Chapter IV: Part 4

“He entreated permission from me this morning,” replied Father Finnerty, “and that was leave to pay a visit to the Bishop, for what purpose I know not, unless to put in a word in season for the first parish that becomes vacant.”

“Throth, an' he well desarves a parish,” replied Denis; “an' although we'd be loath to part wid him, still we'd be proud to hear of his promotion.”

“He'll meet Denis there,” observed Susan, who had returned from the stile: “he'll be apt to be present at his trial wid the Bishop; an' maybe he'll be home along wid him. I'll go an' thry if I can see them agin;” and she flew out once more to watch their return.

“Now, Father Finnerty,” said an uncle of Denis's, “you can give a good guess at what a dacent parish ought to be worth to a parish priest?”

“Mrs. O'Shaughnessy,” said the priest, “is that fat brown goose suspended before the fire, of your own rearing?”

“Indeed it is, plase your Reverence; but as far as good male an phaties could go for the last month, it got the benefit of them.”

“And pray, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, have you many of the same kidney? I only ask for information, as I said to Peery Hacket's wife, the last day I held the Station in Peery's. There was just such another goose hanging before the fire; but, you must know, the cream of the joke was, that I had been after coming from the confessional, as hungry as a man could conveniently wish himself; and seeing the brown fat goose before the fire just as that is, why my teeth, Mave, began to get lachrymose. Upon my Priesthood it was such a goose as a priest's corpse might get up on its elbow to look at, and exclaim, 'avourneen machree, it's a thousand pities that I'm not living to have a cut at you!'--ha, ha, ha! God be good to old Friar Hennessy, I have that joke from him.

“'Well, Mrs. Hacket,' says I, as I was airing my fingers at the fire, 'I dare say you haven't another goose like this about the house? Now, tell me, like an honest woman, have you any of the same kidney?--I only ask for information.'

“Mrs. Hacket, however, told me she believed there might be a few of the same kind straggling about the place, but said nothing further upon it, until the Saturday following, when her son brings me down a pair of the fattest geese I ever cut up for my Sunday's dinner. Now, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, wasn't that doing the thing dacent?”

“Well, well, Docthor,” said Denis, “that was all right; let Mave alone, an' maybe she'll be apt to find out a pair that will match Mrs. Hacket's. Not that I say it, but she doesn't like to be outdone in anything.”

“Docthor, I was wishin' to know, sir,” continued the uncle of the absent candidate, “what the value of a good parish might be.”

“I think, Mave, there's a discrepancy between the goose and the shoulder of mutton. The fact is, that if it be a disputation between them, as to which will be roasted first, I pronounce that the goose will have it. It's now, let me see, half past four o'clock, and, in my opinion, it will take a full half hour to bring up the mutton. So Mave, if you'll be guided by your priest, advance the mutton towards the fire about two inches, and keep the little girsha basting steadily, and then you'll be sure to have it rich and juicy.”

“Docthor, wid submission, I was wantin' to know what a good parish might be--”

“Mike Lawdher, if I don't mistake, you ought to have good grazing down in your meadows at Ballinard. What will you be charging for a month or two's grass for this colt I've bought from my dacent friend, Denis O'Shaughnessy, here? And, Mike, be rasonable upon a poor man, for we're all poor, being only tolerated by the state we live under, and ought not, of course, to be hard upon one another.”

“An' what did he cost you, Docthor?” replied Mike, answering one question by another; “what did you get for him, Denis?” he continued, referring for information to Denis, to whom, on reflection, he thought it more decorous to put the question.

Denis, however, felt the peculiar delicacy of his situation, and looked at the priest, whilst the latter, under a momentary embarrassment, looked significantly at Denis. His Reverence, however, was seldom at a loss.

“What would you take him to be worth, Mike?” he asked; “remember he's but badly trained, and I'm sure it will cost me both money and trouble to make anything dacent out of him.”

“If you got him somewhere between five and twenty and thirty guineas, I would say you have good value for your money, plase your Reverence. What do you say, Denis--am I near it?”

“Why, Mike, you know as much about a horse as you do about the Pentateuch or Paralipomenon. Five and twenty guineas, indeed! I hope you won't set your grass as you would sell your horses.”

“Why, thin, if your Reverence ped ready money for him, I maintain he was as well worth twenty guineas as a thief's worth the gallows; an' you know, sir, I'd be long sorry to differ wid you. Am I near it now, Docthor?”

“Denis got for the horse more than that,” said his Reverence, “and he may speak for himself.”

“Thrue for you, sir,” replied Denis; “I surely got above twenty guineas for him, an' I'm well satisfied wid the bargain.”

“You hear that now, Mike--you hear what he says.”

“There's no goin' beyant it,” returned Mike; “the proof o' the puddin' is in the atin,' as we'll soon know, Mave--eh, Docthor?”

“I never knew Mave to make a bad one,” said the priest, “except upon the day Friar Hennessy dined with me here--my curate was sick, and I had to call in the Friar to assist me at confession; however, to do Mave justice, it was not her fault, for the Friar drowned the pudding, which was originally a good one, with a deluge of strong whiskey.”

“'It's too gross,' said the facetious Friar, in his loud, strong voice--'it's too gross, Docthor Finnerty, so let us spiritualize it, that it may be Christian atin, fit for pious men to digest,' and then he came out with his thundering laugh--oigh, oigh, oigh, oigh! but he had consequently the most of the pudding to himself, an' indeed brought the better half of it home in his saddle-bags.”

