CHAPTER IV. MY ENTRÉE ON THE WORLD.
“My father bless’d me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come hack again.”—Childe Harold.
The residence and domain so opportunely bequeathed to Colonel O’Halloran, formed a striking contrast to his ancient home. Like the domicile of Justice Shallow, every thing about Knockloftie might have been described as “barren all,” with the qualification of “marry, good air,” while Killucan was situated in an inland county remarkable for its fertility. The house was a large and commodious building, almost concealed by trees, the growth of at least a century; the parks were rich and well laid down; comfort was within the dwelling,—plenty without it; and as they say in Connaught, no man “came into a snugger sitting down” than my worthy father.
Here ten years of boyhood passed away: and here at the feet of that gifted Gamaliel, father Dominic, my foster-brother and myself were indoctrinated. The priest had borne the departure of my parents with all the resignation a Christian man could muster; but as he declared afterwards, the destruction of Knockloftie fairly broke his heart. When his patron unexpectedly succeeded to a goodly inheritance, it is difficult to decide whether to the churchman or the commander, this fortunate event caused the greater satisfaction. At the first summons, father Dominic abandoned his wild charge, and resumed the official duties in our establishment;—said mass for my mother, confessed the maids, aided and assisted the Colonel in the diurnal demolition of three bottles of antiquated port, and endeavoured into the bargain, to knock Latin into me, and “the fear of God,” as he called it, into the heart of my foster-brother. How far either attempt proved successful, it is not for me to say. As to myself, Dominic occasionally declared that I should try the temper of a saint; and as to Marc Antony, he rather hoped than expected that he might not “spoil a market;” meaning thereby, that the aforesaid Marc Antony would be hanged.
But, alas! from the pupilage of that worthy churchman, Marc and I were fated to be delivered. Father Dominic caught fever at the bedside of a sick tenant; and to the universal regret of the whole household, he went the way which all, priest and levite, are doomed to go. At the time, his loss was severely felt, and after-experience did not tend to lessen it. Father Grady, who in spiritual matters became his successor, was ill fitted to step into poor Dominic’s shoes. He was a low-born, illiterate, intermeddling priest, of forbidding exterior and repulsive manners. His gaucheries disgusted my mother, and my father fired at his vulgar arrogance. Except professionally, the visits of the priest became infrequent; and when the maids returned from confession with a route made out for the Reek, * they would call to memory the gentle penances of father Dominic,—offer a tear as a tribute to his memory,—and murmur a “Heaven be merciful to his soul.” The first consequence of the death of Father Dominic was my being transmitted to the school of Enniskillen, while my foster-brother finished his education under the instruction of the village pedagogue. As to the latter, a more unpromising disciple never figured on a slate; but, to give the devil his due, Marc Antony was even as his enemies allowed, the best boxer of his inches in the parish.
* A lofty mountain in the west of Ireland, where Roman
Catholic penances are performed.