard it wasn't safe to touch the likes of him--'Gintlemen,' says he,
'ye're sitting far from the fire this frosty night.'
“'Why, that's true, Jack,' answers the ould fellow; 'but if we're
sitting far from the fire, we're sitting very near the makins of it, man
alive.' So, with this, he pulls the bag of goold over to him, that Jack
might know, by the jingle of the shiners, what was in it.
“'Jack,' says dark-face, 'there's some born with a silver ladle in their
mouth, and others with a wooden spoon; and if you'll just sit down on
the one end of this clamp with me, and take a hand at the five and ten,'
pulling out, as he spoke, a deck of cards, 'you may be a made man for
the remainder of your life.'
“'Sir,' says Jack, 'with submission, both yourself and this cur--I
mane,' says he, not wishing to give the dog offence, 'both yourself
and this dacint gintleman with the tail and claws upon him, have
the advantage of me, in respect of knowing my name; for, if I don't
mistake,' says he, putting his hand to his caubeen, 'I never had the
pleasure of seeing either of ye before.'
“'Never mind that,' says the dog, taking back the pipe from the other,
and clapping it in his mouth; 'we're both your well-wishers, anyhow, and
it's now your own fault if you're not a rich man.'
“Jack, by this time, was beginning to think that they might be afther
wishing to throw luck in his way; for he had often heard of men being
made up entirely by the fairies, till there was no end to their wealth.
“'Jack,' says the black man, 'you had better be led by us for this
bout--upon the honor of a gintleman we wish you well: however, if you
don't choose to take the ball at the right hop, another may; and you're
welcome to toil all your life, and die a beggar after.'
“'Upon my reputation, what he says is true, Jack,' says the dog, in his
turn, 'the lucky minute of your life is come: let it pass without doing
what them that wishes your mother's son well desire you, and you'll die
in a ditch.'
“'And what am I to do,' says Jack, 'that's to make me so rich all of a
sudden?'
“'Why only to sit down, and take a game of cards with myself says
black-brow, 'that's all, and I'm sure its not much.'
“'And what is it to be for?' Jack inquires; 'for I have no
money--tare-nation to the rap itself's in my company.'
“'Well, you have yourself,' says the dog, putting up his fore-claw
along his nose, and winking at Jack; 'you have yourself, man--don't be
faint-hearted: he'll bet the contents of this bag;' and with that the
ould thief gave it another great big shake, to make the guineas jingle
again. 'It's ten thousand guineas in hard goold; if he wins, you're
to sarve him for a year and a day; and if he loses, you're to have the
bag.'
“'And the money that's in it?' says Jack, wishing, you see, to make a
sure bargain, anyhow.
“'Ev'ry penny,' answered the ould chap, 'if you win it;' and there's
fifty to one in your favor.'
“By this time the dog had gone into a great fit of laughing at Jack's
sharpness about the money. 'The money that's in it, Jack!' says he; and
he took the pipe out of his mouth, and laughed till he brought on a
hard fit of coughing. 'O, by this and by that says he, 'but that bates
Bannagher! And you're to get ev'ry penny, you thief o' the world, if
you win it!' but for all that he seemed to be laughing at something that
Jack wasn't up to.
“At any rate, surely, they palavered Jack betune them until he sot down
and consinted. 'Well,' says he, scratching his head, 'why, worse nor
lose I can't, so here goes for one trial at the shiners, any how!'
“'Now,' says the obscure gintleman, just whin the first card was in his
hand, ready to be laid down, 'you're to sarve me for a year and a day,
if I win; and if I lose, you shall have all the money in the bag.'
“'Exactly,' said Jack, and, just as he said the word, he saw the dog
putting the pipe in his pocket, and turning his head away, for fraid
Jack would see him breaking his sides laughing. At last, when he got his
face sobered, he looks at Jack, and says, 'Surely, Jack, if you win,
you must get all the money in the bag; and, upon my reputation, you may
build castles in the air with it, you'll be so rich.'