Chapter 2

That immense cigar, the mild Cavanagh! favours us with the following practical account of his system; by which he intends, through the means of enthusiasm, to render breakfasts a superfluity--luncheons, inutilities--dinners, dreadful extravagancies--teas, iniquitous wastes--and suppers, supper-erogatories.

Mr. B.C. proposes the instant dismissal, without wages or warning, of all the cooks, and substitution of the like number of Ciceros; thereby affording a more ample mental diet, as the followers will be served out with orations instead of rations. For the proper excitement of the necessary enthusiasm, he submits the following Mental Bill of Fare:--

FOR STRONG STOMACHS AND WEAK INTELLECTS:--

Feargus O'Connor, as per Crown and Anchor. Mr. Vincent. Mr. Roebuck, with ancestral sauce--very fine, if not pitched too strong. N.B.--In case of surfeit from the above, the editor of the _Times_ may be resorted to as an antidote. Daniel O'Connell--whose successful practice of the exciting and fasting, or rather, starving system, among the rent contributors in Ireland, not only proves the truth of the theory, but enables B.C. to recommend him as the safest dish in the _carte_.

FOR WEAK STOMACHS AND VERY SMALL IMAGINATIONS:--

D'Israeli (Ben)--breakfast off the "Wondrous Tale of Alroy." Bulwer--lunch on "Siamese Twins." Stephens--dine off "The Hungarian Daughter." Heraud--tea off "The Deluge,"--sup off the whole Minerva Library. N.B.--None of the above, will bear the slightest dilution.

FOR DELICATE DIGESTIONS, AND LIMITED UNDERSTANDINGS, PERUSALS OF

"World of Fashion." Lord John Russell's "Don Carlos." Montgomery's "Satan" (very good as a devil). "Journal of Civilization." Any of F. Chorley's writings, Robins' advertisements, or poetry relating to Warren's Jet Blacking.

FOR MENTAL BOLTERS

Ainsworth's "Jack Sheppard." Harmer's "Weekly Dispatch." "Newgate Calendar." "Terrific Register," "Frankenstein," &c. &c. &c.

The above forms a brief abstract of Mr. B.C.'s plan, furnished and approved by the Poor Law Commissioners. We are credibly informed that the same enlightened gentleman is at present making arrangements with Sir Robert Peel for the total repeal of the use of bread by all operatives, and thereby tranquillising the present state of excitement upon the corn-law question; proving bread, once erroneously considered the staff of life, to be nothing more than a mere ornamental opera cane.

* * * * *

SYNCRETIC LITERATURE.

_Concluding remarks on an Epic Poem of Giles Scroggins and Molly Brown._

The circumstance which rendered Giles Scroggins peculiarly ineligible as a bridegroom eminently qualified him as a tenant for one of those receptacles in which defunct mortals progress to "that bourne from whence no traveller returns." Fancy the bereaved Molly, or, as she is in grief, and grief is tragical, Mary Brown, denuded of her scarf and black gloves, turning faintly from the untouched cake and tasteless wine, and retiring to the virtuous couch, whereon, with aching heart, the poet asserts she, the said

"Poor Molly, laid her down to weep;"

and then contemplate her the victim of somnolent consequences, when--

"She cried herself quite fast asleep,"

Here an ordinary mind might have left the maiden and reverted "to her streaming eyes," inflamed lids, dishevelled locks, and bursting sigh, as satisfactory evidences of the truth of her broken-heartedness, but the "great anonymous" of whom we treat, scorns the application of such external circumstances as agents whereby to depict the intenseness of the passion of the ten thousand condensed turtle-doves glowing in the bosom of _his_ heroine. Sleep falls upon her eyes; but the "life of death," the subtle essence of the shrouded soul, the watchful sentinel and viewless evidence of immortality, the wild and flitting air-wrought impalpabilities of her fitful dreams, still haunt her in her seeming hours of rest. Fancy her feelings--

"When, standing fast by her bed-post, A figure tall her sight engross'd,"

and it cried--

"'I be's Giles Scroggins' ghost.'"

