The Poor Scholar Part 3

This to him was the greatest trial he had yet felt; long and heartrending was their embrace. Jemmy soothed and comforted his beloved brother, but in vain. The lad threw himself on the spot at which they parted, and remained there until Jemmy turned an angle of the road which brought him out of his sight, when the poor boy kissed the marks of his brother's feet repeatedly, and then returned home, hoa.r.s.e and broken down with the violence of his grief.

He was now alone, and for the first time felt keenly the strange object on which he was bent, together with all the difficulties connected with its attainment. He was young and uneducated, and many years, he knew, must elapse e'er he could find himself in possession of his wishes. But time would pa.s.s at home, as well as abroad, he thought; and as there lay no impediment of peculiar difficulty in his way, he collected all his firmness and proceeded.

There is no country on the earth in which either education, or the desire to procure it, is so much reverenced as in Ireland. Next to the claims of the priest and schoolmaster come those of the poor scholar for the respect of the people. It matters not how poor or how miserable he may be; so long as they see him struggling with poverty in the prosecution of a purpose so laudable, they will treat him with attention and kindness. Here there is no danger of his being sent to the workhouse, committed as a vagrant, or pa.s.sed from parish to parish until he reaches his own settlement. Here the humble lad is not met by the sneer of purse-proud insolence, or his simple tale answered only in the frown of heartless contempt. No--no--no. The best bit and sup are placed before him; and whilst his poor, but warm-hearted, entertainer can afford only potatoes and salt to his own half-starved family, he will make a struggle to procure something better for the poor scholar; '_Becase he's far from his own, the craihur!_ An' sure the intuition in him is good, anyhow; the Lord prosper him, an' every one that has the heart set upon the larnin'!'

As Jemmy proceeded, he found that his satchel of books and apparel gave as clear an intimation of his purpose, as if he had carried a label to that effect upon his back.

"G.o.d save you, a bouchal!" said a warm, honest-looking countryman, whom he met driving home his cows in the evening, within a few miles of the town in which he purposed to sleep.

"G.o.d save you kindly!"

"Why, thin, 'tis a long journey you have before you, alanna, for I know well it's for Munster you're bound."

"Thrue for you; 'tis there, wid the help of G.o.d, I'm goin'. A great scarcity of larnin' was in my own place, or I wouldn't have to go at all," said the boy, whilst his eyes filled with, tears.

"'Tis no discredit in life," replied the countryman, with untaught natural delicacy, for he perceived that a sense of pride lingered about the boy which made the character of poor scholar sit painfully upon him; "'tis no discredit, dear, nor don't be cast down. I'll warrant you that G.o.d will prosper you; an' that He may, avick, I pray this day!" and as he spoke, he raised his hat in reverence to the Being whom he invoked.

"An' tell me, dear--where do you intend to sleep to-night?"

"In the town forrid here," replied Jemmy. "I'm in hopes I'll be able to reach it before dark."

"Pooh! asy you will. Have you any friends or acquaintances there that 'ud welcome you, _a bouchal dhas_ (my handsome boy)?"

"No, indeed," said Jemmy, "they're all strangers to me; but I can stop in 'dhry lodgin',' for it's chaper."

"Well, alanna, I believe you; but _I'm no stranger to you_--so come home wid me to-night; where you'll get a good bed, and betther thratement nor in any of their dhry lodgins. Give me your books, and I'll carry them for you. Ethen, but you have a great batch o' them entirely. Can you make any hand o' the Latin at all yet?"

"No, indeed," replied Jemmy, somewhat sorrowfully; "I didn't ever open a Latin book, at all at all."

"Well, acushla, everything has a beginnin';--you won't be so. An' I know by your face that you'll be bright at it, an' a credit to them owes (*

owns) you. There's my house in the fields beyant, where you'll be well kept for one night, any way, or for twinty, or for ten times twinty, if you wanted them."

The honest farmer then commenced the song of _Colleen dhas Crotha na Mho_ (* The pretty girl milking her cow), which he sang in a clear mellow voice, until they reached the house.

