Chapter II: Part 2

She looked up, with streaming eyes, as he spoke, and replied to him in a manner so exquisitely affecting, when the circumstances of the boy, and the tender allusion made by the sorrowing mother, are considered--that in point of fact no heart--certainly no Irish heart--could withstand it. There is an old Irish melody unsurpassed in pathos, simplicity, and beauty--named in Irish “_Tha ma mackulla's na foscal me,_”---or in English, “I am asleep, and don't waken me.” The position of the boy caused the recollection of the old melody to flash into the mother's heart,--she simply pointed to him as the words streamed in a low melodious murmur, but one full of heartrending sorrow, from her lips. The old sacred association--for it was one which she had sung for him a thousand times,--until warned to desist by his tears--deepened the tenderness of her heart, and she said with difficulty, whilst she involuntarily held over the candle to gratify the father's heart by a sight of him. “I was keepin' him before my eye,” she said; “God knows but it may be the last night we'll ever see him undher our own roof! Dominick, achora, I doubt I can't part wid him from my heart.”

“Then how can I, Vara?” he replied. “Wasn't he my right hand in everything? When was he from me, ever since he took a man's work upon him? And when he'd finish his own task for the day, how kindly he'd begin an' help me wid mine! No, Vara, it goes to my heart to let him go away upon sich a plan, and I wish he hadn't taken the notion into his head at all.”

“It's not too late, maybe,” replied his mother: “I think it wouldn't be hard to put him off of it; the crathur's own heart is failin' him to lave us. He has sorrow upon his face where he lies.”

The father looked at the expression of affectionate melancholy which shaded hia features as he slept; and the perception of the boy's internal struggle against his own domestic attachments in accomplishing hia first determination, powerfully touched his heart.

“Vara,” said he, “I know the boy--he won't give it up; and 'twould be a pity--maybe a sin--to put him from it. Let the child get fair play, and thry his coorse. If, he fails, he can come back to us, an' our arms an' hearts will be open to welcome him! But, if God prospers him, wouldn't it be a blessin' that we never expected, to see him in the white robes, celebratin' one mass for his parents. If these ould eyes could see that, I would be continted to close them in pace an' happiness for ever.”

“An' well you'd become them, _avourneen machree!_ Well would your mild and handsome countenance look wid the long heavenly stole of innocence upon you! and although it's atin' into my heart, I'll bear it for the sake of seein' the same blessed sight. Look at that face, Dominick; mightn't many a lord of the land be proud to have sich a son? May the heavens shower down its blessin' upon him!”

The father burst into tears. “It is--it is!” said he. “It is the face that 'ud make many a noble heart proud to look at it! Is it any wondher it 'ud cut our hearts, thin, to have it taken from afore our eyes? Come away, Vara, come away, or I'll not be able to part wid it. It is the lovely face--an' kind is the heart of my darlin' child!” As he spoke, he stooped down and kissed the youth's cheek, on which the warm tears of affection fell, soft as the dew from heaven. The mother followed his example, and they both left the room.

“We must bear it,” said Dominick, as they passed into another apartment; “the money's gathered, an' it wouldn't look well to be goin' back wid it to them that befrinded us. We'd have the blush upon our face for it, an' the child no advantage.”

“Thrue for you, Dominick; and we must make up our minds to live widout him for a while.”

The following morning was dark and cloudy, but calm and without rain. When the family were all assembled, every member of it evinced traces of deep feeling, and every eye was fixed upon the serene but melancholy countenance of the boy with tenderness and sorrow. He himself maintained a quiet equanimity, which, though apparently liable to be broken by the struggles of domestic affection, and in character with his meek and unassuming disposition, yet was supported by more firmness than might be expected from a mind in which kindness and sensibility were so strongly predominant. At this time, however, his character was not developed, or at least not understood, by those that surrounded him. To strong feelings and enduring affections he added a keenness of perception and a bitterness of invective, of which, in his conversation with his father concerning Yellow Sam, the reader has already had sufficient proofs. At breakfast little or nothing was eaten; the boy himself could not taste a morsel, nor any other person in the family. When the form of the meal was over, the father knelt down--“It's right,” said he, “that we should all go to our knees, and join in a Rosary in behalf of the child that's goin' on a good intintion. He won't thrive the worse bekase the last words that he'll hear from his father and mother's lips is a prayer for bringin the blessin' of God down upon his endayvors.”

This was accordingly performed, though not without tears and sobs, and frequent demonstrations of grief; for religion among the peasantry is often associated with bursts of deep and powerful feeling.

When the prayer was over, the boy rose and calmly strapped to his back a satchel covered with deer-skin, containing a few books, linen, and a change of very plain apparel. While engaged in this, the uproar of grief in the house was perfectly heart-rending. When just ready to set out, he reverently took off his hat, knelt down, and, with tears streaming from his eyes, craved humbly and meekly the blessing and forgiveness of his father and mother. The mother caught him in her arms, kissed his lips, and, kneeling also, sobbed out a fervent benediction upon his head; the father now, in the grief of a strong man, pressed him to his heart, until the big burning tears fell upon the boy's face; his brothers and sisters embraced him wildly; next his more distant relations; and lastly, the neighbors who were crowded about the door. After this he took a light staff in his hand, and, first blessing himself after the form of his church, proceeded to a strange land in quest of education.

