dry man that never laughed much.
“'Sure,' says the friar, who was seldom at a loss, 'I have yourself
and your nephew for examples that it's possible to live and be well fed
without divinity.'
“'At any rate,' says my uncle, putting in his tongue, 'I think you're
both very well able to make divinity a joke betune you,' says he.
“'Well done, Brian,' says the friar, 'and so they are, for I believe it
is the only subject they can joke upon! and I beg your pardon,
Michael, for not excepting it before; on that subject I allow you to be
humorsome.'
“'If that be the case, then,' says Father Corrigan, 'I must give up your
company, Frank, in order to avoid the force of bad example; for you're
so much in the habit of joking on everything else, that you're not able
to accept even divinity itself.'
“'You may aisily give me up,' says the friar, 'but how will you be able
to forget Father Corrigan? I'm afeard you'll find his acquaintance as
great a detriment to yourself, as it is to others in that respect.'
“'What makes you say,' says Father James, who was more in airnest than
the rest, 'that my uncle won't make me fit for the kingdom of heaven?'
“'I had a pair of rasons for it, Jemmy,' says the friar; 'one is, that
he doesn't understand the subject himself; another is, that you haven't
capacity for it, even if he did. You've a want of natural parts--a
_whackuuum_ here' pointing to his forehead.
“'I beg your pardon, Frank,' says Father James 'I deny your premises,
and I'll now argue in Latin with you, if you wish, upon any subject you
please.'
“'Come, then,' says the friar,--'Kid eat ivy mare eat hay.'
“'Kid--what?' says the other.
“'Kid eat ivy mare eat hay,' answers the friar.
“'I don't know what you're at,' says Father James, 'but I'll argue in
Latin with you as long as you wish.'
“'Tut man,' says Father Rooney, 'Latin's for school-boys; but come, now,
I'll take you in another language--I'll try you in Greek--_In-mud-eel-is
in-clay-none-is in-fir-tar-is in-oak-no ne-is_.'
“The curate looked at him, amazed, not knowing what answer to make.
At last says he, 'I don't profess to know Greek, bekase I never larned
it--but stick to the Latin, and I'm not afeard of you.'
“'Well, then,' says the friar, 'I'll give you a trial at that--Afflat te
canis ter--Forte dux fel flat in guttur.'
“'A flat tay-canisther--Forty ducks fell flat in the gutthers!' says
Father James,--'why that's English!'
“'English!' says the friar, 'oh, good-bye to you, Mr. Secular; 'if
that's your knowledge of Latin, you're an honor to your tachers and to
your cloth.'
“Father Corrigan now laughed heartily at the puzzling the friar gave
Father James. 'James,' says he, 'never heed him; he's only pesthering
you with bog-Latin; but, at any rate to do him justice, he's not a
bad Scholar, I can tell you that.... Your health, Prank, you droll
crathur--your health. I have only one fault to find with you, and
that is, that you fast and mortify yourself too much. Your fasting has
reduced you from being formerly a friar of very genteel dimensions to
a cut of corpulency that smacks strongly of penance--fifteen stone at
least.
“'Why,' says the friar, looking down quite plased, entirely, at the
cut of his own waist, Uch, among ourselves, was no trifle, and giving a
growl of a laugh--the most he ever gave, 'if what you pray here benefits
you in the _next life_ as much as what _I fast_ does for me _in this_,
it will be well for the world in general Michael.'
“'How can you say, Frank,' says Father 'with such a carkage as that,
you're a poor friar? Upon my credit, when you die, I think the angels
will have a job of it in wafting you upwards.”
“'Jemmy, man, was it _you_ that said it?--why, my light's beginning to
shine upon you, or you never could have got out so much,' says Father
Rooney, putting his hands over his brows, and looking up toardst him;
'but if you ever read scripthur, which I suppose you're not overburdened
with, you would know that it says, “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” but
not blessed are the poor in flesh--now, mine is spiritual poverty.'
“'Very true, Frank,' says Father Corrigan, 'I believe there's a great
dearth and poverty of spirituality about you, sure enough. But of
all kinds of poverty, commend me to a friar's. Voluntary poverty's
something, but it's the divil entirely for a man to be poor against his
will. You friars boast of this voluntary poverty; but if there's a fat
bit in any part of the parish, we, that are the lawful clargy, can't
eat it, but you're sure to drop in, just in the nick of time, with your
voluntary poverty.'
