The Station; The Party Fight And Funeral; The Lough Derg Pilgrim. William Carleton
Philemy arrived; but, as Phaddy and Katty were then preparing to resave they could not at that moment give him a formal reception. As soon, however, as communion was over, the cead millia failtha was repeated with the usual warmth, by both, and by all their immediate friends. Breakfast was now laid in Katty's best style, and with an originality of arrangement that scorned all precedent. Two tables were placed, one after another, in the kitchen; for the other rooms were not sufficiently large to accommodate the company. Father Philemy filled the seat of honor at the head of the table, with his back to an immense fire. On his right hand sat Father Con; on his left, Phaddhy himself, “to keep the-clargy company;” and, in due succession after them, their friends and neighbors, each taking precedence according to the most scrupulous notions of respectability. Beside Father Con sat “Pettier Malone,” a “young collegian,” who had been sent home from Maynooth to try his native air, for the recovery of his health, which was declining. He arrived only a few minutes after Father Philemy, and was a welcome reinforcement to Phaddhy, in the arduous task of sustaining the conversation with suitable credit.
With respect to the breakfast, I can only say, that it was superabundant—that the tea was as black as bog water—that there were hen, turkey, and geese eggs—plates of toast soaked, crust and crumb, in butter; and lest there might be a deficiency, one of the daughters sat on a stool at the fire, with her open hand, by way of a fire screen, across her red, half-scorched brows, toasting another plateful, and, to crown all, on each corner of the table was a bottle of whiskey. At the lower board sat the youngsters, under the surveillance of Katty's sister, who presided in that quarter. When they were commencing breakfast, “Father Philemy,” said Katty, “won't yer Rev'rence bless the mate (* food) if ye plase?”
“If I don't do it myself,” said Father Philemy, who was just after sweeping the top off a turkey egg, “I'll get them that will. Come,” said he to the collegian, “give us grace, Peter; you'll never learn younger.”
This, however, was an unexpected blow to Peter, who knew that an English grace would be incompatible with his “college feeding,” yet was unprovided with any in Latin—The eyes of the company were now fixed upon him, and he blushed like scarlet on finding himself in a predicament so awkward and embarrassing. “Aliquid, Petre, alliquid; 'de profundis'—si habes nihil aliud,” said Father Philemy, feeling for his embarrassment, and giving him a hint. This was not lost, for Peter began, and gave them the De profundis—a Latin psalm, which Roman Catholics repeat for the relief of the souls in, purgatory. They forgot, however, that there was a person in company who considered himself as having an equal claim to the repetition of at least the one-half of it; and accordingly, when Peter got up and repeated the first verse, Andy Lalor got also on his legs, and repeated the response.* This staggered Peter a little, who hesitated, as uncertain how to act.
* This prayer is generally repeated by two persons, who
recite each a verse alternately.
“Perge, Petre, perge,” said Father Philemy, looking rather wistfully at his egg—“perge, stultus est et asinus quoque.” Peter and Andy proceeded until it was finished, when they resumed their seats.
The conversation during breakfast was as sprightly, as full of fun and humor as such breakfasts usually are. The priest, Phaddhy, and the young collegian, had a topic of their own, whilst the rest were engaged in a kind of by play, until the meal was finished.
“Father Philemy,” said Phaddhy, in his capacity of host, “before we begin we'll all take a dhrop of what's in the bottle, if it's not displasing to yer Reverence; and, sure, I know, 'tis the same that doesn't come wrong at a station, any how.”
This, more majorum, was complied with; and the glass, as usual, went round the table, beginning with their Reverences. Hitherto, Father Philemy had not had time to bestow any attention on the state of Kitty's larder, as he was in the habit of doing, with a view to ascertain the several items contained therein for dinner. But as soon as the breakfast-things were removed, and the coast clear, he took a peep into the pantry, and, after throwing his eye over its contents, sat down at the fire, making Phaddhy take a seat beside him, for the especial purpose of sounding him as to the practicability of effecting a certain design, which was then snugly latent in his Reverence's fancy. The fact was, that on taking the survey of the premises aforesaid, he discovered that, although there was abundance of fowl, and fish, and bacon, and hung-beef—yet, by some unaccountable and disastrous omission, there was neither fresh mutton nor fresh beef. The priest, it must be confessed, was a man of considerable fortitude, but this was a blow for which he was scarcely prepared, particularly as a boiled leg of mutton was one of his fifteen favorite joints at dinner. He accordingly took two or three pinches of snuff in rapid succession, and a seat at the fire, as I have said, placing Phaddhy, unconscious of his design, immediately beside him.
Now, the reader knows that Phaddhy was a man possessing a considerable portion of dry, sarcastic humor, along with that natural, quickness of penetration and shrewdness for which most of the Irish peasantry are in a very peculiar degree remarkable; add to this that Father Philemy, in consequence of his contemptuous bearing to him before he came in for his brother's property, stood not very high in his estimation. The priest knew this, and consequently felt that the point in question would require to be managed, on his part, with suitable address.
“Phaddhy,” says his Reverence, “sit down here till we chat a little, before I commence the duties of the day. I'm happy to, see that you have such a fine thriving family: how many sons and daughters have you?”
“Six sons, yer Reverence,” replied. Phaddhy, “and five daughters: indeed, sir, they're as well to be seen as their neighbors, considhering all things. Poor crathurs, they get fair play* now, thank Grod, compared to what they used to get—God rest their poor uncle's sowl for that! Only for him, your Reverence, there would be very few inquiring this or any other day about them.”
* By this is meant good food and clothing.
“Did he die as rich as they said, Phaddhy?” inquired his Reverence.
“Hut, sir,” replied Phaddhy, determined to take what he afterwards called a rise out of the priest; “they knew little about it—as rich as they said, sir! no, but three times as rich, itself: but, any how, he was the man that could make the money.”
“I'm very happy to hear it, Phaddhy, on, your account, and that of your children. God be good to him—requiescat animus ejus in pace, per omnia secula seculorum, Amen!—he liked a drop in his time, Phaddhy, as well as ourselves, eh?”
“Amen, amen—the heavens be his bed!—he-did, poor man! but he had it at first cost, your Reverence, for he run it all himself in the mountains: he could afford to take it.”
“Yes, Phaddhy, the heavens be his bed, I pray; no Christmas or Easter ever passed but he was sure to send me the little keg of stuff that never saw water; but, Phaddhy, there's one thing that concerns me about him, in regard of his love of drink—I'm afraid it's a throuble to him where he is at present; and I was sorry to find that, although he died full of money, he didn't think it worth his while to leave even the price of a mass to be said for the benefit of his own soul.”
“Why, sure you know, Father Philemy, that he wasn't what they call a dhrinking man: once a quarther, or so, he sartinly did take a jorum; and except at these times, he was very sober. But God look upon us, yer Reverence—or upon myself, anyway; for if he's to suffer for his doings that way, I'm afeard we'll have a troublesome reck'ning of it.”
“Hem, a-hem!—Phaddhy,” replied the priest, “he has raised you and your children from poverty, at all events, and you ought to consider that. If there is anything in your power to contribute to the relief of his soul, you havs a strong duty upon you to do it; and a number of masses, offered up devoutly, would—”
“Why, he did, sir, raise both myself and my childre from poverty,” said Phaddhy, not willing to let that point go farther—“that I'll always own to; and I hope in God that whatever little trouble might be upon him for the dhrop of dhrink, will be wiped off by this kindness to us.”
“He hadn't even a Month's mind!”*
*