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 L I B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVLRS ITY 
 
 or 1 LLl NOIS 
 
 823
 
 FATHER CONNELL 
 
 BY 
 
 THE O'HARA FAMILY 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 T. C. NEWBY, 65, MORTIMER St., CAVENDISH Sq. 
 
 AND 
 
 T. & W. BOONE, 29, NEW BOND STREET, 
 1842.
 
 T. C. Newbt, Printer, 65, Mortimer Street, Cavendish Square.
 
 ^ r'w O 
 
 •7- 
 00 
 
 27 '' 
 
 z- 
 
 FATHER COMELL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 -^ The parish priest of parish, about thirty- 
 
 1^ five years ago, counted half-way between 
 
 ,fe 
 
 _^ seventy and eighty ; yet, he was a hale, 
 1 sturdy, man, without any droop in his figure, 
 S or any indication of old age about him — this 
 
 xft 
 
 ^ appearance resulting from an excellent natural 
 j° constitution, habits of great temperance and 
 
 (X 
 
 00 regularity, and an abundance of healthful 
 ^ exercise, on foot and on horseback, — indeed, in 
 £, every possible way. 
 
 c He used to walk along, with his chest ex- 
 
 ciJ? 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 ^ FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 panded, his shoulders thrown back, his head 
 quite erect, his arms hanging straight by his 
 sides, and his fingers closed on the palms of his 
 hands, and almost always working against 
 them. His face showed scarce a wrinkle, and 
 it was florid; — not red and white, however, like 
 some old people's faces, nor yet purple like 
 those of others, as if the smaller blood vessels 
 had burst, and become congealed, within the 
 surface of their skins ; — but it Avas overspread 
 with a still rosy colour of health. His forehead 
 was expansive, and, at the temples, square ; 
 his eyes were blue, and generally expressing 
 thought, and abstraction — in which state, they 
 used to stare straight-forward, almost without 
 ever blinking ; — yet, they often relaxed into a 
 smiling, or, as it might be, moistened expres- 
 sion ; during which change they appeared half 
 closed, and opened aud shut very fast indeed. 
 His scarcely grizzled eye-brows, were bushy 
 and protruding ; his nose was long, large, but 
 well formed, and with a broad back. His lips
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 6 
 
 were full, and for his age, remarkably red and 
 handsome. 
 
 But above all, there was about his counte- 
 nance the indications of a great singleness, and 
 primitiveness, and beauty of character; — so 
 that if you met him, stepping measuredly, yet 
 almost springingly along his suburb street, or 
 the adjacent roads, and silently moving liis lips, 
 and working, as usual, the palms of his hands 
 with his fingers, and taking no notice of you, 
 though perhaps you might be an intimate 
 friend, and his old eyes winking, and his whole 
 face smiling to itself, you must inevitably have 
 said, that the smile was not provoked by any 
 object or circumstance then noticed by him, 
 but rather that it came from a heart enjoying, 
 at that moment, the sunshine of a virtuous, 
 and therefore very happy intention ; or — excuse 
 poor, human vanity, even in its least offensive 
 shape — recollection, perhaps. 
 
 Since the day he had become a clergyman, 
 father Connell had never altered the form or 
 B 3
 
 4 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 the texture of any article of his attire. He 
 still wore the curious head-dress which his 
 present biographers have already endeavoured 
 to describe — in their tale of John Doe in fact 
 — as worn by father O' Clery — or indeed, if 
 they had told the perfect truth, by the cele- 
 brated Irish friar, father O' Leary. It consisted 
 of an article made of goat's hair, or of horse 
 hair, protruding, from above the ears, down to 
 the neck, into a curled yet formal mass, daily 
 dressed with powder and pomatum ; — and above 
 this rampart arose a round, almost conical con- 
 tinuation of the wig, very smoothly slicked 
 down, and slightly, but sharply peaked in the 
 middle of the forehead. When a hat was 
 placed upon the structure, it rested on the 
 frizzled bulwark, of course, and therefore never 
 descended lower than about the middle of the 
 ])ack of the head. And the hat which father 
 Connell at least wore with his grotesque head- 
 clothing, was a good match for it ; — being very 
 low-crowned, and exceedingly broad brimmed.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 5 
 
 Our priest's black coat, sloped to the skirts, 
 and those skirts were enormously ample, and 
 had great pocket flaps across them, mohair 
 buttons, also on a gigantic scale, ornamenting 
 both. His waistcoat was coUarless, and fell, 
 again, with huge pocket flaps, nearly to his 
 mid thigh. His black small-clothes were 
 tightened at his knees by large silver buckles ; 
 and blue worsted stockings covered his legs ; 
 and his sharp pointed shoes also exhibited, 
 across the insteps, silver buckles of great 
 dimensions. Snow could not be whiter than 
 liis muslin stock, nor than the indication of 
 his inner garment, every day in the year ; and 
 in winter, an outside coat of dark blue, or, as 
 it was then called a " jock," with a little round 
 cape, hanging scarcely half way down his back, 
 while its skirts did not come lower than his 
 knees, formed his protection against inclement 
 weather. 
 
 And thus attired, Father Connell, while 
 walking along the streets of the adjaceiTt town,
 
 6 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 necessarily displayed, joined with his peculiari- 
 ties of mien, face, and bearing, before noticed, 
 an air of eccentricity which passers-by, not very 
 well, or at all acquainted with him, would stop 
 to criticise ; while he himself, good man, 
 remained perfectly unaware that anything 
 about him or in him deserved particular notice
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It was Twelfth Night. Six o'clock, the hour 
 for vespers in father Connell's little parish 
 chapel, gingled from a little, cracked bell, set up 
 at the top of a ruined, square, Norman castle, 
 some distance from the half tolerated place of 
 worship ; for at that time there existed a law 
 that no Catholic house of prayer should sum- 
 mon its congregation from its own walls by 
 means of a bell ; and, in removing the illegal 
 monitor from immediate contact with liis 
 chapel, the priest hoped to elude the pains 
 and penalties awarded by this large-minded
 
 8 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 piece of legislation, for any breach of its man- 
 date. 
 
