Going To Maynooth by William Carleton

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"Come, Docthor Finnerty," said our candidate, pulling up a little, "if
the base Latin which you put into circulation were compared with
my English thumpers, it would be found that of the two, I am more
legitimate and etymological."

"I shall be happy to dispute that point with you another time," said the
priest, "when we can--Silence, here comes the Counsellor."

"Mr. O'Shaughnessy," said the lawyer, addressing the candidate, "allow
me to congratulate you on your success! Your business is accomplished.
The Bishop is just finishing a letter for you to the President of
Maynooth. I assure you, I feel great pleasure at your success."

"Accept my thanks, sir," said Denis, whose eye was instantly lit up with
delight--"accept my most obsequious thanks to the very furthest extent
of my gratitude."

The Barrister then shook hands with old Denis. "O'Shaughnessy," said he,
"I am very happy that I have had it in my power to serve you and your
son."

"Counsellor," said Denis, seizing his hand in both of his--"Counsellor,
_ahagur machree_ Counsellor, oh, what--what--can I say!--Is he--is it
possible--is it thruth that my boy is to go to Maynewth this time? Oh,
if you knew, but knew, the heavy, dead weight you tuck off o' my heart!
Our son not cast aside--not disgraced!--for what else would the people
think it? The horse!--a poor bit of a coult--a poor unsignified animal!
To the devil wid him. What is he compared to the joy an' delight of
this minute? Take him, sir; take him--an' if he was worth his weight
in goold, I vow to Heaven above me, I'd not think him too good. Too
good!--no, nor half good enough for you. God remimber this to you!
an' he will, too. Little you know the happiness you have given us,
Counsellor! Little you know it. But no matther! An' you, too, Father
Finnerty, helped to bring this about. But sure you were ever an' always
our friend! Well, no matther--no matther! God will reward you both."

"My brother wishes me to see Mr. Finnerty and your son," said the
barrister; "I think they had better go up to him. He is anxious to get a
slip of your shrub, Mr. Finnerty."

"Ah, I thought so," said the priest--"I thought as much."

The Bishop, on their reappearance, presented Denis with the long
wished-for letter. He then gave him a suitable exhortation with
reference to the serious and responsible duties for which he was about
to prejjare himself. After concluding his admonition, he addressed
Father Finnerty as follows:

"Now Mr. Finnerty, this matter has ended in a manner satisfactory, not
only to your young friend, but to yourself. You must promise me that
there shall be no more horse-dealing. I do not think jockeying of that
description either creditable or just. I am unwilling to use harsher
language, but I could not conscientiously let it pass without reproof.
In the next place, will you let me have a slip of that flowering shrub
you boast of?"

"Doctor," said the priest, "is it possible you ask it of me? Why, I
think your lordship ought to know that it's your own, as is every plant
and flower in my garden that you fancy. Do you dine at home to-morrow,
my lord?"

"I do," said the Bishop. "Well, then, I shall come up with a slip or two
of it, and dine with you. I know the situation in which it grows best;
and knowing this, I will put it down with my own hands. But I protest,
my lord, against you allowing me to be traced in the business of the
shrub at all, otherwise I shall have the whole county on my back."

"Be under no apprehension of that, Mr. Finnerty. I shall be happy if you
dine with me; but bring it with you. How did you come to get it so early
after its appearance in this country?"

"I got it from headquarters, Doctor---from one of the best botanists in
the three kingdoms; certainly from the best Irish botanist living--my
friend, Mr Mackay, of the College Botanic Gardens. My lord, I wish you
good morning; but before I go, accept my thanks for your kindness to my
young friend. I assure you he will be a useful man; for he is even now
no indifferent casuist."

"And I, my lord," said Denis, "return you my most grateful--hem--my most
grateful--and--most supercilious thanks for the favor--the stupendous
favor you have conferred upon me."

"God bless you, my dear child," returned the bishop; "but if you be
advised by me, speak more intelligibly. Use plain words, and discard all
difficult and pedantic expressions. God bless you! Farewell!"

On coming down, they found old Denis in the stable-yard in rather a
ridiculous kind of harness. The saddle that had been on the colt was
strapped about him with the bridle, for both had been borrowed from a
neighbor.

"Dionnisis an' I must both ride the same horse," said he, "an' as we
have two saddles, I must carry one of them."

