The Poor Scholar Part 1

The Poor Scholar.

by William Carleton.

One day about the middle of November, in the year 18--, Dominick M'Evoy and his son Jemmy were digging potatoes on the side of a hard, barren hill, called Esker Dhu. The day was bitter and wintry, the men were thinly clad, and as the keen blast swept across the hill with considerable violence, the sleet-like rain which it bore along pelted into their garments with pitiless severity. The father had advanced into more than middle age; and having held, at a rack-rent the miserable waste of farm which he occupied, he was compelled to exert himself in its cultivation, despite either obduracy of soil, or inclemency of weather. This day, however, was so unusually severe, that the old man began to feel incapable of continuing his toil. The son bore it better; but whenever a cold rush of stormy rain came over them, both were compelled to stand with their sides against it, and their heads turned, so as that the ear almost rested back upon the shoulder in order to throw the rain off their faces. Of each, however, that cheek which was exposed to the rain and storm was beaten into a red hue; whilst the other part of their faces was both pale and hunger-pinched.

The father paused to take breath, and, supported by his spade, looked down upon the sheltered inland which, inhabited chiefly by Prostestants and Presbyterians, lay rich and warm-looking under him.

"Why, thin," he exclaimed to the son--a lad about fifteen,--"sure I know well I oughtn't to curse yez, anyway, you black set! an yit, the Lord forgive me my sins, I'm almost timpted to give yez a volley, an' that from my heart out! Look at thim, Jimmy agra--only look at the black thieves! how warm an' wealthy they sit there in our ould possessions, an' here we must toil till our fingers are worn to the stumps, upon this thievin' bent. The curse of Cromwell on it!--You might as well ax the divil for a blessin', as expect anything like a dacent crop out of it.--Look at thim two ridges!--such a poor sthring o' praties is in it!--one here an' one there--an' yit we must turn up the whole ridge for that same! Well, G.o.d sind the time soon, when the right will take place, Jimmy agra!"

"An' doesn't Pasthorini say it? Sure whin Twenty-five comes, we'll have our own agin: the right will overcome the might--the bottomless pit will be locked--ay, double: boulted, if St. Pettier gets the kays, for he's the very boy that will accommodate the heretics wid a warm corner; an'

yit, faith, there's: many o' thim that myself 'ud put in a good word for, affcher all."

"Throth, an' here's the same, Jimmy. There's Jack Stuart, an' if there's a cool corner in h.e.l.l, the same Jack will get it--an' that he may, I pray Gor this day, an' amin. The Lord sind it to him! for he richly desarves it. Kind, neighborly, and frindly, is he an' all belongin' to him; an' I wouldn't be where a hard word 'ud be spoken of him, nor a dog in connection wid the family ill-treated; for which reason may he get a cool corner in h.e.l.l, I humbly sufflicate."

"What do you think of Jack Taylor? Will he be cosey?"

"Throth, I doubt so--a blessed youth is Jack: yit myself 'ud hardly wish it. He's a heerum-skeemm, divil-may-care fellow, no doubt of it, an'

laughs at the priests, which same I'm thinkin' will get him below stairs more nor a new-milk heat, any way; but thin agin, he thrates thim dacent, an' gives thim good dinners, an' they take all this rolliken in good part, so that it's likely he's not in airnest in it, and surely they ought to know best, Jimmy."

"What do you think of Yallow Sam?--honest Sam, that they say was born widout a heart, an' carries the black wool in his ears, to keep out the cries of the widows an' the orphans, that are long rotten in their graves through his dark villany!--He'll get a snug birth!"*

* This was actually said of the person alluded to--a celebrated usurer and agent to two or three estates, who was a little deaf, and had his ears occasionally stuffed with black wool.

