Punch or The London charivari (1.1841)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON. CHARIVARI

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declining tlic proposed trip to Giles Scroggins' little property at his own peculiar
u Gravesend ; " but as contradiction begets controversy, and the enlightened poet
is fully aware of the effect of that cause, the undaunted sprite of the interred Giles
instantlv opposes this, to him, flimsy excuse, and upon the peculiar veracity of a
wandering ghost, triumphantly exclaims, in the poet's words—words that, lest
any mistake should arise as to the speaker by the peculiar construction of the sen-
tence, are rendered doubly individual, for—

" Says the ghost, says he, vy that's no rule I "
There's a staggerer ! being alive no rule for not being buried ! how is Molly Brown
to get out of that high-pressure cleft-stick? how! that's the question ! Why, not
in a state of somnolency, not during the " death of each day's life ; no, it is clear,
to escape such a consummation she must he wide awake." The poet sees this,
lud with the energy of a master-mind, he brings the invisible chimera of her
entranced imagination into effective operation. Argument with a man who denies
first premises, and we submit the assertion that vitality is no exception to the treat-
tuent of the dead, amounts to that. We say, argument with such a man is worse
•than nothing; it would be fallacious as the Eolian experiment of whistling the
most inspiriting jigs to an inanimate, and consequently unmusical, milestone,
opposing a transatlantic thunder-storm with " a more paper than powder " " penny
cracker," or setting an owl to outstare the meridian sun.

The poet knew and felt this, and therefore he ends the delusion and controversy
by an overt act : —

" The ghost then seized her all so grim,
All for to go along with him;
' Come, come,' said he, ' e'er morning beam.'"

To which she replies with the following determined announcement :—

" ' 1 von't! ' said she, and scream'd a scream,
Then she voke, and found she'd dream'da dream ! "

These are the last words we have left to descant upon : they are such as should
be the last; and, like Joseph Surface, " moral to the end." The glowing pas-
sions, the fervent hopes, the anticipated future, of the loving pair, all, all are frus-
trated ! The great lesson of lite imbues the elaborate production; the thinking
reader, led by its sublimity to a train of deep reflection, sees at once the uncer-

I tainty of earthly projects, and sighing owns the wholesome, though still painful
truth, that the brightest sun is ever the first cause ot the darkest shadow ; and from

1 childhood upwards, the blissful visions of our gayest fancy—forced by the cry of
stern reality—call back the mental wanderer from imaginary bliss, to be again the
world! v drudge ; and, thus awakened to his real state, confess, like our sad heroine,
Molly Brown, he too, has dreamt a dream. Fusbos.

FATHER OTLYNN AND HIS CONGREGATION.

Father Fkancis O'Flynn, or, as he was generally called by his parishioners,
" Father Frank," was the choicest specimen you could desire of a jolly, quiet-going,
ease-loving, Irish country priest of the old school. His parish lay near a small
town in the eastern part of the county Cork, and for forty-five years he lived
amongst his flock, performing all the duties of his office, and taking his dues (when
he got them) with never-tiring good-humour. But age, that spates not priest nor
dayman, had stolen upon Father Frank, and he gradually relinquished to his
younger curates the task of preaching, till at length his sermons dwindled down to
two in the year—one at Christmas, and the other at Easter, at which times his
clerical dues were about coming in. It was on one of these memorable occasions
that I first chanced to hear Father Frank address his congregation. I have him
cow before my mind's eye, as he then appeared; a stout, middle-sized man, with
-ample shoulders, enveloped in a coat of superfine black, and substantial legs encased
in long straight boots, reaching to the knee. His forehead, and the upper part of
his head, were bald ; but the use of hair-powder gave a fine effect to his massive,
but good-humoured features, that glowed with the rich tint of a hale old age. A
'bunch of large gold seals, depending from a massive jack-chain of the same metal,
osciliated with becoming dignity from the lower verge of his waistcoat, over the
goodly prominence of his " fair round belly." Glancing his half-closed, but
piercing eye around his auditory, as if calculating the contents of every pocket
present, he commenced his address as follows :—

" Well, my good people, I suppose ye know that to-morrow will be the pattern*
•of Saint Fineen, and no doubt ye'llall be for going to the blessed well to say your
padhereens ; j but Til go bail there's few of you ever heard the rason why the
water of that well won't raise a lather, or wash any tiling clean, though you were
lo put all the soap in Cork into it. Well, pay attintion, and I'll tell you.—Mrs.
Delany, can't yon keep your child quiet while I'm spaking?—It happened a long
white ago, that Saint Fineen, a holy and devout Christian, lived all alone, convay-
oient to the well ; there he was to be found ever and always praying and reading
'his breviary upon a cowld stone that lay beside it. Onluckily enough, there lived
j *lso in the neighbourhood a callieen dhas% called Morieen, and this Morieen had
» fashion of coming down to the well every mojining, at sunrise, to wash her legs
j -and feet; and, by all accounts, you couldn't meet a whiter or shapelier pair from
I this to Bautry. Saint Fineen, however, was so disthracted in his heavenly medi-
tations, poor man ! that he never once looked at them ; but kept his eyes fast on
his holy books, while Morieen was rubbing and lathering away, till the legs used
to look like two beautiful pieces of alabasther in the clear water. Matters went on
this way for some time, Morieen coming regular to the well, till one fine morning,
is she stepped into the water, without minding what she was about, she struck her
fool against a stone and cut it.