“Faix, an' he did,” said Mave, “an' a fat goose that he coaxed Mary to kill for him unknownst to us all, in the coorse o' the day.”

“How long is he dead, Docthor?” said Denis; “God rest him any way, he's happy!”

“He died in the hot summer, now nine years about June last; and talking about him, reminds me of a trick he put on me about two years before his death. He and I had not been on good terms for long enough before that time; but as the curate I had was then sickly, and as I wouldn't be allowed two, I found that it might be convenient to call in the Friar occasionally, a regulation he did not at all relish, for he said he could make far more by questing and poaching about among the old women of the parish, with whom he was a great favorite, in consequence of the Latin hymns he used to sing for them, and the great cures he used to perform--a species of devotion which neither I nor my curate had time to practise. So, in order to renew my intimacy, I sent him a bag of oatmeal and a couple of flitches of bacon, both of which he readily accepted, and came down to me on the following day to borrow three guineas. After attempting to evade him--for, in fact, I had not the money to spare--he at length succeeded in getting them from me, on the condition that he was to give my curate's horse and mine a month's grass, by way of compensation, for I knew that to expect payment from him was next to going for piety to a parson.

“'I will,' said he, 'give your horses the run of my best field'--for he held a comfortable bit of ground; 'but,' he added, 'as you have been always cutting at me about my principle, I must insist, if it was only to convince you of my ginerosity, that you'll lave the choosing of the month to myself.'

“As I really wanted an assistant at the time, in consequence of my curate's illness, he had me bound, in some degree, to his own will. I accordingly gave him the money; but from that till the day of his death, he never sent for our horses, except when there was a foot and a half of snow on the ground, at which time he was certain to despatch a messenger for him, 'with Father Hennessy's compliments, and he requested Doctor Finnerty to send the horses to Father Hennessy's field, to ate their month's grass.'”

“But is it true, Docthor, that his face was shinin' after his death?”

“True enough, and to my own knowledge, long before that event.”

“Dear me,” exclaimed Mave, “he was a holy man afther all!”

“Undoubtedly he was,” said the priest; “there are spots in the sun, Mrs. O'Shaugh-nessy--we are not all immaculate. There never was one sent into this world without less or more sin upon them. Even the saints themselves had venial touches about them, but nothing to signify.”

“Docthor,” said the uncle, pertinaciously adhering to the original question, “you have an opportunity of knowin' what a good parish might be worth to a smart, active priest? For the sake of a son of mine that I've some notion of--”

“By the by, I wonder Denis is not here before now,” exclaimed his Reverence, lending a deaf ear to Mike O'Shaughnessy's interrogatory.

Old Denis's favorite topic had been started, and he accordingly launched out upon it with all the delight and ardor of a fond father.

“Now, Docthor dear, before us all--an' sure you know as well as I do, that we're all friends together--what's your downright opinion of Denis? Is he as bright as you tould me the other mornin' he was?”

“Really, Denis O'Shaughnessy,” replied his Reverence, “it's not pleasant to me to be pressed so often to eulogize a young gintleman of whose talents I have so frequently expressed my opinion. Is not once sufficient for me to say what I've said concerning him? But, as we are all present, I now say and declare, that my opinion of Denis O'Shaughnessy, jun., is decidedly _peculiar_--decidedly.

“Come, girsha, keep basting the mutton, and never heed my boots--turn it about and baste the back of it better.”

“God be thanked,” exclaimed the delighted father, “sure it's comfort to hear that, any how--afther all the pains and throuble we've taken wid him, to know it's not lost. Why, that boy was so smart, Docthor, that, may I never sin, when he went first to the Latin, but--an' this no lie, for I have it from his own lips--when he'd look upon his task two or three times over night, he'd waken wid every word of it, pat off the book the next mornin'. And how do you think he got it? Why, the crathur, you see, used to dhrame that he was readin' it off, and so he used to get it that way in his sleep!”

At this moment Darby Moran, Denis's old foe entered, and his reception was cordial, and, if the truth were known, almost magnanimous on the part of Denis.

“Darby Moran,” said he, “not a man, barrin' his Reverence here, in the parish we sit in, that I'm prouder to see on my flure--give me your hand, man alive, and Mave and all of ye welcome him. Everything of what you know is buried between us, and you're bound to welcome him, if it was only in regard of the handsome way he spoke of our son this day--here's my own chair, Darby, and sit down.”

“Throth,” said Darby, after shaking hands with the priest and greeting the rest of the company, “the same boy no one could spake ill of; and, although we and his people were not upon the best footin', still the sarra one o' me but always gave him his due.”

“Indeed, I believe you, Darby,” said his father; “but are you comfortable? Draw your chair nearer the fire--the evenin's gettin' cowld.”

“I'm very well, Denis, I thank you;--nearer the fire! Faix, except you want to have me roasted along wid that shoulder of mutton and goose, I think I can't go much nearer it.”

“I'm sorry, you wasn't in sooner, Darby, till you'd hear what Docthor Finnerty here--God spare him long among us--said of Denis a while ago. Docthor, if it wouldn't be makin' too free, maybe you'd oblage me wid repatin' it over again?”

“I can never have any hesitation,” replied the priest, “in repeating anything to his advantage--I stated, Darby, that young Misther O'Shaughnessy was a youth of whom my opinion was decidedly _peculiar_--keep basting; child, you're forgetting the goose now; did you never see a priest's boots before?”

“An' nobody has a better right to know nor yourself, wherever larnin' and education's consarned,” said the father.