 So, the little old cracked bell was ringing ; 
 the candles in the two badly gilded, wooden 
 branches, wliich hung from the ceiling of the 
 chapel, had been lighted ; and six others, sup- 
 ported by tall candlesticks, also wooden, and 
 badly gilded, on the altar, were in process of 
 illmnination, by the agency of a very hand- 
 some little boy, with auburn hair, which curled 
 and glittered over his white surplice, as far as 
 his shoulders; and the people summoned to 
 evening devotion, were coming in; or, after 
 bending before the sacrament, enclosed in the 
 altar tabernacle, were decently taking their 
 places throughout the poor building. 
 
 In the centre of the chapel certain moveable 
 seats, teclmically called the choir, were 
 arranged. "When put together they formed 
 three sides of a long parallelogram, running 
 from the semicircular railing around the altar 
 (which enclosed a space called the sanctuary)
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 9 
 
 to nearly tlie other end of the edifice. The 
 top of this choir consisted of three old, worm- 
 eaten chairs, with high, triangular backs, of 
 which the middle one aspired to the dignity of 
 an arm chair, and further in assumption of its 
 dignity, it stood upon a kind of little dais, one or 
 two steps above the clay and mortar floor. At 
 right angles with these old seats, and almost 
 touching them at either hand, were two long 
 benches with railed backs ; while plain forms 
 continued the side lines of the parallelogram, 
 down to, as has been said, the railings before 
 the altar. 
 
 It need not be said that the old arm chair, 
 of little ease, was occupied by Father Connell, 
 during vespers ; while its two humble attend- 
 ants were filled by his two curates. The 
 confronting benches, proceeding from them 
 towards the altar, afiibrded jslaces to very 
 religious men, wearing long linen garments ; 
 and after them, to little boys, wearing nice 
 muslin surj)lices — the most eminent for good 
 B 5
 
 10 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 conduct in every way, to be found in the 
 parish, as well as being the most distinguished 
 for attention to certain small official duties of the 
 chapel — enfans de liretre in fact. And upon 
 the forms continuing the lines of the benches, 
 sat a second class of pious men and boys, not 
 indeed robed in white, but still honoured with 
 the distinction of immediately assisting in the 
 chaunt of the vespers — although, be it noticed, 
 every man, woman, and child of the con- 
 gregation, might, if he or she liked, do the 
 same thing. 
 
 While the places in the choir reserved for 
 the unrobed men and boys were being taken 
 possession of by them, the other pious men and 
 boys, who wore the long linen dresses and 
 muslin surplices, were assisting each other, in 
 the proper adjustment of their attire, in a little 
 sacristy, at the back of the altar, and approach- 
 able from the chapel, first by a kind of gateway 
 in the middle of its railed enclosure, and then 
 by a door at one of the sides. Father Connell's
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 1 1 
 
 curates already stood robed ; and the old priest 
 himself, knelt, in silent prayer, to a kind of 
 desk, in a corner — no one around him, speaking 
 above his breath. 
 
 He arose, and proceeded to put on his cere- 
 monial surplice. To aid him in this task, immedi- 
 ately bounded forward the very handsome, 
 glossy-haired boy, who has been seen lighting 
 the tall candles on the altar, and who, that 
 business ended, had been waiting in the sacristy 
 to enjoy the honour of discharging a conferred 
 duty of a higher degree. In his buoyant 
 eagerness to exliibit as an expert priest's valet, he 
 happened to tread too familiarly upon one of 
 father Connell's feet; at which, smarting a 
 good deal, and therefore a little ruffled at first, 
 the clergyman suddenly turned round upon 
 him; but so soon as his eye rested upon the 
 half penitent, half-laughing face of the bloom- 
 ing urchin, he could not help — for the old man 
 loved the boy — smiling in sympathy ; and then 
 he took him by the ear, in a make-believe
 
 12 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 show of i^unishing him, wliile thumb and finger 
 Ijressed no harder than could a touch of velvet 
 have done, and proceeded to address the offender. 
 " Neddy Fennell," it was in a whisper he 
 spoke, and there was a curious contrast between 
 his assumed tone of reproof, and the reflection 
 in his eyes of the glances of his half spoiled 
 pet ; " Neddy Fennell will you ever stop doing 
 mischief? Neddy, while you are in the house 
 of God my child, you must behave quietly, 
 and with decorum and gravity ; in the fields 
 you may jump and play, Neddy Fennell, but 
 in God's own house you must, I say, be orderly 
 and well behaved." And again he feigned to 
 inflict punishment on the boy's ear, only play- 
 ing in the mean time with the little silky- 
 surfaced organ. The moment he let it go, 
 Neddy Fennell, covering it with his own hand, 
 assumed such a farcical face of mock terror 
 and suffering, and so well acted the part of 
 pretending to wipe off" his surplice imaginary 
 drops of blood, which had trickled on it from
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 13 
 
 the tyrannical pressure of the priest's finger 
 and thumb, that his little companions, amongst 
 whom he now resumed his place, grew red in 
 the faces, with the efforts they made to suppress 
 their laughter. 
 
 The priest having adjusted his surplice, at 
 the vestment press, stood inactive for a moment 
 as if in thought, and then turned round and 
 spoke in a low voice to all those who stood by : 
 
 " The men and the boys of the choir are to 
 wait here in the sacristy after vespers for me ; 
 I have something very particular to say to 
 them." 
 
