“Would it not,” I asked, “be a wiser and more agreeable inducement, if you could assure the returning landlord that his plans of improvement would not be disturbed by an injection of lead into his brain? At all events, I think, we shall see shortly what resident men can do. The estates, which absenteeism, as much as anything, has encumbered and finally estranged, will be occupied, to a great extent, by their new owners:—will these ever make Paddy industrious?”
“Sure,” he answered, “we'll be the grandest nation upon earth, the moment we get a taste of encouragement. Meanwhile I'll concede, that we're a trifle awkward to manage, and, when we're not famished by dearth of food, nor depressed by a drought of whiskey, that we're mighty fond of a scrimmage. And you'll allow, I take it, that no men fight in a gentaler form than we do: your Irish regiments have done you good service on the battle-field, to say nothing of our having supplied you with the grandest warrior of your history. And long may we fight, side by side, and keep out of all hot water, but this,” and he touched my glass with his own, and sang with a voice so pliable and mellow, that even the knight of the surly shoulders,—whom we also named Thersites, described by Homer as “the ugliest chap of all who came to Troy,”—smiled and nodded in accompaniment,—
“O quam bonum est!
O quam jucundum est!
Poculis fraternis gaudere!”
And so we became, as Dennis O'Shaughnessy 1 bids, the “sextons to animosity and care;” and having buried them decently, were going to bed, when dulcet notes from a musical instrument, which the performer thereupon alluded to as his “feelute,” and which was joyously warbling an Irish jig, attracted us to the kitchen. And what mortal man “that hadn't wooden legs,” could see blushing Biddy Joyce footing it merrily, and not feel himself as irresistibly disposed to dance, as a nigger when he hears a fiddle? In thirty seconds Frank and I were involved in a series of such swift, untiring saltations, as the world hath not seen, since Mevelava, the Dervish, danced for four days to the flute of Hamsa!
When we awoke the next morning (Sunday), “the richest cloudland in Europe,” as Kohl terms Ireland, was investing such abundance of its surplus capital in the lakes and mountains of Connamara, that it was impossible to leave our inn; and as difference of creed unhappily prevented a common service, every man became his own priest, and every bed-room an oratory. My friend, the Irish graduate, played some most solemn and impressive music, including the “Cujus Animam,” from the Stabat Mater, upon a Concertina, which now breathed forth notes sweet and clear, like a flute, and anon was grand and organ-like. At a later period, a perfume, which, at first, I supposed to be incense, issued from his dormitory; but it ultimately resolved itself into Latakia.
At last, the clouds began to break, and the grand old mountains to emerge from the mist, like the scenery in a dissolving view; the sunlight seemed to reach one's heart; and we sallied forth for a walk, the Irishman, Frank, and I, as happy as bees on the first warm day of spring, or as the gallant Kane, when, after a long Arctic winter, he saw the sun shine once more, and felt “as though he were bathing in perfumed waters.” The conversation, as we strolled towards Letter-Frack, was theological and brisk. Paddy said that “our Church resembled a branch broken from the Vine, withering and moribund from inanition;” and we affirmed that “his Church was like a tree unpruned, all leaves, and no fruit.” Then he pretended to have heard that Mr. Spurgeon had refused the See of Canterbury, and that Lord Shaftesbury was bringing in a Bill to abolish the Apostles' Creed. “You miscellaneous Christians,” he said, “will shortly have nothing to believe in common, unless it be—Dr. Cumming!”
“And you, magnificent Christians,” I rejoined, “who, by the way, have had your rival Popes, and still have divisions among you, you have already got more to believe than Scripture, tradition, or common sense acknowledge. As to our being 'miscellaneous,' we churchmen have no communion with the sects, though you delight to identify us with them, and though some disloyal teachers among us may 'apply the call of dissent to their own lost sheep, and tinkle back their old women by sounding the brass of the Methodists,' 1 our Church, unswerving, still maintains the old, catholic faith, and earnestly entreats deliverance from all false doctrine, heresy, and schism.”
1 Horace Walpole.
And so we went on, strophe, and antistrophe, with an occasional epode from Frank (who kindly applauded both parties, encouraging us, more liberally than respectfully, with “Bravo Babylon!” “Now heretic!” and the like), and only arrived at unanimity, when it was proposed that we should return and dine.
Our host, Mr. Duncan, told us this evening, with other very interesting details, concerning the Famine of 1847, how that, at a public meeting in the neighbourhood, he had said, somewhat incautiously, that rather than the people should starve, they might take his sheep from the hills; and how that, when want and hunger increased, they kept in remembrance his generous words, and, taking advantage, like Macbeth, of “the unguarded Duncan,” turned ninety of his sheep into mutton.