“I hope it may.” “Well yer parents isn't both livin' it's likely?” “No.” “Aye! but yell jist not forget that same, ye see; I b'lieve I sed so—your father dead, I suppose?” “No, my mother.” “Your mother; well, avick, I didn't say that for a sartinty; but still, you see, avourneen, maybe somebody could a tould ye it was the mother, forhaps, afther all.” “Did you know them?” I asked. “You see, a lanna, I can't say that, without first hearin' their names.” “My name is B———.” “An' a dacent bearable name it is, darlin'. Is yer father of them da-cent people, the B———s of Newtownlimavady, ahagur!” “Not that I know of.” “Oh, well, well, it makes no maxim between you an' me, at all, at all; but the Lord mark you to grace, any how; it's a dacent name sure enough, only if yer mother was livin', it's herself 'ud be the proud woman, an' well she might, to see such a clane, promisin' son steppin' home to her from Lough Derg.” “Indeed I'm obliged to you,” said I; “I protest I'm obliged to you, for your good opinion of me.” “It's nothin' but what ye desarve, avick! an' more nor that—yer the makin's of a clargy I'm guessin'?” “I am,” said I, “surely designed for that.” “Oh, I knew it, I knew it, it's in your face; you've the sogarth in yer very face; an' well will ye become the robes when ye get them on ye: sure, an' to tell you the truth (in a whisper, stretching up his mouth to my ear), I feel my heart warm towardst you, somehow.” “I declare I feel much the same towards you,” I returned, for the fellow in spite of me was gaining upon my good opinion; “you are a decent, civil soul.” “An' for that raison, and for your dacent mother's sake (sobies-coat inpassy, amin), (* Requiescat in pace.) I'll jist here offer up the gray profungus (* De profundis) for the release of her sowl out o' the burning flames of pur-gathur.” I really could not help shuddering at this. He then repeated a psalm for that purpose, the 130th in our Bible, but the 129th in theirs. When it was finished, with all due gesticulation, that is to say, having thumped his breast with great violence, kissed the ground, and crossed himself repeatedly, he says to me, like a man confident that he had paved his way to my good graces, “Now, avick, as we did do so much, you're the very darlin' young man that I won't lave, widout the best, maybe, that's to come yet, ye see; bekase I'll swap a prayer wid you, this blessed minute.” “I'm very glad you mentioned it,” said I. “But you don't know, maybe, darlin', that I'm undher five ordhers.” “Dear me! is it possible you're under so many?” “Undher five ordhers, acushla!”—“Well,” I replied, “I am ready.”—“Undher five ordhers—but I'll lave it to yourself; only when it's over, maybe, ye'll hear somethin' from me that'll make you thankful you ever gave me silver any way.”
By this time I saw his drift: but he really had managed his point so dexterously—not forgetting the De profundis—that I gave him tenpence in silver: he pocketed it with great alacrity, and was at the prayer in a twinkling, which he did offer up in prime,style—five paters, five aves, and a creed, whilst I set the same number to his credit. When we had finished, he made me kneel down to receive his blessing, which he gave in great form:—“Now,” said he, in a low, important tone, “I'm goin' to show you a thing that'll make you bless the born day you ever seen my face; and it's this—did ye ever hear of the blessed Thirty Days' Prayer?” * “I can't say I did.” “Well, avick, in good time still; but there's a blessed book, if you can get it, that has a prayer in it, named the Thirty Bays' Prayer, an' if ye jist repate that same, every day for thirty days fastin', there's no request ye'll ax from heaven, good, bad, or indifferent, but ye'll get. And now do you begrudge givin'me what I got?” “Not a bit,” said I, “and I'll certainly look for the book.” “No, no, the darlin' fine young man,” soliloquizing aloud—“Well and well did I know you wouldn't, nor another along wid it—sensible and learned as ye are, to know the blessed worth of what ye got for it; not makin', at the same time, any comparishment at all at all atween it and the dirty thrash of riches of this earth, that every wan has their heart fixed upon—exceptin' them that the Lord gives the larnin' an' the edication to, to know betther.”
* There is such a prayer, and I have often seen it in
Catholic Prayer-books.
Oh, flattery! flattery! and a touch of hypocrisy on my part! Between ye, did ye make another lodgment on my purse, which was instantly lightened by an additional bank token, value tenpence, handed over to this sugar-tongued old knave. When he Pocketed this, he shook me cordially by the band, bidding me “not to forgit the Thirty Days' Prayer, at any rate.” He then glided off with his small, sallow face, stuck between his little shrugged shoulders, fingering his beads, and praying audibly with great apparent fervor, whilst his little keen eye was reconnoitering for another pigeon. In the course of a few minutes, I saw him lead a large, soft, warm-looking, countryman, over to a remote corner, and enter into an earnest conversation with him, which, I could perceive, ended by their both kneeling down, I suppose, to swap a prayer; and I have no doubt but he lightened the honest countryman's purse, as well as mine.