“Why, it's not long since I examined him myself; I say it sitting here, and I believe every one that hears me is present; and during the course of the examination I was really astonished. The translations, and derivations, and conjugations, and ratiocinations, and variations, and investigations that he gave, were all the most remarkably original I ever heard. He would not be contented with the common sense of a passage; but he'd keep hunting, and hawking, and fishing about for something that was out of the ordinary course of reading, that I was truly struck with his eccentric turn of genius.”

“You think he'll pass the Bishop with great credit, Docthor?”

“I'll tell you what I think, Denis--which is going further than I went yet--I think that if he were the Bishop, and the Bishop the candidate for Maynooth, that his lordship would have but a poor chance of passing. There's the pinnacle of my eulogium upon him; and now, to give my opinion on another important subject; I pronounce both the goose and mutton done to a turn. As it appears that Mrs. O'Shaughnessy has every other portion of the dinner ready, I move that we commence operations as soon as possible.”

“But Denis, Docthor? it would be a pleasure to me to have him, poor fellow, wid all his throuble over, and his mind at ase; maybe if we wait a weeshy while longer, Docthor, that he'll come, and you know Father Molony too is to come yet, and some more of our friends.”

“If the examination was a long one, I tell you that Mr. O'Shaughnessy may not be here this hour to come; and you may be sure, the Bishop, meeting such a bright boy, wouldn't make it a short one. As for Father Molony, he'll be here time enough, so I move again that we attack the citadel.”

“Well, well, never say it again--the sarra one o' me will keep it back, myself bein' as ripe as any of you, barrin' his Reverence, that we're not to take the foreway of in anything. Ha! ha! ha!”

Whilst Mave and her daughters were engaged in laying dinner, and in making all the other arrangements necessary for their comfort, the priest took Denis aside, and thus addressed him:--

“Denis, I need scarcely remark that this meeting of our friends is upon no common occasion; that it's neither a wedding, nor a Station, nor a christening, but a gathering of relations for a more honorable purpose than any of them, excepting the Station, which you know is a religious rite. I just mention this privately, lest you might not be properly on your guard, and to prevent any appearance of maneness; or--in short, I hope you have abundance of everything; I hope you have, and that, not for your own sake so much as for that of your son. Remember your boy, and what he's designed for, and don't let the dinner or its concomitants be discreditable to him; for, in fact, it's his dinner, observe, and not yours.”

“I'm thankful, I'm deeply thankful, an' for ever oblaged to your Reverence for your kindness; although, widout at all makin' little of it, it wasn't wanted here; never fear, Docthor, there'll be lashings and lavins.”

“Well, but make that clear, Denis; here now are near two dozen of us, and you say there are more to come, and all the provision I see for them is a shoulder of mutton, a goose, and something in that large pot on the fire, which I suppose is hung beef.”

“Thrue for you, sir, but you don't know that we've got a tarin' fire down in the barn, where there's two geese more and two shouldhers of mutton to help what you seen--not to mintion a great big puddin', an' lots of other things. Sure you might notice Mave and the girls runnin' in an' out to attind the cookin' of it.”

“Enough, Denis, that's sufficient; and now, between you and me, I say your son will be the load-star of Maynooth, winch out-tops anything I said of him yet.”

“There's a whole keg of whiskey, Docthor.”

“I see nothing, to prevent him from being a bishop; indeed, it's almost certain, for he can't be kept back.”

“I only hope your Reverence will be livin' when he praches his first sarmon. I have the dam of the coult still, an a wink's as good as a nod, please your Reverence.”

“A strong letter in his favor to the President of Maynooth will do him no harm,” said the priest.

They then joined their other friends, and in a few minutes an excellent dinner, plain and abundant, was spread out upon the table. It consisted of the usual materials which constitute an Irish feast in the house of a wealthy farmer, whose pride it is to compel every guest to eat so long as he can swallow a morsel. There were geese and fowl of all kinds--shoulders of mutton, laughing-potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and cabbage, together with an immense pudding, boiled in a clean sheet, and ingeniously kept together with long straws* drawn through it in all directions. A lord or duke might be senseless enough to look upon such a substantial, yeoman-like meal with a sneer; but with all their wealth and elegance, perhaps they might envy the health and appetite of those who partook of it. When Father Finnerty had given a short grace, and the operations of the table were commenced,--Denis looked around him with a disappointed air, and exclaimed:

“Father Finnerty, there's only one thing, indeed I may say two, a wantin' to complate our happiness--I mean Denis and Father Molony! What on earth does your Reverence think can keep them?”

* This, about thirty years ago, was usual at weddings
and other feasts, where everything went upon a large
scale.

To this he received not a syllable of reply, nor did he consider it necessary to urge the question any further at present. Father Finnerty's powers of conversation seemed to have abandoned him; for, although there were some few expressions loosely dropped, yet the worthy priest maintained an obstinate silence.

At length, in due time, he began to let fall an occasional remark, impeded considerably by hiccups, and an odd _Deo Gratias_, or _Laus Deo_, uttered in that indecisive manner which indicates the position of a man who debates within himself whether he ought to rest satisfied or not.