“'I'm sure, if we do,' says the friar, 'it's nothing out of your pocket,
Michael. I declare I believe you begrudge us the air we breathe. But
don't you know very well that our ordhers are apostolic, and that, of
coorse, we have a more primitive appearance than you have.'
“'No such thing,' says the other; 'you, and the parsons, and the fat
bishops, are too far from the right place--the only difference between
you is, that you are fat and lazy by toleration, whereas the others are
fat and lazy by authority. You are fat and lazy on your ould horses,
jogging about from house to house, and stuffing yourselves either at the
table of other people's parishioners, or in your own convents in Dublin
and elsewhere. They are rich, bloated gluttons, going about in their
coaches, and wallying in wealth. Now, we are the golden mean, Frank,
that live upon a little, and work hard for it.'
“'Why, you cormorant,' says the friar, a little nettled, for the dhrop
was beginning to get up into his head, 'sure if we're fat by toleration,
we're only tolerably fat, my worthy secular!'
“'You see,' says the friar, in a whisper to my uncle, 'how I sobered
them in the larning, and they are good scholars for all that, but not
near so deep read as myself.' 'Michael,' says he, 'now that I think on
it--sure I'm to be at Denis O'Flaherty's Month's mind on Thursday next.'
“'Indeed I would not doubt you,' says Father Corrigan; 'you wouldn't be
apt to miss it.'
“'Why, the widdy Flaherty asked me yesterday, and I think that's proof
enough that I'm not going unsent for.'
“By this time the company was hard and fast at the punch, the songs, and
the dancing. The dinner had been cleared off, except what was before
the friar, who held out wonderfully, and the beggars and shulers were
clawing and scoulding one another about the divide. The dacentest of
us went into the house for a while, taking the fiddler with us, and the
rest, with the piper, staid on the green to dance, where they were soon
joined by lots of the counthry people, so that in a short time there was
a large number entirely. After sitting for some time within, Mary and I
began, you may be sure, to get unasy, sitting palavering among a parcel
of ould sober folks; so, at last, out we slipped, and the few other
dacent young people that were with us, to join the dance, and shake our
toe along with the rest of them. When we made our appearance, the flure
was instantly cleared for us, and then she and I danced the _Humors of
Glin_.
“Well, it's no matter--it's all past now, and she lies low; but I may
say that it wasn't very often danced in better style since, I'd wager.
Lord, bless us, what a drame the world is! The darling of my heart you
war, avourneen machree. I think I see her with the modest smile upon her
face, straight, and fair, and beautiful, and--hem--and when the dance
was over, how she stood leaning upon me, and my heart within melting to
her, and the look she'd give into my eyes and my heart, too, as much as
to say, 'This is the happy day with me;' and the blush still would
fly acrass her face, when I'd press her, unknownst to the bystanders,
against my beating heart. A _suilish machree_, (* Light of my heart.)
she is now gone from me--lies low, and it all appears like a drame to
me; but--hem--God's will be done!--sure she's happy--och, och!!
“Many a shake hands did I get from the neighbors' sons, wishing me joy;
and I'm sure I couldn't do less than thrate them to a glass, you know;
and 'twas the same way with Mary: many a neighbors' daughter, that she
didn't do more nor know by eyesight, maybe, would come up and wish
her happiness in the same manner, and she would say to me, 'Shane,
avourneen, that's such a man's daughter--they're a dacent friendly
people, and we can't do less nor give her a glass.' I, of coorse, would
go down and bring them over, after a little pulling--making, you see, as
if they wouldn't come--to where my brother was handing out the native.
“In this way we passed the time till the evening came on, except that
Mary and the bridesmaid were sent for to dance with the priests, who
were within at the punch, in all their glory,--Friar Rooney along
with them as jolly as a prince. I and my man, on seeing this, were for
staying with the company; but my mother, who 'twas that came for them,
says, 'Never mind the boys, Shane, come in with the girls, I say. You're
just wanted at the present time, both of you, follow me for an hour or
two, till their Reverences within have a bit of a dance with the girls,
in the back room; we don't want to gother a crowd about them.' Well, we
went in, sure enough, for awhile; but, I don't know how it was, I didn't
at all feel comfortable with the priests; for, you see, I'd rather sport
my day figure with the boys and girls upon the green: so I gives Jack
_the hard word_* and in we went, when, behold you, there was Father
Corrigan planted upon the side of a settle, Mary along with him, waiting
till they'd have the fling of a dance together, whilst the Curate was
capering on the flure before the bridesmaid, who was a purty dark-haired
girl, to the tune of 'Kiss my lady;' and the friar planted between my
mother and my mother-in-law, one of his legs stretched out on a chair,
he singing some funny song or other, that brought the tears to their
eyes with laughing.