"Alley," said the man to his wife, on entering, "here's a stranger I've brought you."

"Well," replied Alley, "he's welcome sure, any way; _Cead millia, failta ghud_, alanna! sit over to the fire. Brian, get up, dear," said she to one of the children, "an' let the stranger to the hob."

"He's goin' on a good errand, the Lord bless him!" said the husband, "up the country for the larnin'. Put thim books over on the settle; an' whin the, _girshas_ are done milkin', give him a brave dhrink of the sweet milk; it's the stuff to thravel on."

"Troth, an' I will, wid a heart an' a half, wis.h.i.+n' it was betther I had to give him. Here, Nelly, put down a pot o' wather, an' lave soap an'

a _praskeen_, afore you go to milk, till I bathe the dacent boy's feet.

Sore an' tired they are afther his journey, poor young crathur."

When Jemmy placed himself upon the hob, he saw that some peculiarly good fortune had conducted him to so comfortable a resting-place. Ho considered this as a good omen; and felt, in fact, much relieved, for the sense of loneliness among strangers was removed.

The house evidently belonged to a wealthy farmer, well to do in the world; the chimney was studded with sides upon sides of yellow smoke-dried bacon, hams, and hung beef in abundance. The kitchen tables were large, and white as milk; and the dresser rich in its s.h.i.+ning array of delf and pewter. Everything, in fact, was upon a large scale. Huge meal chests were ranged on one side, and two or three settle beds on the other, conspicuous, as I have said, for their uncommon cleanliness; whilst hung from the ceiling were the _glaiks_, a machine for churning; and beside the dresser stood an immense churn, certainly too unwieldy to be managed except by machinery. The farmer was a ruddy-faced Milesian, who wore a drab frieze coat, with a velvet collar, buff waistcoat, corduroy small-clothes, and top-boots* well greased from the tops down. He was not only an agriculturist, but a grazier--remarkable for shrewdness and good sense, generally attended fairs and markets, and brought three or four large droves of fat cattle to England every year.

From his fob hung the bra.s.s chain and almost rusty key of a watch, which he kept certainly more for use than ornament.

* This in almost every instance, is the dress of wealthy Irish farmer.

"A little sup o' this," said he, "won't take your life," approaching Jemmy with a bottle of as good poteen as ever escaped the eye of an exciseman; "it'll refresh you--for you're tired, or I wouldn't offer it, by rason that one bint on what you're bint on, oughtn't to be makin'

freedoms wid the same dhrink. But there's a time for everything, an'

there's a time for this.--Thank you, agra," he added, in reply to Jemmy, who had drunk his health. "Now, don't be frettin'--but make yourself as aisy as if you were at your own father's hearth. You'll have everything to your heart's contint for this night; the carts are goin' in to the market to-morrow airly--you can sit upon them, an' maybe you'll get somethin' more nor you expect: sure the Lord has given it to me, an' why wouldn't I share it wid them that wants it more nor I do?"

The lad's heart yearned to the generous farmer, for he felt that his kindness had the stamp of truth and sincerity upon it. He could only raise his eyes in a silent prayer, that none belonging to him might ever be compelled, as strangers and way-farers, to commit themselves, as he did, to the casualties of life, in pursuit of those attainments which poverty cannot otherwise command. Fervent, indeed, was his prayer; and certain we are, that because it was sincere, it must have been heard.

In the meantime, the good woman, or _vanithee_, had got the pot of water warmed, in which Jemmy was made to put his feet. She then stripped up her arms to the elbows, and, with soap and seedy meal, affectionately bathed his legs and feet: then, taking the _praskeen_, or coa.r.s.e towel, she wiped them with a kindness which thrilled to his heart.

"And now," said she, "I must give you a cure for blisthers, an' it's this:--In the mornin', if we're all spared, as we will, plase the Almighty, I'll give you a needle and some white woollen thread, well soaped. When your blisthers gets up, dhraw the soapy thread through them, clip it on each side, an', my life for yours, they won't throuble you. Sure I thried it the year I went on my Station to Lough Derg, an' I know it to be the rale cure."