He had not gone more than a few perches from the door, when his mother followed him with a small bottle of holy water. “Jimmy, _a lanna voght_,” (* my poor child) said she, “here's this, an' carry it about you--it will keep evil from you; an' be sure to take good care of the written correckther you got from the priest an' Square Benson; an', darlin', don't be lookin' too often at the cuff o' your coat, for feard the people might get a notion that you have the bank-notes sewed in it. An', Jimmy agra, don't be too lavish upon their Munster crame; they say it's apt to give people the ague. Kiss me agin, agra; an' the heavens above keep you safe and well till we see you once more!”

She then tenderly, and still with melancholy pride, settled his shirt collar, which she thought did not set well about his neck, and kissing him again, with renewed sorrow left him to pursue his journey.

M'Evoy's house was situated on the side of a dark hill--one of that barren description which can be called neither inland nor mountain. It commanded a wide and extended prospect, and the road along which the lad travelled was visible for a considerable distance from it. On a small hillock before the door sat Dominek and his wife, who, as long as their son was visible, kept their eyes, which were nearly blinded with tears, rivetted upon his person. It was now they gave full vent to their grief, and discussed with painful and melancholy satisfaction all the excellent qualities which he possessed. As James himself advanced, one neighbor after another fell away from the train which accompanied him, not, however, until they had affectionately embraced and bid him adieu, and perhaps slipped, with peculiar delicacy, an additional mite into his waistcoat pocket. After the neighbors, then followed the gradual separation from his friends--one by one left him, as in the great journey of life, and in a few hours he found himself accompanied only by his favorite brother.

This to him was the greatest trial he had yet felt; long and heartrending was their embrace. Jemmy soothed and comforted his beloved brother, but in vain. The lad threw himself on the spot at which they parted, and remained there until Jemmy turned an angle of the road which brought him out of his sight, when the poor boy kissed the marks of his brother's feet repeatedly, and then returned home, hoarse and broken down with the violence of his grief.

He was now alone, and for the first time felt keenly the strange object on which he was bent, together with all the difficulties connected with its attainment. He was young and uneducated, and many years, he knew, must elapse e'er he could find himself in possession of his wishes. But time would pass at home, as well as abroad, he thought; and as there lay no impediment of peculiar difficulty in his way, he collected all his firmness and proceeded.

There is no country on the earth in which either education, or the desire to procure it, is so much reverenced as in Ireland. Next to the claims of the priest and schoolmaster come those of the poor scholar for the respect of the people. It matters not how poor or how miserable he may be; so long as they see him struggling with poverty in the prosecution of a purpose so laudable, they will treat him with attention and kindness. Here there is no danger of his being sent to the workhouse, committed as a vagrant, or passed from parish to parish until he reaches his own settlement. Here the humble lad is not met by the sneer of purse-proud insolence, or his simple tale answered only in the frown of heartless contempt. No--no--no. The best bit and sup are placed before him; and whilst his poor, but warm-hearted, entertainer can afford only potatoes and salt to his own half-starved family, he will make a struggle to procure something better for the poor scholar; '_Becase he's far from his own, the craihur!_ An' sure the intuition in him is good, anyhow; the Lord prosper him, an' every one that has the heart set upon the larnin'!'

As Jemmy proceeded, he found that his satchel of books and apparel gave as clear an intimation of his purpose, as if he had carried a label to that effect upon his back.

“God save you, a bouchal!” said a warm, honest-looking countryman, whom he met driving home his cows in the evening, within a few miles of the town in which he purposed to sleep.

“God save you kindly!”

“Why, thin, 'tis a long journey you have before you, alanna, for I know well it's for Munster you're bound.”

“Thrue for you; 'tis there, wid the help of God, I'm goin'. A great scarcity of larnin' was in my own place, or I wouldn't have to go at all,” said the boy, whilst his eyes filled with, tears.

“'Tis no discredit in life,” replied the countryman, with untaught natural delicacy, for he perceived that a sense of pride lingered about the boy which made the character of poor scholar sit painfully upon him; “'tis no discredit, dear, nor don't be cast down. I'll warrant you that God will prosper you; an' that He may, avick, I pray this day!” and as he spoke, he raised his hat in reverence to the Being whom he invoked. “An' tell me, dear--where do you intend to sleep to-night?”

“In the town forrid here,” replied Jemmy. “I'm in hopes I'll be able to reach it before dark.”

“Pooh! asy you will. Have you any friends or acquaintances there that 'ud welcome you, _a bouchal dhas_ (my handsome boy)?”

“No, indeed,” said Jemmy, “they're all strangers to me; but I can stop in 'dhry lodgin',' for it's chaper.”

“Well, alanna, I believe you; but _I'm no stranger to you_--so come home wid me to-night; where you'll get a good bed, and betther thratement nor in any of their dhry lodgins. Give me your books, and I'll carry them for you. Ethen, but you have a great batch o' them entirely. Can you make any hand o' the Latin at all yet?”

“No, indeed,” replied Jemmy, somewhat sorrowfully; “I didn't ever open a Latin book, at all at all.”

“Well, acushla, everything has a beginnin';--you won't be so. An' I know by your face that you'll be bright at it, an' a credit to them owes (* owns) you. There's my house in the fields beyant, where you'll be well kept for one night, any way, or for twinty, or for ten times twinty, if you wanted them.”

The honest farmer then commenced the song of _Colleen dhas Crotha na Mho_ (* The pretty girl milking her cow), which he sang in a clear mellow voice, until they reached the house.

