Book: The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer, Vol. 1

C >> Charles James Lever >> The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer, Vol. 1




"You need not ask a word on the subject; for, if I am a true prophet,
you'll know what it means before morning."

A little more chatting together, brought us to a narrow road, flanked on
either side by high hedges of hawthorn, and, in a few minutes more, we
stood before the priest's residence, a long, white-washed, thatched
house, having great appearance of comfort and convenience. Arrived here,
the doctor seemed at once to take on him the arrangement of the whole
party; for, after raising the latch and entering the house, he returned
to us in a few minutes, and said,

"Wait a while now; we'll not go in to Father Malachi, 'till we've put
Giles to bed."

We, accordingly, lifted him from off the car, and assisted him into the
house, and following Finucane down a narrow passage, at last reached a
most comfortable little chamber, with a neat bed; here we placed him,
while the doctor gave some directions to a bare-headed, red-legged
hussey, without shoes or stockings, and himself proceeded to examine the
wound, which was a more serious one than it at first appeared.

After half an hour thus occupied, during which time, roars of merriment
and hearty peals of laughter burst upon us every time the door opened,
from a distant part of the house, where his reverence was entertaining
his friends, and which, as often as they were heard by the doctor seemed
to produce in him sensations not unlike those that afflicted the "wedding
guest" in the "Ancient Mariner," when he heard the "loud bassoon," and as
certainly imparted an equally longing desire to be a partaker in the
mirth. We arranged every thing satisfactorily for Mr. Beamish's comfort,
and with a large basin of vinegar and water, to keep his knee cool, and a
strong tumbler of hot punch, to keep his heart warm--homeopathic medicine
is not half so new as Dr. Hahnneman would make us believe--we left Mr.
Beamish to his own meditations, and doubtless regrets that he did not get
"the saw-handled one, he was used to," while we proceeded to make our
bows to Father Malachi Brennan.

But, as I have no intention to treat the good priest with ingratitude, I
shall not present him to my readers at the tail of a chapter.




CHAPTER VI.

THE PRIEST'S SUPPER--FATHER MALACHI AND THE COADJUTOR
--MAJOR JONES AND THE ABBE

At the conclusion of our last chapter we left our quondam antagonist,
Mr. Beamish, stretched at full length upon a bed practising homeopathy
by administering hot punch to her fever, while we followed our chaperon,
Doctor Finucane, into the presence of the Reverend Father Brennan.

The company into which we now, without any ceremony on our parts,
introduced ourselves, consisted of from five and twenty to thirty
persons, seated around a large oak table, plentifully provided with
materials for drinking, and cups, goblets, and glasses of every shape and
form. The moment we entered, the doctor stepped forward, and, touching
Father Malachi on the shoulder,--for so I rightly guessed him to be,
--presented himself to his relative, by whom he was welcomed with every
demonstration of joy. While their recognitions were exchanged, and while
the doctor explained the reasons of our visit, I was enabled, undisturbed
and unnoticed, to take a brief survey of the party.

Father Malachi Brennan, P.P. of Carrigaholt, was what I had often
pictured to myself as the beau ideal of his caste; his figure was short,
fleshy, and enormously muscular, and displayed proportions which wanted
but height to constitute a perfect Hercules; his legs so thick in the
calf, so taper in the ancle, looked like nothing I know, except perhaps,
the metal balustrades of Carlisle--bridge; his face was large and rosy,
and the general expression, a mixture of unbounded good humour and
inexhaustible drollery, to which the restless activity of his black and
arched eye--brows greatly contributed; and his mouth, were it not for a
character of sensuality and voluptuousness about the nether lip, had been
actually handsome; his head was bald, except a narrow circle close above
the ears, which was marked by a ring of curly dark hair, sadly
insufficient however, to conceal a development behind, that, if there be
truth in phrenology, bodes but little happiness to the disciples of Miss
Martineau.