 No one distinctly replied, but there was a 
 murmur of assent, with a bending of many 
 heads which gave a sufficiently satisfactory 
 answer. 
 
 After pausing, in reverential recollection of 
 what he had next to do. Father Connell gave a 
 well known signal, by waving to and fro the 
 back of his hand — and there was dignity in 
 the motion ; and thereupon the men of the
 
 14 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 choir, in their Avhitc linen dresses, issued out of 
 the sacristy into the chapel, two by two, hold- 
 ing their joined hands before them, and after 
 them went the little boys wearing surplices, 
 imitating their elders, as well as they could, in 
 every respect. In passing through the railed- 
 in space before the altar, all and each bent 
 their knees and bowed, as the general congre- 
 gation had done on entering the chapel, to the 
 veiled sacrament ; and then proceeded to 
 assume the i)laces we have before mentioned as 
 allotted to them. Finally father Connell and 
 his curates quitted the sacristy, and in passing, 
 he knelt praying on the steps of the altar ; 
 after which taking his throne, his two reverend 
 assistants at his either side, vespers began by 
 his giving out, after some prefatory form, and 
 in a fine old voice, the magnificent psalm of 
 " Dixit Dominus." He was answered by the 
 whole strength of the congregation, young and 
 old, in the result of whose efforts, although 
 perfect accordance or harmony did not indeed
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 15 
 
 occur, there was much of impressive devotion, 
 which ought to have given satisfaction to any 
 good heart; and thus continued the vespers, 
 through a succession of many of the most 
 beautiful of the psahns, the pastor always 
 beginning each psalm. But we had almost 
 forgotten to notice that the individuals particu- 
 larly entitled to take up the responses, were a 
 row of pious Avomen, wearing ample white 
 dresses, with hoods that came over their lieads, 
 and almost over their faces, who occupied a 
 form within the railing before the altar, as well 
 as by young girls in the galleries, indifferently 
 well instructed in their occasional services by 
 the old, perpetual clerk of the chapel — himself, 
 by the way, not a very eminent musician. 
 
 Vespers ended. All the lay persons pre- 
 viously occupying the " choir" returned from 
 the chapel into the sacristy, and employed 
 themselves in taking off and folding up their 
 chapel attire; and then all awaited the re- 
 entrance of their parish priest, as he had
 
 16 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 desired them to do. Were there none among 
 them who well understood what his formal 
 intimation before vespers meant ? Ay, indeed, 
 a good many, boys as well as men ; and they 
 could scarcely now suppress, although, under 
 the influence of a decorous feeling, they had 
 lately done so, indications of their knowledge 
 of Father Connell's intentions towards them, 
 for the evening. It was twelfth night, in fact, 
 and the majority of them knew his practices well. 
 
 He came back to them ; he gravely unrobed 
 himself, not confronting them ; he bent his 
 head over his clasped hands ; and then he turned 
 round, and, his face shining with the delight 
 which he knew he was about to impart to his 
 auditors, said — 
 
 " My good friends and little children, this is 
 the season for offering with pure and light 
 hearts, to a good and great God, praises both 
 in solemn hymns, and in cheerful acts, for the 
 wonderful and merciful bounty of his coming 
 to redeem and save us, and my friends and you
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 17 
 
 my little children, we have returned here 
 after singing praises and thanksgivings to the 
 Lord of Heaven and of earth ; and He in his 
 love will not be displeased if we now enjoy 
 ourselves in making use — temperately, how- 
 ever, and very temperately — of some of the 
 good things which he has placed at our disposal 
 — yes, my friends, big and little, we will now 
 make merry amongst ourselves ; so come after 
 me, my good friends and little children : it is 
 Twelth Night, and we ought to rejoice, and we 
 will rejoice ; come — ^I have prepared a little 
 treat for you — come after me and let us 
 rejoice." 
 
 Father Connell and his invited guests had 
 not far to go to their house of entertainment, 
 for it was not more than a hundred paces from 
 the chapel. He stopped at the head of his troop 
 — the urchins partly composing it, shouting- 
 shrilly though in a low key, and the pious men 
 chuckling at their antics — he stopped, we say, 
 before the humble entrance door to his thatched
 
 18 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 dwelling, and after laughing heartily himself, 
 knocked loudly. His old housekeeper, whose 
 business it had been to prepare for the soiree, 
 and who therefore expected the throng of 
 revellers, quickly opened the portal to his 
 summons, and, as amiably as her curious nature 
 and habits would permit, bid every body 
 welcome. 
 
 Mrs. Mulloy was a peculiarity in her way ; — 
 tall, coarsely featured, pock-marked, and with 
 an authoritative something like a beard, curling 
 on her doubled chin ; and ahnost fat in person 
 and in limbs. Her bearing was lofty ; her 
 look arbitrary if not severe, and in every 
 respect she seemed fully sensible of the im- 
 portance of her station as house-keeper to her 
 parish priest ; — though it was whispered that 
 even upon him, the source from which she 
 derived all her consequence, Mrs. Mulloy did 
 not always hesitate to forbear from dictatorial 
 remonstrances, whenever in the exercise of his 
 charitable extravagance, she was pleased to
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 19 
 
 detect a wasteful system of dissipation. Let it 
 be added that her voice was the contrary of 
 what Shakespeare calls : — 
 
 " An excellent thing in woman." 
 
 and that her master was a little afraid of its 
 not unfrequent eloquent exercise. 
 
 Yet on the present occasion, allowing, as a 
 great rarity, her usual inhospitality to unbend 
 a little, Mrs. MuUoy, inspired by the pervading 
 spirit of the hilarity of the season, did as we 
 have hinted, behave very graciously in her 
 capacity as portress. 
 
