The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer – Complete. Lever Charles James

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      "Bloody end to the Pope," echoed the Abbe.

      "Pass bloody end to the Pope, and good night," said the sentry, resuming his rounds, while a loud and uproarious peal of laughter behind, told the unlucky priests they were overheard by others, and that the story would be over the whole town in the morning.

      Whether it was that the penance for their heresy took long in accomplishing, or that they never could summon courage sufficient to face their persecutor, certain it is, the North Cork saw them no more, nor were they ever observed to pass the precincts of the college, while that regiment occupied Maynooth.

      Major Jones himself, and his confederates, could not have more heartily relished this story, than did the party to whom the doctor heartily related it. Much, if not all the amusement it afforded, however, resulted from his inimitable mode of telling, and the power of mimicry, with which he conveyed the dialogue with the sentry: and this, alas, must be lost to my readers, at least to that portion of them not fortunate enough to possess Doctor Finucane's acquaintance.

      "Fin! Fin! your long story has nearly famished me," said the padre, as the laugh subsided; "and there you sit now with the jug at your elbow this half-hour; I never thought you would forget our old friend Martin Hanegan's aunt."

      "Here's to her health," said Fin; "and your reverence will get us the chant."

      "Agreed," said Father Malachi, finishing a bumper, and after giving a few preparatory hems, he sang the following "singularly wild and beautiful poem," as some one calls Christabel: —

      "Here's a health to Martin Hanegan's aunt,

      And I'll tell ye the reason why!

      She eats bekase she is hungry,

      And drinks bekase she is dry.

      "And if ever a man,

      Stopped the course of a can,

      Martin Hanegan's aunt would cry —

      'Arrah, fill up your glass,

      And let the jug pass;

      How d'ye know but what your neighbour's dhry?"

      "Come, my lord and gentlemen, da capo, if ye please — Fill up your glass," and the chanson was chorussed with a strength and vigour that would have astonished the Philharmonic.

      The mirth and fun now grew "fast and furious;" and Father Malachi, rising with the occasion, flung his reckless drollery and fun on every side, sparing none, from his cousin to the coadjutor. It was not that peculiar period in the evening's enjoyment, when an expert and practical chairman gives up all interference or management, and leaves every thing to take its course; this then was the happy moment selected by Father Malachi to propose the little "contrhibution." He brought a plate from a side table, and placing it before him, addressed the company in a very brief but sensible speech, detailing the object of the institution he was advocating, and concluding with the following words: — "and now ye'll just give whatever ye like, according to your means in life, and what ye can spare."

      The admonition, like the "morale" of an income tax, having the immediate effect of pitting each man against his neighbour, and suggesting to their already excited spirits all the ardour of gambling, without, however, a prospect of gain. The plate was first handed to me in honour of my "rank," and having deposited upon it a handful of small silver, the priest ran his finger through the coin, and called out: —

      "Five pounds! at least; not a farthing less, as I am a sinner. Look, then, — see now; they tell ye, the gentlemen don't care for the like of ye! but see for yourselves. May I trouble y'r lordship to pass the plate to Mr. Mahony — he's impatient, I see."

      Mr. Mahony, about whom I perceived very little of the impatience alluded to, was a grim-looking old Christian, in a rabbit-skin waistcoat, with long flaps, who fumbled in the recesses of his breeches pocket for five minutes, and then drew forth three shillings, which he laid upon the plate, with what I fancied very much resembled a sigh.

      "Six and sixpence, is it? or five shillings? — all the same, Mr. Mahony, and I'll not forget the thrifle you were speaking about this morning any way;" and here he leaned over as interceding with me for him, but in reality to whisper into my ear, "the greatest miser from this to Castlebar."

      "Who's that put down the half guinea in goold?" (And this time he spoke truth.) "Who's that, I say?"

      "Tim Kennedy, your reverence," said Tim, stroking his hair down with one hand, and looking proud and modest at the same moment.

      "Tim, ye're a credit to us any day, and I always said so. It's a gauger he'd like to be, my lord," said he, turning to me, in a kind of stage whisper. I nodded and muttered something, when he thanked me most profoundly as if his suit had prospered.

      "Mickey Oulahan — the lord's looking at ye, Mickey." This was said piannisime across the table, and had the effect of increasing Mr. Oulahan's donation from five shillings to seven — the last two being pitched in very much in the style o a gambler making his final coup, and crying "va banque." "The Oulahans were always dacent people — dacent people, my lord."

      "Be gorra, the Oulahans was niver dacenter nor the Molowneys, any how," said a tall athletic young fellow, as he threw down three crown pieces, with an energy that made every coin leap from the plate.

      "They'll do now," said Father Brennan; "I'll leave them to themselves;" and truly the eagerness to get the plate and put down the subscription, fully equalled the rapacious anxiety I have witnessed in an old maid at loo, to get possession of a thirty-shilling pool, be the same more or less, which lingered on its way to her, in the hands of many a fair competitor.

      "Mr. M'Neesh" — Curzon had hitherto escaped all notice — "Mr. M'Neesh, to your good health," cried Father Brennan. "It's many a secret they'll be getting out o'ye down there about the Scotch husbandry."

      Whatever poor Curzon knew of "drills," certainly did not extend to them when occupied by turnips. This allusion of the priest's being caught up by the party at the foot of the table, they commenced a series of inquiries into different Scotch plans of tillage — his brief and unsatisfactory answers to which, they felt sure, were given in order to evade imparting information. By degrees, as they continued to press him with questions, his replies grew more short, and a general feeling of dislike on both sides was not very long in following.

      The father saw this, and determining with his usual tact to repress it, called on the adjutant for a song. Now, whether he had but one in the world, or whether he took this mode of retaliating for the annoyances he had suffered, I know not; but true it is, he finished his tumbler at a draught, and with a voice of no very peculiar sweetness, though abundantly loud, began "The Boyne Water."

      He had just reached the word "battle," in the second line upon which he was bestowing what he meant to be a shake, when, as if the word suggested it, it seemed the signal for a general engagement. Decanters, glasses, jugs, candlesticks, — aye, and the money-dish, flew right and left — all originally intended, it is ture, for the head of the luckless adjutant, but as they now and then missed their aim, and came in contact with the "wrong man," invariably provoked retaliation, and in a very few minutes the battle became general.

      What may have been the doctor's political sentiments on this occasion, I cannot even guess; but he seemed bent upon performing the part of a "convivial Lord Stanley," and maintaining a dignified neutrality. With this apparent object, he mounted upon the table, to raise himself, I suppose, СКАЧАТЬ