“Alley,” said the man to his wife, on entering, “here's a stranger I've brought you.”

“Well,” replied Alley, “he's welcome sure, any way; _Cead millia, failta ghud_, alanna! sit over to the fire. Brian, get up, dear,” said she to one of the children, “an' let the stranger to the hob.”

“He's goin' on a good errand, the Lord bless him!” said the husband, “up the country for the larnin'. Put thim books over on the settle; an' whin the, _girshas_ are done milkin', give him a brave dhrink of the sweet milk; it's the stuff to thravel on.”

“Troth, an' I will, wid a heart an' a half, wishin' it was betther I had to give him. Here, Nelly, put down a pot o' wather, an' lave soap an' a _praskeen_, afore you go to milk, till I bathe the dacent boy's feet. Sore an' tired they are afther his journey, poor young crathur.”

When Jemmy placed himself upon the hob, he saw that some peculiarly good fortune had conducted him to so comfortable a resting-place. Ho considered this as a good omen; and felt, in fact, much relieved, for the sense of loneliness among strangers was removed.

The house evidently belonged to a wealthy farmer, well to do in the world; the chimney was studded with sides upon sides of yellow smoke-dried bacon, hams, and hung beef in abundance. The kitchen tables were large, and white as milk; and the dresser rich in its shining array of delf and pewter. Everything, in fact, was upon a large scale. Huge meal chests were ranged on one side, and two or three settle beds on the other, conspicuous, as I have said, for their uncommon cleanliness; whilst hung from the ceiling were the _glaiks_, a machine for churning; and beside the dresser stood an immense churn, certainly too unwieldy to be managed except by machinery. The farmer was a ruddy-faced Milesian, who wore a drab frieze coat, with a velvet collar, buff waistcoat, corduroy small-clothes, and top-boots* well greased from the tops down. He was not only an agriculturist, but a grazier--remarkable for shrewdness and good sense, generally attended fairs and markets, and brought three or four large droves of fat cattle to England every year. From his fob hung the brass chain and almost rusty key of a watch, which he kept certainly more for use than ornament.

* This in almost every instance, is the dress of
wealthy Irish farmer.

“A little sup o' this,” said he, “won't take your life,” approaching Jemmy with a bottle of as good poteen as ever escaped the eye of an exciseman; “it'll refresh you--for you're tired, or I wouldn't offer it, by rason that one bint on what you're bint on, oughtn't to be makin' freedoms wid the same dhrink. But there's a time for everything, an' there's a time for this.--Thank you, agra,” he added, in reply to Jemmy, who had drunk his health. “Now, don't be frettin'--but make yourself as aisy as if you were at your own father's hearth. You'll have everything to your heart's contint for this night; the carts are goin' in to the market to-morrow airly--you can sit upon them, an' maybe you'll get somethin' more nor you expect: sure the Lord has given it to me, an' why wouldn't I share it wid them that wants it more nor I do?”

The lad's heart yearned to the generous farmer, for he felt that his kindness had the stamp of truth and sincerity upon it. He could only raise his eyes in a silent prayer, that none belonging to him might ever be compelled, as strangers and way-farers, to commit themselves, as he did, to the casualties of life, in pursuit of those attainments which poverty cannot otherwise command. Fervent, indeed, was his prayer; and certain we are, that because it was sincere, it must have been heard.

In the meantime, the good woman, or _vanithee_, had got the pot of water warmed, in which Jemmy was made to put his feet. She then stripped up her arms to the elbows, and, with soap and seedy meal, affectionately bathed his legs and feet: then, taking the _praskeen_, or coarse towel, she wiped them with a kindness which thrilled to his heart.

“And now,” said she, “I must give you a cure for blisthers, an' it's this:--In the mornin', if we're all spared, as we will, plase the Almighty, I'll give you a needle and some white woollen thread, well soaped. When your blisthers gets up, dhraw the soapy thread through them, clip it on each side, an', my life for yours, they won't throuble you. Sure I thried it the year I went on my Station to Lough Derg, an' I know it to be the rale cure.”

“Here, Nelly,” said the farmer,--who sat iwith a placid benevolent face, smoking his pipe on the opposite hob--to one of the maids who came in from milking,--“bring up a noggin of that milk, we want it here: let it be none of your washy _foremilk_, but the _strippins_, Nelly, that has the strinth in it. Up wid it here, a colleen.”

“The never a one o' the man but's doatin' downright, so he is,” observed the wife, “to go to fill the tired child's stomach wid plash. Can't you wait till he ates a thrifle o' some-thin' stout, to keep life in him, afther his hard journey? Does your feet feel themselves cool an' asy now, ahagur?”

“Indeed,” said Jemmy, “I'm almost as fresh as when I set out. 'Twas little thought I had, when I came away this mornin', that I'd meet wid so much friendship on my journey. I hope it's a sign that God's on my side in my undertakin'!”

“I hope so, avourneen--I hope so, an' it is, too,” replied the farmer, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and mildly whiffing away the smoke, “an' God'll be always on your side, as long as your intentions are good. Now ate somethin'--you must want it by this; an' thin, when you rest yourself bravely, take a tass into a good feather-bed, where you can _sleep rings round you_. (* As much as you please.) Who knows but you'll be able to say mass for me or some o' my family yit. God grant that, any way, avick!”