An altercation then ensued as to which should ride foremost. The son,
now in high glee, insisted on the father's taking the seat of honor; but
the father would not hear of this. The lad was, in his opinion, at least
semi-clerical, and to ride behind would be a degradation to so learned
a youth. They mounted at length, the son foremost, and the father on the
crupper, the saddle strapped about him, with the stirrups dangling by
the horse's flanks. Father Finnerty, who accompanied them, could not,
however, on turning from the bishop's grounds into the highway, get a
word out of them. The truth is, both their hearts were full; both were,
therefore, silent, and thought every minute an hour until they reached
home.

This was but natural. A man may conceal calamity or distress even from
his dearest friends; for who is there who wishes to be thrust back from
his acknowledged position in life? Or who, when he is thrust back, will
not veil his misfortunes or his errors with the guise of indifference or
simulation? In good fortune we act differently. It is a step advanced;
an elevation gained; there is nothing to fear, or to be ashamed of, and
we are strongly prompted by vanity to proclaim it to the world, as we
are by pride to ascribe its occurrence to our own talents or virtues.
There are other and purer motives for this. The affections will not be
still; they seek the hearts to which they tend; and having found them,
the mutual interchange of good takes place. Father Finnerty--whose
heart, though a kind one, had, probably, been too long out of practice
to remember the influence and working of the domestic affections--could
not comprehend the singular conduct of the two O'Shaughnessys.

"What the devil is the matter with you?" he inquired. "Have you lost the
use of your speech?"

"Push an' avourneen," said the father to Denis--"push an; lay the spur to
him. Isn't your spur on the right foot?"

"Most certainly," said Denis, now as pedantic as ever--"most certainly
it is. You are not to be informed that our family spur is a right-foot
spur."

"Well, then, Peter Gallagher's spur that I have an is a left-foot spur,
for it's an my left foot."

"You are a bright pair," said the priest, somewhat nettled at their
neglect of him--"you are a bright pair, and deeply learned in spurs.
Can't you ride asier?"

"Never heed him," said the father, in a whisper; "do you, give the mare
the right spur, an' I'll give her the left. Push an! that's it."

They accordingly dashed forwrard, Denis plying, one heel, and the father
another, until the priest found himself gradually falling behind.
In vain he plied both spurs; in vain he whipped, and wriggled on the
saddle, and pressed forwrard his hack. Being a priest's horse, the
animal had been accustomed for the last twelve years to a certain
jog-trot-pace, beyond which it neither would nor could go. On finding
all his efforts to overtake them unsuccessful, he at last shouted after
them.

"Do you call that gratitude, my worthy friends? To lave me creeping over
the ups and downs of this villanous road without company?"

"Lay an, aroon," said the father. "Let us get home. Oh, how your poor
mother will die with joy, an' Susy, an' Nanny, an' Brian, an' Michael,
an' Dick, an' Lanty, an' all o' them. Glory be to Heaven! what a meetin'
we'll have! An' the nabors, too! Push an' avick machree."

"My curse upon you, Friar Hennessy!" exclaimed the priest, in a
soliloquy, "it was you who first taught this four-footed snail to go
like a thief to the gallows. I wish to Heaven you had palmed him on some
one else, for many a dinner I have lost by him in my time. Is that your
gratitude, gentlemen? Do I deserve this?"

"What is he sayin'?" said the father.

"He is declaiming about gratitude," replied Denis.

"Lay-an' her," said the father. "Poor Mave!"

"Such conduct does you credit," shouted the priest. "It's just the way
of the world. You have got what you wanted out of me, an' now you throw
me off. However, go on."

"What's that?" said the father again.

"He is desiring us to go on,' replied the son.

"Then, in the name o' Goodness, do so, avourneen. Susy will die
downright."

"Where am I to dine to-day?" shouted the priest, in a louder voice. "I
say, where am I to come in for my dinner, for I'm not expected at home,
and my curate dines out?"

"I can't hear him," said the father.

"He says the curate dines out; an' he wants to know if he's to dine with
us."

"Throth, an' he won't; not that we begrudge it to him; but for this day
the sarra one we'll have but our own relations. Push an. An' Brian, too,
poor fellow, that was always so proud of you!"

They had now reached the top of an ascent on the road, whilst the
priest toiled up after them. In a few minutes they began to descend, and
consequently were out of his sight.