Add to these external signs a voice rich, fluent, and racy, with the
mellow "doric" of his country, and you have some faint resemblance of one
"every inch a priest." The very antipodes to the 'bonhomie' of this
figure, confronted him as croupier at the foot of the table. This,
as I afterwards learned, was no less a person than Mister Donovan, the
coadjutor or "curate;" he was a tall, spare, ungainly looking man of
about five and thirty, with a pale, ascetic countenance, the only
readable expression of which vibrated between low suspicion and intense
vulgarity: over his low, projecting forehead hung down a mass of straight
red hair; indeed--for nature is not a politician--it almost approached an
orange hue. This was cut close to the head all around, and displayed in
their full proportions a pair of enormous ears, which stood out in
"relief," like turrets from a watch-tower, and with pretty much the same
object; his skin was of that peculiar colour and texture, to which, not
all "the water in great Neptune's ocean" could impart a look of
cleanliness, while his very voice, hard, harsh, and inflexible, was
unprepossessing and unpleasant. And yet, strange as it may seem, he,
too, was a correct type of his order; the only difference being, that
Father Malachi was an older coinage, with the impress of Donay or St.
Omers, whereas Mister Donovan was the shining metal, fresh stamped from
the mint of Maynooth.

While thus occupied in my surveillance of the scene before me, I was
roused by the priest saying--

"Ah, Fin, my darling, you needn't deny it; you're at the old game as sure
as my name is Malachi, and ye'll never be easy nor quiet till ye're sent
beyond the sea, or maybe have a record of your virtues on half a ton of
marble in the church--yard, yonder."

"Upon my honour, upon the sacred honour of a De Courcy--."

"Well, well, never mind it now; ye see ye're just keeping your friends
cooling themselves there in the corner--introduce me at once."

"Mr. Lorrequer, I'm sure--."

"My name is Curzon," said the adjutant, bowing.

"A mighty pretty name, though a little profane; well, Mr. Curse-on," for
so he pronounced it, "ye're as welcome as the flowers in May; and it's
mighty proud I am to see ye here.

"Mr. Lorrequer, allow me to shake your hand--I've heard of ye before."

There seemed nothing very strange in that; for go where I would through
this country, I seemed as generally known as ever was Brummell in
Bond-street.

"Fin tells me," continued Father Malachi, "that ye'd rather not be known
down here, in regard of a reason," and here he winked. "Make yourselves
quite easy; the king's writ was never but once in these parts; and the
'original and true copy' went back to Limerick in the stomach of the
server; they made him eat it, Mr. Lorrequer; but it's as well to be
cautious, for there are a good number here. A little dinner, a little
quarterly dinner we have among us, Mr. Curseon, to be social together,
and raise a 'thrifle' for the Irish college at Rome, where we have a
probationer or two, ourselves.

"As good as a station, and more drink," whispered Fin into my ear. "And
now," continued the priest, "ye must just permit me to re-christen ye
both, and the contribution will not be the less for what I'm going to do;
and I'm certain you'll not be worse for the change Mr. Curseon--though
'tis only for a few hours, ye'll have a dacent name."

As I could see no possible objection to this proposal, nor did Curzon
either, our only desire being to maintain the secrecy necessary for our
antagonist's safety, we at once assented; when Father Malachi took me by
the hand, but with such a total change in his whole air and deportment
that I was completely puzzled by it; he led me forward to the company
with a good deal of the ceremonious reverence I have often admired in Sir
Charles Vernon, when conducting some full--blown dowager through the
mazes of a castle minuet. The desire to laugh outright was almost
irresistible, as the Rev. Father stood at arm's length from me, still
holding my hand, and bowing to the company pretty much in the style of a
manager introducing a blushing debutante to an audience. A moment more,
and I must have inevitably given way to a burst of laughter, when what
was my horror to hear the priest present me to the company as their
"excellent, worthy, generous, and patriotic young landlord, Lord Kilkee.
Cheer every mother's son of ye; cheer I say;" and certainly precept was
never more strenuously backed by example, for he huzzaed till I thought
he would burst a blood--vessel; may I add, I almost wished it, such was
the insufferable annoyance, the chagrin, this announcement gave me; and
I waited with eager impatience for the din and clamour to subside, to
disclaim every syllable of the priest's announcement, and take the
consequences of my baptismal epithet, cost what it might. To this I was
impelled by many and important reasons. Situated as I was with respect
to the Callonby family, my assumption of their name at such a moment
might get abroad, and the consequences to me, be inevitable ruin; and
independent of my natural repugnance to such sailing under false colours,
I saw Curzon laughing almost to suffocation at my wretched predicament,
and (so strong within me was the dread of ridicule) I thought, "what a
pretty narrative he is concocting for the mess this minute." I rose
to reply; and whether Father Malachi, with his intuitive quickness,
guessed my purpose or not, I cannot say, but he certainly resolved to
out-maneuver me, and he succeeded: while with one hand he motioned to the
party to keep silence, with the other he took hold of Curzon, but with no
peculiar or very measured respect, and introduced him as Mr. MacNeesh,
the new Scotch steward and improver--a character at that time whose
popularity might compete with a tithe proctor or an exciseman. So
completely did this tactique turn the tables upon the poor adjutant, who
the moment before was exulting over me, that I utterly forgot my own
woes, and sat down convulsed with mirth at his situation--an emotion
certainly not lessened as I saw Curzon passed from one to the other at
table, "like a pauper to his parish," till he found an asylum at the very
foot, in juxta with the engaging Mister Donovan. A propinquity, if I
might judge from their countenances, uncoveted by either party.