"Yallow Sam," replied the old man, slowly, and a dark shade of intense hatred blackened his weather-beaten countenance, as he looked in the direction from which the storm blew: "'twas he left us where we're standin', Jimmy--undher this blast, that's cowldher an' bittherer nor a step-mother's breath, this cuttin' day! 'Twas he turned us on the wide world, whin your poor mother was risin' out of her faver. 'Twas he squenched the hearth, whin she wasn't able to lave the house, till I carried her in my arms into Paddy Ca.s.sidy's--the tears fallin' from my eyes upon her face, that I loved next to G.o.d. Didn't he give our farm to his b.a.s.t.a.r.d son, a purple Orangeman? Out we went, to the winds an' skies of heaven, bekase the rich bodagh made intherest aginst us. I tould him whin he chated me out o' my fifteen goolden guineas, that his masther, the landlord, should hear of it; but I could never get next or near to him, to make my complaint. Eh? A snug birth! I'm only afeard that h.e.l.l has no corner hot enough for him--but lave that to the divil himself: if he doesn't give him the best thratement h.e.l.l can afford, why I'm not here."

"Divil a one o' the ould boy's so bad as they say, father; he gives it to thim hot an' heavy, at all evints."

"Why even if he was at a loss about Sam, depind upon it, he'd get a hint from his betthers above, that 'ud be sarviceable."

"They say he visits him as it is, an' that Sam can't sleep widout some one in the room wid him. Dan Philips says the priest was there, an'

had a Ma.s.s in every room in the house; but Charley Mack tells me there's no! thruth in it. He was advised to it, he says; but it seems the ould boy has too strong ahoult of him, for Sam said he'd have the divil any time sooner nor the priest, and its likest what he would say."

"Och, och, Jimmy, avick, I'm tir'd out! We had betther give in; the day's too hard, an' there's no use in standin' agin the weather that's in it. Lave the ould villain to G.o.d, who he can't chate, any way."

"Well, may our curse go along wid the rest upon him, for dhrivin' us to sich an unnatural spot as this! Hot an' heavy, into the sowl an'

marrow of him may it penethrate. An' sure that's no more than all the counthry's wis.h.i.+n' him, whether or not--not to mintion the curses that's risin' out o' the grave agin him, loud an' piercin'!"

"G.o.d knows it's not slavin' yourself on sich a day as this you'd be, only for him. Had we kep our farm, you'd be now well an in your larnin'

for a priest--an' there 'ud be one o' the family sure to be a gintleman, anyhow; but that's gone too, agra. Look at the smoke, how comfortable it rises from Jack Sullivan's, where the priest has a Station to-day.

'Tisn't fis.h.i.+n' for a sthray pratie he is, upon a ridge like this. But it can't be helped; an' G.o.d's will be done! Not himself!--faix, it's he that'll get the height of good thratement, an' can ride home, well lined, both inside an' outside. Much good may it do him!--'tis but his right."

The lad now paused in his turn, looked down on Jack Sullivan's comfortable house, sheltered by a clump of trees, and certainly saw such a smoke tossed up from the chimney, as gave unequivocal evidence of preparation for a good dinner. He next looked "behind the wind," with a visage made more blank and meagre by the contrast; after which he reflected for a few minutes, as if working up his mind to some sudden determination. The deliberation, however, was short; he struck his open hand upon the head of the spade with much animation, and instantly took it in both hands, exclaiming:

"Here, father, here goes; to the divil once an' for ever I pitch slavery," and as he spoke, the spade was sent as far from him as he had strength to throw it. "To the divil I pitch slavery! An' now, father, wid the help o' G.o.d, this is the last day's work I'll ever put my hand to. There's no way of larnin' Latin here; but off to Munster I'll start, an' my face you'll never see in this parish, till I come home either a priest an a gintleman! But that's not all, father dear; I'll rise you out of your distress, or die in the struggle. I can't bear to see your gray hairs in sorrow and poverty."

"Well, Jimmy--well, agra--G.o.d enable you, avourneen; 'tis a good intintion. The divil a one o' me will turn another spadeful aither, for this day: I'm _dhrookin'_ (* dripping) wid the rain. We'll go home an'

take an air o' the fire we want it; and aftherwards we can talk about what you're _on_ (* determined) for."