 " Welcome then," she huskily said, " welcome 
 all, and cead mille a faultha, to the twelfth- 
 night's faste ; come in, your reverence ; — come 
 in, men and boys, every mother's son o' ye." 
 
 '* Come in my children," echoed the old 
 priest, gleeishly, " come in, in the name of 
 God;" and he bustlingly led the way into 
 his white-washed, earthen-floored, and only
 
 20 FATHER COXNELL. 
 
 sitting room ; in the black marble chimney 
 piece of which was, however, rudely carved a 
 mitre, indicating that the paltry apartment had 
 once, and very recentl}'' been inhabited by a 
 roman catholic bishop ; but such was the fact ; 
 and such were the times. Father Connell was 
 himself Catholic dean of his diocese. 
 
 Seats of every description had been arranged 
 all round the parlour; in its centre stood a 
 large square table, at the four corners of which 
 was a mighty jug filled with ale, whose froth 
 puffed over and adown the sides of each vessel. 
 Rows of delft mugs were placed at the edges of 
 the table ; but the crowning featiu-e of the 
 Twelfth-night's feast, was a great two-handled 
 osier basket, filled and pyramidically heaped up 
 with brown-skinned, shining cakes of a fra- 
 grance so delicious as to perfume the apart- 
 ment, and penetrating so keenly the nasal 
 nerves of at least the younger portion of the 
 guests as to give them fair promise of the 
 capability of the contents of that basket to
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 21 
 
 gratify equally and even more satisfactorily 
 another of the senses. We could dilate at 
 great length on the marvellous and long in- 
 herited excellence of these cakes. In our 
 childhood they were termed, after the name 
 of their then manufacturer, " Biddy Doyle's 
 cakes ;" in generations farther back they had 
 borne, out of reverence to their great inventor, 
 the appellation of" Juggy Fowler's cakes ;" and 
 Juggy Fowler had sold or bequeathed to Biddy 
 Doyle the secret of making them ; — but Biddy 
 Doyle died suddenly and intestate, so that the 
 grand secret died with her ; and alas, from that 
 day to this, no succeeding artiste has possessed 
 genius enough, truly to imitate, in the estima- 
 tion of the experienced, Juggy Fowler's far 
 famed and unique condiment. 
 
 We have enumerated all the dainties pro- 
 vided bv Father Connell for his twelfth night's 
 soiree, nor did he in his heart deem any thing 
 better or rarer could have been supplied on the 
 occasion, in which opinion not one of his
 
 22 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 company differed from hiiii ; for indeed when 
 they had taken their places, as exactly observed 
 by them in " the Choir" at vespers, around the 
 board, but at a distance from it, a set of happier 
 faces could not on that same evening have 
 been seen at any other board, no matter how 
 costly, nor in any other mansion, no matter 
 how magnificently contrasted with the poor 
 priest's parlour. Our host hurried about, as 
 if liis very heart and soul were in the scene ; — 
 though why our mysterious " as if?" Thei'e is 
 no doubt at all uj^on the subject; his heart and 
 soul toere in it. With one or two favourites 
 assisting him, he walked round and round the 
 circle until each individual of it held a "Biddy 
 Doyle" in one hand and a merry mug of ale in 
 the other ; and he patted the children on the 
 head ; or rallied the men on their peculiarities ; 
 or joined in their homely jests upon each other ; 
 and loud and general arose the frequent laugh, 
 in which none joined more gleeislily than he 
 did; and almost as frequent as his laughter.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 23 
 
 and fully as loud, were his calls upon " Peggy," 
 to replenish from the half barrel, under the 
 stairs, the gigantic jugs which stood at the 
 four corners of the square old oak table in the 
 middle of the banquet hall. 
 
 Be it understood that all the members, men 
 and boys, of our old friend's choir were unpaid 
 volunteers ; and moreover, of a very humble 
 class in society; in fact working masons, or 
 slaters, or carpenters, and so forth, or else very 
 inferior shop-keepers — and with few excep- 
 tions, the sons of all such. And yet with 
 these men and boys our good priest laughed, 
 jested and made merry ; and anon, story-telling, 
 himself setting the example, became the order 
 of the evening. And a few of these we shall 
 here glance at, while others of them, reported 
 more at length, will be found in another 
 place. 
 
 Jack Moore, then, a very tall, uncouthly 
 f'haped mason, recounted how all the neigh- 
 bourhood in which he dwelt, had, a few
 
 24 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 evenings before, been " frightened to death" by 
 the sudden coming to life, after her death, of 
 " ould Alice Mahony." 
 
 The body of ould Alice had, as Jack stated, 
 been " laid out" to be waked, on the door of 
 the room in which she died — taken off its 
 hinges for the purpose, a common expedient in 
 such emergencies, and on it her lifeless body 
 lay stretched, with a handsome shi'oud on. 
 There was plenty of snuff and tobacco for all 
 the attendants at the wake, and plenty of 
 gossip going on. The town clock— (yes, Mrs. 
 Radcliffe !) — solemnly — tolled — twelve — when 
 up sprang old Alice on her temijorary couch, 
 and without quite opening her eyes, sat on her 
 heels, and, almost thrusting her knees against 
 her teeth, as she had been much used to do 
 before she died. Upon this, out ran, except 
 two or three, the throng who had pre- 
 viously been waking her, tumbling helter- 
 skelter over each other, and those who were 
 last in the race wildly screaming in terror.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 25 
 
 and swearing that she was bounding after them, 
 bird-like, thouo;h with some Httle assistance 
 from her shrivelled arms. And here ended 
 Jack Moore's story ; Jack, a man of reserved 
 and not very exploring habits of mind, 
 solemnly and contentedly dropping it at this 
 point of interest- 
 
