Volume 3 / Part 2 — THE STATION. (continued 2)

“Why, then, yer Reverence,” replied Phaddhy, who was now a little softened, and forgot his enmity against Parrah More for the present, “unlikelier things might happen.”

“It won't be my fault,” said Parrah More, “if my son Ned has no objection.”

“He object!” replied Father Philemy, “if' I take it in hands, let me see who'll dare to object; doesn't the Scripture say it? and sure we can't go against the Scripture.”

“By the by,” said Captain Wilson, who was a dry humorist, “I am happy to be able to infer from what you say, Father Philemy, that you are not, as the clergymen of your church are supposed to be, inimical to the Bible.”

“Me an enemy to the Bible! no such thing, sir; but, Captain, begging your pardon we will have nothing more about the bible; you see we are met here, as friends and good fellows, to enjoy ourselves after the severity of our spiritual duties, and we must relax a little; we can't always carry long faces like Methodist parsons—come, Pairah More, let the Bible take a nap, and give us a song.”

His Reverence was now seconded in his motion by the most of all present, and Parrah More accordingly gave them a song. After a few songs more, the conversation went on as before.

“Now, Parrah More,” said Phaddhy, “you must try my wine; I hope it's as good as what you gave his Reverence yesterday.” The words, however, had scarcely passed his lips, when Father Philemy burst out into a fit of laughter, clapping and rubbing his hands in a manner the most irresistible. “Oh, Phaddhy, Phaddhy!” shouted his Reverence, laughing heartily, “I done you for once—I done you, my man, cute as you thought yourself: why, you nager you, did you think to put us off with punch, and you have a stocking of hard guineas hid in a hole in the wall?”

“What does yer Rev'rence mane,” said Phaddhy; “for myself can make no understanding out of it, at all at all?”

To this his Reverence only replied by another laugh.

“I gave his Reverence no wine,” said Parrah More, in reply to Phaddhy's question.

“What!” said Phaddhy, “none yesterday, at the station held with you?”

“Not a bit of me ever thought of it.”

“Nor no mutton?”

“Why, then, devil a morsel of mutton, Phaddhy; but we had a rib of beef.”

Phaddhy now looked over to his Reverence rather sheepishly, with the smile of a man on his face who felt himself foiled. “Well, yer Reverence has done me, sure enough,” he replied, rubbing his head—“I give it up to you, Father Philemy; but any how, I'm glad I got it, and you're all welcome from the core of my heart. I'm only sorry I haven't as much more now to thrate you all like gintlemen; but there's some yet, and as much punch as will make all our heads come round.”

Our readers must assist us with their own imaginations, and suppose the conversation to have passed very pleasantly, and the night, as well as the guests, to be somewhat far gone. The principal part of the conversation was borne by the three clergymen, Captain Wilson, and Phaddy; that of the two nephews and Peter Malone ran in an under current of its own; and in the preceding part of the night, those who occupied the bottom of the table, spoke to each other rather in whispers, being too much restrained by that rustic bashfulness which ties up the tongues of those who feel that their consequence is overlooked among their superiors. According as the punch circulated, however, their diffidence began to wear off; and occasionally an odd laugh or so might be heard to break the monotony of their silence. The youngsters, too, though at first almost in a state of terror, soon commenced plucking each other; and a titter, or a suppressed burst of laughter, would break forth from one of the more waggish, who was put to a severe task in afterwards composing his countenance into sufficient gravity to escape detection, and a competent portion of chastisement the next day, for not being able to “behave himself with betther manners.”

During these juvenile breaches of decorum, Katty would raise her arm in a threatening attitude, shake her head at them, and look up at the clergy, intimating more by her earnestness of gesticulation than met the ear. Several songs again went round, of which, truth to tell, Father Philomy's were by far the best; for he possessed a rich, comic expression of eye, which, added to suitable ludicrousness of gesture, and a good voice, rendered him highly amusing to the company. Father Con declined singing, as being decidedly serious, though he was often solicited.

“He!” said Father Philemy, “he has no more voice than a woolpack; but Con's a cunning fellow. What do you think, Captain Wilson, but he pretends to be too pious to sing, and gets credit for piety,—not because he is devout, but because he has a bad voice; now, Con, you can't deny it, for there's not a man in the three kingdoms knows it better than myself; you sit there with a face upon you that might go before the Lamentations of Jeremiah the Prophet, when you ought to be as jovial as another.”

“Well, Father Philemy,” said Phaddhy, “as he won't sing, may be, wid submission he'd examine Briney in his Latin, till his mother and I hear how's he doing at it.”