While this was performing, Doctor Finucane was making his recognitions
with several of the company, to whom he had been long known during his
visits to the neighbourhood. I now resumed my place on the right of the
Father, abandoning for the present all intention of disclaiming my rank,
and the campaign was opened. The priest now exerted himself to the
utmost to recall conversation with the original channels, and if possible
to draw off attention from me, which he still feared, might, perhaps,
elicit some unlucky announcement on my part. Failing in his endeavours
to bring matters to their former footing, he turned the whole brunt of
his attentions to the worthy doctor, who sat on his left.

"How goes on the law," said he, "Fin? Any new proofs, as they call them,
forthcoming?"

What Fin replied, I could not hear, but the allusion to the "suit" was
explained by Father Malachi informing us that the only impediment between
his cousin and the title of Kinsale lay in the unfortunate fact, that his
grandmother, "rest her sowl," was not a man.

Doctor Finucane winced a little under the manner in which this was
spoken: but returned the fire by asking if the bishop was down lately in
that quarter? The evasive way in which "the Father" replied having
stimulated my curiosity as to the reason, little entreaty was necessary
to persuade the doctor to relate the following anecdote, which was not
relished the less by his superior, that it told somewhat heavily on Mr.
Donovan.

"It is about four years ago," said the doctor, "since the Bishop, Dr.
Plunkett, took it into his head that he'd make a general inspection, 'a
reconnoisance," as we'd call it, Mr. Lor--that is, my lord! Through the
whole diocese, and leave no part far nor near without poking his nose in
it and seeing how matters were doing. He heard very queer stories about
his reverence here, and so down he came one morning in the month of July,
riding upon an old grey hack, looking just for all the world like any
other elderly gentleman in very rusty black. When he got near the
village he picked up a little boy to show him the short cut across the
fields to the house here; and as his lordship was a 'sharp man and a
shrewd,' he kept his eye on every thing as he went along, remarking this,
and noting down that.

"'Are ye regular in yer duties, my son?' said he to the gossoon.

"'I never miss a Sunday,' said the gossoon; 'for it's always walking his
reverence's horse I am the whole time av prayers.'

"His lordship said no more for a little while, when he muttered between
his teeth, 'Ah, it's just slander--nothing but slander and lying
tongues.' This soliloquy was caused by his remarking that on every gate
he passed, or from every cabin, two or three urchins would come out half
naked, but all with the finest heads of red hair he ever saw in his life.

"'How is it, my son,' said he, at length; 'they tell very strange stories
about Father Malachi, and I see so many of these children with red hair.
Eh--now Father Malachi's a dark man.'

"'True for ye,' said the boy; 'true for ye, Father Malachi's dark; but
the coadjutor!--the coadjutor's as red as a fox.'"

When the laugh this story caused had a little subsided, Father Malachi
called out, "Mickey Oulahan! Mickey, I say, hand his lordship over 'the
groceries'"--thus he designated a square decanter, containing about two
quarts of whiskey, and a bowl heaped high with sugar--"a dacent boy is
Mickey, my lord, and I'm happy to be the means of making him known to
you." I bowed with condescension, while Mr. Oulahan's eyes sparkled like
diamonds at the recognition.

"He has only two years of the lease to run, and a 'long charge,'
(anglice, a large family,) continued the priest.

"I'll not forget him, you may depend upon it," said I.

"Do you hear that," said Father Malachi, casting a glance of triumph
round the table, while a general buzz of commendation on priest and
patron went round, with many such phrases as, "Och thin, it's his
riv'rance can do it," "na bocklish," "and why not," &c. &c. As for me,
I have already "confessed" to my crying sin, a fatal, irresistible
inclination to follow the humour of the moment wherever it led me; and
now I found myself as active a partizan in quizzing Mickey Oulahan, as
though I was not myself a party included in the jest. I was thus fairly
launched into my inveterate habit, and nothing could arrest my progress.

