The Poor Scholar. William Carleton

however, is generally too much absorbed in the fun to become interpreter just then; but as soon as the joke is nearly heard out, in compliance with the importunity of his neighbors, he gives them a brief hint or two, and instantly the full chorus is rung out, long, loud, and jocular.

      On the Sunday in question, as the subject could not be called strictly religious, the priest, who knew that a joke or two would bring in many an additional crown to Jemmy's caubeen,* was determined that they, should at least have a laugh for their money. The man, besides, was benevolent, and knew the way to the Irish heart; a knowledge which he felt happy in turning to the benefit of the lad in question.

      * Such collections were generally made in hats—the

       usual name for an Irish peasant's hat being—caubeen.

      With this object in view, he addressed the people somewhat in the following language: “'Blessed is he that giveth his money to him that standeth in need of it.'”

      “These words, my brethren, are taken from St. Paul, who, among ourselves, knew the value of a friend in distress as well as any other apostle in the three kingdoms—hem. It's a nate text, my friends, anyhow. He manes, however, when we have it to give, my own true, well-tried, ould friends!—when we have it to give. It's absence althers the case, in toto; because you have all heard the proverb—'there is no takin' money out of an empty purse:' or, as an ould ancient author said long ago upon the same subject:

      'Cantabit whaekuus coram lathrone whiathur!'

      —(Dshk, dshk, dshk*—that's the larnin'!)—He that carries an empty purse may fwhistle at the thief. It's sing in the Latin; but sing or fwhistle, in my opinion, he that goes wid an empty purse seldom sings or fwhistl'es to a pleasant tune. Melancholy music I'd call it, an' wouldn't, may be, be much asthray al'ther—Hem. At all evints, may none of this present congregation, whin at their devotions, ever sing or fwhistle to the same time! No; let it be to 'money in both pockets,' if you sing at all; and as long as you have that, never fear but you'll also have the 'priest in his boots' into the bargain—(“Ha, ha, ha!—God bless him, isn't he the pleasant gentleman, all out—ha, ha, ha!—moreover, an' by the same a token, it's thrue as Gospel, so it is,”)—for well I know you're the high-spirited people, who wouldn't see your priest without them, while a fat parson, with half-a-dozen chins upon him, red and rosy, goes about every day in the week bogged in boots, like a horse-trooper!—(“Ha, ha, ha!—good, Father Dan! More power to you—ha, ha, ha! We're the boys that wouldn't see you in want o' them, sure enough. Isn't he the droll crathur?”)

      * This sound, which expresses wonder, is produced by

       striking the tip of the tongue against the palate.

      “But suppose a man hasn't money, what is he to do? Now this divides itself into what is called Hydrostatics an' Metaphuysics, and must be proved logically in the following manner:

      “First, we suppose him not to have the money—there I may be wrong or I may be right; now for the illustration and the logic.

      “Pether Donovan.”

      “Here, your Reverence.”

      “Now, Pether, if I suppose you to have no money, am I right, or am I wrong?”

      “Why, thin, I'd be sarry to prove your Reverence to be wrong, so I would; but, for all that, I believe I must give it aginst you.”

      “How much have you got, Pether?”

      “Ethen, but 'tis your Reverence that's comin' close upon me; two or three small note an' some silver.”

      “How much silver, Pether?”

      “I'll tell your Reverence in a jiffy—I ought to have a ten shillin', barring the price of a quarther o' tobaccy that I bought at the crass-roads boyant. Nine shillins an' somo hapuns, yer Reverence.”

      “Very good, Pether, you must hand me the silver, till I give the rest of the illustration wid it.”

      “But does your Reverence mind another ould proverb?—'a fool an' his money's asy parted.' Sure an' I know you're goin' to do a joke upon me.”

      (“Give him the money, Pether,” from a hundred voices—“give his Reverence the money, you nager you—give him the silver, you dirty spalpeen you—hand it out, you misert.”)

      “Pether, if you don't give it dacently, I'll not take it; and in that case—”

      “Here, here, your Reverence—here it is; sure I wouldn't have your ill-will for all I'm worth.”

      “Why, you nager, if I wasn't the first orathor livin', barrin' Cicero or Demosthenes himself, I couldn't schrew a penny out o' you! Now, Pether, there's a specimen of logic for you; an' if it wasn't good, depind upon it the money would be in your pocket still. I've never known you to give a penny for any charitable purpose, since ever I saw your face: but I'm doin' a good action in your behalf for once; so if you have any movin' words to say to the money in question, say them, for you'll never finger it more.”

      A burst of the most uproarious mirth followed this manoeuvre, in which the simple priest himself joined heartily; whilst the melancholy of Peter's face was ludicrously contrasted with the glee which characterized those who surrounded him.

      “Hem!—Secondly—A man, you see, may have money, or he may not, when his follow creature who stands in need of it makes an appale to his dacency and his feelings; and sorry I'd be to think that there's a man before me, or a woman either, who'd refuse to assist the distresses of any one, of any creed, church, or persuasion, whether white, black, or yallow—no; I don't except even the blue-bellies themselves. It's what I never taught you, nor never will tache you to the day of my death! To be sure, a fellow-creature may say, 'Help me, my brother, I am distressed,' or, 'I am bent on a good purpose, that your kindness can enable me to accomplish.' But suppose that you have not the money about you at the time, wouldn't you feel sorry to the back-bone? Ay, would yez—to the very core of the heart itself. Or if any man—an' he'd be' nothing else than a bodagh that would say it—if any man would tell me that you would not, I'd—yes—I'd give him his answer, as good as I gave to ould Cokely long ago, and you all know what that was.

      “The next point is, what would you do if you hadn't it about you? It's that can tell you what you'd do:—you'd say, 'I haven't got it, brother,'—for ev'ry created bein' of the human kind is your brother, barrin' the women, an' they are your sisters—[this produced a grin upon many faces]—'but,' says you, 'if you wait a bit for a day or two, or a week, or maybe for a fortnight, I'll try what I can do to help you.'

      “Picture to yourselves a fellow-creature in distress—suppose him to have neither hat, shoe, nor stocking—[this was a touch of the pathetic]—and altogether in a state of utter destitution! Can there be a more melancholy picture than this? No, there can't. But 'tisn't the tithe of it!—a barefaced robbery is the same tithe—think of him without father, mother, or friend upon the earth—both dead, and ne'er another to be had for love or money—maybe he has poor health—maybe he's sick, an' in a sthrange country—[here Jemmy's mother and friends sobbed aloud, and the contagion began to spread]—the priest, in fact, knew where to touch—his face is pale—his eyes sunk with sickness and sorrow in his head—his bones are cuttin' the skin—he knows not where to turn himself—hunger and sickness are strivin' for him.—[Here the grief became loud and general, and even the good-natured preacher's own voice got somewhat unsteady.]—He's in a bad state entirely—miserable! more miserable!! most miserable!!! [och, och, oh!] sick, sore, and sorry!—he's to be pitied, felt for, and compassionated!—[a general outcry!]—'tis a faver he has, or an ague, maybe, or a rheumatism, or an embargo (* lumbago, we presume) on the limbs, or the king's evil, or a consumption, or a decline, or God knows but it's the falling sickness—[ooh, och, oh!—och, och, oh!] from the whole congregation, whilst the simple old man's eyes were blinded with tears at the force of the picture he drew.—[Ay, maybe it's the falling-sickness, and in that case how on earth can he stand it.—He can't, he can't, wurra strew, wurra strew!—och, och, oh!—ogh, ogh, ogh!]—The