* A pass-word, sign, or brief intimation, touching something
of which a man is ignorant, that he may act accordingly.
“Whilst Father James was dancing with the bridesmaid, I gave Mary the
wink to! come away from Father Corrigan, wishing, as I tould you, to
get out amongst the youngsters once more; and Mary, herself, to tell
the truth, although he was the priest, was very willing to do so. I went
over to her, and says, 'Mary, asthore, there's a friend without that
wishes to spake to you.'
“'Well,' says Father Corrigan, 'tell that friend that she's better
employed, and that they must wait, whoever they are. I'm giving your
wife, Shane,' says he, 'a little good advice that she won't be the worse
for, and she can't go now.'
“Mary, in the meantime, had got up, and was coming away, when his
Reverence wanted her to stay till they'd finished their dance. 'Father
Corrigan,' says she, 'let me go now, sir, if you plase, for they would
think it bad threatment of me not to go out to them.'
“'Troth, and you'll do no such thing, acushla,' says he, spaking so
sweet to her; 'let them come in if they want you. Shane, says his
Reverence, winking at me, and spiking in a whisper, 'stay here, you and
the girls, till we take a hate at the dancing--don't you know that the
ould women here, and me will have to talk over some things about the
fortune; you'll maybe get more nor you expect. Here, Molshy,' says he to
my mother-in-law, 'don't let the youngsters out of this.”
“'Musha, Shane, ahagur,' say's the ould woman 'why will yez go and
lave the place; sure you needn't be dashed before them--they'll dance
themselves.'
“Accordingly we stayed in the room; but just on the word, Mary gives
one spring away, leaving his Reverence by himself on the _settle_. 'Come
away,' says she, 'lave them there, and let us go to where I can have a
dance with yourself, Shane.'
“Well, I always loved Mary, but at that minute, if it would save her,
I think I could spill my heart's blood for her. 'Mary,' says I full to
the throat, 'Mary, acushla agus asthore machree,* I could lose my life
for you.'
*The very pulse and delight of my heart.
“She looked in my face, and the tears came into her--yes--'Shane,
achora,' says she, 'amn't I your happy girl, at last?' She was leaning
over against my breast; and what answer do you think I made?--I pressed
her to my heart: I did more--I took off my hat, and looking up to God, I
thanked him with tears in my eyes, for giving me such a treasure. 'Well,
come now,' says she, 'to the green;' so we went--and it's she that was
the girl, when she did go among them, that threw them all into the dark
for beauty and figure; as fair as a lily itself did she look--so tall
and illegant, that you wouldn't think she was a farmer's daughter at
all; so we left the priests dancing away, for we could do no good before
them.
“When we had danced an hour or so, them that the family had the
greatest regard for were brought in unknown to the rest, to drink tay.
Mary planted herself beside me, and would sit nowhere else; but the
friar got beside the bridesmaid, and I surely observed that many a time
she'd look over, likely to split, at Mary, and it's Mary herself that
gave her many's a wink, to come to the other side; but, you know, out of
manners, she was obliged to sit quietly, though among ourselves it's she
that was like a hen on a hot griddle, beside the ould chap. It was now
that the bride-cake was got. Ould Sonsy Mary marched over, and putting
the bride on her feet, got up on a chair and broke it over her head,
giving round a _fadge_* of it to every young person in the house, and
they again to their acquaintances: but, lo and behold you, who should
insist on getting a whang of it but the friar, which he rolled up in a
piece of paper, and put it in his pocket. 'I'll have good fun,' says
he, 'dividing this to-morrow among the colleens when I'm collecting my
oats--the sorra one of me but I'll make them give me the worth of it of
something, if it was only a fat hen or a square of bacon.'
* A liberal portion torn off a thick cake.
