Mark Hennessy 0 2 6 Luke Clancy 0 2 6 John Doolin 0 2 6 "One would think they all agreed only to give two and sixpence apiece.

And they comfortable men, too!

And look at their names--Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, the names of the Blessed Evangelists, and only ten shillings among them!

Oh, they are apostles not worthy of the name--we'll call them the _Poor Apostles_ from this out" (here a low laugh ran through the chapel)-- "Do you hear that, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John? 'Faith! I can tell you that name will stick to you.'"

(Here the laugh was louder.)

A voice, when the laugh subsided, exclaimed, "I'll make it ten shillin's, your reverence."

"Who's that?" said Father Phil.

"Hennessy, your reverence."

"Very well, Mark. I suppose Matthew, Luke, and John will follow your example?"

"We will, your reverence."

"Ah! I thought you made a mistake; we'll call you now the _Faithful Apostles_--and I think the change in the name is better than seven and sixpence apiece to you.

"I see you in the gallery there, Rafferty. What do you pa.s.s that well-dressed woman for?--thry back --ha!--see that--she had her money ready if you only asked for it--don't go by that other woman there--oh, oh!--So you won't give anything, ma'am. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. There is a woman with an elegant sthraw bonnet, and she won't give a farthing.

Well now--afther that--remember--I give it from the althar, that _from this day out sthraw bonnets pay fi'penny pieces._

s. d.

Thomas Durfy, Esq. 1 0 0 "It's not his parish and he's a brave gentleman.

s. d.

Miss f.a.n.n.y Dawson 1 0 0 "_A Protestant out of the parish_, and a sweet young lady, G.o.d bless her! Oh, 'faith, the Protestants is shaming you!!!

s. d.

Dennis Fannin 0 7 6 "Very good, indeed, for a working mason."

Jemmy Riley 0 5 0 "Not bad for a hedge-carpenther."

"I gave you ten, plaze, your reverence," shouted Jemmy, "and by the same token, you may remember it was on the Nativity of the Blessed Vargin, sir, I gave you the second five shillin's."

"So you did, Jemmy," cried Father Phil--"I put a little cross before it, to remind me of it; but I was in a hurry to make a sick call when you gave it to me, and forgot it after: and indeed myself doesn't know what I did with that same five shillings."

Here a pallid woman, who was kneeling near the rails of the altar, uttered an impa.s.sioned blessing, and exclaimed, "Oh, that was the very five shillings, I'm sure, you gave to me that very day, to buy some little comforts for my poor husband, who was dying in the fever!"--and the poor woman burst into loud sobs as she spoke.

A deep thrill of emotion ran through the flock as this accidental proof of their poor pastor's beneficence burst upon them; and as an affectionate murmur began to rise above the silence which that emotion produced, the burly Father Philip blushed like a girl at this publication of his charity, and even at the foot of that altar where he stood, felt something like shame in being discovered in the commission of that virtue so highly commended by the Holy One to whose worship the altar was raised. He uttered a hasty "Whisht--whisht!" and waved with his outstretched hands his flock into silence.

In an instant one of those sudden changes common to an Irish a.s.sembly, and scarcely credible to a stranger, took place. The mult.i.tude was hushed--the grotesque of the subscription list had pa.s.sed away and was forgotten, and that same man and that same mult.i.tude stood in altered relations-- _they_ were again a reverent flock, and _he_ once more a solemn pastor; the natural play of his nation's mirthful sarcasm was absorbed in a moment in the sacredness of his office; and with a solemnity befitting the highest occasion, he placed his hands together before his breast, and raising his eyes to Heaven he poured forth his sweet voice, with a tone of the deepest devotion, in that reverential call to prayer, "_Orate_, _fratres_."

The sound of a mult.i.tude gently kneeling down followed, like the soft breaking of a quiet sea on a sandy beach; and when Father Philip turned to the altar to pray, his pent-up feelings found vent in tears; and while he prayed, he wept.

I believe such scenes as this are not of unfrequent occurrence in Ireland; that country so long-suffering, so much maligned, and so little understood.

Suppose the foregoing scene to have been only described antecedent to the woman in the outbreak of her grat.i.tude revealing the priest's charity, from which he recoiled,--suppose the mirthfulness of the incidents arising from reading the subscription-list--a mirthfulness bordering on the ludicrous--to have been recorded, and nothing more, a stranger would be inclined to believe, and pardonable in the belief, that the Irish and their priesthood were rather p.r.o.ne to be irreverent; but observe, under this exterior, the deep sources of feeling that lie hidden and wait but the wand of divination to be revealed. In a thousand similar ways are the actions and the motives of the Irish understood by those who are careless of them; or worse, misrepresented by those whose interest, and too often _business_, it is to malign them.

Father Phil could proceed no further with the reading of the subscription- list, but finished the office of the ma.s.s with unusual solemnity. But if the incident just recorded abridged his address, and the publication of donors' names by way of stimulus to the less active, it produced a great effect on those who had but smaller donations to drop into the plate; and the grey-headed collector, who could have numbered the scanty coin before the bereaved widow had revealed the pastor's charity, had to struggle his way afterwards through the eagerly outstretched hands that showered their hard-earned pence upon the plate, which was borne back to the altar heaped with contributions, heaped as it had not been seen for many a day. The studied excitement of their pride and their shame--and both are active agents in the Irish nature--was less successful than the accidental appeal to their affections.

Oh! rulers of Ireland, why have you not sooner learned to _lead_ that people by love, whom all your severity has been unable to _drive_?