It is usual to attribute to the English and Scotch character, exclusively, a cool and persevering energy in the pursuit of such objects as inclination or interest may propose for attainment; whilst Irishmen are considered too much the creatures of impulse to reach a point that requires coolness, condensation of thought, and efforts successively repeated. This is a mistake. It is the opinion of Englishmen and Scotchmen who know not the Irish character thoroughly.

The fact is, that in the attainment of an object, where a sad-faced Englishman would despair, an Irishman will, probably, laugh, drink, weep, and fight, during his progress to accomplish it. A Scotchman will miss it, perhaps, but, having done all that could be done, he will try another speculation. The Irishman may miss it too; but to console himself he will break the head of any man who may have impeded him in his efforts, as a proof that he ought to have succeeded; or if he cannot manage that point, he will crack the pate of the first man he meets, or he will get drunk, or he will marry a wife, or swear a gauger never to show his face in that quarter again; or he will exclaim, if it be concerning a farm, with a countenance full of simplicity--"G.o.d bless your honor, long life and honor to you, sir! Sure an' 'twas but a thrifle, anyhow, that your Reverence will make up for me another time.

An' 'tis well I know your Lords.h.i.+p 'ud be the last man on airth to give me the cowld shoulder, so you would, an' I an ould residenthur on your own father's estate, the Lord be praised for that same! An' 'tis a happiness, an' nothjn' else, so it is, even if I payed double rint--wherein, maybe, I'm not a day's journey from that same, manin'

the double rint, your honor; only that one would do a great deal for the honor an' glory of livin' undher a raal gintleman--an' that's but rason."

There is, in short, a far-sightedness in an Irishman which is not properly understood, because it is difficult to understand it. I do not think there is a nation on earth, whose inhabitants mix up their interest and their feelings together more happily, shrewdly, and yet less ostensibly, than Irishmen contrive to do. An Irishman will make you laugh at his joke, while the object of that joke is wrapped up from you in the profoundest mystery, and you will consequently make the concession to a certain point of his character, which has been really obtained by a faculty you had not penetration to discover, or, rather, which he had too much sagacity to exhibit. Of course, as soon as your back is turned, the broad grin is on him, and one of his cheeks is stuck out two inches beyond the other, because his tongue is in it at your stupidity, simplicity, or folly. Of all the national characters on this habitable globe, I verily believe that that of the Irish is the most profound and unfathomable; and the most difficult on which to form a system, either social, moral, or religious.

It would be difficult, for example, to produce a more signal instance of energy, system, and perseverance than that exhibited in Ireland during the struggle for Emanc.i.p.ation. Was there not flattery to the dust?

blarney to the eyes? heads broken? throats cut? houses burned? and cattle houghed? And why? Was it for the mere pleasure of blarney--of breaking heads (I won't dispute the last point, though, because I scorn to give up the glory of the national character),--of cutting throats--burning houses--or houghing cattle? No; but to secure Emanc.i.p.ation. In attaining that object was exemplified that Irish method of gaining a point.

"Yes," said Jemmy, "to the divil I pitch slavery! I will come home able to rise yez from your poverty, or never show my face in the parish of Ballysogarth agin."

When the lad's determination was mentioned to his mother and the family, there was a loud and serious outcry against it: for no circ.u.mstance is relished that ever takes away a member from an Irish hearth, no matter what the nature of that circ.u.mstance may be.

"Och, thin, is it for that _bocaun_ (* soft, innocent person) of a boy to set off wid himself, runnin' through the wide world afther larnin', widout money or friends! Avourneen, put it out of yer head. No; struggle on as the rest of us is doin', an' maybe yell come as well off at the long run."