On the third day I was determined, if possible, to leave it early; so I performed my third and last station round the chapel and the beds, reduced to such a state of weakness and hunger, that the coats of my stomach must have been rubbing against each other; my feet were quite shapeless. I therefore made the shortest circuit and the longest strides possible, until I finished it.
I witnessed this day, immediately before my departure from this gloomy and truly purgatorial settlement, a scene of some interest. A priest was standing before the door of the dwelling-house, giving tickets to such as were about to confess, this being a necessary point. When he had despatched them all, I saw an old man and his son approach him, the man seemingly sixty, the boy about fourteen. They had a look of peculiar decency, but were thin and emaciated, even beyond what the rigor of their penance here could produce. The youth tottered with weakness, and the old man supported him with much difficulty. It is right to mention here, that this pilgrimage was performed in a season when sickness and famine prevailed fearfully in this kingdom. They advanced up to the priest to pay their money on receiving the tickets; he extended his palm from habit, but did not speak. The old man had some silver in his hand; and as he was about to give it to the priest, I saw the child look up beseechingly in his father's face, whilst an additional paleness came over his own, and his eyes filled with tears. The father saw and felt the appeal of the child, and hesitated; the priest's arm was still extended, his hand open:—“Would you, sir,” said the old man, addressing the priest, “be good enough to hear a word from me?” “For what?” replied the priest, in a sharp tone. “Why, sir,” answered the old man, “I am very much distressed.” “Ay—it is the common story! Come, pay the money; don't you see I've no time to lose?” “I won't detain you a minute, sir,” said the man; “this child”——“You want to keep the money, then? that's your object; down with it on the instant, and begone.”
The old man dropped it into the priest's hand, in a kind of start, produced by the stern tone of voice in which he was addressed. When the priest got the money he seemed in a better humor, not wishing, I could see, to send the man away with a bad impression of him. “Well, now what's that you were going to say to me?” “Why, sir,” resumed the old man, “that I have not a penny in my possession behind what I have just now put into your hand—not the price of a morsel for this child or myself, although we have forty miles to travel!” “Well, and how am I to remedy that? What brought you here, if you had not what would bear your expenses?” “I had, sir, on setting out; but my little boy was five days sick in Petigo, and that took away with it what we had to carry us home.” “And you expect me, in short, to furnish you with money to do that? Do you think, my good man, there are not paupers in my own parish, that have a better right to assistance than you have!” “I do not doubt it, sir,” said he, “I do not doubt it; and as for myself I could crawl home upon anything; but what is this child to do? he is already sinking with hunger and—” The poor man's utterance here failed him as he cast his eyes on the poor, pale boy. When he had recovered himself a little, he proceeded:— “He is all that it has pleased God to leave to his afflicted mother and me, out of seven of them. His other brother and sister and him were all we had living for some years; they are seven weeks dead yesterday, of the fever; and when he was given over, sir, his mother and I vowed, that if God would spare him to us, either she or I would bring him to the 'Island,' as soon as he would be able for the journey. He was but weakly settin' out, and we had no notion that the station was so tryin' as it is: it has nearly overcome my child, and how he will be able to walk forty miles in this weak, sickly state, God only knows?” “Oh! sir,” said the boy, “my poor father is worse off and weaker than I am, and he is sick too, sir; I am only weak, but not sick; but my poor father's both weak and sick,” said he, his tears streaming from him, as he pressed his father's arm to his breast—“my poor father is both weak and. sick, ay, and hungry too,” said he. “Take this,” said the priest, “it is as much as I can afford to give you,” putting a silver fivepenny-piece into his hand; “there's a great deal of poor in my own parish.” “Alas I thought, you are not a father. Indeed, sir,” said the poor man, “I thought you would have allowed me to keep the silver I gave you, as how can we travel two-and-forty miles on this?” “I tell you, my good man,” said the priest, resuming a sterner tone, “I have done as much for you as I can afford: and if every one gives you as much, you won't be ill off.”