* Pattern—a corruption of Patron—means, in Ireland, the anniversary of the Saint
to whom a holy well has been consecrated, on which day the peasantry make pil-
grimages to the well. t Beads, % Pretty girl

"1 Oh ! Millia mnr^hcr ! What '11 I do ? ' cried the callieen, in the pitifiilles
voice you ever heard.

" ' What's the matter?' s.id Saint Fineen.

" ' I've cut mv toot agin this misfortinat stone,* says she, making answer.

" Then Saint Fineen lifted up his eyes from his blessed book, and he saw Mo-
rieen's legs and feet.

" ' Oh ! Morieen ! ' says he, after looking awhile at them, 4 what white legs
you have got ! '

" ' Have I ? ' says she, laughing, ' and how do you know that ? '

" Immediately the Saint remimbered himself, and being full of remorse and
conthritioh for his fault, he laid his commands upon the well, that its water should
never wash anything white again.—and, as I mentioned before, ail the soap in Ire-
land wouldn't raise a lather on it since. Now that's the thrue histhory of St.
Fineen's blessed well; and I hope and thrust it will be a saysonable and premon-
itory lesson to all the young men that hears me, not to fall into the vaynial sin
of admiring the white legs of the girls."

As soon as his reverence paused, a buzz of admiration ran through the chapel,
accompanied by that peculiar rapid noftc made by the lower class of an Irish
Roman Catholic congregation, when their feelings of awe, astonishment, or piety,
are excited by the preacher.*

Father Frank having taken breath, and wiped his forehead, resumed his address.

" I'm going to change my subject now, and I expect attintion. Shawn Barry !
Where's Shawn Barry?"

" Here, your Rivirence," replies a voice from the depth of the crowd.

"Come up herc,Shawn,'till 1 examine you about your Catechism and docthrines.''

A rough-headed fellow elbowed his way slowly through the congregation, and
moulding his old hat into a thousand grotesque shapes, between his huge palms, pre-
sented himself before his pastor, with very much the air of a puzzled philosopher.
Well, Shawn, my boy, do you know what is the meaning of Faitli ? "

" Parfictly, your Rivirence," replied the fellow, with a knowing grin. " Faith
means when Paddy Hogan gi'res me credit for half-a-pint of the best."

"Get out of my sight, you ondaycent vagabond; you're a disgrace to my flock.
Here, you Tom M'Gawley, what's Charity % "

" Bating a process-sarver, your Rivirence," replied Tom, promptly.

"Oh! blessed saints ! how I'm persecuted with ye, root and branch. Jim
Houlaghan, I'm looking at you, there, behind Peggy Callanane's cloak ; come up
here, you hanging bone slieveen,f and tell me what is the Last Day? "

" I didn't come to that yet, sir," replied Jim, scratching his head.

" 1 wouldn't fear you, you bosthoon. Well, listen, and I'll tell you. It's the
day when you'll all have to settle your accounts, and I'm thinking there'll be a
heavy score against some of you, if you don't mind what I'm saying to you. When
that day comes, I'll walk up to Heaven and rap at the hall door. Then St. Pether,
who will be takin' a nap after dinner in his arm-chair, inside, and not iking UJ
be disturbed, will call out mighty surly, ' Who's there ? ' "

" 1 It's I, my Lord,' I'll make answer.

" Av course, he'll know my voice, and, jumping up like a cricket, he'll open
the door as wide as the hinges will let it, and say quite politely-—

" ' I'm proud to see you here, Father Frank. Walk in, if you plase.'

" Upon that I'll scrape my feet, and walk in, and then St. Pether will say agin—

" ' Well, Father Frank, what have you got to say for yourself? Did you look
well afther your flock ; and mind to have tliem all christened, and married, and
buried, according to the rites of our holy church?'

" Now, good people, I've been forty-five years amongst you, and didn't I christen
every mother's soul of you ? "

Congregation.—You did,—you did,—your Rivirence.

Father Frank.—Well, and didn't I bury the most of you, too ?

Congregation.—You did, your Rivirence.

Father Frank.—And didn't I do my best to get dacent matches for all your
little girls I And didn't I get good wives for all the well-behaved boys in my
parish?—Why don't you spake up, Mick Donovan?

Mick.—You did, your Rivirence.

Father Frank.—Well, that's settled :—but then St- Pether will say—"Father
Frank," says he, " you're a proper man ; but how did your flock behave to yon
—did they "pay you your dues regularly \ " Ah ! good christians, how shall I
answer that question ? Put it in my power to say something good of you : don't
be ashamed to come up and pay your priest's dues. Come,— make a lane there,
and let ye all come up .with conthrite hearts and open hands. Tim Delaney 5—
make way for Tim :—how much will you give, Tim?

Ti,n. '~I'll not be worse than another, your Riverence. I'll give a crown.

Father Frank.—Thank you, Timothy: the dacent drop is in you. Keep a
lane, there !—any of ye that hasn't a crown, or half-a-crown, don't be bashful of
coming up with your hoy or your testher.%

And thus Father Frank went on encouraging and wheedling his flock to pay uf
his dues, until he had gone through his entire congregation, when I left thechapel,
highly amused at the characteristic scene I had witnessed. X.

* This sound, which is produced by a quick motion of the tongue against the teet 1,
and roof of the mouth, may be expressed thus; " tth, tth, tth, tth, tth."
t A sly rogue. : A shiliing or a sixpence.

A PRCDENT REAS0JC.

Our. gallant Sibthorp was lately invited by a friend to accompany him ia a piw-
sure trip in his yacht to Cowes. " No ! " exclaimed Sib.; " you don't catch ns«
venturing near Cowes." "And why not?" inquired his friend. "Beesswe .'
was never vaccinated," replisd the hirsute hero.