“Ay, he's fond of dabbling at Latin, so he may try him—I'm sure I have no objection—: so, Captain, as I was telling you—”

“Silence there below!” said Phaddhy to those at the lower end of the table, who were now talkative enough; “will yez whisht there till Father Con hears Briney a lesson in his Latin. Where are you, Briney? come here, ma bouchal.”

But Briney had absconded when he saw that the tug of war was about to commence. In a few minutes, however, the father returned, pushing the boy before him, who in his reluctance to encounter the ordeal of examination, clung to every chair, table, and person in his way, hoping that his restiveness might induce them to postpone the examination till another occasion. The father, however, was inexorable, and by main force dragged him from all his holds, and, placed him before Father Con.

“What's come over you, at all at all, you unsignified shingawn you, to affront the gintleman in this way, and he kind enough to go for to give you an examination?—come now, you had betther not vex me, I tell you, but hould up your head, and spake out loud, that we can all hear you: now, Father Con, achora, you'll not be too hard upon him in the beginning, till he gets into it, for he's aisy dashed.”

“Here, Briney,” said Father Philemy, handing him his tumbler, “take a pull of this and if you have any courage at all in you it will raise it;—take a good pull.” Briney hesitated.

“Why, but you take the glass out of his Reverence's hand, sarrah,” said the father—“what! is it without dhrinking his Reverence's health first?”

Briney gave a most melancholy nod at his Reverence, as he put the tumbler to his mouth, which he nearly emptied, notwithstanding his shyness.

“For my part,” said his Reverence, looking at the almost empty tumbler, “I am pretty sure that that same chap will be able to take care of himself through life. And so, Captain,—” said he, resuming the conversation with Captain Wilson—for his notice of Briney was only parenthetical.

Father Con now took the book, which was AEsop's Fables, and, in accordance with Briney's intention, it opened exactly at the favorite fable of Gallus Gallinacexis. He was not aware, however, that Briney had kept that place open during the preceding part of the week, in order to effect this point. Father Philemy, however, was now beginning to relate another anecdote to the Captain, and the thread of his narrative twined rather ludicrously with that of the examination.

Briney, after, a few hems, at length proceeded—“Gallus Gallinaceus, a dung-hill cock—”

“So, Captain, I was just after coming out of Widow Moylan's—it was in the Lammas fair—and a large one, by the by, it was—so, sir, who should come up to me but Branagan. 'Well, Branagan,' said I, 'how does the world go now with you?'——”

“Gallus Gallinaceus, a dunghill cock——”

——“Says he. 'And how is that?' says I.

“Gallus Gallinaceus——”

——-“Says he, 'Hut tut, Branagan,' says I—'you're drunk.' 'That's the thing, sir' says Branagan, 'and I want to explain it all to your Reverence.' 'Well,' said I, 'go on—-”

“Gallus Gallinaceus, a dunghill cock——”

——“Says he,——Let your Gallus Gallinaceus go to roost for this night, Con,” said Father Philemy, who did not relish the interruption of his story; “I say, Phaddhy, send the boy to bed, and bring him down in your hand to my house on Saturday morning, and we will both examine him, but this is no time for it, and me engaged in conversation with Captain Wilson.—So, Captain ____ 'Well, sir,' says Branagan, and he staggering,—'I took an oath against liquor, and I want your Reverence to break it,' says he. 'What do you mean?' I inquired. 'Why, please your Reverence,' said he, 'I took an oath against liquor, as I told you, not to drink more nor a pint of whiskey in one day, and I want your Reverence to break it for me, and make it only half a pint; for I find that a pint is too much for me; by the same token, that when I get that far, your Reverence, I disremember the oath entirely.”

The influence of the bottle now began to be felt, and the conversation absolutely blew a gale, wherein hearty laughter, good strong singing, loud argument, and general good humor blended into one uproarious peal of hilarity, accompanied by some smart flashes of wit and humor which would not disgrace a prouder banquet. Phaddhy, in particular, melted into a spirit of the most unbounded benevolence—a spirit that would (if by any possible means he could effect it) embrace the whole human race; that is to say, he would raise them, man, woman, and child, to the same elevated state of happiness which he enjoyed himself. That, indeed, was happiness in perfection, as pure and unadulterated as the poteen which created it. How could he be otherwise than happy?—he had succeeded to a good property, and a stocking of hard guineas, without the hard labor of acquiring them; he had the “clargy” under his roof at last, partaking of a hospitality which he felt himself well able to afford them; he had settled with his Reverence for five years' arrears of sin, all of which had been wiped out of his conscience by the blessed absolving hand of the priest; he was training up Briney for the Mission, and though last, not least, he was—far gone in his seventh tumbler!

