My New Curate | Page 2

you must be off to-morrow?" said I, consulting the bishop's letter.
"Yes," said he, "short shrift."
"And who am I getting?" I wondered.
"Hard to guess," said he. He was in no humor for conversation.
The following week, that most melancholy of processions, a curate's
furniture en route, filed slowly through the village, and out along the
highroad, that led through bog and fen, and by lake borders to the town
of N----. First came three loads of black turf, carefully piled and roped;
then two loads of hay; a cow with a yearling calf; and lastly, the house
furniture, mostly of rough deal. The articles, that would be hardly good
enough for one of our new laborers' cottages, were crowned by a
kitchen table, its four legs pointing steadily to the firmament, like an
untrussed fowl's, and between them, carefully roped, was the plague
and the pet of the village, Nanny the goat, with her little kid beside her.
What Nanny could not do in the way of mischief was so insignificant,
that it need not be told. But the Celtic vocabulary, particularly rich in
expletives, failed to meet the ever-growing vituperative wants of the
villagers. They had to fall back on the Saxon, and call her a "rep," "a
rip," "de ribble," etc., etc. I walked side by side with Father Laverty,
who, with head bent on his breast, scarcely noticed the lamentations of
the women, who came to their cross-doors, and poured out a Jeremiad
of lamentations that made me think my own well-meant ministrations
were but scantily appreciated.

"Wisha, God be wid you, Father, wherever you go!"
"Wisha, may your journey thry wid you. Sure 't is we'll miss you!"
"Yerra, what'll the poor do now, whin he's gone?"
"Bishop, inagh, 't is aisy for him wid his ring and his mitre, and his
grand carriage. Couldn't he let him alone?"
"Father," said a young girl, earnestly, her black hair blinding her eyes,
"may God be with you." She ran after him. "Pray for me," she
whispered. "You don't know all the good you done me." She hadn't
been very sensible.
He turned towards her.
"Yes! Nance, I'll remember you. And don't forget all that I told you."
He held out his hand. It was such an honor, such a condescension, that
she blushed scarlet: and hastily rubbing her hand in her apron, she
grasped his.
"May God Almighty bless you," she said.
But the great trial came when we were passing the school-house. It was
after three o'clock, the time for breaking up: and there at the wall were
all the little boys and the sheilas with their wide eyes full of sorrow. He
passed by hastily, never looking up. His heart was with these children. I
believe the only real pleasure he ever allowed himself was to go
amongst them, teach them, amuse them, and listen to their little songs.
And now--
"Good by, Father--"
"Good by, Father--"
Then, Alice Moylan gave a big "boo-hoo!" and in a moment they were
all in tears; and I, too, began to wink, in a queer way, at the landscape.

At last, we came to the little bridge that humps itself over the trout
stream. Many a summer evening we had made this the terminus of our
evening's walk; for I was feeble enough on my limbs, though my head
is as clear as a boy's of seventeen. And here we used to lean over the
parapet, and talk of all things, politics, literature (the little we knew of
it), the old classics, college stories, tales of the mission, etc.; and now
we were to part.
"Good by, Father Tom," I said. "You know, there's always a bite and a
sup and a bed, whenever you come hither. Good by. God knows, I'm
sorry to part with you."
"Good by," he said. Not another word. I watched and waited, till I saw
the melancholy procession fade away, and until he became a speck on
the horizon. Then, with a heavy heart I turned homewards.
If I had the least doubt about the wonderful elasticity of the Irish mind,
or its talent for adaptation, it would have been dispelled as I passed
again through the village. I had no idea I was so popular, or that my
little labors were so warmly appreciated.
"Well, thank God, we have himself whatever."
Gentle reader, "himself" and "herself" are two pronouns, that in our
village idioms mean the master and mistress of the situation, beyond
whom there is no appeal.
"Wisha, the Lord spare him to us. God help us, if he wint."
"The heads of our Church, God spare them long! Wisha, your
reverence might have a copper about you to help a poor lone widow?"
I must say this subtle flattery