Poor James's heart was too full to eat much; he took, therefore, only a very slender portion of the refreshments set before him; but his hospitable entertainer had no notion of permitting him to use the free exercise of his discretion on this important point. When James put away the knife and fork, as an indication of his having concluded the meal, the farmer and his wife turned about, both at the same moment, with a kind of astonishment.

“Eh? is it giving over that way you are? Why, alanna, it's nothin' at all you've tuck; sure little Brian there would make a fool of you, so he would, at the atin'. Come, come, a bouchal--don't be ashamed, or make any way sthrange at all, but ate hearty.”

“I declare I have ate heartily, thank you,” replied James; “oceans itself, so I did. I couldn't swally a bit more if the house was full.”

“Arrah, Brian,” said the wife, “cut him up more o' that hung beef, it's ashamed the crathur is! Take it, avick; don't we know the journey you had! Faix, if one o' the boys was out on a day's thravellin', you'd see how he'd handle himself.”

“Indeed,” said James, “I can't--if I could I would. Sure I would be no way backward at all, so I wouldn't.”

“Throth, an' you can an' must,” said the farmer: “the never a rise you'll rise, till you finish that”--putting over a complement out of all reasonable proportion with his age and size.

“There now's a small taste, an' you must finish it. To go to ate nothin' at all! Hut tut! by the tops o' my boots, you must put that clear an' clane out o' sight, or I'll go mad an' barn them.”

The lad recommenced, and continued to eat as long as he could possibly hold out; at length he ceased:--

“I can't go on,” said he; “don't ax me: I can't indeed.”

“Bad manners to the word I'll hear till you finish it; you know it's but a thrifle to spake of. Thry agin, avick, but take your time; you'll be able for it.”

The poor lad's heart was engaged on other thoughts and other scenes; his home, and its beloved inmates--sorrow and the gush of young affections, were ready to burst forth.

“I cannot ate,” said he, and he looked imploringly on the farmer and his wife, whilst the tears started to his eyes--“don't ax me, for my heart's wid them I left behind me, that I may never see agin!” and he wept in a burst of grief which he could not restrain.

Neither the strength nor tenderness of the lad's affection was unappreciated by this excellent couple. In a moment the farmer's wife was also in tears; nor did her husband break the silence for some minutes.

“The Almighty pity an' strengthen him!” said the farmer's wife, “but he has the good an' the kind heart, an' would be a credit to any family.--Whisht, acushla machree--whisht, we won't ax you to ate--no indeed. It was out o' kindness we did it: don't be cast down aither; sure it isn't the ocean you're crossin'; but goin' from one county like to another. God 'll guard an' take care o' you, so he will. Your intintion's good, an' he'll prosper it.”

“He will, avick,” said the farmer himself--“he will. Cheer up, my good boy! I know thim that's larned an' creditable clargy this day, that went as you're goin'--ay, an' that ris an' helped their parents, an' put them above poverty an' distress; an' never fear, wid a blessin', but you'll do the same.”

“That's what brings me at all,” replied the boy, drying his tears; “if I was once able to take them out o' their distresses, I'd be happy: only I'm afeard the cares o' the world will break my father's heart before I have it in my power to assist him.”

“No such thing, darlin',” said the good woman. “Sure his hopes out o' you, an' his love for you will keep him up; an' you dunna but God may give him a blessin' too, avick.”

“Mix another sup o'that for him,” said the fanner: “he's low spirited, an' it's too strong to give him any more of it as it is. Childhre, where's the masther from us--eh? Why, thin, God help them, the crathurs--wasn't it thoughtful o' them to lave the place while he was at his dinner, for fraid he'd be dashed--manin' them young crathurs, Alley, But can you tell us where the 'masther' is? Isn't this his night wid us? I know he tuck his dinner here.”

“Ay did he; but it's up to Larry Murphy's he's gone, to thry his son in his book-keepin'. Mavrone, but he had time enough to put him well through it afore this, any way.”

As she spoke, a short thickset man, with black twinkling eyes and ruddy cheeks entered. This personage was no other than the schoolmaster of that district, who circulated, like a newspaper, from one farmer's house to another, in order to expound for his kind entertainers the news of the day, his own learning, and the very evident extent of their ignorance.

The moment he came in, the farmer and his wife rose with an air of much deference, and placed a chair for him exactly opposite the fire, leaving a respectful distance on each side, within which no illiterate mortal durst presume to sit.

“Misther Corcoran,” said the farmer, presenting Jemmy's satchel, through which the shapes of the books were quite plain, “_thig in thu shinn?_” (* Do you understand this) and as he spoke he looked significantly at its owner.

“Ah,” replied the man of letters, “thigum, thigum. (* I understand) God be wid the day when I carried the likes of it. 'Tis a badge of polite genius, that no boy need be ashamed of. So my young suckling of litherature, you're bound for Munster?--for that counthry where the swallows fly in conic sections--where the magpies and the turkey's confab in Latin, and the cows and bullocks will roar you Doric Greek--bo-a-o--clamo. What's your pathronymic? _quo nomine gowdes, Domine doctissime?_”

The lad was silent; but the farmer's wife turned up the whites of her eyes with an expression of wonder and surprise at the erudition of the “masther.”

“I persave you are as yet uninitiated into the elementary principia of the languages; well--the honor is still before you. What's your name?”

“James M'Evoy, sir.”