 TimBrenan, "the stone cutter," supplied, how- 
 ever, a commentary on the wonderful tale — he 
 having been one of the very few self-collected 
 persons, who had remained behind in the wake- 
 room, after Alice sat up on the door ; and he ex- 
 plained that the solitary and neglected creature 
 had died suddenly, quite alone, with her 
 nether limbs crippled up ; had been so found 
 by some chance visitors the next morning, 
 cold and stiff; that, in order to straighten her 
 " dacently," and make her " a handsome corpse," 
 her now attentive old female neighbours had 
 hit on the expedient of strapping across her 
 knees, and of nailing down, at either side of 
 her bier, something not sufficiently strong for 
 
 VOL, r. c
 
 26 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 tlieir purpose ; that in process of time this 
 badly constructed piece of machinery gave 
 way ; that consequently, the death-rigid limbs 
 suddenly resumed the position in Avhich He, 
 the INIaster, had confirmed them ; — and that 
 was all — so that Alice had not indeed come to 
 life ; and her body, instead of voluntarily 
 jumping off the old door, had only rolled off it; 
 and she had all along been stone dead, and was 
 now decently buried to the heart's content of 
 any one who might choose to satisfy liimself on 
 the subject. But Jack Moore gave no credit 
 to this account of the matter ; for his own eyes 
 had been witnesses of the real event : he was 
 one of the very fii'st to run out after plainly 
 seeing old Alice bounce upon her heels to the 
 floor ; and as undeniable proof of his assertions, 
 he exhibited a contusion on his lip, which he 
 had received by knocking it against the top of the 
 head of a much shorter man than himself, while 
 that person impeded his way, during their joint 
 escape from the old woman's leap-jack kind of
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 27 
 
 pursuit after them. In the dubious state of 
 mind in which these two readings of the 
 matter left the audience, there was now no 
 laughter, nor even smile ; their entertainer 
 being the only person amongst them who con- 
 tinued to chuckle heartily. 
 
 Jeff Corrigan's story came next. He re- 
 counted the miraculous finding, very early one 
 morning, of the well known night cap of 
 James Dullard, tlie weaver, on the only 
 remaining pinnacle of the old castle near at 
 hand, and before noticed as affording a legal 
 place for the little cracked bell used in sum- 
 moning Father Connell's congregation to 
 prayers. 
 
 Old Jim Dullard had, upon a certain night, 
 fallen asleep at his loom ; and while he dozed, 
 he seemed to dream that somehow he was in 
 the ruined building ; that he had ascended the 
 spiral stairs ; clambered, at the devil's sugges- 
 tion, he supposed, and with evident peril to life 
 and limb, to an old man of seventy, up to the 
 c 3
 
 28 FATHER CONXELL,. 
 
 very highest attainable point of the edifice ; 
 and liad there ventured to look down, and 
 become inexpressibly terrified at his height 
 from the surface of the earth. While just 
 awakening from his ti'ance, his wife came in. to 
 sunmion him to a late supper ; missed off his 
 head its usual covering ; hinted the fact to 
 him ; and then, after passing his hand over his 
 bald head, his pallid face turned into a dingy 
 white colour, even more remarkable than was 
 its wont ; his long jaws dropped, and became 
 still more elongated ; and in utter consternation 
 he now additionally recollected, and admitted 
 to his spouse, that after having been so very 
 much frightened in his dream, while looking 
 downward from the top of the " ould castle," 
 he fancied he had hung upon its point nearest 
 to the sky, the article in question. She 
 laughed, and calling him to her assistance, 
 ])eered everywhere through the little manufac- 
 tory in which was her husband's loom : but no 
 night cap could be found,; — and horrible to
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 29 
 
 add, very early the next morning, James 
 Dullard, issuing forth with a next door neigh- 
 bour, whom he had called up to afford him 
 sympathy, and add to his courage in his pro- 
 jected investigation, discovered the missing 
 head-gear — while, however, only looking up to 
 the old castle, from their little street of cabins — 
 perched on the exact place where James had 
 but dreamt having put it; and he ought to 
 know it well, although now seen at such a 
 distance ; for he had worn it day as well as 
 night for the last ten or twelve years. 
 
 So, James Dullard had dreamt no dream at 
 all. He must have put the night cap, where it 
 was now visil^le, with his own hands, or (how 
 the divil — God forgive us !) could it have got 
 there ? — or, again, how could he have ever 
 known that it had got there, if he had not put 
 it there, inasmuch as no one had ever told him 
 it was to be seen there, before he went out 
 with his neighbour, in consequence of his
 
 30 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 abominable suspicion, and plainly saw it 
 there ? The matter was a puzzle, and a very 
 nervous one. He partially admitted the act to 
 be his own, and he more than partially denied 
 it. His bewildered mind did not know what to 
 do. True he had heard of people who walk in 
 their sleep, aye, and who even climb in their 
 sleep ; but how could he climb, either awake or 
 asleep, whose joints were so old and rusted 
 that they scarcely served him to creep out from 
 his loom, every day for about an hour to enjoy 
 the fresh air, and particularly up to the very 
 pinnacle of that dreaded old castle. The 
 mystery became deeper and more fearful ; and 
 so it continued up to the moment when Jeff 
 Corrigan told the story. 
 
 He ceased, and there was again a pause of 
 doubt and awe among the listeners ; and even 
 Father Connell did not now laugh outright. 
 He took it into his head, however, to go up and 
 down amongst them all, sage men and boys as
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 31 
 
 they were, collecting their opinions as to how 
 the thing could really have occurred ; and 
 when a most absurd and amusing mass of inter- 
 pretations had been delivered, then indeed he 
 enjoyed his hearty fit of laughter; informing 
 them that, chancing to have been called out, 
 to attend, on horseback, a remote country 
 " call" (a summons from a dying person) upon 
 the morning when James Dullard ventured 
 out, in quest of his night-cap — sometime before 
 James got up however, — he had himself seen 
 Ned Roach's thievish pet jackdaw busily em- 
 ployed at the top of the old building, in pla- 
 cing, on the point where even at this instant it 
 was visible to all observers, the old red nisht 
 cap. And here Ned Koach, the shoe-maker, 
 joined egotistically the priest's laugh at the 
 feat of his jackdaw ; and, the pressure of super- 
 stitious terror, in various shapes, removed off 
 their spirits, great indeed was its echo through- 
 out all the assembled guests. 
 
