The Poor Scholar. William Carleton

him—[amin, amin!—och, och, an amin!]—with miseracordial feeling and benediction! He hasn't a rap in his company!—moneyless, friendless, houseless, an' homeless! Ay, my friends, you all have homes—but he has none! Thrust back by every hard-hearted spalpeen, and he, maybe, a better father's son than the Turk that refuses him! Look at your own childre, my friends! Bring the case home to yourselves! Suppose he was one of them—alone on the earth, and none to pity him in his sorrows! Your own childre, I say, in a strange land.—[Here the outcry became astounding; men, women, and children in one general uproar of grief.]—An'—this may all be Jemmy M'Evoy's case, that's going in a week or two to Munster, as a poor scholar—may be his case, I say, except you befriend him, and show your dacency and your feelings, like Christians and Catholics; and for either dacency or kindness, I'd turn yez against any other congregation in the diocess, or in the kingdom—ay, or against Dublin, itself, if it was convanient, or in the neighborhood.”

      Now here was a coup de main—not a syllable mentioned about Jemmy M'Evoy, until he had melted them down, ready for the impression, which he accordingly made to his heart's content.

      “Ay,” he went on, “an' 'tis the parish of Ballysogarth that has the name, far and near, for both, and well they desarve it. You won't see the poor gossoon go to a sthrange country—with empty pockets. He's the son of an honest man—one of yourselves; and although he's a poor man, you know 'twas Yallow Sam that made him so—that put him out of his comfortable farm and slipped a black-mouth * into it. You won't turn your backs on the son in regard of that, any way. As for Sam, let him pass; he'll not grind the poor, nor truckle to the rich, when he gives up his stewardship in the kingdom come. Lave him to the friend of the poor—to his God; but the son of them that he oppressed, you will stand up for. He's going to Munster, to learn 'to go upon the Mission:' and, on Sunday next, there will be a collection made here, and at the other two althars for him; and, as your own characters are at stake, I trust it will be neither mane nor shabby. There will be Protestants here, I'll engage, and you must act dacently before them, if it was only to set them a good example. And now I'll tell yez a story that the mintion of the Protestants brings to my mind:—

      * In the North of Ireland the word black-mouth means a

       Presbyterian.

      “There was, you see, a Protestant man and a Catholic woman once married together. The man was a swearing, drinking, wicked rascal, and his wife the same: between them they were a blessed pair to be sure. She never bent her knee under a priest until she was on her death-bed; nor was he known ever to enter a church door, or to give a shilling in charity but once, that being—as follows:—He was passing a Catholic place of worship one Sunday, on his way to fowl—for he had his dog and gun with him;—'twas beside a road, and many of the congregration were kneeling out across the way. Just as he passed they were making a collection for a poor scholar—and surely they that love the larning desarve to be encouraged! Well, behold you, says one of them, 'will you remember the poor scholar,' says he, 'and put something in the hat? You don't know,' says he, 'but his prayers will be before you.' (* In the other world.) 'True enough, maybe,' says the man, 'and there's a crown to him, for God's sake.' Well and good; the man died, and so did the wife; but the very day before her departure, she got a scapular, and died in it. She had one sister, however, a good crature, that did nothing but fast and pray, and make her sowl. This woman had strong doubts upon her mind, and was very much troubled as to whether or not her sister went to heaven; and she begged it as a favor from the blessed Virgin, that the state of her sister's sowl might be revaled to her. Her prayer was granted. One night, about a week after her death, her sister came back to her, dressed, all in white, and circled round by a veil of glory.

      “'Is that Mary?' said the living sister.

      “'It is,' said the other; 'I have got liberty to appear to you,' says she, 'and to tell you that I'm happy.'

      “'May the holy Virgin be praised!' said the other. 'Mary, dear, you have taken a great weight off of me,' says she: 'I thought you'd have a bad chance, in regard of the life you led.'

      “'When I died,' said the spirit, 'and was on my way to the other world, I came to a place where the road divided itself into three parts;—one to heaven, another to hell, and a third to purgatory. There was a dark gulf between me and heaven, and a breach between me and purgatory that I couldn't step across, and if I had missed my foot there, I would have dropped into hell. So I would, too, only that the blessed Virgin put my own scapular over the breach, and it became firm, and I stepped on it, and got over. The Virgin then desired me to look into hell, and the first person I saw was my own husband, standing with a green sod under his feet! 'He got that favor,' said the blessed Virgin, 'in consequence of the prayers of a holy priest, that had once been a poor scholar, that he gave assistance to, at a collection made for him in such a chapel,' says she, 'Then,' continued the sowl, 'Mary,' says she, 'but there's some great change in the world since I died, or why would the people live so long? It can't be less than six thousand years since I departed, and yet I find every one of my friends just as I left them.'

      “'Why,' replied the living sister, 'you're only six days dead.'

      “'Ah, avourneen!' said the other, 'it can't be—it can't be! for I have been thousands on thousands of years in pain!'—and as she spoke this she disappeared.

      “Now there's a proof of the pains of purgatory, where one day seems as long as a thousand years; and you know we oughtn't to grudge a thrifle to a fellow-crature, that we may avoid it. So you see, my friends, there's nothing like good works. You know not when or where this lad's prayers may benefit you. If he gets ordained, the first mass he says will be for his benefactors; and in every one he celebrates after that, they must also be remembered: the words are pro omnibus benefactoribus meis, per omnia secula secularum!

      “Thirdly—hem—I now lave the thing to yourselves.

      “But wasn't I match for Pettier Donovan, that would brake a stone for the marrow *—Eh?—(a broad laugh at Pother's rueful visage.)—Pettier, you Turk, will your heart never soften—will you never have dacency, an' you the only man of your family that's so? Sure they say you're going to be marrid some of these days. Well, if you get your wife in my parish, I tell you, Pettier, I'll give you a fleecin', for don't think I'll marry you as chape as I would a poor honest man. I'll make you shell out the yallowboys, and 'tis that will go to your heart, you nager you; and then I'll eat you out of house and home at the Stations. May the Lord grant us, in the mane time, a dacent appetite, a blessing which I wish you all———&c.”

      * I know not whether this may be considered worthy of a

       note or not. I have myself frequently seen and tasted

       what is appropriately termed by the peasantry “Stone

       Marrow.” It is found in the heart of a kind of soft

       granite, or perhaps I should rather say freestone. The

       country people use it medicinally, but I cannot

       remember what particular disease it is said to cure. It

       is a soft, saponaceous substance, not unpleasant to the

       taste, of a bluish color, and melts in the mouth, like

       the fat of cold meat, leaving the palate greasy. How

       far an investigation into its nature and properties

       might be useful to the geologist or physician, it is

       not for me to conjecture. As the fact appeared to be a

       curious one, and necessary, moreover, to illustrate the

       expression used in the text, I thought it not amiss to

       mention it. It may be a bonne bouche for the geologists.

      At this moment the congregation was once more in convulsions of laughter at the dressing which Peter, whose character was drawn with much truth and humor, received at the hands of the worthy pastor.

      Our readers will perceive that there was not a single prejudice, or weakness, or virtue, in the disposition of his auditory, left untouched in this address. He moved their superstition, their