Such is the frightful announcement commemorative of this visitation from the wandering spirit of the erratic Giles. Death has indeed parted them. Giles is cold, but still his love is warm! He loved and won her in life--he hints at a right of possession in death; and this very forgetfulness of what he _was_, and what he _is_, is the best essence of the overwhelming intensity of his passion. He continues (with a beautiful reliance on the faith and _living_ constancy of Molly, in reciprocation, though dead, of his deathless attachment) to offer her a share, not of his bed and board, but of his shell and shroud. There is somewhat of the imperative in the invitation, which runs thus:--

"The ghost it said so solemnly, 'Oh, Molly, you _must_ go with me, All to the grave, your love to cool.'"

We have no doubt this assumption of command on the part of the ghost--an assumption, be it remembered, never ventured upon by the living Giles--gave rise to some unpleasant reflections in the mind of the slumbering Molly. _Must_ is certainly an awkward word. Tell any lady that she _must_ do this, or _must_ do that, and, however much her wishes may have previously prompted the proceeding, we feel perfectly satisfied, that on the very shortest notice she will find an absolute and undeniable reason why such a proceeding is diametrically opposed to the line of conduct she _will_, and therefore ought to, adopt.

With an intuitive knowledge of human nature, the great poet purposely uses the above objectionable word. How could he do otherwise, or how more effectually, and less offensively, extricate Molly Brown from the unpleasant tenantry of the proposed under-ground floor? Command invariably begets opposition, opposition as certainly leads to argument. So proves our heroine, who, with a beautiful evasiveness, delivers the following expostulation:--

"Says she, 'I am not dead, you fool!'"

One would think _that_ was a pretty decent clincher, by way of a reason for declining the proposed trip to Giles Scroggins' little property at his own peculiar "Gravesend;" but as contradiction begets controversy, and the enlightened poet is fully aware of the effect of that cause, the undaunted sprite of the interred Giles instantly opposes this, to him, flimsy excuse, and upon the peculiar veracity of a wandering ghost, triumphantly exclaims, in the poet's words--words that, lest any mistake should arise as to the speaker by the peculiar construction of the sentence, are rendered _doubly_ individual, for--

"_Says_ the _ghost_, says _he_, vy that's no rule!"

There's a staggerer! being alive no rule for _not_ being buried! how _is_ Molly Brown to get out of that high-pressure cleft-stick? how! that's the question! Why not in a state of somnolency, not during the "death of each day's life; no, it is clear, to escape such a consummation she must be wide awake." The poet sees this, and with the energy of a master-mind, he brings the invisible chimera of her entranced imagination into effective operation. Argument with a man who denies first premises, and we submit the assertion that vitality is no exception to the treatment of the dead, amounts to that. We say, argument with such a man is worse than nothing; it would be fallacious as the Eolian experiment of whistling the most inspiriting jigs to an inanimate, and consequently unmusical, milestone, opposing a transatlantic thunder-storm with "a more paper than powder" "penny cracker," or setting an owl to outstare the meridian sun.

The poet knew and felt this, and therefore he ends the delusion and controversy by an overt act:--

"The ghost then seized her all so grim, All for to go along with him; 'Come, come,' said he, 'e'er morning beam.'"

To which she replies with the following determined announcement:--

"'I von't!' said she, and scream'd a scream, Then she voke, and found she'd dream'd a dream!"

These are the last words we have left to descant upon: they are such as should be the last; and, like _Joseph Surface_, "moral to the end." The glowing passions the fervent hopes, the anticipated future, of the loving pair, all, all are frustrated! The great lesson of life imbues the elaborate production; the thinking reader, led by its sublimity to a train of deep reflection, sees at once the uncertainty of earthly projects, and sighing owns the wholesome, though still painful truth, that the brightest sun is ever the first cause of the darkest shadow; and from childhood upwards, the blissful visions of our gayest fancy--forced by the cry of stern reality--call back the mental wanderer from imaginary bliss, to be again the worldly drudge; and, thus awakened to his real state, confess, like our sad heroine, Molly Brown, he too, has _dreamt a dream_.

FUSBOS.

* * * * *

FATHER O'FLYNN AND HIS CONGREGATION.