One by one the different individuals round the table were presented to
me, and made known their various wants, with an implicit confidence in my
power of relieving them, which I with equal readiness ministered to. I
lowered the rent of every man at table. I made a general jail delivery,
an act of grace, (I blush to say,) which seemed to be peculiarly
interesting to the present company. I abolished all arrears--made a new
line of road through an impassable bog, and over an inaccessible
mountain--and conducted water to a mill, which (I learned in the morning)
was always worked by wind. The decanter had scarcely completed its third
circuit of the board, when I bid fair to be most popular specimen of the
peerage that ever visited the "far west." In the midst of my career of
universal benevolence, I was interrupted by Father Malachi, whom I found
on his legs, pronouncing a glowing eulogium on his cousin's late
regiment, the famous North Cork.

"That was the corps!" said he. "Bid them do a thing, and they'd never
leave off; and so, when they got orders to retire from Wexford, it's
little they cared for the comforts of baggage, like many another
regiment, for they threw away every thing but their canteens, and never
stopped till they ran to Ross, fifteen miles farther than the enemy
followed them. And when they were all in bed the same night, fatigued
and tired with their exertions, as ye may suppose, a drummer's boy called
out in his sleep--'here they are--they're coming'--they all jumped up and
set off in their shirts, and got two miles out of town before they
discovered it was a false alarm."

Peal after peal of laughter followed the priest's encomium on the
doctor's regiment; and, indeed, he himself joined most heartily in the
mirth, as he might well afford to do, seeing that a braver or better
corps than the North Cork, Ireland did not possess.

"Well," said Fin, "it's easy to see ye never can forget what they did at
Maynooth."

Father Malachi disclaimed all personal feeling on the subject; and I was
at last gratified by the following narrative, which I regret deeply I am
not enabled to give in the doctor's own verbiage; but writing as I do
from memory, (in most instances,) I can only convey the substance:

It was towards the latter end of the year '98--the year of the troubles
--that the North Cork was ordered, "for their sins" I believe, to march
from their snug quarters in Fermoy, and take up a position in the town of
Maynooth--a very considerable reverse of fortune to a set of gentlemen
extremely addicted to dining out, and living at large upon a very
pleasant neighbourhood. Fermoy abounded in gentry; Maynooth at that,
time had few, if any, excepting his Grace of Leinster, and he lived very
privately, and saw no company. Maynooth was stupid and dull--there were
neither belles nor balls; Fermoy (to use the doctor's well remembered
words) had "great feeding," and "very genteel young ladies, that carried
their handkerchiefs in bags, and danced with the officers."

They had not been many weeks in their new quarters, when they began to
pine over their altered fortunes, and it was with a sense of delight,
which a few months before would have been incomprehensible to them, they
discovered, that one of their officers had a brother, a young priest in
the college: he introduced him to some of his confreres, and the natural
result followed. A visiting acquaintance began between the regiment and
such of the members of the college as had liberty to leave the precincts:
who, as time ripened the acquaintance into intimacy, very naturally
preferred the cuisine of the North Cork to the meagre fare of "the
refectory." At last seldom a day went by, without one or two of their
reverences finding themselves guests at the mess. The North Corkians
were of a most hospitable turn, and the fathers were determined the
virtue should not rust for want of being exercised; they would just drop
in to say a word to "Captain O'Flaherty about leave to shoot in the
demesne," as Carton was styled; or, they had a "frank from the Duke for
the Colonel," or some other equally pressing reason; and they would
contrive to be caught in the middle of a very droll story just as the
"roast beef" was playing. Very little entreaty then sufficed--a short
apology for the "dereglements" of dress, and a few minutes more found
them seated at table without further ceremony on either side.