“After tay the ould folk got full of talk; the youngsters danced round
them; the friar sung like a thrush, and told many a droll story. The
tailor had got drunk a little too early, and had to be put to bed, but
he was now as fresh as ever, and able to dance a hornpipe, which he
did on a door. The Dorans and the Flanagans had got quite thick after
drubbing one another--Ned Doran began his courtship with Alley Flanagan
on that day, and they were married soon after, so that the two factions
joined, and never had another battle until the day of her berrial, when
they were at it as fresh as ever. Several of those that were at the
wedding were lying drunk about the ditches, or roaring, and swaggering,
and singing about the place. The night falling, those that were dancing
on the green removed to the barn. Father Corrigan and Father James
weren't ill off; but as for the friar, although he was as pleasant as
a lark, there was hardly any such thing as making him tipsy. Father
Corrigan wanted him to dance--'What!' says he, 'would you have me to
bring on an earthquake, Michael?--but who ever heard of a follower
of St. Domnick, bound by his vow to voluntary poverty and
mortification----young couple, your health--will anybody tell mo
who mixed this, for they've knowledge worth a folio of the
fathers----poverty and mortification, going to shake his heel? By the
bones of St. Domnick, I'd desarve to be suspinded if I did. Will no
one tell me who mixed this, I say, for they had a jewel of a hand at
it?--Och--
'Let parsons prache and pray--
Let priests to pray and prache, sir;
What's the rason they
Don't practise what they tache, sir?
Forral, orral, loll,
Forral, orral, laddy--
_Sho da slainthah ma collenee agus ma bouchalee_. Hoigh, oigh,
oigh, healths all! gintlemen seculars! Molshy,' says the friar to my
mother-in-law, 'send that bocaun* to bed--poor fellow, he's almost
off--rouse yourself, James! It's aisy to see that he's but young at it
yet--that's right--he's sound asleep--just toss him into bed, and in an
hour or so he'll be as fresh as a daisy.
* A soft, unsophisticated youth.
Let parsons prache and pray--
-----Forral, orral, loll.'
“For dear's sake, Father Rooney,' says my uncle, running in, in a great
hurry, 'keep yourself quiet a little; here's the Squire and Mister
Francis coming over to fulfil their promise; he would have come up
airlier, he says, but that he was away all day at the 'sizes.'
“'Very well,' says the friar, 'let him come--who's afeard--mind
yourself, Michael.'
“In a minute or two they came in, and we all rose up of course
to welcome them. The Squire shuck hands with the ould people, and
afterwards with Mary and myself, wishing us all happiness, then with the
two clergymen, and introduced Master Frank to them; and the friar made
the young chap sit beside him. The masther then took a sate himself,
and looked on while they were dancing, with a smile of good-humor on his
face--while they, all the time, would give new touches and trebles, to
show off all their steps before him. He was landlord both to my father
and father-in-law; and it's he that was the good man, and the gintleman
every inch of him. They may all talk as they will, but commend me, Mr.
Morrow, to some of the ould squires of former times for a landlord.
The priests, with all their larning, were nothing to him for good
breeding--he appeared so free, and so much at his ase, and even so
respectful, that I don't think there was one in the house but would put
their two hands under his feet to do him a sarvice.
“When he sat a while, my mother-in-law came over with a glass of nice
punch that she had mixed, at least equal to what the friar praised so
well, and making a low curtshy, begged pardon for using such freedom
with his honor, but hoped that he would just taste a little to the
happiness of the young couple. He then drank our healths, and shuck
hands with us both a second time, saying--although I can't, at all at
all, give it in anything like his own words--'I am glad,' says he,
to Mary's parents, 'that your daughter has made such a good
choice;'--throth he did--the Lord be merciful to his sowl--God forgive
me for what I was going to say, and he a Protestant;--but if ever one of
yez went to heaven, Mr. Morrow, he did;--' such a prudent choice; and I
congr--con--grathu-late you,' says he to my father, 'on your connection
with so industrious and respectable a family. You are now beginning the
world for yourselves,' says he to Mary and me, 'and I cannot propose a
better example to you both than that of your respective parents. From
this forrid,' says he, 'I'm to considher you my tenants; and I wish to
take this opportunity of informing you both, that should you act up to
the opinion I entertain of you, by an attentive coorse of industry
and good management, you will find in me an encouraging and indulgent
landlord. I know, Shane,' says he to me, smiling a little, knowingly
enough too, 'that you have been a little wild or so, but that's past,
I trust. You have now sarious duties to perform, which you cannot
neglect--but you will not neglect them; and be assured, I say again,
that I shall feel pleasure in rendhering you every assistance in my
power in the cultivation and improvement of your farm.'--'Go over,
both of you,' says my father, 'and thank his honor, and promise to do
everything he says.' Accordingly, we did so; I made my scrape as well as
I could, and Mary blushed to the eyes, and dropp'd her curtshy.