No description of mine could give an adequate perception to the reader
of what was felt by the family on hearing that the object of Denis's
hopes, and their own proud ambition, was at length accomplished. The
Bishop's letter was looked at, turned in every direction, and the seal
inspected with a kind of wonderful curiosity, such as a superstitious
person would manifest on seeing and touching some sacred relic. The
period appointed for his departure now depended upon the despatch with
which they could equip him for college. But until this event should
arrive, his friends lost no opportunity of having him among them.
Various were the treats he got in fair and markets. Proud were his
relations when paying' him the respect which he felt right sincere
pleasure in receiving. The medium between dignity and humility which he
hit off in these scenes, was worthy o'f being recorded; but, to do him
justice, his forte lay in humility. He certainly condescended with a
grace, and made them feel the honor done them by his vouchsafing to
associate with such poor creatures as if he was one of themselves. To
do them also justice, they appeared to feel his condescension; and, as
a natural consequence, were ready to lick the very dust under his feet,
considering him, as they did, a priest in everything but ordination.

Denis, besides his intercourse with humble relatives, was now asked to
dine with the neighboring clergymen, and frequently made one at their
parties. In the beginning, his high opinion and awe of the clerical
character kept him remarkably dull and sheepish. Many an excellent joke
was cracked at his expense; and often did he ask himself what Phadrick
Murray, his father's family, or his acquaintances in general, would
say, if they saw his learning and his logic so villanously degraded.
In proportion, however, as conviviality developed among his reverend
friends many defects, opinions, and failings, which he never suspected
them to possess, so did he begin to gather courage and facility of
expression. By degrees he proceeded modestly from the mild and timid
effort at wit to the steadier nerve of moderate confidence--another step
brought him to the indifference of a man who can bear an unsuccessful
attempt at pleasantry, without being discomposed; the third and last
stage advanced him to downright assurance, which having reached, he
stopped at nothing. From this forward he began to retort upon his
clerical companions, who found that the sheepish youth whom they had
often made ridiculous, possessed skill, when properly excited, to foil
them at their own weapons. He observed many things in their convivial
meetings. The holy man, whom his flock looked upon as a being of the
highest sanctity, when lit up into fun and frolic, Denis learned to
estimate at his just value. He thought, besides, that a person resolved
to go to heaven, had as good a chance of being saved by the direct
mercy of God, as through the ministration of men, whose only spiritual
advantage over himself consisted in the mere fact of being in orders.
To be sure, he saw the usual exceptions among them that are to be found
among every other class; but he drew his conclusions from the general
rule. All this, however, failed in removing that fundamental principle
of honest superstition in which he had been trained. The clergymen whom
he saw were only a few who constituted the great body of the church; but
when the long and sanctified calendar of saints and miracles opened
upon him, there still remained enough to throw a dim and solemn charm of
shadowy pomp around the visions of a mind naturally imaginative.

Messengers were once more sent abroad, to inform their friends of his
triumph, who, on ascertaining that his journey was fixed for an early
day, lost no time in pouring in, each with some gift suited to
their circumstances. Some of these were certainly original, the
appropriateness having been in every case determined by the wealth or
poverty, ignorance, or knowledge, of those who offered them. Some poor
relation, for instance, brought him a shirt or two of materials so
coarse, that to wear it in a college would be out of the question;
others offered him a pair of brogues, much too vulgar for the society he
was about to enter; others, again, would present him with books--for
it is not at all uncommon to find in many illiterate Irish families
half-a-dozen old volumes of whose contents they are ignorant, lying in
a dusty corner, where they are kept till some young scion shall be
sufficiently instructed to peruse them. The names of these were singular
enough. One presented him with "The Necessity of Penance;" another with
"Laugh and be Fat;" a third with the "Key of Paradise;" a fourth
with "Hell Open;" a fifth handed him a copy of the "Irish Rogues and
Rapparees; a sixth gave him "Butler's Lives of Saints;" a seventh "The
Necessity of Fasting;" an eighth "The Epicure's _Vade Mecum_." The list
ran on very ludicrously. Among them were the "Garden of Love and Royal
Flower of Fidelity;" "An Essay on the Virtue of Celibacy;" and another
"On the Increase of Population in Ireland." To these we may add "The
Devil upon Two Sticks," and "The Life of St. Anthony."

"Take these, Misther Denis," said the worthy souls; "they're of no use
to us at all at all; but they'll sarve you, of coorse, where you're
goin', bekase when you want books in the college you can use them."