Just now the farmer's family began to assemble round the spacious hearth; the young lads, whose instruction the worthy teacher claimed as his own peculiar task, came timidly forward, together with two or three pretty bashful girls with sweet flashing eyes, and countenances full of feeling and intelligence. Behind on the settles, half-a-dozen servants of both sexes sat in pairs--each boy placing himself beside his favorite girl. These appeared to be as strongly interested in the learned conversation which the master held, as if they were masters and mistresses of Munster Latin and Doric Greek themselves; but an occasional thump cautiously bestowed by no slender female hand upon the sturdy shoulder of her companion, or a dry cough from one of the young men, fabricated to drown the coming blow, gave slight indications that they contrived to have a little amusement among themselves, altogether independent of Mr. Corcoran's erudition.

When the latter came in, Jemmy was taking the tumbler of punch which the farmer's wife had mixed for him; on this he fixed an expressive glance, which instantly reverted to the _vanithee_, and from her to the large bottle which stood in a window to the right of the fire. It is a quick eye, however, that can anticipate Irish hospitality.

“Alley,” said the farmer, ere the wife had time to comply with the hint conveyed by the black, twinkling eye of the schoolmaster; “why, Alley”--

“Sure, I am,” she replied, “an' will have it for you in less than no time.”

She accordingly addressed herself to the bottle, and in a few minutes handed a reeking jug of punch to the _Farithee_, or good man.

“Come, Masther, by the hand o' my body, I don't like dhry talk so long as I can get anything to moisten the discoorse. Here's your health, Masther,” continued the farmer, winking at the rest, “and a speedy conclusion to what you know! In throth, she's the pick of a good girl--not to mintion what she has for her portion. I'm a friend to the same family, an' will put a spoke in your wheel, Masther, that'll sarve you.”

“Oh, Mr. Lanigan, very well, sir--very well--you're becoming quite facetious upon me,” said the little man, rather confused; “but upon my credit and reputation, except the amorous inclination and regard to me is on her side,” and he looked sheepishly at his hands, “I can't say that the arrows of Cupid have as yet pinethrated the sintimintal side of my heart. It is not with me as it was wid Dido--hem--

Non 'haeret lateri lethalis arundo,'

as Virgil says. Yet I can't say, but if a friend were to become spokesman for me, and insinuate in my behalf a small taste of amorous sintimintality, why--hem, hem, hem! The company's health! Lad, James M'Evoy, your health, and success to you, my good boy!--hem, hem!”

“Here's wishin' him the same!” said the farmer.

“James,” said the schoolmaster, “you are goin' to Munsther, an' I can say that I have travelled it from end to end, not to a bad purpose, I hope--hem! Well, a bouchal, there are hard days and nights before you, so keep a firm heart. If you have money, as 'tis likely you have, don't let a single rap of it into the hands of the schoolmaster, although the first thing he'll do will be to bring you home to his own house, an' palaver you night an' day, till he succeeds in persuading you to leave it in his hands for security. You might, if not duly pre-admonished, surrender it to his solicitations, for--

'Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit.'

Michael, what case is mortalium?” added he, suddenly addressing one of the farmer's sons; “come, now, Michael, where's your brightness? What case is mortalium?”

The boy was taken by surprise, and for a few minutes could not reply.

“Come man,” said the father, “be sharp, spake out bravely, an' don't be afraid; nor don't be in a hurry aither, we'll wait for you.”

“Let him alone--let him alone,” said Corcoran; “I'll face the same boy agin the county for cuteness. If he doesn't expound that, I'll never consthru a line of Latin, or Greek, or Masoretic, while I'm livin'.”

His cunning master knew right well that the boy, who was only confused at the suddenness of the question, would feel no difficulty in answering it to his satisfaction. Indeed, it was impossible for him to miss it, as he was then reading the seventh book of Virgil, and the fourth of Homer. It is, however, a trick with such masters to put simple questions of that nature to their pupils, when at the houses of their parents, as knotty and difficult, and when they are answered, to assume an air of astonishment at the profound reach of thought displayed by the pupil.

When Michael recovered himself, he instantly replied, “_Mortalium_ is the genitive case of nemo, by '_Nomina Partiva_.'”

Corcoran laid down the tumbler, which he was in the act of raising to his lips, and looked at the lad with an air of surprise and delight, then at the farmer and his wife, alternately, and shook his head with much mystery. “Michael,” said he to the lad; “will you go out and tell us what the night's doin'.”

The boy accordingly went out--“Why,” said Corcoran, in his absence, “if ever there was a phanix, and that boy will be the bird--an Irish phanix he will be, a

_Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno!_

There's no batin' him at anything he undher-takes. Why, there's thim that are makin' good bread by their larnin', that couldn't resolve that; and you all saw how he did it widout the book! Why, if he goes on at this rate, I'm afraid he'll soon be too many for myself--hem!”

“Too many for yourself! Fill the masther's tumbler, Alley. Too many for yourself! No, no! I doubt he'll never see that day, bright as he is, an' cute. That's it--put a hape upon it. Give me your hand, masther. I thank you for your attention to him, an' the boy is a credit to us. Come over, Michael, avourneen. Here, take what's in this tumbler, an' finish it. Be a good boy and mind your lessons, an' do everything the masther here--the Lord bless him!--bids you; an' you'll never want a frind, masther, nor a dinner, nor a bed, nor a guinea, while the Lord spares me aither the one or the other.”

“I know it, Mr. Lanigan, I know it; and I will make that boy the pride of Ireland, if I'm spared. I'll show him _cramboes_ that would puzzle the great Scaliger himself; and many other difficulties I'll let him into, that I have never let out yet, except to Tim Kearney, that bate them all at Thrinity College in Dublin up, last June.”