 A few other tales, as we have before hinted,
 
 32 FATHER CONNELL, 
 
 enlivened the circle, which we again aver we 
 must postpone, — but not for a long time even 
 from our present all-devouring reader. And 
 songs now took up, as a finale, the entertain- 
 ment of the evening ; and many old Irish ones 
 were pretty well given by some of the men of 
 the choir; and " Crazy Jane," and " Death 
 and the Lady," and "" Begone dull care," and 
 so forth, were droned out by others of them. 
 Father Connell himself, being called upon, 
 tried to recollect the only song — we do not 
 know what song — that he had learnt in his 
 early youth, but after repeated failures in his 
 own mind, and half irritated by his sense of 
 the necessity of contributing to the mirth of 
 his revellers, he suddenly broke out into a joy- 
 ous Latin hymn, and as suddenly stopped short, 
 grievously scandalized at himself; and then, to 
 cover his confusion, he appealed to " hi^ boys," 
 to help him out with " his portion of mirth ;" 
 upon which all of them became dumb aud 
 sheep-faced, except his old pet, Neddy Fennell,
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 33 
 
 who, when no one else would befriend his 
 patron, in this urgency, nimbly stepped to 
 the middle of the floor, and with the small 
 portion of a " Biddy Doyle" in one hand, and 
 a half finished mug of ale in the other, sang 
 with much spirit and fun, if not with skill or 
 science, " Billy O'Rourke was the boy for it — 
 whoo !" 
 
 This little display affected his parish 
 priest in a peculiar way. Perhaps it was the 
 first time he had ever heard a song of such a 
 character ; but however that might be, the old 
 man now looked amazed, and as if admiringly, 
 on such a new proof of the cleverness of his 
 young friend ; and then, as the little fellow 
 swayed his body and limbs, and frisked here 
 and there, humouring the burden of his melody. 
 Father Connell smiled and winked his eyes, 
 and laughed, and wagged his head from side to 
 side, and almost attempted to whistle, in unison 
 witli the unexpected talent and capers of the 
 public performer before him ; and when Xeddy 
 c 5
 
 34 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 had finished, he beckoned to him, took 
 the pretty boy in his arms, kissed him, 
 played with his auburn hair, made him pro- 
 mise over and over again to be a good boy, sHd 
 a shilling into his pocket, although at that time 
 neither Neddy Fennell nor any of his family 
 wanted such a donation ; and finally, laying 
 his hands on the urchin's shoulders, gently 
 forced him down on his knees, to give him his 
 blessin^. 
 
 And Father Connell's soiree almost so ended. 
 True, he topped the delight of all his juvenile 
 guests by giving them each a silver sixpence, 
 as a Christmas-box ; and cordially gratified and 
 made important in their own estimation, the 
 seniors of " the choir," by very often shaking 
 hands with them at parting, whilst every one 
 received with bent heads and knees, their old 
 pastor's blessing. But with little Neddy Fennell 
 he lingered at his humble postern door when 
 they were quite alone ; again put his arms 
 round him, again kissed him, while Neddy
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 35 
 
 thought he felt a warm tear drop on his sunny 
 cheek ; and again, and again, besought him to 
 promise to be good, sighs of apprehensive 
 doubt for the future — as we know them to have 
 been — now and then interrupted the voice 
 of the monitor. 
 
 And since our hero^ Father Connell, has now 
 proved liimself so interested about the present 
 and future welfare of Neddy Fennell, we may 
 be allowed to give one back chapter, to the 
 past situation of little Neddy, embracing, ne- 
 cessarily, incidents concerning his father and 
 mother, which we believe will not be found 
 uninteresting.
 
 36 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Neddy Fennell's father, Atty, or Arthur 
 Fennell, had been a glover in the only respect- 
 able street of the town, forming the city 
 portion of Father Connell's extensive country 
 parish. Atty, in his early youth, was a comely 
 looking lad, single-hearted, simple-minded, yet 
 wise and prudent ; trustworthy, industrious, 
 and skilful in his trade ; sincerely punctual in 
 his religious duties, and, for all the reasons 
 suggested by this short description of him, 
 respected and esteemed by his master, " Simon 
 Bergin, the glover."
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 37 
 
 When Arthur was about seventeen, the only 
 child of his master and mistress became appren- 
 ticed to a mantua-maker — for, although her 
 parents were well to do in the world, and 
 loved to excess their beautiful little pet, they 
 would not bring her up in idleness. And 
 indeed little Fanny Bergin deserved her father's 
 and mother's love, as much on account of her 
 rare beauty, as for her sweet disposition, shown 
 in her constant soft smile, her gentle fairy 
 voice, her obedience, and her general feminine- 
 ness of character. 
 