“'Ah!' says the friar, 'see what it is to have a good landlord and
a Christian gintleman to dale with. This is the feeling which should
always bind a landlord and his tenants together. If I know your
character, Squire Whitethorn, I believe you're not the man that would
put a Protestant tenant over the head of a Catholic one, which shows,
sir, your own good sense; for what is a difference of religion, when
people do what they ought to do? Nothing but the name. I trust, sir, we
shall meet in a better place than this--both Protestant and Catholic'
“'I am happy, sir,' says the Squire, 'to hear such principles from a man
who I thought was bound to hould different opinions.'
“'Ah, sir!' says the friar, 'you little know who you're talking to,
if you think so. I happened to be collecting a taste of oats, with the
permission of my friend Doctor Corrigan here, for I'm but a poor friar,
sir, and dropped in _by mere accident_; but, you know the hospitality of
our country, Squire; and that's enough--go they would not allow me, and
I was mintioning to this young gintleman, your son, how we collected the
oats, and he insisted on my calling--a generous, noble child! I hope,
sir, you have got proper instructors for him?'
“'Yes,' said the Squire; 'I'm taking care of that point.'
“What do you think, sir, but he insists on my calling over to-morrow,
that he may give me his share of oats, as I told him that I was a friar,
and that he was a little parishioner of mine: but I added, that that
wasn't right of him, without his papa's consent.'
“'Well, sir,' says the Squire, 'as he has promised, I will support him;
so if you'll ride over to-morrow, you shall have a sack of oats--at all
events I shall send you a sack in the course of the day.'
“'I humbly thank you, sir,' says Father Rooney and I thank my noble
little parishioner for his generosity to the poor old friar--God mark
you to grace, my dear; and wherever you go, take the ould man's blessing
along with you.'
“They then bid us good-night, and we rose and saw them to the door.
“Father Corrigan now appeared to be getting sleepy. While this was
going on, I looked about me, but couldn't see Mary. The tailor was just
beginning to get a little hearty once more. Supper waa talked of, but
there was no one that could ate anything; even the friar, was against
it. The clergy now got their horses, the friar laving his oats behind
him; for we promised to send them home, and something more along with
them the next day. Father James was roused up, but could hardly stir
with a _heddick_. Father Corrigan was correct enough; but when the friar
got up, he ran a little to the one side, upsetting Sonsy Mary that sat a
little beyond him. He then called over my mother-in-law to the dresser,
and after some collogin (* whispering) she slipped two fat fowl, that
had never been touched, into one of his coat pockets, that was big
enough to hould a leg of mutton. My father then called me over and said,
'Shane,' says he, 'hadn't you better slip Father Rooney a bottle or two
of that whiskey; there's plenty of it there that wasn't touched, and
you won't be a bit the poorer of it, may be, this day twelve months.' I
accordingly dropped two bottles of it into the other pocket, so that his
Reverence was well balanced any how.
“'Now,' said he, 'before I go, kneel down both of you, till I give you my
benediction.'
“We accordingly knelt down, and he gave us his blessing in Latin before
he bid us good-night!
“After they went, Mary threw the stocking--all the unmarried folks
coming in the dark, to see who it would hit. Bless my sowl, but she
was the droll Mary--for what did she do, only put a big brogue of her
father's into it, that was near two pounds weight; and who should it hit
on the bare sconce, but Billy Cormick, the tailor--who thought he was
fairly shot, for it levelled the crathur at once; though that wasn't
hard to do any how.
“This was the last ceremony: and Billy was well continted to get the
knock, for you all know, whoever the stocking strikes upon is to be
married first. After this, my mother and mother-in-law set them to the
dancing--and 'twas themselves that kept it up till long after daylight
the next morning--but first they called me into the next room where Mary
was; and--and--so ends my wedding; by the same token that I'm as dry as
a stick.”
“Come, Nancy,” says Andy Morrow, “replenish again for us all, with a
double measure for Shane Fadh--because he well desarves it.”
“Why, Shane,” observed Alick, “you must have a terrible memory of your
own, or you couldn't tell it all so exact.”
“There's not a man in the four provinces has sich a memory,” replied
Shane. “I never hard that story yet, but I could repate it in fifty
years afterwards. I could walk up any town in the kingdom, and let me
look at the signs and I would give them to you agin jist exactly as they
stood.”
Thus ended the account of Shane Fadh's wedding; and, after finishing the
porter, they all returned home, with an understanding that they were to
meet the next night in the same place.
LARRY M'FARLAND'S WAKE.