“Arrah, how was that, Masther?”

“Tim, you see, went in to his Entrance Examinayshuns, and one of the Fellows came to examine him, but divil a long it was till Tim sacked him.

“'Go back agin', says Tim, 'and sind some one that's able to tache me, for you're not.'

“So another greater scholar agin came to yry Tim, and did thry him, and Tim made a _hare_ of _him_, before all that was in the place--five or six thousand ladies and gintlemen, at laste!

“The great learned Fellows thin began to look odd enough; so they picked out the best scholar among them but one, and slipped him at Tim; but well becomes Tim, the never a long it was till he had him, too, as dumb as a post. The fellow went back--

“'Gintlemen,' says he to the rest, 'we'll be disgraced all out,' says he, 'for except the Prowost sacks that Munsther spalpeen, he'll bate us all, an' we'll never be able to hould up our heads afther.'

“Accordingly, the Prowost attacks Tim; and such a meetin' as they had, never was seen in Thrinity College since its establishment. At last when they had been nine hours and a half at it, the Prowost put one word to him that Tim couldn't expound, so he lost it by one word only. For the last two hours the Prowost carried on the examinashun in Hebrew, thinking, you see, he had Tim there; but he was mistaken, for Tim answered him in good Munsther Irish, and it so happened that they understood each other, for the two languages are first cousins, or, at all evints, close blood relations. Tim was then pronounced to be the best scholar in Ireland except the Prowost; though among ourselves, they might have thought of the man that taught him. That, however, wasn't all. A young lady fell in love wid Tim, and is to make him a present of herself and her great fortune (three estates) the moment he becomes a counsellor; and in the meantime she allows him thirty pounds a year to bear his expenses, and live like a gintleman.

“Now to return to the youth in the corner: _Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit_, Jemmy keep your money, or give it to the priest to keep, and it will be safest; but by no means let the Hyblean honey of the schoolmaster's blarney deprive you of it, otherwise it will be a _vale, vale, longum vale_ between you. _Crede experto!_”

“Masther,” said the farmer, “many a sthrange accident you met wid on yer thravels through Munsther?”

“No doubt of that, Mr. Lanigan. I and another boy thravelled it in society together. One day we were walking towards a gintleman's house on the road side, and it happened that we met the owner of it in the vicinity, although we didn't know him to be such.

“'_Salvete Domini!_' said he, in good fresh Latin.

“'_Tu sis salvus, quoque!_' said I to him, for my comrade wasn't cute, an' I was always orathor.

“'_Unde veniti?_' said he, comin' over us wid another deep piece of larnin' the construction of which was, 'where do yez come from?'

“I replied, '_Per varios casus et tot discrimina rerum, venimus a Mayo._'

“'Good!' said he, 'you're bright; follow me.'

“So he brought us over to his own house, and ordered us bread and cheese and a posset; for it was Friday, an' we couldn't touch mate. He, in the mane time, sat an chatted along wid us. The thievin' cook, however, in makin' the posset, kept the curds to herself, except a slight taste here and there, that floated on the top; but she was liberal enough of the whey, any how.

“Now I had been well trained to fishing in my more youthful days; and no gorsoon could grope a trout wid me. I accordingly sent the spoon through the pond before me wid the skill of a connoisseur; but to no purpose--it came up wid nothin' but the whey.

“So, said I off hand to the gintleman, houlding up the bowl, and looking at it with a disappointed face,

'Apparent _rari_ nantes in gurgite vasto.'

'This,' says I, 'plase your hospitality, may be Paotolus, but the divil a taste o' the proper sand is in the bottom of it.'

“The wit of this, you see, pleased him, and we got an excellent treat in his _studium_, or study: for he was determined to give myself another trial.

“'What's the wickedest line in Virgil?' said he.

“Now I had Virgil at my fingers' ends, so I answered him:

'Flectere si nequeo superos, Aeheronta movebo,'

“'Very good,' said he, 'you have the genius, and will come to somethin' yet: now tell me the most moral line in Virgil.'

“I answered:

'Discere justitiam moniti et non temnere divos.' *

* He is evidently drawing the long-bow here; this
anecdote has been told before.

“'Depend upon it,' said he, 'you will be a luminary. The morning star will be but a farthing candle to you; and if you take in the learning as you do the cheese, in a short time there won't be a man in Munsther fit to teach you,' and he laughed, for you see he had a tendency to jocosity.

“He did not give me up here, however, being determined to go deeper wid me.

“'Can you translate a newspaper into Latin prose?' said he.

“Now the divil a one o' me was just then sure about the prose, so I was goin' to tell him; but before I had time to speak, he thrust the paper into my hand, and desired me to thranslate half-a-dozen barbarous advertisements.

“The first that met me was about a reward offered for a Newfoundland dog and a terrier, that had been stolen from a fishing-tackle manufacturer, and then came a list of his shabby merchandise, ending with a long-winded encomium upon his gunpowder, shot, and double-barrelled guns. Now may I be shot with a blank cartridge, if I ever felt so much at an amplush in my life, and I said so.

“'Your honor has hooked me wid the fishing hooks,' said I; 'but I grant the cheese was good bait, any how.'

“So he laughed heartily, and bid me go on.