At this moment the tramping of a horse was heard approaching the door, and immediately every one of Denis's family ran out to ascertain whether it was the young candidate. Loud and clamorous was their joy on finding that they were not mistaken; he was alone, and, on arriving at the door, dismounted slowly, and received their welcomes and congratulations with a philosophy which perplexed them not a little. The scene of confusion which followed his entrance into the house could scarcely be conceived: every hand was thrust out to welcome him, and every tongue loud in wishing him joy and happiness. The chairs and stools were overturned as they stood in the way of those who wished to approach him; plates fell in the bustle, and wooden trenchers trundled along the ground; the dogs, on mingling with the crowd that surrounded him, were kicked angrily from among them by those who had not yet got shaking hands with Denis. Father Finnerty, during this commotion, kept his seat in the most dignified manner; but the moment it had subsided he stretched out his hand to Denis, exclaiming:

“Mr. O'Shaughnessy, I congratulate you upon the event of this auspicious day! I wish you joy and happiness!”

“So do we all, over and over agin!” they exclaimed; “a proud gintleman he may be this night!”

“I thank you, Father Finnerty,” said Denis, “and I thank you all!”

“Denis, avourneen,” said his mother, “sit down an' ate a hearty dinner; you must be both tired and hungry, so sit down, avick, and when you're done you can tell us all.”

“_Bonum concilium, mi chare Dionysi_--the advice is good, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, and I myself will, in honor of this day, although I have already dined, just take another slice;” and as he spoke he helped himself. “Anything to honor a friend,” he continued; “but, by the by, before I commence, I will try your own prescription, Denis--a whetter of this poteen at intervals. Hoch, that's glorious stuff--pure as any one of the cardinal virtues, and strong as fortitude, which is the champion of them all.”

Denis, during these pleasant observations of the priest, sat silent, with a countenance pale and apparently dejected. When his mother had filled his plate, he gently put it away from him; but poured out a little spirits and water, which he drank.

“I cannot eat a morsel,” said he; “mother, don't press me, it's impossible. We are all assembled here--friends, neighbors, and relations--I'll not disguise the fact--but the truth is, I have been badly treated this day; I have been, in the most barefaced manner, rejected by the Bishop, and a nephew of Father Molony's elected in my place.”

The effect which this disclosure produced upon the company present, especially upon his own family, utterly defies description. His father hastily laid down his glass, and his eyes opened to the utmost stretch of their lids; his mother let a plate fall which she was in the act of handing to one of her daughters, who was about to help a poor beggar at the door; all convivial enjoyment was suspended; the priest laid down his knife and fork, and fixed his large eyes upon Denis, with his mouth full; his young sister, Susan, flew over to his side, and looked intensely into his countenance for an explanation of what he meant, for she had not properly understood him.

“Rejected!” exclaimed the priest--“rejected! Young man, I am your spiritual superior, and I command you, on this occasion, to practise no jocularity whatsoever--I lay it upon you as a religious duty to be serious and candid, to speak truth, and inform us at once whether what you have advanced be true or not?”

“I wish,” said Denis, “that it was only jocularity on my part; but I solemnly assure you all that it is not. The Bishop told me that I suffered myself to be misled as to my qualifications for entrance; he says it will take a year and a half's hard study to enable me to matriculate with a good grace. I told him that your Reverence examined me, and said I was well prepared; and he said to me, in reply, that your Reverence was very little of a judge as to my fitness.”

“Very well,” said the priest, “I thank his lordship; 'tis true, I deserved that from him; but it can't be helped. I see, at all events, how the land lies. Denis O'Shaughnessy, I pronounce you to be, in the first place, an extremely stultified and indiscreet young man; and, in the next place, as badly treated and as oppressed a candidate for Maynooth as entered it. I pronounce you, in the face of the world, right well prepared for it; but I see now who is the spy of the diocese--oh, oh, thank you, Misther Molony--I now remimber, that he is related to his lordship through the beggarly clan of the M----'s. But wait a little; if I have failed here, thank Heaven I have interest in the next diocese, the Bishop of which is my cousin, and we will yet have a tug for it.”

The mother and sisters of Denis were now drowned in tears; and the grief of his sister Susan was absolutely hysterical. Old Denis's brow became pale and sorrowful, his eye sunk, and his hand trembled. His friends all partook of this serious disappointment, and sat in silence and embarrassment around the table. Young Denis's distress was truly intense: he could not eat a morsel; his voice was tremulous with vexation; and, indeed, altogether the aspect of those present betokened the occurrence of some grievous affliction.

“Well,” said Brian, Denis's elder brother, “I only say this, that it's a good story for him to tell that he is a Bishop, otherwise I'd think no more of puttin' a bullet through him from behind a hedge, than I would of shootin' a cur dog.”

“Don't say that, Brian,” said his mother; “bad as it is, he's one of our clargy, so don't spake disrespectful of him; sure a year is not much to wait, an' the next time you go before him it won't be in his power to keep you back. As for Father Molony, we wish, him well, but undher the roof of this house, except at a Station, or something else of the kind, he will never sit, barrin' I thought it was either dhry or hungry, that I wouldn't bring evil upon my substance by refusin' him.”

“And that was his lordship's character of me?” inquired the priest once more with chagrin.