 Fanny spent the day in the house of the 
 person to whom she was apprenticed, returning 
 however, to her father's roof for the night. 
 To guard her, against all imaginable mis- 
 haps, whether from rude people, or from rude 
 weather, Simon and Mrs. Bergin deemed that 
 a competent escort was quite necessary on her 
 return home in the evenings. To this office 
 they appointed Atty Fennell, thus it would 
 seem giving him beforehand a kind of intima-
 
 38 FATHER COXNELL. 
 
 tion of a fuller confidence, as regarded their 
 darling and only child, to be hereafter placed 
 in him. Atty well discharged his task. He 
 would whisk with his cudgel — that cudgel 
 which was ready to encounter a giant in her 
 defence — the very straws from her path, in fine 
 weather ; and, if it rained, his instructions en- 
 titled him to bear Fanny home in his arms ; — 
 so that on wet and dark evenings he used to 
 enter, with his light bmxlen, into the little 
 parlour, where her father and mother sat to 
 the fire, his lantern swinging from the middle 
 finoer of his left hand, and the ostentatious 
 cudgel tucked under his right arm. 
 
 Time rolled on, and it is needless to say, 
 how all this ended. Every one will guess that 
 in a few years after Arthur was out of his 
 apprenticeship, and Fanny also unshackled from 
 the bonds of her professional mistress, they 
 were, after having been a long while before 
 very sincerely in love with each other, 
 married, to their own heart's content, as also to
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 39 
 
 the full gratification even of the jiarents of the 
 almost over cared for little bride ; as to the 
 bridescroom's father and mother, no consent 
 could have been asked of them, for they were 
 dead, having left, however, in the hands of a 
 careful trustee, a sum locally sufficient, and 
 indeed considerable, to enable Atty to engage, 
 when out of his apprenticeship, in any enter- 
 prise on his own account, with a befitting show 
 of independence — a circumstance, by the way, 
 ■» which, highly and deservedly as Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bergin valued the plain, honest, though rather 
 simple character of Arthur, might have much 
 assisted their final resolves for surrendering 
 into his future protection the w^elfare and hap- 
 piness of their little Fanny, with all her 
 soft smiles, gentleness, clinging and dependent 
 affection, and yet nearly weakness of disposi- 
 tion. Besides, their idol was not absolutely to 
 be separated from them. Arthur Fennell and 
 she were to continue to abide vmder their pa- 
 ternal roof; and thus, four people who loved
 
 40 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 each other better than they loved all the world 
 besides, would for many a long year form a 
 delightful family circle — with perhaps the ad- 
 dition, in a few of those many happy years, of 
 some little strangers, whose feelings would 
 soon be interwoven into its web of domestic 
 felicity. 
 
 So, the sun of hope, the brightest and the 
 most unclouded sun that ever shone, or ever 
 can shine on mortal creatures, blazed in abso- 
 lute brilliancy upon the coming nuptials of >• 
 poor Atty and his dear little Fanny Bergin. 
 Yet, alas, big a liar as hope is, she never told 
 bigger lies in all her life — that is to say, since 
 the beginning of the world, with which, we do 
 think she was born, purely for the purpose of 
 keeping it delusively twirling on, — the old 
 gratuitous cheat, never, we repeat, told a bigger 
 lie than on the occasion of which we now 
 speak. Her lies were not to be sure immedi- 
 ately found out ; for years and years she " lied 
 like truth," — small praise to her, exj)erienced
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 41 
 
 practitioner in her art, as she is ; and — but let 
 us not anticipate in this unskilful fashion. 
 
 AVithout a cloud, or the speck of one, in the 
 sky of their seeming future lot, Atty and 
 Fanny prepared for their marriage day ; pure 
 hearts, primitive minds, rational calculations, 
 perfect love, and, if it be possible to say so of 
 human beings in such a state of extatic antici- 
 pation, religious duties, above all other obser- 
 ^vances, presiding over their arrangements. 
 " Atty, in particular, was swayed on the momen- 
 tous occasion, by bis former pious habits. 
 Regarding marriage as a sacrament, and a most 
 1^ solemn one, he disciplined himself, fitly to 
 'receive it, by previously approaching other 
 sacraments of his church ; those, namely, of 
 Penance, and of the Eucharist. And if ever 
 a man entered into the married state with 
 devoted love for his wife, and at the same time 
 with a holy sense of the sin of even slightly 
 infringing upon the vow of fidelity to be
 
 42 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 pledged to her at the altar, that man was 
 
 « 
 
 Arthur Fennell. 
 
 He was married. For about two years the 
 juggling prophet, we have rather bitterly spoken 
 of, proved true ; all was indeed happiness in the 
 united families ; but now came Hope's lie the 
 first. — Old Simon Bergin died suddenly ; his 
 terrified and pining wife soon followed him to 
 the grave; and thus ended the treacherous 
 promise held out to them of the " many happy, 
 happy long years" they were to enjoy with 
 their children, and with their children's 
 children. Again, however, so far as regarded 
 Arthur, everytliing appeared perfectly to 
 brighten up. His industry gained him great 
 success in his trade ; that success some little 
 wealth of course, so that he grew into a 
 respected citizen ; and, unfortunately for his 
 poor wife and only child, he at length deemed 
 himself called on, that he might be enabled to 
 supply the increasing demands made upon his
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 43 
 
 shop to engage a confidential journeyman, who 
 was also to have considerable control over his 
 accounts and receipts. A confidential journey- 
 man ! — a tall, spare-limbed, thin-lipped, solemn- 
 faced, smooth-tongued hypocrite ; — a canting, 
 precise, cruel scoundrel and robber. Arthur, 
 however, did not know this — out of his very 
 nature could not know it ; in his own estima- 
 tion, therefore, he was growing richer and 
 richer every day : and over all his worldly 
 thriving and enjoyment, the star of love still 
 and still twinkled brilliantly on; indeed, as a 
 little instance of the undiminished affection 
 existing now for a considerable period between 
 him and his ever enchanting Fanny, poor 
 Arthur would often send for her in the midst 
 of his daily industry, to come a moment to 
 speak with him ; and when she had obeyed his 
 summons, all he had to say was, " I only 
 wanted to look at you, my darling ;" and when, 
 after mildly answering the fond glance of his 
 eyes, Fanny withdrew, he would re-engage
 
 44 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 with redoubled vigour, in his more important 
 occupations. 
 