Father Francis O'Flynn, or, as he was generally called by his parishioners, "Father Frank," was the choicest specimen you could desire of a jolly, quiet-going, ease-loving, Irish country priest of the old school. His parish lay near a small town in the eastern part of the county Cork, and for forty-five years he lived amongst his flock, performing all the duties of his office, and taking his dues (when he got them) with never-tiring good-humour. But age, that spares not priest nor layman, had stolen upon Father Frank, and he gradually relinquished to his younger curates the task of preaching, till at length his sermons dwindled down to two in the year--one at Christmas, and the other at Easter, at which times his clerical dues were about coming in. It was on one of these memorable occasions that I first chanced to hear Father Frank address his congregation. I have him now before my mind's eye, as he then appeared; a stout, middle-sized man, with ample shoulders, enveloped in a coat of superfine black, and substantial legs encased in long straight boots, reaching to the knee. His forehead, and the upper part of his head, were bald; but the use of hair-powder gave a fine effect to his massive, but good-humoured features, that glowed with the rich tint of a hale old age. A bunch of large gold seals, depending from a massive jack-chain of the same metal, oscillated with becoming dignity from the lower verge of his waistcoat, over the goodly prominence of his "fair round belly." Glancing his half-closed, but piercing eye around his auditory, as if calculating the contents of every pocket present, he commenced his address as follows:--"Well, my good people, I suppose ye know that to-morrow will be the _pattern_[1] of Saint Fineen, and no doubt ye'll all be for going to the blessed well to say your _padhereens_;[2] but I'll go bail there's few of you ever heard the rason why the water of that well won't raise a lather, or wash anything clean, though you were to put all the soap in Cork into it. Well, pay attintiou, and I'll tell you.--Mrs. Delany, can't you keep your child quiet while I'm spaking?--It happened a long while ago, that Saint Fineen, a holy and devout Christian, lived all alone, convaynient to the well; there he was to be found ever and always praying and reading his breviary upon a cowld stone that lay beside it. Onluckily enough, there lived also in the neighbourhood a _callieen dhas_[3] called Morieen, and this Morieen had a fashion of coming down to the well every morning, at sunrise, to wash her legs and feet; and, by all accounts, you couldn't meet a whiter or shapelier pair from this to Bantry. Saint Fineen, however, was so disthracted in his heavenly meditations, poor man! that he never once looked at them; but kept his eyes fast on his holy books, while Morieen was rubbing and lathering away, till the legs used to look like two beautiful pieces of alabasther in the clear water. Matters went on this way for some time, Morieen coming regular to the well, till one fine morning, as she stepped into the water, without minding what she was about, she struck her foot against a a stone and cut it.

[1] _Pattern_--a corruption of _Patron_--means, in Ireland, the anniversary of the Saint to whom a holy well has been consecrated, on which day the peasantry make pilgrimages to the well.

[2] Beads

[3] Pretty girl

"'Oh! Millia murdher! What'll I do?' cried the _callieen_, in the pitifulles voice you ever heard.

"'What's the matter?' said Saint Fineen.

"'I've cut my foot agin this misfortinat stone,' says she, making answer.

"Then Saint Fineen lifted up his eyes from his blessed book, and he saw Morieen's legs and feet.

"'Oh! Morieen!' says he, after looking awhile at them, 'what white legs you have got!'

"'Have I?' says she, laughing, 'and how do _you_ know that?'

"Immediately the Saint remimbered himself, and being full of remorse and conthrition for his fault, he laid his commands upon the well, that its water should never wash anything white again.--and, as I mentioned before, all the soap in Ireland wouldn't raise a lather on it since. Now that's the thrue histhory of St. Fineen's blessed well; and I hope and thrust it will be a saysonable and premonitory lesson to all the young men that hears me, not to fall into the vaynial sin of admiring the white legs of the girls."

As soon as his reverence paused, a buzz of admiration ran through the chapel, accompanied by that peculiar rapid noise made by the lower class of an Irish Roman Catholic congregation, when their feelings of awe, astonishment, or piety, are excited by the preacher.[4]

[4] This sound, which is produced by a quick motion of the tongue against the teeth and roof of the mouth, may be expressed thus; "tth, tth, tth, tth, tth."

Father Frank having taken breath, and wiped his forehead, resumed his address.

"I'm going to change my subject now, and I expect attintion. Shawn Barry! Where's Shawn Barry?"

"Here, your Rivirence," replies a voice from the depth of the crowd.

"Come up here, Shawn, 'till I examine you about your Catechism and docthrines."

A rough-headed fellow elbowed his way slowly through the congregation, and moulding his old hat into a thousand grotesque shapes, between his huge palms, presented himself before his pastor, with very much the air of a puzzled philosopher.