“Well, I thought the first was difficult: but the second was Masoretic to it--something about drawbacks, excisemen, and a long custom-house list, that would puzzle Publius Virgilius Maro, if he was set to translate it. However, I went through wid it as well as I could; where I couldn't find Latin, I laid in the Greek, and where the Greek failed me, I gave the Irish, which, to tell the truth, in consequence of its vernacularity, I found to be the most convanient. Och, och many a larned scrimmage I have signalized myself in, during my time. Sure my name's as common as a mail-coach in Thrinity College; and 'tis well known there isn't a fellow in it but I could sack, except may be, the prowost. That's their own opinion. 'Corcoran,' says the prowost, 'is the most larned man in Ireland; an' I'm not ashamed,' says he, 'to acknowledge that I'd rather decline meeting him upon deep points.' Ginteels, all your healths--hem! But among ourselves I could bog him in a very short time; though I'd scorn to deprive the gintleman of his reputaytion or his place, even if he sent me a challenge of larnin' to-morrow, although he's too cute to venture on doing that--hem, hem!”

To hear an obscure creature, whose name was but faintly known in the remote parts even of the parish in which he lived, draw the long-bow at such a rate, was highly amusing. The credulous character of his auditory, however, was no slight temptation to him; for he knew that next to the legends of their saints, or the Gospel itself, his fictions ranked in authenticity; and he was determined that it should not be his fault if their opinion of his learning and talents were not raised to the highest point. The feeling experienced by the poor scholar, when he awoke the next morning, was one both of satisfaction and sorrow. He thought once more of his home and kindred, and reflected that it might be possible he had I seen the last of his beloved relations. His grief, however, was checked when he remembered the warm and paternal affection with which he was received on the preceding night by his hospitable countryman. He offered up his prayers to God; humbly besought his grace and protection; nor did he forget to implore a blessing upon those who I had thus soothed his early sorrows, and afforded him, though a stranger and friendless, I shelter, comfort, and sympathy.

“I hope,” thought he, “that I will meet many such, till I overcome my difficulties, an' find myself able to assist my poor father an' mother!”

And he did meet many such among the humble, and despised, and neglected of his countrymen; for--and we say it with pride--the character of this excellent farmer is thoroughly that of our peasantry within the range of domestic life.

When he had eaten a comfortable breakfast, and seen his satchel stuffed with provision for his journey, the farmer brought him up to his own room, in which were also his wife and children.

“God,” said he, “has been good to me; blessed be his holy name!--betther it appears in one sinse, than he has been to you, dear, though maybe I don't desarve it as well. But no matther, acushla; I have it, an' you want it; so here's a thrifle to help your forrid in your larnin'; an' all I ax from you is to offer up a bit of a prayer for me, of an odd time, an' if ever you live to be a priest, to say, if it wouldn't be throublesome, one Mass for me an' those that you see about me. It's not much, James agra--only two guineas. They may stand your friend, whin friends will be scarce wid you; though, I hope, that won't be the case aither.”

The tears were already streaming down. Jemmy's cheeks. “Oh,” said the artless boy, “God forever reward you! but sure I have a great dale of money in the--in the--cuff o' my coat. Indeed I have, an' I won't want it!”

The farmer, affected by the utter simplicity of the lad, looked at his wife and smiled, although a tear stood in his eye at the time. She wiped her eyes with her apron, and backed the kind offer of her husband.

“Take it, asthore,” she added, “in your cuff! Musha, God help you! sure it's not much you or the likes of you can have in your cuff, avourneen! Don't be ashamed, but take it; we can well afford it, glory be to God for it! It's not, agra, bekase you're goin' the way you are--though that same's an honor to you--but bekase our hearts warmed to you, that we offered it, an' bekase we would wish you to be thinkin' of us now an' thin, when you're in a strange part of the country. Let me open your pocket an' put them into it. That's a good, boy, thank you, an' God bless an' prosper you! I'm sure you were always biddable.”

“Now childre,” said the farmer, addressing his sons and daughters, “never see the sthranger widout a friend, nor wantin' a bed or a dinner, when you grow up to be men an' women. There's many a turn in this world; we may be strangers ourselves; an' think of what I would feel if any of you was far from me, widout money or friends, when I'd hear that you met a father in a strange counthry that lightened your hearts by his kindness. Now, dear, the carts 'll be ready in no time--eh? Why there they are at the gate waitin' for you. Get into one of them, an' they'll lave you in the next town. Come, roan, budan' age, be stout-hearted, an' don't cry; sure we did nothin' for you to spake of.”

He shook the poor scholar by the hand, and drawing his hat over his eyes, passed hurriedly out of the room. Alley stooped down, kissed his lips, and wept; and the children each embraced him with that mingled feeling of compassion and respect which is uniformly entertained for the poor scholar in Ireland.

The boy felt as if he had been again separated from his parents; with a sobbing bosom and wet cheeks he bid them farewell, and mounting one of the carts was soon beyond sight and hearing of the kind-hearted farmer and his family.

When the cart had proceeded about a mile, it stopped, and one of the men who accompanied it addressing a boy who passed with two sods of turf under his arm, desired him to hurry on and inform his master that they waited for him.

“Tell Misther Corcoran to come into coort,” said the man, laughing, “my Lordship's waitin' to hear his defince for intindin' not to run away wid Miss Judy Malowny. Tell him Lord Garty's ready to pass sintince on him for not stalin' the heart of her wid his Rule o' Three. Ha! by the holy farmer, you'll get it for stayin' from school to this hour. Be quick, abouchal!”