“If that was not, perhaps you will find it in this letter,” replied Denis, handing him a written communication from the Bishop. Father Finnerty hastily broke open the seal, and read silently as follows:--

“_To the Rev. Father Finnerty, peace, and benediction._

“Rev. Sir,

“I feel deep indignation at hearing the disclosure made to me this day by the bearer, touching your negotiation with him and his family, concerning a horse, as the value paid by them to you for procuring the use of my influence in his favor; and I cannot sufficiently reprobate such a transaction, nor find terms strong enough in which to condemn the parties concerned in it. Sir, I repeat it, that such juggling is more reprehensible on your part than on theirs, and that it is doubly disrespectful to me, to suppose that I could be influenced by anything but merit in the candidates. I desire you will wait upon me to-morrow, when I hope you may be able to place the transaction in such a light as will raise you once more to the estimation in which I have always held you. There are three other candidates, one of whom is a relation of your excellent curate's; but I have as yet made no decision, so that the appointment is still open. In the meantime, I command you to send back the horse to his proper owner, as soon after the receipt of this as possible, for O'Shaughnessy must not be shackled by any such stipulations. I have now to ask your Christian forgiveness, for having, under the influence of temporary anger, spoken of you before this lad with disrespect. I hereby make restitution, and beg that you will forgive me, and remember me by name in your prayers, as I shall also name you in mine.

“I am, etc.,

“+ James M.”

When Father Finnerty read this letter, his countenance gradually assumed an expression of the most irresistible humor; nothing could be more truly comic than the significant look he directed toward each individual of the O'Shaughnessys, not omitting even the little boy who had basted the goose, whom he patted on the head with that mechanical abstraction resulting from the occurrence of something highly agreeable. The cast of his features was now the more ludicrous, when contrasted with the rueful visage he presented on hearing the manner in which his character had been delineated by the Bishop. At length he laid himself back in his chair, and putting his hands to his sides, fairly laughed out loudly for near five minutes.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “Dionysius, Dionysius, but you are the simple and unsophisticated youth! Oh, you _bocaun_ of the wide earth, to come home with a long face upon you, telling us that you were rejected, and you not rejected.”

“Not rejected!--not rejecet!--not rejeckset!--not raxjaxet!” they all exclaimed, attempting to pronounce the word as well as they could.

“For the sake of heaven above us, Docthor, don't keep us in doubt one minute longer,” said old Denis.

“Follow me,” said the priest, becoming instantly grave, “follow me, Dionysius; follow me Denis More, and Brian, all follow--follow me. I have news for you! My friends, we'll be back instantly.”

They accordingly passed into another room, where they remained in close conference for about a quarter of an hour, after which they re-entered in the highest spirits.

“Come,” said Denis, “Pether, go over, _abouchal_, to Andy Bradagh's for Larry Cassidy the piper--fly like a swallow, Pether, an' don't come without him. Mave, achora, all's right. Susy, you darlin', dhry your eyes, avourneen, all's right. Nabors, friends--fill, fill--I say all's right still. My son's not disgraced, nor he won't be disgraced whilst I have a house over my head, or a beast in my stable. Docthor, reverend Docthor, drink; may I never sin, but you must get merry an' dance a 'cut-along' wid myself, when the music comes, and you must thrip the priest in his boots wid Susy here afther. Excuse me, nabors--Docthor, you won't blame me, there's both joy and sorrow in these tears. I have had a good family of childhre, an' a faithful wife; an' Mave, achora, although time has laid his mark upon you as well as upon myself, and the locks are gray that wor once as black as a raven: yet, Mave, I seen the day, an' there's many livin' to prove it--ay, Mave, I seen the day when you wor worth lookin' at--the wild rose of Lisbuie she was called, Docthor. Well, Mave, I hope that my eyes may be closed by the hands I loved an' love so well--an' that's your own, _agrab machree_, an' Denis's.”

“Whisht, Denis asthore,” said Mave, wiping her eyes, “I hope I'll never see that day. Afther seein' Denis here, what we all hope him to be, the next thing I wish is, that I may never live to see my husband taken away from me, acushla; no, I hope God will take me to himself before that comes.”

There is something touching in the burst of pathetic affection which springs strongly from the heart of a worthy couple, when, seated among their own family, the feelings of the husband and father, the wife and mother, overpower them. In this case, the feeling is always deep in proportion to the strength and purity of domestic affection; still it is checked by the melancholy satisfaction that our place is to be filled by those who are dear to us.

“But now,” said the priest, “that the scent lies still warm, let me ask you, Dionysius, how the Bishop came to understand the compactum?”

“I really cannot undertake to say,” replied Denis; “but if any man has an eye like a _basileus_ he has. On finding, sir, that there was some defect in my responsive powers, he looked keenly at me, closing his piercing-eyes a little, and inquired upon what ground I had presented myself as a candidate. I would have sunk the compactum altogether, but for the eye. I suspended and hesitated a little, and at length told him that there was an understanding--a--a--kind of--in short, he squeezed the whole secret out o' me gradationally. You know the result!”

“Ah, Dionysius, you are yet an unfledged bird; but it matters little. All will be rectified soon.”

“Arrah, Dinis,” inquired his mother, “was it only takin' a rise out of us you wor all the time? Throth, myself's not the betther of the fright you put me into.”

“No,” replied Denis, “the Bishop treated me harshly, I thought: he said I was not properly fit. 'You might pass,' said he, 'upon a particular occasion, or under peculiar circumstances; but it will take at least a year and a half's study to enable you to enter Maynooth as I would wish you. You may go home again,' said he; 'at present I have dismissed the subject.'

“After this, on meeting Father Molony, he told me that his cousin had passed, and that he would be soon sent up to Maynooth: so I concluded all hope was over with me; but I didn't then know what the letter to Father Finnerty contained. I now see that I may succeed still.”