"Well, Shawn, my boy, do you know what is the meaning of Faith?"

"Parfictly, your Rivirence," replied the fellow, with a knowing grin. "Faith means when Paddy Hogan gives me credit for half-a-pint of the best."

"Get out of my sight, you ondaycent vagabond; you're a disgrace to my flock. Here, you Tom M'Gawley, what's Charity?"

"Bating a process-sarver, your Rivirence," replied Tom, promptly.

"Oh! blessed saints! how I'm persecuted with ye, root and branch. Jim Houlaghan, I'm looking at you, there, behind Peggy Callanane's cloak; come up here, you hanging _bone slieveen_[5] and tell me what is the Last Day?"

[5] A sly rogue.

"I didn't come to that yet, sir," replied Jim, scratching his head.

"I wouldn't fear you, you bosthoon. Well, listen, and I'll tell you. It's the day when you'll all have to settle your accounts, and I'm thinking there'll be a heavy score against some of you, if you don't mind what I'm saying to you. When that day comes, I'll walk up to Heaven and rap at the hall door. Then St. Pether, who will be takin' a nap after dinner in his arm-chair, inside, and not liking ta be disturbed, will call out mighty surly, 'Who's there?'"

"'It's I, my Lord,' I'll make answer.

"Av course, he'll know my voice, and, jumping up like a cricket, he'll open the door as wide as the hinges will let it, and say quite politely--

"'I'm proud to see you here, Father Frank. Walk in, if you plase.'

"Upon that I'll scrape my feet, and walk in, and then St. Pether will say agin--

"'Well, Father Frank, what have you got to say for yourself? Did you look well afther your flock; and mind to have them all christened, and married, and buried, according to the rites of our holy church?'

"Now, good people, I've been forty-five years amongst you, and didn't I christen every mother's soul of you?"

_Congregation._--You did,--you did,--your Rivirence.

_Father Frank._--Well, and didn't I bury the most of you, too?

_Congregation._--You did, your Rivirence.

_Father Frank._--And didn't I do my best to get dacent matches for all your little girls? I And didn't I get good wives for all the well-behaved boys in my parish?--Why don't you spake up, Mick Donovan?

_Mick._--You did, your Rivirence.

_Father Frank._--Well, that's settled:--but then St. Pether will say--"Father Frank," says he, "you're a proper man; but how did your flock behave to you--did they pay you your dues regularly?" Ah! good Christians, how shall I answer _that_ question? Put it in my power to say something good of you: don't be ashamed to come up and pay your priest's dues. Come,--make a lane there, and let ye all come up with conthrite hearts and open hands. Tim Delaney!--make way for Tim:--how much will you give, Tim?

_Tim._--I'll not be worse than another, your Riverence. I'll give a crown.

_Father Frank._--Thank you, Timothy: the dacent drop is in you. Keep a lane, there!--any of ye that hasn't a crown, or half-a-crown, don't be bashful of coming up with your _hog_ or your _testher_.[6]

[6] A _shilling_ or a _sixpence_.

And thus Father Frank went on encouraging and wheedling his flock to pay up his dues, until he had gone through his entire congregation, when I left the chapel, highly amused at the characteristic scene I had witnessed.

X.

* * * * *

A PRUDENT REASON.

Our gallant Sibthorp was lately invited by a friend to accompany him in a pleasure trip in his yacht to Cowes. "No!" exclaimed Sib.; "you don't catch me venturing near _Cowes_." "And why not?" inquired his friend. "Because I was never vaccinated," replied the hirsute hero.

* * * * *

DOCTOR PEEL TAKING TIME TO CONSULT.

Once upon a time--says an old Italian novelist--a horse fell, as in a fit, with his rider. The people, running from all sides, gathered about the steed, and many and opposite were the opinions of the sudden malady of the animal; as many the prescriptions tendered for his recovery. At length, a great hubbub arose among the mob; and a fellow, with the brass of a merryandrew, and the gravity of a quack-doctor, pressed through the throng, and approached the beast. Suddenly there was silence. It was plain to the vulgar that the solemn new-comer had brought with him some exquisite specific: it was evident, from the grave self-complacency of the stranger, that with a glance, he had detected the cause of sickness in the horse,--and that, in a few seconds, the prostrate animal, revivified by the cunning of the sage, would be up, and once more curvetting and caracoling. The master of the steed eyed the stranger with an affectionate anxiety; the mob were awed into breathless expectation. The wise man shook his head, put his cane to his nose, and proceeded to open his mouth. It was plain he was about to speak. Every ear throbbed and gaped to catch the golden syllables. At length the doctor did speak: for casting about him a look of the profoundest knowledge, and pointing to the steed, he said, in a deep, solemn whisper,--"_Let the horse alone!_" Saying this, the doctor vanished!