Honest Phadrick Murray, in lieu of a more valuable present, brought him
his wife's largest and best shawl as a pocket handkerchief.

"Katty, sir, sent you this," said Phadrick, "as a pocket handkerchy; an'
be gorra, Mither Denis, if you begin at this corner, an' take it out o'
the face, it'll last you six months at a time, any how."

Another neighbor came with a _cool_ of rendered lard, hoping it might be
serviceable.

"Norah, sir," said the honest friend who brought it, "sent you a' crock
of her own lard. When, you're makin' colcanon, sir, or _sthilk_,* in
the college, if you slip in a lamp of this, it'll save you the price of
bufther. The grace 'ill be useful to you, whether or not; an' they say
there's a scarcity of it in the college.".

* Sthilk is made by bruising a quantity of boiled
Potatoes and beans together. The potatoes, however,
having first been reduced to a pulpy state, the beans
are but partially broken. It is then put into dish, and
a pound of butter or rendered lard thrust into the
middle of it.

A third brought him an oak sapling to keep in his hand about the
purlieus of the establishment.

"We know," said he, "that you're given to arguin' an' to that thing
you call logic, Misther Denis. Now, sir, if you're ever hard set in
an argument or the like o' that, or if any o' the shthudjeents 'ud be
throuble-some or imperant, why give them a touch o' this--a lick of it,
do you see; jist this a way. First come wid a back sthroke upon the left
ear, if they want to be properly convinced; an' thin agin' afore they
have time to recover, come down wid a visitation upon the kidney, My
life for yours, they'll soon let you alone. Nothin' puzzles one in an
argument more than it does."

"Ay," said Denis, "that is what they call--in the books the _argumentum
baculinum_. I accept your present, Roger; but I flatter myself I shall
be a match for any of the collegians without having recourse to the
argumentum baculinum."

A poor old widow, who was distantly related to them, came upwards of
four miles with two or three score of eggs, together with a cock and
hen; the eggs for his own use, and the latter for breeding in Maynooth.
"Avourneen, Misther O'Shaughnessy," said she, in broken English, "when
you ate out all the eggs, maybe you could get a sonsy little corner
about the collegian that you're goin' to larn to be a priest in, an'
put them both into it; "--pointing at the same time to the cock and
hen--"an' whishper," she continued, in a low friendly voice, "if you
could get a weeshy wisp o' sthraw, an slip it undher your own bed, it
would make a nest for them, an' they'd lay an egg for your breakfast all
days in the year. But, achora, don't let them be widout a nest egg; an'
whishper--maybe you'd breed a clackin' out o' them, that you might
sell. Sure they'd help to buy duds of cloes for you; or you might make
presents of the crathurs to the blessed an' holy collegian himself.
Wouldn't it be good to have him an your side?--He'd help to make a
gintleman of you, any way. Faix, sure he does it for many, they say. An'
whishper--the breed, avourneen, is good; an' I'm not afeard to say that
there never was sich a chicken in the whole collegian, as the ould cock
himself. He's the darlin' all out, an' can crow so stoutly, that it
bates the world. Sure his comb's a beauty to look at, the darlin'; an'
only it's to yourself, an' in regard of the blessed place he's goin' to,
I wouldn't part wid him to nobody whatsomever, at all, good or bad."

The most original gift of all was a purse, formed of a small bladder,
ingeniously covered with silk. It was given to him by his uncle, as a
remembrance of him, in the first place; and secondly, for a more special
purpose.

"This will sarve you, sir," said his uncle, "an' I'll tell you how: if
you want to smuggle in a sup of good whiskey--as of coorse you will,
plase goodness--why this houlds exactly a pint, an' is the very thing
for it. The sorra one among them will ever think of searchin' your
purse, at least for whiskey. Put it in your pocket, Misther Dionmsis;
an' I'd take it as a great kindness if you'd write me a scrape or two of
the pen, mentionin' what a good parish 'ud be worth: you'll soon be able
to tell me, for I've some notion myself of puttin' Barny to Latin."

Denis was perfectly aware of the honest warmth of heart with which these
simple tokens of esteem were presented to him; and young as he was,
his knowledge of their habits and prejudices prevented him from
disappointing them by a refusal. He consequently accepted everything
offered him, appropriated to himself whatever was suitable to his wants,
converted the remainder into pocket-money, and, of course, kept his
conscience void of offence toward them all: a state of Christian virtue
which his refusal of any one gift would have rendered difficult.