“You may and shall, Denis; but no thanks to Father Molony for that: however, I shall keep my eye upon the same curate, never fear. Well, let that pass, and now for harmony, conviviality, and friendship. Gentlemen, fill your glasses--I mean your respective vessels. Come, Denis More, let that porringer of yours be a brimmer. Ned Hanratty, charge your noggin. Darby, although your mug wants an ear, it can hold the full of it. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, that old family cruiskeen ought to be with your husband: but no matther--_non constat_--Eh? Dionysi? Intelligible?”

“_Intelligo, domine_.”

“Here then is health, success, and prosperity to Mr. Dionysius O'Shaughnessy, jun.! May he soon be on the Retreat in the vivacious walls of that learned and sprightly seminary, Maynooth! * On the Retreat, I say, getting fat upon half a meal a day for the first week, fasting tightly against the grain, praying sincerely for a settin' at the king's mutton, and repenting thoroughly of his penitence!”

* This is a passage which I fear few general readers
will understand without explanation; the meaning is
this:--When a young-man first enters Maynooth College
he devotes himself for the space of eight days to
fasting and prayer, separating himself as much as
possible from all society. He must review his whole
life, and ascertain, it he can, whether he has ever
left any sin of importance unconfessed, either
knowingly or by an emission that was culpably
negligent. After this examination, which must be both
severe and strict, he makes what is called a General
Confession; that is, he confesses all the sins he ever
committed as far back and as accurately as he can
recollect them. This being over, he enters upon his
allotted duties as a student and in good sooth feels
himself in admirable trim for “a set-in at the King's
Mutton.”

“Well, Docthor, that is a toast. Denis, have you nothing to say to that? Won't you stand up an' thank his Reverence, anyhow?”

“I am really too much oppressed with relaxation,” said Denis, “to return thanks in that florid style which would become my pretensions. I cannot, however, but thank Father Finnerty for his ingenious and learned toast, which does equal honor to his head and heart, and I might superadd, to his intellects also; for in drinking toasts, my friends, I always elaborate a distinction between strength of head and strength of intellect. I now thank you all for having in so liberal a manner drunk my health; and in grateful return, I request you will once more fill your utensils, and learnedly drink--long life and a mitre to the Reverend Father Finnerty, of the Society of St. Dominick, Doctor of Divinity and Parochial Priest of this excellent parish!--_Propino tibi salutem, Doctor doctissime, reverendissime, et sanctissime; nec non omnibus amicis hic congregatis!_”

The priest's eye, during this speech, twinkled with humor; he saw clearly that Denis thoroughly understood the raillery of his toast, and that the compliment was well repaid. On this subject he did not wish, however, to proceed further, and his object now was, that the evening should pass off as agreeably as possible.

Next morning Father Finnerty paid Denis a timely visit, having first, as he had been directed, sent home the colt a little after day-break. They then took an early breakfast, and after about half an hour's further deliberation, the priest, old Denis, and his son--the last mounted upon the redoubtable colt--proceeded to the Bishop's residence. His lordship had nearly finished breakfast, which he took in his study; but as he was engaged with his brother, the barrister, who slept at his house the night before, in order to attend a public meeting on that day, he could not be seen for some time after they arrived. At length they were admitted. The Right Reverend Doctor was still seated at the breakfast table, dressed in a morning-gown of fine black stuff, such as the brothers of the Franciscan order of monks usually wear, to which order he belonged. He wore black silk stockings, gold knee-buckles to his small-clothes, a rich ruby ring upon his finger, and a small gold cross, net with brilliants, about his neck. This last was not usually visible; but as he had not yet dressed for the day, it hung over his vest. He sat, or rather lolled back in a stuffed easy chair, one leg thrown indolently over the other. Though not an old man, he wore powder, which gave him an air of greater reverence; and as his features were sharp and intelligent, his eye small but keen, and his manner altogether impressive and gentlemanly, if not dignified, it was not surprising that Father Finnerty's two companions felt awed and embarrassed before him. Nor was the priest himself wholly free from that humbling sensation which one naturally feels when in the presence of a superior mind in a superior station of life.

“Good morning to your lordship!” said the priest, “I am exceedingly happy to see you look so well. Counsellor, your most obedient; I hope, sir, you are in good health!”

To this both gentlemen replied in the usual commonplace terms.

“Doctor,” continued the priest, “this is a worthy dacent parishioner of mine, Denis O'Shaughnessy; and this is his son who has the honor to be already known to your lordship.”

“Sit down, O'Shaughnessy,” said the Bishop, “take a seat, young man.”

“I humbly thank your lordship,” replied Denis the elder, taking a chair as he spoke, and laying his hat beside him on the carpet. The son, who trembled at the moment from head to foot, did not sit as he was asked, but the father, after giving him a pluck, said in a whisper, “Can't you sit, when his lordship-bids you.” He then took a seat, but appeared scarcely to know whether he sat or stood.

“By the by, Doctor, you have improved this place mightily,” continued Father Finnerty, “since I had the pleasure of being here last. I thought I saw a green-house peeping over the garden-wall.”

“Yes,” replied the Bishop, “I am just beginning to make a collection of shrubs and flowers upon a small scale. I believe you are aware that tending and rearing flowers, Mr. Finnerty, is a favorite amusement with me.”

“I believe I have a good right to know as much, Dr. M------,” replied Mr. Finnerty.

“If I don't mistake, I sent you some specimens for your garden that were not contemptible. And if I don't mistake again, I shall be able to send your lordship a shrub that would take the pearl off a man's eye only to look at it. And what's more, it's quite a new-comer; not two years in the country.”

“Pray how is it called, Mr. Finnerty.”