Among the favourite guests from the college, two were peculiarly held in
estimation--"the Professor of the Humanities," Father Luke Mooney; and the
Abbe D'Array, "the Lecturer on Moral Philosophy, and Belles Lettres;" and
certain it is, pleasanter fellows, or more gifted with the "convivial
bump," there never existed. He of the Humanities was a droll dog--a
member of the Curran club, the "monks of the screw," told an excellent
story, and sang the "Cruiskeen Lawn" better than did any before or since
him;--the moral philosopher, though of a different genre, was also a most
agreeable companion, an Irishman transplanted in his youth to St. Omers,
and who had grafted upon his native humour a considerable share of French
smartness and repartee--such were the two, who ruled supreme in all the
festive arrangements of this jovial regiment, and were at last as regular
at table, as the adjutant and the paymaster, and so might they have
continued, had not prosperity, that in its blighting influence upon the
heart, spares neither priests nor laymen, and is equally severe upon mice
(see Aesop's fable) and moral philosophers, actually deprived them, for
the "nonce" of reason, and tempted them to their ruin. You naturally
ask, what did they do? Did they venture upon allusions to the retreat
upon Ross? Nothing of the kind. Did they, in that vanity which wine
inspires, refer by word, act, or inuendo, to the well-known order of
their Colonel when reviewing his regiment in "the Phoenix," to "advance
two steps backwards, and dress by the gutter." Far be it from them:
though indeed either of these had been esteemed light in the balance
compared with their real crime. "Then, what was their failing--come,
tell it, and burn ye?" They actually, "horresco referens," quizzed the
Major coram the whole mess!--Now, Major John Jones had only lately
exchanged into the North Cork from the "Darry Ragement," as he called it.
He was a red--hot orangeman, a deputy--grand something, and vice-chairman
of the "'Prentice Boys" beside. He broke his leg when a school--boy, by
a fall incurred in tying an orange handkerchief around King William's
August neck in College-green, on one 12th of July, and three several
times had closed the gates of Derry with his own loyal hands, on the
famed anniversary; in a word, he was one, that if his church had enjoined
penance as an expiation for sin, would have looked upon a trip to
Jerusalem on his bare knees, as a very light punishment for the crime on
his conscience, that he sat at table with two buck priests from Maynooth,
and carved for them, like the rest of the company!

Poor Major Jones, however, had no such solace, and the canker-worm eat
daily deeper and deeper into his pining heart. During the three or four
weeks of their intimacy with his regiment, his martyrdom was awful. His
figure wasted, and his colour became a deeper tinge of orange, and all
around averred that there would soon be a "move up" in the corps, for the
major had evidently "got his notice to quit" this world, and its pomps
and vanities. He felt "that he was dying," to use Haines Bayley's
beautiful and apposite words, and meditated an exchange, but that, from
circumstances, was out of the question. At last, subdued by grief, and
probably his spirit having chafed itself smooth by such constant
attrition, he became, to all seeming, calmer; but it was only the calm of
a broken and weary heart. Such was Major Jones at the time, when,
"suadente diabolo," it seemed meet to Fathers Mooney and D'Array to make
him the butt of their raillery. At first, he could not believe it; the
thing was incredible--impossible; but when he looked around the table,
when he heard the roars of laughter, long, loud, and vociferous; when he
heard his name bandied from one to the other across the table, with some
vile jest tacked to it "like a tin kettle to a dog's tail," he awoke to
the full measure of his misery--the cup was full. Fate had done her
worst, and he might have exclaimed with Lear, "spit, fire-spout, rain,"
there was nothing in store for him of further misfortune.

A drum-head court-martial--a hint "to sell out"--ay, a sentence of
"dismissed the service," had been mortal calamities, and, like a man, he
would have borne them; but that he, Major John Jones, D.G.S. C.P.B., &c.
&c, who had drank the "pious, glorious, and immortal," sitting astride of
"the great gun of Athlone," should come to this! Alas, and alas! He
retired that night to his chamber a "sadder if not a wiser man;" he
dreamed that the "statue" had given place to the unshapely figure of Leo
X., and that "Lundy now stood where Walker stood before." He humped from
his bed in a moment of enthusiasm, he vowed his revenge, and he kept his
vow.

That day the major was "acting field officer." The various patroles,
sentries, picquets, and out-posts, were all under his especial control;
and it was remarked that he took peculiar pains in selecting the men for
night duty, which, in the prevailing quietness and peace of that time,
seemed scarcely warrantable.

Evening drew near, and Major Jones, summoned by the "oft-heard beat,"
wended his way to the mess. The officers were dropping in, and true as
"the needle to the pole," came Father Mooney and the Abbe. They were
welcomed with the usual warmth, and strange to say, by none more than the
major himself, whose hilarity knew no bounds.

How the evening passed, I shall not stop to relate: suffice it to say,
that a more brilliant feast of wit and jollification, not even the North
Cork ever enjoyed. Father Luke's drollest stories, his very quaintest
humour shone forth, and the Abbe sang a new "Chanson a Boire," that
Beranger might hav envied.

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