On the day before his departure the friends and relations of the family
assembled to hold their farewell meeting. The same spirit which marked
all their rustic symposia presided in this; if we except a feeling of
sorrow natural to his family on being separated from one they loved so
affectionately. Denis, who was never deficient in warmth of feeling,
could not be insensible to the love and pride with which his family had
always looked upon him. Ambition, as he approached it, lost much of
its fictitious glitter. A sense of sorrow, if not of remorse, for the
fastidious and overbearing spirit he had manifested to them, pressed
upon his heart. Pride, in fact, was expelled; nature resumed her empire
over him; he looked upon the last two months of his life as a man would
be apt to do who had been all that time under the dominion of a feverish
dream. We do not say, however, that either ambition or superstition was
thoroughly expelled from his mind; for it is hard at all times to root
them out of the system of man: but they ceased to govern him altogether.
A passion, too, as obstinate as either of them, was determined to
dispute their power. The domestic affections softened his heart; but
love, which ambition left for dead, was only stunned; it rose again, and
finding a favorable position, set its seal to his feelings.

Denis himself, some days before that appointed for his departure, became
perfectly conscious that his affections were strongly fixed upon Susan
Connor. The nature of their last interview filled him with shame; nay,
more, it inspired him with pity for the fair, artless girl whom he
had so unfeelingly insulted. The manner in which he had won her young
affections; the many tender interviews that had passed between them; the
sacred promises of unchangeable love they had made to each other: all
crowded to his imagination with a power which reduced his spiritual
ambition and ecclesiastical pride, at least to the possession only of a
divided empire. He had, therefore, with his book in his hand as
usual, taken many solitary walks for the preceding few days, with the
expectation of meeting Susan. He heard that for the last month or six
weeks she had looked ill, been in low spirits, and lost her health. The
cause of this change, though a secret to the world, was known to him. He
knew, indeed, that an interview between them was indispensable; but had
it not been so, we question whether he would have been able to leave
home without seeing her.

His evening strolls, however, up until the day before his setting out
for college, were fruitless. Susan, who heretofore had been in the habit
of walking in the evenings among the green dells around her father's
house, was ever since their last meeting almost invisible. In the
meantime, as the day before that of his leaving the neighborhood had
arrived, and as an interview with her was, in a religious point of view,
essentially necessary, he took his book in the course of the evening,
and by a path slightly circuitous, descended the valley that ran between
his father's house and hers. With solemn strides he perambulated it in
every direction--north, south, east, and west; not a natural bower in
the glen was unexplored; not a green, quiet nook unsearched; not a shady
tree unexam-ined; but all to no purpose. Yet, although he failed in
meeting herself, a thousand objects brought her to his heart. Every
dell, natural bower, and shady tree, presented him with a history of
their past affections. Here was the spot where, with beating heart
and crimson cheek, she had first breathed out in broken music the
acknowledgment of her love; there had another stolen meeting, a thousand
times the sweeter for being stolen, taken place. Every spot, in fact,
was dear to him, and every object associated itself with delightful
emotions that kindled new life in a spirit from which their parent
affections had not yet passed away.

Denis now sought the only other place where he had any likelihood of
meeting her: this was at the well below her father's house. He walked
down along the banks of the little stream that ran past it, until he
reached a thorn bush that grew within a few yards of the spring. Under
this he sat, anxiously hoping that Susan might come to fill her evening
pail, as he knew she was wont to do. A thick flowery branch of the
hawthorn, for it was the latter end of May, hung down from the trunk,
and served as a screen through which he could observe her should she
appear, without being visible himself.

It was now the hour of twilight; the evening was warm and balmy; the
whitethorn tinder which he sat, and the profusion of wild flowers that
spangled the bosom of the green glen, breathed their fragrance around
him, and steeped, the emotions and remembrances which crowded thickly
on him in deep and exquisite tenderness. Up in the air he heard the
quavering hum of the snipe, as it rose and fell in undulating motion,
and the creak of the rail in many directions around him. From an
adjoining meadow in the distance, the merry voices of the village
children came upon his ear, as they gathered the wild honey which
dropped like dew from the soft clouds upon the long grassy stalks, and
meadow-sweet, on whose leaves it lay like amber. He remembered when
he and Susan, on meeting there for a similar purpose, felt the first
mysterious pleasure in being together, and the unaccountable melancholy
produced by separation and absence.

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