“Upon my credit, Doctor, with great respect, I will tell you nothing more about it at present. If you wish to see it, or to know its name, or to get a slip of it, you must first come and eat a dinner with me. And, Counsellor, if you, too, could appear on your own behalf, so much the better.”

“I fear I cannot, Mr. Finnerty, but I dare say my brother will do himself the pleasure of dining with you.”

“It cannot be for at least six weeks, Mr. Finnerty,” said the Bishop. “You forget that the confirmations begin in ten days; but I shall have the pleasure of dining with you when I come to confirm in your parish.”

“Phoo! Why, Doctor, that's a matter of course. Couldn't your lordship make it convenient to come during the week, and bring the Counsellor here with you? Don't say no, Counsellor; I'll have no demurring.”

“Mr. Finnerty,” said the Bishop, “it is impossible at present. My brother goes to Dublin to-morrow, and I must go on the following day to attend the consecration of a chapel in the metropolis.”

“Then upon my credit, your lordship will get neither the name nor description of my Facia, until you earn it by eating a dinner, and drinking a glass of claret with the Rev. Father Finnerty. Are those hard terms, Counsellor?--Ha! ha! ha! I'm not the man to put off a thing, I assure you.”

“Mr. Finnerty,” said the Bishop, smiling at, but not noticing the worthy priest's blunder about the Fucia, “if possible, I shall dine with you soon; but at present it is out of my power to appoint a day.”

“Well, well, Doctor, make your own time of it; and now for the purport of our journey. Denis O'Shaughnessy here, my lord, is a warm, respectable parishioner of mine--a man indeed for whom I have a great regard. He is reported to have inherited from his worthy father, two horns filled with guineas. His grandmother, as he could well inform your lordship, was born with a lucky caul upon her, which caul is still in the family. Isn't it so, Denis?”

“My lord, in dignity, it's truth,” replied Denis, “and from the time it came into the family they always thruv, thanks be to goodness!”

The lawyer sat eyeing the priest and Denis alternately, evidently puzzled to comprehend what such a remarkable introduction could lead to.

The Bishop seemed not to be surprised, for his features betrayed no change whatsoever.

“Having, therefore, had the necessary means of educating a son for the church, he has accordingly prepared this young man with much anxiety and expense for Maynooth.”

“Plase your lordship,” said Denis, “Docthor Finnerty is clothin' it betther than I could do. My heart is fixed upon seein' him what we all expect him to be, your lordship.”

“Mr. Finnerty,” observed the Bishop, “you seem to be intimately acquainted with O'Shaughnessy's circumstances; you appear to take a warm interest in the family, particularly in the success of his son.”

“Undoubtedly my lord; I am particularly anxious for his success.”

“You received my letter yesterday?”

“I am here to-day, my lord, in consequence of having received it. But, by the by, there was, under favor, a slight misconception on the part of your--”

“What misconception, sir!”

“Why, my lord--Counsellor, this is a--a--kind of charge his lordship is bringing against me, under a slight misconception. My lord, the fact is, that I didn't see what ecclesiastical right I had to prevent Denis here from disposing of his own property to--”

“I expect an apology from you, Mr. Finnerty, but neither a defence nor a justification. An attempt at either will not advance the interests of your young friend, believe me.”

“Then I have only to say that the wish expressed in your lordship's letter has been complied with. But wait awhile, my lord,” continued the priest, good-humoredly, “I shall soon turn the tables on yourself.”

“How is that, pray?”

“Why, my lord, the horse is in your stable, and Denis declares he will not take him out of it.”

“I have not the slightest objection to that,” replied the Bishop, “upon the express condition that his son shall never enter Maynooth.”

“For my part,” observed Mr. Finnerty, “I leave the matter now between your lordship and O'Shaughnessy himself. You may act as you please, Doctor, and so may he.”

“Mr. Finnerty, if I could suppose for a moment that the suggestion of thus influencing me originated with you, I would instantly deprive you of your parish, and make you assistant to your excellent curate, for whom I entertain a sincere regard. I have already expressed my opinion of the transaction alluded to in my letter. You have frequently offended me, Mr. Finnerty, by presuming too far upon my good temper, and by relying probably upon your own jocular disposition. Take care, sir, that you don't break down in some of your best jokes. I fear that under the guise of humor, you frequently avail yourself of the weakness, or ignorance, or simplicity of your parishioners. I hope, Mr. Finnerty, that while you laugh at the jest, they don't pay for it.”

The priest here caught the Counsellor's eye, and gave him a dry wink, not unperceived, however, by the Bishop, who could scarcely repress a smile.

“You should have known me better, Mr. Finnerty, than to suppose that any motive could influence me in deciding upon the claims of candidates for Maynooth, besides their own moral character and literary acquirements. So long as I live, this, and this alone, shall be the rule of my conduct, touching persons in the circumstances of young O'Shaughnessy.”

“My gracious lord,” said Denis, “don't be angry wid Mr. Finnerty. I'll bear it all, for it was my fau't. The horse is mine, and say what you will, out of your stable I'll never bring him. I think, wid great sibmission a man may do what he pleases wid his own.”

“Certainly,” said the Bishop; “my consent to permit your son to goto Maynooth is my own. Now this consent I will not give if you press that mode of argument upon me.”

“My Reverend Lord, as heaven's above me, I'd give all I'm worth to see the boy in Maynooth. If he doesn't go afther all our hopes, I'd break my heart.” He was so deeply affected that the large tears rolled down his cheeks as he spoke.