The reader will immediately make the application. The horse _John Bull_ is prostrate. It will be remembered that Colonel SIBTHORP (that dull mountebank) spoke learnedly upon glanders--that others declared the animal needed a lighter burthen and a greater allowance of corn,--but that the majority of the mob made way for a certain quacksalver PEEL, who being regularly called in and fee'd for his advice, professed himself to be possessed of some miraculous elixir for the suffering quadruped. All eyes were upon the doctor--all ears open for him, when lo! on the 16th of September,--PEEL, speaking with the voice of an oracle, said--"It is not my intention in the present session of Parliament to submit any measures for the consideration of the House!" In other words--"_Let the horse alone!_"

The praises of the Tory mob are loud and long at this wisdom of the doctor. He had loudly professed an intimate knowledge of the ailments of the horse--he had long predicted the fall of the poor beast,--and now, when the animal is down, and a remedy is looked for that shall once more set the creature on his legs, the veterinary politician says--"_Let the horse alone!_"

The speech of Sir ROBERT PEEL was a pithy illustration of the good old Tory creed. He opens his oration with a benevolent and patriotic yearning for the comforts of Parliamentary warmth and ventilation. He moves for papers connected with "the building of the two houses of Parliament, and with the adoption of measures for _warming and ventilating_ those houses!" The whole policy of the Tories has ever exemplified their love of nice warm places; though, certainly, they have not been very great sticklers for atmospheric purity. Indeed, like certain other labourers, who work by night, they have toiled in the foulest air,--have profited by the most noisome labour. When Lord JOHN RUSSELL introduced that imperfect mode of ventilation, the Reform Bill, into the house, had he provided for a full and pure supply of public opinion,--had he ventilated the Commons by a more extended franchise,--Sir ROBERT PEEL would not, as minister, have shown such magnanimous concern for the creature comforts of Members of Parliament--he might, indeed, have still displayed his undying love of a warm place; but he would not have enjoyed it on the bench of the Treasury. As for ventilation, why, the creature Toryism, like a frog, could live in the heart of a tree;--it being always provided that the tree should bear golden pippins.

We can, however, imagine that this solicitude of Sir ROBERT for the ease and comfort of the legislative Magi may operate to his advantage in the minds of certain honest folk, touched by the humanity which sheds so sweet a light upon the opening oration of the new minister. "If"--they will doubtless think--"the humane Baronet feels so acutely for the Lords Spiritual and Temporal,--if he has this regard for the convenience of only 658 knights and burgesses,--if, in his enlarged humanity, he can feel for so helpless a creature as the Earl of COVENTRY, so mild, so unassuming a prelate as the Bishop of EXETER--if he can sympathise with the wants of even a D'ISRAELI, and tax his mighty intellect to make even SIBTHORP comfortable,--surely the same minister will have, aye, a morbid sense of the wants, the daily wretchedness of hundreds of thousands, who, with the fiend Corn Law grinning at their fireless hearths--pine and perish in weavers' hovels, for the which there has as yet been _no_ 'adoption of measures for the warming and ventilating.'" "Surely"--they will think--"the man whose sympathy is active for a few of the 'meanest things that live' will gush with sensibility towards a countless multitude, fluttering into rags and gaunt with famine. He will go back to first principles; he will, with a giant's arm, knock down all the conventionalities built by the selfishness of man--(and what a labourer is selfishness! there was no such hard worker at the Pyramids or the wall of China)--between him and his fellow! Hunger will be fed--nakedness will be clothed--and God's image, though stricken with age, and broken with disease, be acknowledged; not in the cut-and-dried Pharisaical phrase of trading Church-goers, as a thing vested with immortality--as a creature fashioned for everlasting solemnities--but _practically_ treated as of the great family of man--a brother, invited with the noblest of the Cæsars, to an immortal banquet!"