"Mother, dear," said the son, "I wouldn't wish to go agin what you'd say; but I made a promise to myself to 'rise yez out of your poverty if I can, an' my mind's made up on it; so don't cross me, or be the manes of my havin' bad luck on my journey, in regard of me goin' aginst yer will, when you know 'twould be the last thing I wish to do."

"Let the gossoon take his way, Vara. Who knows but it was the Almighty put the thoughts of it into his head. Pasthorini says that there will soon be a change, an' 'tis a good skame it 'ill be to have him a _sogarth_ when the fat living will be walkin' back to their ould owners."

"Oh, an' may the Man above grant _that_, I pray Jamini this day! for are not we harrished out of our lives, sc.r.a.pin' an' scramblin' for the black thieves, what we ought to put on our backs, an' into our own mouths.

Well, they say it's not lucky to take money from a priest, because it's the price o' sin, an' no more it can, seein' that they want it themselves; but I'm sure it's _their_ (* The Protestant clergy) money that ought to carry the bad luck to them, in regard of their gettin' so many bitter curses along wid it."

When a lad from the humblest cla.s.ses resolves to go to Munster as a poor scholar, there is but one course to be pursued in preparing his outfit.

This is by a collection at the chapel among the paris.h.i.+oners, to whom the matter is made known by the priest, from the altar some Sunday previous to his departure. Accordingly, when the family had all given their consent to Jemmy's project, his father went, on the following day, to communicate the matter to the priest, and to solicit his co-operation in making a collection in behalf of the lad, on the next Sunday but one: for there is always a week's notice given, and sometimes more, that the people come prepared.

The conversation already detailed between father and son took place on Friday, and on Sat.u.r.day, a day on which the priest never holds a Station, and, of course, is generally at home, Dominick M'Evoy went to his house with the object already specified in view. The priest was at home; a truly benevolent man, but like the worthies of his day, not over-burdened with learning, though brimful of kindness and hospitality mixed up with drollery and simple cunning.

"Good morning, Dominick!" said the priest, as Dominick entered.

"Good morrow, kindly, Sir," replied Dominick: "I hope your Reverence is well, and in good health."

"Troth I am, Dominick! I hope there's nothing wrong at home; how is the wife and children?"

"I humbly, thank your Reverence for axin'! Troth there's no rason for complainin' in regard o' the health; sarra one o' them but's bravely, consitherin' all things: I believe I'm the worst o' them, myself, yer Reverence.. I'm gettin' ould, you see, an' stiff', an' wake; but that's only in the coorse o' nathur; a man can't last always. Wait till them that's young an' hearty now, harrows as much as I ploughed in my day, an' they won't have much to brag of. Why, thin, but yer Reverence stands it bravely--faix, wondherfully itself--the Lord be praised! an' it warms my own heart to see you look so well."

"Thank you, Dominick. Indeed, my health, G.o.d be thanked, is very good.

Ellish," he added, calling to an old female servant--"you'll take a gla.s.s, Dominick, the day is cowldish--Ellish, here take the kay, and get some spirits--the poteen, Ellish--to the right hand in the cupboard.

Indeed, my health is very good, Dominick. Father Murray says he invies me my appet.i.te, an' I tell him he's guilty of one of the Seven deadly sins."

"Ha, ha, ha!--Faix, an' Invy is one o' them sure enough; but a joke is a joke in the mane time. A pleasant gintleman is the same Father Murray, but yer Reverence is too deep for him in the jokin' line, for all that.

Ethen, Sir, but it's you that gave ould c.o.kely the keen cut about his religion--ha, ha, ha! Myself laughed till I was sick for two days afther it--the ould thief!"

"Eh?--Did you hear that, Dominick? Are you sure that's the poteen, Ellish? Ay, an' the best of it all was, that his pathrun, Lord Foxhunter, was present. Come, Dominick, try that--it never seen wather.

But the best of it all was--"

--"'Well, Father Kavanagh,' said he, 'who put you into the church?

Now,' said he, 'you'll come over me wid your regular succession from St.

Peter, but I won't allow that.'