The Ned M'Keown Stories Part 5

"Yes, troth, do I."

"Why then that's more than you'll be able to do long, plase the fates."

"If all my customers wor like your Reverence, it is."

"I'll tell you what it is, Nancy, I often threatened to take the congregation from 'The Forth,' and I'll do it--if I don't, may I never sup sorrow!"

Big with such a threat, Father Ned retired. The apprehensions of Nancy on this point, however, were more serious than she was willing to acknowledge. This dispute took place a few days before the night in question.

Father Ned was a little man, with a red face, slender legs, and flat feet; he was usually cased in a pair of ribbed minister's grey small-clothes, with leggings of the same material. His coat, which was much too short, rather resembled a jerkin, and gave him altogether an appearance very much at variance with an idea of personal gravity or reverence. Over this dress he wore in winter, a dark great-coat, with high collar, that b.u.t.toned across his face, showing only the point, of his red nose; so that, when riding or walking, his hat rested more upon the collar of his coat than upon his head.

The curate was a tall, raw-boned young man, with high jutting cheek-bones, low forehead, and close knees; to his shoulders, which were very high, hung a pair of long bony arms, whose motions seemed rather the effect of machinery than volition. His hair, which was a bad black, was cropped close, and trimmed across his eye-brows, like that of a Methodist preacher; the small-clothes he wore were of the same web which had produced Father Ned's, and his body-coat was a dark blue, with black b.u.t.tons. Each wore a pair of gray woollen mittens.

"There, Pether," said Father Ned, as he entered, "hook my bridle along with your own, as your hand is in--G.o.d save all here! Paddy Smith, ma bouchal, put these horses in the stable, till we dry ourselves a bit--Father Pether and I."

"Musha, but you're both welcome," said Nancy, wis.h.i.+ng to wipe out the effects of the last tift with Father Ned, by the a.s.sistance of the stranger's punch; "will ye bounce, ye spalpeens, and let them to the fire? Father Ned, you're dhreepin' with the rain; and, Father Pether, avourneen, you're wet to the skin, too."

"Troth, and he is, Nancy, and a little bit farther, if you knew but all.

Mr. Morrow, how do you do, sir?--And--eh?--Who's this we've got in the corner? A gintleman, boys, if cloth can make one! Mr. Morrow, introduce me."

"Indeed, Father Ned, I hav'nt the pleasure of knowing the gintleman myself."

"Well, no matter--come up, Pether. Sir, I have the honor of introducing you to my curate and coadjutor, the Reverend Pether M'Clatchaghan, and to myself, his excellent friend, but spiritual superior, the Reverend Edward Deleery, Roman Catholic Rector of this highly respectable and extensive parish; and I have further the pleasure," he continued, taking up Andy Morrow's Punch, "of drinking your very good health, sir."

"And I have the honor," returned the stranger, rising up, and diving his head among the flitches of bacon that hung in the chimney, "of introducing you and the Rev. Mr. M'--M'--M'----"

"Clatchagan, sir," subjoined Father Ned.

"Peter M'Illclatchagan, to Mr. Longinus Polysyllabus Alexandrinus."

"By my word, sir, but it's a good and appropriate name, sure enough,"

said Father Ned, surveying his enormous length; "success to me but you're an Alexandrine from head to foot--non solum Longinus, sed Alexandrinus."

"You're wrong, sir, in the Latin," said Father Peter.

"Prove it, Peter--prove it."

"It should be non tantum, sir."

"By what rule Pether?"

"Why, sir, there's a phrase in Corderius's Colloquies that I could condimn you from, if I had the book."

"Pether, you think you're a scholar, and, to do you justice, you're cute enough sometimes; but, Pether, you didn't travel for it, as I did--nor were you obliged to lep out of a college windy in Paris, at the time of the French Revolution, for your larning, as I was: not you, man, you ate the king's mutton comfortably at home in Maynooth, instead of travelling like your betters."

"I appale to this gintleman," said Father Peter turning to the stranger.

"Are you a cla.s.sical scholar, sir--that is, do you understand Latin?"

"What kind?" demanded the stranger dryly.

"If you have read Corderius's Colloquies, it will do," said Father Peter.

"No, sir," replied the other, "but I have read his commentator, _Bardolphus_, who wrote a treatise upon the _Nasus Rubricundus_ of the ancients."

"Well, sir, if you did, it's probable that you may be able to understand our dispute, so"--

"Peter, I'm afeard you've got into the wrong box; for I say he's no chicken that's read _Nasus Rubricundus_, I can tell you that; I had my own trouble with it: but, at any rate, will you take your punch, man alive, and don't bother us with your Latin?"

"I beg your pardon, Father Ned: I insist that. I'm right; and I'll convince you that you're wrong, if G.o.d spares me to see Corderius to-morrow."

"Very well then, Pether, if you're to decide it to-morrow, let us have no more of it tonight."

During this conversation between the two reverend worthies, the group around the fire were utterly astonished at the erudition displayed in this learned dispute.

"Well, to be sure, larnin's a great thing, entirely," said M'Roarkin, aside, to Shane Fadh.

"Ah, Tom, there's nothing like it: well, any way, it's wonderful what they know!"

"Indeed it is, Shane--and in so short a time, too! Sure, it's not more nor five or six years since Father Pether there used to be digging praties on the one ridge with myself--by the same token, an excellent spadesman he was--and now he knows more nor all the Protestant parsons in the Diocy."

"Why, how could they know any thing, when they don't belong to the thrue church?" said Shane.

"Thrue for you, Shane," replied M'Roaran; "I disremimbered that clincher."

This discourse ran parallel with the dispute between the two priests, but in so low a tone as not to reach the ears of the cla.s.sical champions, who would have ill-brooked this eulogium upon Father Peter's agricultural talent.

"Don't bother us, Pether, with your arguing to-night," said Father Ned, "it's enough for you to be seven days in the week at your disputations.--Sir, I drink to our better acquaintance."

"With all my heart, sir," replied the stranger.

"Father Ned," said Nancy, "the gintleman was going to tell us a sthrange story, sir, and maybe your Reverence would wish to hear it, docthor?"

"Certainly, Nancy, we'll be very happy to hear any story the gintleman may plase to tell us; but, Nancy, achora, before he begins, what if you'd just fry a slice or two of that glorious flitch, hanging over his head, in the corner?--that, and about six eggs, Nancy, and you'll have the priest's blessing, gratis."

"Why, Father Ned, it's too fresh, entirely--sure it's not a week hanging yet.

"Sorra matter, Nancy dheelish, we'll take with all that--just try your hand at a slice of it. I rode eighteen miles since I dined, and I feel a craving, Nancy, a _whacuum_ in my stomach, that's rather troublesome."

"To be sure, Father Ned, you must get a slice, with all the veins in my heart; but I thought maybe you wouldn't like it so fresh: but what on earth will we do for eggs? for there's not an egg under the roof with me."

"Biddy, a hagur," said Father Ned, "just slip out to Molshy Johnson, and tell her to send me six eggs for a rasher, by the same token that I heard two or three hens cackling in the byre, as I was going to conference this morning."

"Well, Docthor," said Pat Frayne, when Biddy had been gone some time, on which emba.s.sy she delayed longer than the priest's judgment, influenced by the cravings of his stomach, calculated to be necessary,--"Well, Docthor, I often pity you, for fasting so long; I'm sure, I dunna how you can stand it, at all, at all."

"Troth, and you may well wonder, Pat; but we have that to support us, that you, or any one like you, know nothing about--inward support, Pat--inward support."

"Only for that, Father Ned," said Shane Fadh, "I suppose you could never get through with it."