The tears stood in the old man's eyes, as he fixed them hopelessly upon his boy whilst the child looked ravenously at the money, trifling as it was, and seemed to think of nothing except getting the worth of it of food. As they left the priest, “Oh, come, come father,” said the little fellow, “come and let us get something to eat.” “Easy, dear, till I draw my breath a little, for, John I am weak; but the Lord is strong, and will bring us home, if we put our trust in him; for if he's not more merciful to his poor creatures, than some that acts in his name here, John, we would have a bad chance.” They here sat down on the ledge of a rock, a few yards from the chapel, and I still remained bound to the spot by the interest I felt in what I had just witnessed. “What do you want, sir,” said the priest to me; “did you get your ticket?” “I did, sir,” I replied; “but I hope you will permit me to become an advocate for that poor man and his son, as I think their case is one in which life and death are probably concerned!” “Really, my good young man, you may spare your advocacy, I'm not to be duped with such tales as you've heard.” “By the tale, sir, if tale you call it,” I returned, “which the father told, I think, any man might be guided in his charity; but really I think the most pitiful story was to be read in their faces.” “Do you think so? Well, if that's your opinion, I'm sure you have a fair opportunity of being charitable; as for me, I have no more time to lose with either you or them,” said he, going into a comfortable house, whilst I could have fairly seen him up to the neck in the blessed element about us. I here stepped over, and instantly desired the old man to hand me the fivepence, telling him at the same time that there was something better in prospect, as a proof of which I gave him half-a-crown. I then returned to the priest, and laid his fivepence down on the table before him; for I had the generosity, the fire, and the candor of youth about me, unrepressed by the hardening experience of life. “What's this, sir?” said he. “Your money, sir,” I replied—“it is such a very trifle, that it would be of no service to them, and they will be enabled to go home without it; the old man returns it.” “That is as much as to say,” he replied, sarcastically, “that you will patronize them yourself; I wish you joy of it. Was it to witness the distresses of others that you came to the island, let me ask?” “Perhaps I came from a worse motive,” I returned. “I haven't the least doubt of it,” said he; “but move off—one word of insolence more,” said he, stretching to a cutting whip, for the use of which he was deservedly famous. “I will cut you up, sirrah, while I'm able to stand over you.” “Upon my word,” said I, extending my feet one after another, “you have cut me up pretty well already, I think; but,” I added, with coolness, “is that, sir, the weapon of a Christian?” “Is it the weapon of a Christian, sir? whatever weapon it is, you will soon feel the weight of it,” said he, brandishing it over my head. “My good father,” said I, “do you remember, since nothing else will restrain you, that the laws of the country will not recognize such horsewhip Christianity?” “The laws of the country. Oh, God help it for a country! Yes! yes! excellent. Here Michael—I say, come here—drive out this follow. I'll be calm; I'll not, put myself in a passion—out with him! this fellow.” On turning round to contemplate the person spoken to, we recognized each other as slight aquaintances. “Bless me,” said he, “what's the matter? Why,” he added, addressing me, “what's this?” “How? do you know him, Michael?” “Tut, I do—isn't he for the mission?” “Oh—ho!—is that it? well, I'm glad I know so much; good-bye to you, for the present; never fear but I'll keep my eye upon you.” So saying, we separated. Michael followed me out. “This is an awkward business,” said he, “you had better make submission, and ask his pardon; for you know he can injure your prospects, and will do so, if you don't submit; he is not of the most forgiving cast—but that's between ourselves.” “What o'clock is it?” said I. “Near three.” “Well, good-bye, and God bless you; if he had a spark of humanity in him, I would beg his pardon at once, if I thought I had offended him; but as to making submission to such a man, as you call it—why—this is a very sultry day, my friend.” I returned directly to the old man and his son; and, let purity or motive go as it may, truth to tell, they were no losers by the priest's conduct; as I certainly slipped them a few additional shillings, out of sheer contempt for him. On tasting a little refreshment in one of the cabins, the son fainted—but on the whole they were enabled to accomplish their journey home; and the father's blessing was surely a sufficient antidote against the Priest's resentment.
I was now ready to depart; and on my way to the boat, found my two old female companions watching, lest I should pass, and they might miss my company on the way. It was now past three o'clock, and we determined to travel as far as we could that night, as the accommodations were vile in Petigo; and the spokeswoman mentioned a house of entertainment, about twelve miles forward, where, she said, we would find better treatment. When we got on terra firma, the first man I saw was the monosyllabic humorist, sitting on a hillock resting himself—his eyes fixed on the earth, and he evidently in a brown study on what he had gone through. He was drawing in his breath gradually, his cheeks expanding all the while, until they reached the utmost point of distention, when he would all at once let it go with a kind of easy puff, ending in a groan, as he surveyed his naked feet, which were now quite square, and, like my own, out of all shape. I asked him how he liked the station; he gave me one of the old looks, shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing—it was, however, a shrug condemnatory. I then asked him would he ever make another pilgrimage? He answered me by another shrug, a grave look, dryly raising his eye-brows, and a second appeal to his feet, all of which I easily translated into strong negatives. We refreshed ourselves in Petigo.
When we were on the way home, I observed that, although the singular and fatal accident which befell the young man in the prison excited very little interest at the time of its occurrence, yet no sooner had they who witnessed it got clear of the island, than it was given with every possible ornament; so that it would be as easy to recognize the plain fact, when decked out by their elucidations, as it would be to understand the sense of an original author, after it has come through the hands of half a hundred commentators. But human nature is a darker enigma than any you could find, in the “Lady's Magazine.” Who would suppose, for instance, that it was the same motive which set their tongues wagging now, that had chained their spirits by the strong force of the marvellous and the terrible, while they were in prison! Yet this was the fact; but their influence hung while there, like the tyrant's sword, over each individual head; and until the danger of falling asleep in the “Prison” was past, they could feel no interest for anything beyond themselves. In both cases, however, they were governed by the force of the marvellous and the terrible.