"Here, Nelly," said the farmer,--who sat iwith a placid benevolent face, smoking his pipe on the opposite hob--to one of the maids who came in from milking,--"bring up a noggin of that milk, we want it here: let it be none of your washy _foremilk_, but the _strippins_, Nelly, that has the strinth in it. Up wid it here, a colleen."

"The never a one o' the man but's doatin' downright, so he is," observed the wife, "to go to fill the tired child's stomach wid plash. Can't you wait till he ates a thrifle o' some-thin' stout, to keep life in him, afther his hard journey? Does your feet feel themselves cool an' asy now, ahagur?"

"Indeed," said Jemmy, "I'm almost as fresh as when I set out. 'Twas little thought I had, when I came away this mornin', that I'd meet wid so much friends.h.i.+p on my journey. I hope it's a sign that G.o.d's on my side in my undertakin'!"

"I hope so, avourneen--I hope so, an' it is, too," replied the farmer, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and mildly whiffing away the smoke, "an' G.o.d'll be always on your side, as long as your intentions are good.

Now ate somethin'--you must want it by this; an' thin, when you rest yourself bravely, take a ta.s.s into a good feather-bed, where you can _sleep rings round you_. (* As much as you please.) Who knows but you'll be able to say ma.s.s for me or some o' my family yit. G.o.d grant that, any way, avick!"

Poor James's heart was too full to eat much; he took, therefore, only a very slender portion of the refreshments set before him; but his hospitable entertainer had no notion of permitting him to use the free exercise of his discretion on this important point. When James put away the knife and fork, as an indication of his having concluded the meal, the farmer and his wife turned about, both at the same moment, with a kind of astonishment.

"Eh? is it giving over that way you are? Why, alanna, it's nothin' at all you've tuck; sure little Brian there would make a fool of you, so he would, at the atin'. Come, come, a bouchal--don't be ashamed, or make any way sthrange at all, but ate hearty."

"I declare I have ate heartily, thank you," replied James; "oceans itself, so I did. I couldn't swally a bit more if the house was full."

"Arrah, Brian," said the wife, "cut him up more o' that hung beef, it's ashamed the crathur is! Take it, avick; don't we know the journey you had! Faix, if one o' the boys was out on a day's thravellin', you'd see how he'd handle himself."

"Indeed," said James, "I can't--if I could I would. Sure I would be no way backward at all, so I wouldn't."

"Throth, an' you can an' must," said the farmer: "the never a rise you'll rise, till you finish that"--putting over a complement out of all reasonable proportion with his age and size.

"There now's a small taste, an' you must finish it. To go to ate nothin'

at all! Hut tut! by the tops o' my boots, you must put that clear an'

clane out o' sight, or I'll go mad an' barn them."

The lad recommenced, and continued to eat as long as he could possibly hold out; at length he ceased:--

"I can't go on," said he; "don't ax me: I can't indeed."

"Bad manners to the word I'll hear till you finish it; you know it's but a thrifle to spake of. Thry agin, avick, but take your time; you'll be able for it."

The poor lad's heart was engaged on other thoughts and other scenes; his home, and its beloved inmates--sorrow and the gush of young affections, were ready to burst forth.

"I cannot ate," said he, and he looked imploringly on the farmer and his wife, whilst the tears started to his eyes--"don't ax me, for my heart's wid them I left behind me, that I may never see agin!" and he wept in a burst of grief which he could not restrain.

Neither the strength nor tenderness of the lad's affection was unappreciated by this excellent couple. In a moment the farmer's wife was also in tears; nor did her husband break the silence for some minutes.

"The Almighty pity an' strengthen him!" said the farmer's wife, "but he has the good an' the kind heart, an' would be a credit to any family.--Whisht, acushla machree--whisht, we won't ax you to ate--no indeed. It was out o' kindness we did it: don't be cast down aither; sure it isn't the ocean you're crossin'; but goin' from one county like to another. G.o.d 'll guard an' take care o' you, so he will. Your intintion's good, an' he'll prosper it."