“Will your Lordship buy the horse?” he added; “I don't want him, and you, maybe, do?”

“I do not want him,” said the Bishop, “and if I did, I would not, under the present circumstances, purchase him from you.”

“Then my boy won't get in, your lordship. And you'll neither buy the horse, nor take him as a present. My curse upon him for a horse! The first thing I'll do when I get home will be to put a bullet through him, for he has been an unlucky thief to us. Is my son aquil to the others, that came to pass your lordship?” asked Denis.

“There is none of them properly qualified,” said the Bishop. “If there be any superiority among them your son has it. He is not without natural talent, Mr. Finnerty; his translations are strong and fluent, but ridiculously pedantic. That, however, is perhaps less his fault than the fault of those who instructed him.”

“Are you anxious to dispose of the horse?” said the Counsellor.

“A single day, sir, he'll never pass in my stable,” said Denis; “he has been an unlucky baste to me an' mine, an' to all that had anything to do wid him.”

“Pray what age is he?”

“Risin' four, sir; 'deed I believe he's four all out, an' a purty devil's clip he is, as you'd wish to see.”

“Come,” said the Counsellor, rising, “let us have a look at him. Mr. Finnerty, you're an excellent judge; will you favor me with your opinion?”

The priest and he, accompanied by the two O'Shaughnessys, passed out to the stable yard, where their horses stood. As they went, Father Finnerty whispered to O'Shaughnessy:--

“Now, Denis, is your time. Strike while the iron is hot. Don't take a penny!--don't take a fraction! Get into a passion, and swear you'll shoot him unless he accepts him as a present. If he does, all's right; he can twine the Bishop round his finger.”

“I see, sir,” said Denis; “I see! Let me alone for managin' him.”

The barrister was already engaged in examining the horse's mouth, as is usual, when the priest accosted him with--

“You are transgressing etiquette in this instance, Counsellor. You know the proverb--never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“How, Mr. Finnerty?--a gift horse!”

“His Reverence is right!” exclaimed Denis: “the sorra penny ever will cross my pocket for the same horse. You must take him as he stands, sir, barrin' the bridle an' saddle, that's not my own.”

“He will take no money,” said the priest.

“Nonsense, my dear sir! Why not take a fair price for him?”

“Divil the penny will cross my pocket for him, the unlucky thief!” replied the shrewd farmer.

“Then in that case the negotiation is ended,” replied the barrister. “I certainly will not accept him as a present. Why should I? What claim have I on Mr. O'Shaughnessy?”

“I don't want you to take him,” said Denis; “I want nobody to take him: but I know the dogs of the parish 'll be pickin' his bones afore night. You may as well have him, sir, as not.”

“Is the man serious, Mr. Finnerty?”

“I never saw a man in my life having a more serious appearance, I assure you,” said the priest.

“By Jove, it's a queer business,” replied the other: “a most extraordinary affair as I ever witnessed! Why, it would be madness to destroy such a fine animal as that! The horse is an excellent one! However, I shall certainly not accept him, until I ascertain whether I can prevail upon the bishop to elect his son to this vacancy. If I can make the man no return for him, I shall let him go to the dogs.”

“Go up and set to work,” said the priest; “but remember that _tace_ is Latin for a candle. Keep his lordship in the dark, otherwise this scion is ousted.”

“True,” said the other. “In the meantime bring them into the parlor until I try what can be done.”

“Take the Bishop upon the father's affection for him,” said the priest.

“You are right. I am glad you mentioned it.”

“The poor man will break his heart,” said the priest.

“He will,” responded the Counsellor smiling.

“So will the mother, too,” said the priest, with an arch look.

“And the whole family,” replied the Counsellor.

“Go up instantly,” said the priest; “you have often got a worse fee.”

“And, perhaps, with less prospect of success,” said the other. “Gentlemen, have the goodness to walk into the parlor for a few minutes, while I endeavor to soften my brother a little, if I can, upon this untoward business.”

When the priest and his two friends entered the parlor, which was elegantly furnished, they stood for a moment to survey it.

Old Denis, however, was too much engaged in the subject which lay nearest his heart to take pleasure in anything else; at least until he should hear the priest's opinion upon the posture of affairs.

“What does your reverence think?” said Denis.

“Behave yourself,” replied the pastor. “None of your nonsense! You know what I think as well as I do myself.”

“But will Dionnisis pass?--Will he go to Maynooth?”

“Will you go to your dinner to-day, or to your bed to-night?”

“God be praised! Well, Docthor, wait till we see him off, then I'll be spakin' to you!”

“No,” said the priest; “but wait till you tike a toss upon this sofa, and then you will get a taste of ecclesiastical luxury.”

“Ay,” said Denis, “but would it be right o' me to sit in it? Maybe it's consecrated.”

“Faith, you may swear that; but it is to the ease and comfort of his lordship! Come, man, sit down, till you see how you'll sink in it.”

“Oh, murdher!” exclaimed Denis, “where am I at all? Docthor dear, am I in sight? Do you see the crown o' my head, good or bad? Oh, may I never sin, but that's great state!--Well, to be sure!”

“Ay,” said the priest, “see what it is to be a bishop in any church! The moment a man becomes a bishop, he fastens tooth and nail upon luxury, as if a mitre was a dispensation for enjoying the world that they have sworn to renounce. Dionysius, look about you! Isn't this worth studying for?”

“Yes,” replied the hitherto silent candidate, “if it was perusal on the part of his lordship that got it.”