Chapter 6

At the extremity of this little circle was a plain altar of wood, covered with a little thatched shed, under which the priest celebrated mass; but before the performance of this ceremony, a large multitude usually assembled opposite Ned's shop-door, at the cross-roads. This crowd consisted of such as wanted to buy tobacco, candles, soap, potash, and such other groceries as the peasantry remote from market-towns require. After mass, the public-house was filled to the door-posts, with those who wished to get a sample of Nancy's _Iska-behagh_* and many a time has little Father Ned himself, of a frosty day, after having performed mass with a celerity highly agreeable to his auditory, come in to Nancy, nearly frost-bitten, to get his breakfast, and a toothful of mountain dew to drive the cold out of his stomach.

_Usquebaugh_--literally, “water of life.”

The fact is, that Father Deleery made himself quite at home at Ned's without any reference to Nancy's saving habits; the consequence was, that her welcome to him was extremely sincere--“from the teeth out.” Father Ned saw perfectly through her assumed heartiness of manner, but acted as if the contrary was the case; Nancy understood him also, and with an intention of making up by complaisance for their niggardliness in other respects, was a perfect honeycomb. This state of cross-purposes, however, could not last long; neither did it. Father Ned never paid, and Nancy never gave credit; so, at length, they came to an open rupture; she threatened to process him for what he owed her, and he, in return, threatened to remove the congregation from “The Forth” to Ballymagowan bridge, where he intended to set up his nephew in the “public line,” to the ruin of Nancy's flourishing establishment.

“Father Ned,” said Nancy, “I'm a hardworking, honest woman, and I don't see why my substance is to be wasted by your Reverence when you won't pay for it.”

“And do you forget,” Father Ned would reply, “that it's me that brings you your custom? Don't you know that if I remove my flock to Ballymagowan, you'll soon sing to another tune? so lay that to your heart.”

“Troth, I know that whatever I get I'm obliged to pay for it; and I think every man should do the same, Father Ned. You must get a hank of yarn from me, and a bushel or two of oats from Ned, and your riglar dues along with all; but, avourneen, it's yourself that won't pay a penny when you can help it.”

“Salvation to me, but you'd skin a flint!”

“Well, if I would, I pay my debts first.”

“You do?”

“Yes, troth, do I.”

“Why then that's more than you'll be able to do long, plase the fates.”

“If all my customers wor like your Reverence, it is.”

“I'll tell you what it is, Nancy, I often threatened to take the congregation from 'The Forth,' and I'll do it--if I don't, may I never sup sorrow!”

Big with such a threat, Father Ned retired. The apprehensions of Nancy on this point, however, were more serious than she was willing to acknowledge. This dispute took place a few days before the night in question.

Father Ned was a little man, with a red face, slender legs, and flat feet; he was usually cased in a pair of ribbed minister's grey small-clothes, with leggings of the same material. His coat, which was much too short, rather resembled a jerkin, and gave him altogether an appearance very much at variance with an idea of personal gravity or reverence. Over this dress he wore in winter, a dark great-coat, with high collar, that buttoned across his face, showing only the point, of his red nose; so that, when riding or walking, his hat rested more upon the collar of his coat than upon his head.

The curate was a tall, raw-boned young man, with high jutting cheek-bones, low forehead, and close knees; to his shoulders, which were very high, hung a pair of long bony arms, whose motions seemed rather the effect of machinery than volition. His hair, which was a bad black, was cropped close, and trimmed across his eye-brows, like that of a Methodist preacher; the small-clothes he wore were of the same web which had produced Father Ned's, and his body-coat was a dark blue, with black buttons. Each wore a pair of gray woollen mittens.

“There, Pether,” said Father Ned, as he entered, “hook my bridle along with your own, as your hand is in--God save all here! Paddy Smith, ma bouchal, put these horses in the stable, till we dry ourselves a bit--Father Pether and I.”

“Musha, but you're both welcome,” said Nancy, wishing to wipe out the effects of the last tift with Father Ned, by the assistance of the stranger's punch; “will ye bounce, ye spalpeens, and let them to the fire? Father Ned, you're dhreepin' with the rain; and, Father Pether, avourneen, you're wet to the skin, too.”

“Troth, and he is, Nancy, and a little bit farther, if you knew but all. Mr. Morrow, how do you do, sir?--And--eh?--Who's this we've got in the corner? A gintleman, boys, if cloth can make one! Mr. Morrow, introduce me.”

“Indeed, Father Ned, I hav'nt the pleasure of knowing the gintleman myself.”

“Well, no matter--come up, Pether. Sir, I have the honor of introducing 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.