“Come, jinteels,” said he, “spare nothing here—there's lashings of every thing; thrate yourselves dacent, and don't be saying tomorrow or next day, that ever my father's son was nagerly. Death alive, Father Con, what are you doin'? Why, then, bad manners to me if that'll sarve, any how.”

“Phaddhy,” replied Father Con, “I assure you I have done my duty.”

“Very well, Father Con, granting all that, it's no sin to repate a good turn you know. Not a word I'll hear, yer Reverence—one tumbler along with myself, if it was only for ould times.” He then filled Father Con's tumbler with his own hand, in a truly liberal spirit. “Arrah, Father Con, do you remember the day we had the leapin'-match, and the bout at the shoulder-stone?”

“Indeed, I'll not forget it, Phaddhy.”

“And it's yourself that may say that; but I bleeve I rubbed the consate off of your Reverence—only that's betune ourselves, you persave.”

“You did win the palm, Phaddhy, I'll not deny it; but you are the only man that ever bet me at either of the athletics.'

“And I'll say this for yer Reverence, that you are one of the best and most able-bodied gintlemen I ever engaged with. Ah! Father Con, I'm past all that now—but no matter, here's yer Reverence's health, and a shake. hands; Father Philomy, yer health, docthor: yer strange Reverence's health—Captain Wilson, not forgetting you, sir: Mr. Pettier, yours; and I hope to see you soon with the robes upon you, and to be able to prache us a good sarmon. Parrah More—wus dha lauv (* give me yer hand), you steeple you; and I haven't the smallest taste of objection to what Father Philemy hinted at—yell obsarve. Kitty, you thief of the world, where are you? Your health, avourneen; come here, and give us your fist, Katty: bad manners to me if I could forget you afther all;—the best crathur, your Reverence, under the sun, except when yer Reverence puts yer comedher on her at confession, and then she's a little, sharp or so, not a doubt of it: but no matther, Katty ahagur, you do it all for the best. And Father Philemy, maybe it's myself didn't put the thrick upon you in the Maragy More, about Katty's death—ha, ha, ha! Jack M'Craner, yer health—all yer healths, and yer welcome here, if you war seven times as many. Briney, where are you, ma bouchal? Come up and shake hands wid yer father, as well as another—come up, acushla, and kiss me. Ah, Briney, my poor fellow, ye'll never be the cut of a man yer father was; but no matther, avourneen, ye'll be a betther man, I hope; and God knows you may asy be that, for Father Philemy, I'm not what I ought to be, yer Reverence; however, I may mend, and will, maybe, before a month of Sundays goes over me: but, for all that, Briney, I hope to see the day when you'll be sitting an ordained priest at my own table; if I once saw that, I could die contented—so mind yer larning, acushla, and, his Reverence here will back you, and make inthorest to get you into the college. Musha, God pity them crathurs at the door—aren't they gone yet? Listen to them coughin', for fraid we'd forget them: and throth and they won't be forgot this bout any how—Katty, avourneen, give them every one, big and little, young and ould, their skinful—don't lave a wrinkle in them; and see, take one of them bottles—the crathurs, they're starved sitting there all night in the cowld—and give them a couple of glasses a-piece—it's good, yer Reverence, to have the poor body's blessing at all times; and now, as I was saying, Here's all yer healths! and from the very veins of my heart yer welcome here.”

Our readers may perceive that Phaddhy

for, like the generality of our peasantry, the native drew to the surface of his character those warm, hospitable, and benevolent virtues, which a purer system of morals and education would most certainly keep in full action, without running the risk, as in the present instance, of mixing bad habits with frank, manly, and generous qualities.

“I'll not go, Con—I tell you I'll not go till I sing another song. Phaddhy, you're a prince—but where's the use of lighting more candles now, man, than you had in the beginning of the night? Is Captain Wilson gone? Then, peace be with him; it's a pity he wasn't on the right side, for he's not the worst of them. Phaddhy, where are you?”

“Why, yer Reverence,” replied Katty, “he's got a little unwell, and jist laid down his head a bit.”

“Katty,” said Father Con, “you had better get a couple of the men to accompany Father Philemy home; for though the night's clear, he doesn't see his way very well in the dark—poor man, his eye-sight's failing him fast.”

“Then, the more's the pity, Father Con. Here, Denis, let yourself and Mat go home wid Father Philemy.”

“Good-night, Katty,” said Father Con—“Good-night: and may our blessing sanctify you all.”

“Good-night, Father Con, ahagur,” replied Katty; “and for goodness' sake see that they take care of Father Philemy, for it's himself that's the blessed and holy crathur, and the pleasant gintleman out and out.”

“Good-night, Katty,” again repeated Father Con, as the cavalcade proceeded in a body—“Good-night!” And so ended the Station.