[Footnote: When this pa.s.sage was written Ireland was disturbed (as she has too often been) by special parliamentary provocation:--the vexatious vigilance of legislative lynxes--the peevishness of paltry persecutors.]

When the ma.s.s was over, Andy waited at the door of the chapel to catch "his riverence" coming out, and obtain his advice about what he overheard from Larry Hogan; and Father Phil was accordingly accosted by Andy just as he was going to get into his saddle to ride over to breakfast with one of the neighbouring farmers, who was holding the priest's stirrup at the moment. The extreme urgency of Andy's manner, as he pressed up to the pastor's side, made the latter pause and inquire what he wanted. "I want to get some advice from your riverence," said Andy.

"'Faith, then, the advice I give you is never to stop a hungry man when he is going to refresh himself," said Father Phil, who had quite recovered his usual cheerfulness, and threw his leg over his little grey hack as he spoke. "How could you be so unreasonable as to expect me to stop here listening to your case, and giving you advice indeed, when I have said three ma.s.ses [Footnote: The office of the ma.s.s must be performed fasting.]

this morning, and rode three miles; how could you be so unreasonable, I say?"

"I ax your riverence's pardon," said Andy; "I wouldn't have taken the liberty, only the thing is mighty particular intirely."

"Well, I tell you again, never ask a hungry man advice; for he is likely to cut his advice on the patthern of his stomach, and it's empty advice you'll get. Did you never hear that a 'hungry stomach has no ears'?"

The farmer who was to have the honour of the priest's company to breakfast exhibited rather more impatience than the good-humoured Father Phil, and reproved Andy for his conduct.

"But it's so particular," said Andy.

"I wondher you would dar' to stop his riverence, and he black fastin'. Go 'long wid you!"

"Come over to my house in the course of the week, and speak to me," said Father Phil, riding away.

Andy still persevered, and taking advantage of the absence of the farmer, who was mounting his own nag at the moment, said the matter of which he wished to speak involved the interests of Squire Egan, or he would not "make so bowld."

This altered the matter; and Father Phil desired Andy to follow him to the farm-house of John Dwyer, where he would speak to him after he had breakfasted.

CHAPTER XXIX

John Dwyer's house was a scene of activity that day, for not only was the priest to breakfast there--always an affair of honour--but a grand dinner was also preparing on a large scale; for a wedding-feast was to be held in the house, in honour of Matty Dwyer's nuptials, which were to be celebrated that day with a neighbouring young farmer, rather well to do in the world. The match had been on and off for some time, for John Dwyer was what is commonly called a "close-fisted fellow," and his would-be son-in- law could not bring him to what he considered proper terms, and though Matty liked young Casey, and he was fond of her, they both agreed not to let old Jack Dwyer have the best of the bargain in portioning off his daughter, who, having a spice of her father in her, was just as fond of _number one_ as old Jack himself. And here it is worthy of remark, that, though the Irish are so p.r.o.ne in general to early and improvident marriages, no people are closer in their nuptial barter, when they are in a condition to make marriage a profitable contract. Repeated meetings between the elders of families take place, and acute arguments ensue, properly to equalise the worldly goods to be given on both sides. Pots and pans are balanced against pails and churns, cows against horses, a slip of bog against a gravel-pit, or a patch of meadow against a bit of a quarry; a little lime-kiln sometimes burns stronger than the flame of Cupid--the doves of Venus herself are but crows in comparison with a good flock of geese--and a love-sick sigh less touching than the healthy grunt of a good pig; indeed, the last-named gentleman is a most useful agent in this traffic, for when matters are nearly poised, the balance is often adjusted by a grunter or two thrown into either scale. While matters are thus in a state of debate, quarrels sometimes occur between the lovers the gentleman's caution sometimes takes alarm, and more frequently the lady's pride is aroused at the too obvious preference given to worldly gain over heavenly beauty; Cupid shies at Mammon, and Hymen is upset and left in the mire.

I remember hearing of an instance of this nature, when the lady gave her _ci-devant_ lover an ingenious reproof, after they had been separated some time, when a marriage-bargain was broken off, because the lover could not obtain from the girl's father a certain brown filly as part of her dowry. The damsel, after the lapse of some weeks, met her swain at a neighbouring fair, and the flame of love still smouldering in his heart was re-illumined by the sight of his charmer, who, on the contrary, had become quite disgusted with _him_ for his too obvious preference of profit to true affection. He addressed her softly in a tent, and asked her to dance, but was most astonished at her returning him a look of vacant wonder, which tacitly implied, _"Who are you?"_ as plain as looks could speak.

"Arrah, Mary," exclaimed the youth.

"Sir!!!"--answered Mary, with what heroines call "ineffable disdain."

"Why one would think you didn't know me!"

"If I ever had the honour of your acquaintance, sir," answered Mary, "I forget you entirely."

"Forget me, Mary?--arrah be aisy--is it forget the man that was courtin'

and in love with you?"

"You're under a mistake, young man," said Mary, with a curl of her rosy lip, which displayed the pearly teeth to whose beauty her woman's nature rejoiced that the recreant lover was not yet insensible--"You're under a mistake, young man," and her heightened colour made her eye flash more brightly as she spoke--"you're quite under a mistake--no one was ever in love with _me_;" and she laid signal emphasis on the word. "There was a dirty mane blackguard, indeed, once _in love with my father's brown filly,_ but I forget him intirely."

Mary tossed her head proudly as she spoke, and her filly-fancying admirer, reeling under the reproof she inflicted, sneaked from the tent, while Mary stood up and danced with a more open-hearted lover, whose earnest eye could see more charms in one lovely woman than all the horses of Arabia.