In a few minutes the trembling urchin, glad of any message that might serve to divert the dreaded birch from himself, entered the, uproarious “Siminary,” caught his forelock, bobbed down his head to the master, and pitched his “two sods” into a little'heap of turf which lay in the corner of the school.

“Arrah, Pat Roach, is this an hour to inter into my establishment wid impunity? Eh, you Rosicrusian?”

“Masther, sir,” replied the adroit monkey, “I've a message for you, sir, i' you plase.”

“An' what might the message be, Masther; Pat Roach? To dine to-day wid your worthy father, abouchal?”

“No, sir; it's from one o' Mr. Lanigan's boys--him that belongs to the carts, sir; he wants to spake to you, sir, i' you plase.”

“An' do you give that by way of an apologetical oration for your absence from the advantages of my tuition until this hour? However, non constat Patrici; I'll pluck the crow wid you on my return. If you don't find yourself a well-flogged youth for your 'mitchin,' never say that this right hand can administer condign punishment to that part of your physical theory which constitutes the antithesis to your vacuum caput. En et ewe, you villain,” he added, pointing to the birch, “it's newly cut and trimmed, and pregnant wid alacrity for the operation. I correct, Patricius, on fundamental principles, which you'll soon feel to your cost.”

“Masther, sir,” replied the lad, in a friendly, conciliating tone, “my father 'ud be oblaged to you, if you'd take share of a fat goose wid him to-morrow.”

“Go to your sate, Paddy, avourneen; devil a dacent boy in the seminary I joke--so much wid, as I do wid yourself; an' all out of respect for your worthy parents. Faith, I've a great regard for them, all out, an' tell them so.”

He then proceeded to the carts, and approaching Jemmy, gave him such advice touching his conduct in Munster, as he considered to be most serviceable to an inexperienced lad of his years.

“Here,” said the kind-hearted soul--“here, James, is my mite; it's but bare ten shillings; but if I could make it a pound for you, it would give me a degree of delectability which I have not enjoyed for a long time. The truth is, there's something like the _nodus matrimonii_, or what they facetiously term the priest's gallows, dangling over my head, so that any little thrifle I may get must be kept together for that crisis, James, abouchal; so that must be my apology for not giving you more, joined to the naked fact, that I never was remarkable for a superfluity of cash under any circumstances. Remember what I told you last night. Don't let a shilling of your money into the hands of the masther you settle wid. Give it to the parish priest, and dhraw it from him when you want it. Don't join the parties or the factions of the school. Above all, spake ill of nobody; and if the; masther is harsh upon you, either bear it patiently, or mintion it to the priest, or to some other person of respectability in the parish, and you'll be protected. You'll be apt to meet cruelty enough, my good boy: for there are larned Neros in Munster, who'd flog if the province was in flames.

“Now, James, I'll tell you what you'll do, when you reach the larned south. Plant yourself on the highest hill in the neighborhood wherein the academician with whom you intend to stop, lives. Let the hour of reconnoitring be that in which dinner is preparing. When seated there, James, take a survey of the smoke that ascends from the chimneys of the farmer's houses, and be sure to direct your steps to that from which the highest and merriest column issues. This is the old plan and it is a sure one. The highest smoke rises from the largest fire, the largest fire boils the biggest pot, the biggest pot generally holds the fattest bacon, and the fattest bacon is kept by the richest farmer. It's a wholesome and comfortable climax, my boy, and one by which I myself was enabled to keep a dacent portion of educated flesh between the master's birch and my ribs. The science itself is called Gastric Geography, and is peculiar only to itinerant young gintlemen who seek for knowledge in the classical province of Munster.

“Here's a book that thravelled along wid myself through all my peregrinations--Creech's Translation of Horace. Keep it for my sake; and when you accomplish your education, if you return home this way, I'd thank you to give me a call. Farewell! God bless you and prosper you as I wish, and as I am sure you desarve.”

He shook the lad by the hand; and as it was probable that his own former struggles with poverty, when in the pursuit of education, came with all the power of awakened recollection to his mind, he hastily drew his hand across his eyes, and returned to resume the brief but harmless authority of the ferula.

After arriving at the next town, Jemmy found himself once more prosecuting his journey alone. In proportion as he advanced into a strange land, his spirits became depressed, and his heart cleaved more and more to those whom he had left behind him. There is, however, an enthusiasm in the visions of youth, in the speculations of a young heart, which frequently overcomes difficulties that a mind taught by the experience of life would often shrink from encountering. We may all remember the utter recklessness of danger, with which, in our youthful days, we crossed floods, or stood upon the brow of yawning precipices--feats which, in after years, the wealth of kingdoms could not induce us to perform. Experience, as well as conscience, makes cowards of us all.

The poor scholar in the course of his journey had the satisfaction of finding himself an object of kind and hospitable attention to his countrymen. His satchel of books was literally a passport to their hearts. For instance, as he wended his solitary way, depressed and travel-worn, he was frequently accosted by laborers from behind a ditch on the roadside, and, after giving a brief history of the object he had in view, brought, if it was dinner-hour, to some farm-house or cabin, where he was made to partake of their meal. Even those poor creatures who gain a scanty subsistence by keeping what are called “dhry lodgins,” like _lucus a non lucendo_, because they never keep out the rain, and have mostly a bottle of whiskey for those who know how to call for it, even they, in most instances, not only refused to charge the poor scholar for his bed, but declined to receive any remuneration for his subsistence.