 Arthur became — and Hope's lie the second, 
 and the most tremendous one of all she had ever 
 uttered, at least to our unsuspecting friend, is 
 now to be exposed. Arthur became a member 
 of " the Charitable society" of his native city. 
 This was an association composed of the 
 respectable portion of the middle classes of his 
 fellow townsmen, and established for the 
 weekly relief of poor bed-ridden objects. To 
 be elected a member of it, when three black 
 beans could have excluded him, was a flattering 
 proof of the rising estimation in which he was 
 held; and Fanny and he often gloried over 
 the circumstance in their fire side commentaries 
 together; and they for some time wondered, 
 and wondered upon what evening he might 
 expect, according to the observances of the 
 society, to be smiimoned as president at one of 
 its weekly sittings. That proud evening- 
 came at last ; and, after kissing his little wife
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 45 
 
 again and again, Arthur Fennell issued forth, 
 dressed in his best, to assume his new dignity. 
 
 He took the chair ; the business of the even- 
 ing was })recisely and soberly gone through ; — 
 the solemn little secretary closed his books ; — 
 and neighbourly enjoyment and good-fellowship 
 became the order of the now merely social meet- 
 ing. Hot tumblers of punch stood at the right 
 hand of each member, and w ei'e now and then re- 
 plenished ; and the new president, although previ- 
 ously almost a " tee-totaller," conceived himself 
 called upon to patronize the usages of those 
 around him. And jests, and good things, were 
 cracked and uttered at every side, and anon 
 certain marked individuals were cajoled into 
 repeating oft-repeated, and often laughed at 
 egotistical stories ; in listening to which, 
 though not half comprehending the suppressed 
 ridicule chuckling in the breasts of the general 
 company towards the narrators, Arthur Fennell 
 laughed more vigorously than any one present. 
 For the secretary, a round little bundle of a
 
 46 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 man, wanting three inches of five feet, and a 
 school-master to boot, was decoyed Into a 
 description, which the wags of the society 
 induced him to give, almost weekly, of several 
 desperate naval engagements, in which he had 
 performed wonders of valour. '* Myself and 
 another able-bodied seaman," he would very 
 often say, " did so and so, or were engaged in 
 such and such an achievement ; at which, 
 glancing at the " ableness" of his body, or else 
 commenting upon the small bravado style in 
 which he delivered the histoi'y of his exploits, 
 the clever ones winked in keen enjoyment upon 
 each other. In fact, the mendacious little man 
 had, to their knowledge, never been to sea at all. 
 And another celebrated exaggerater, a shop- 
 keeper, in " the main street," having once, upon 
 a great urgency, absolutely journeyed to 
 London, detailed in a very peculiar way some 
 of the marvels he had there witnessed. Amongst 
 other things, he was now coaxed into a repetition 
 of his famous account of the manners of the
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 47 
 
 buffalo, seen at a menagerie. After describing, 
 on a gigantic scale, the bodily proportions of 
 this animal, he would proceed to imitate, fully 
 to his own satisfaction, its various cries and 
 bellowings ; and — having been purposely placed 
 by the side of some very young member of the 
 club— and therein lay the cream of the jest — 
 he would finally illustrate some of the buffalo's 
 actions by suddenly seizing by the collar, with 
 both his hands, his astounded neighbour, and 
 butting with such ferocity into the breast and 
 stomach of the man, while he still bellowed 
 quite terrifically, that shouts of applause and 
 laucrhter convulsed his audience. 
 
 There was a naturalist too, who gave a 
 minute account of how Barnacles are ensfen- 
 dered, out of pieces of old ship timber, found 
 floating in the sea, to the sides of which any 
 curious observer might find them clinging in 
 myriads ; and another close inspector of wonders 
 who insisted that the sheet lead used by plum- 
 bers, was manufactured out of a " certain" kind
 
 48 FATUER CONNELL. 
 
 of sand ; and in fact many and many were the 
 miraculous things which, intoxicated with the 
 important novelty of his situation, as well as 
 with a too frequent, though almost uncon- 
 scious use of another stimulant, Arthur Fennell 
 enjoyed, and sat out ; until finally even the most 
 inured " good fellows" of the society began to 
 prepare for going home, and as he tried 
 demurely to wish them good night, and pass 
 with a would be staid step out of the room ; 
 they did not fail to remark, still for their own 
 amusement, how flushed was the face, how 
 meaningless the eye, how thick the utterance, 
 and how drunken were the limbs, of the hither- 
 to most particularly sober, and prudent, and 
 respectable glover. 
 
 Although the club had dissolved at its very 
 latest usual hour, it was still not late in the 
 night, in fact, not eleven o'clock, and the night 
 was a very beautiful one too. The moon 
 shone bright and clear over one half of the 
 streets, while it threw over the other half a
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 49 
 
 broad shadow, terminating at its edges in gro- 
 tesque and exaggerated likenesses of jutting 
 roofs, gables, and old and new fashioned 
 chimneys and chimney-tops. No shop was 
 open, and scarcely a light to be seen in the 
 windows even of the private aristocratic houses 
 of the little city ; and not a human sound broke 
 the stillness of the scene ; for even at this early 
 hour scarce a creature appeared abroad. But 
 though human sounds were absent you could 
 eatch a few others : the flitting of the bat by 
 your ears, the sharp bark of some stray or un- 
 housed dog, the crisp chirping of crickets, as 
 you passed close by a baker's shop door ; with 
 above all the rush and fall of the river, near at 
 hand, over Its weirs. 
 
 When Arthur Fennell, emerging from the 
 lane in which were held the sittings of his club, 
 gained the main street, it was, however, soon 
 filled with human sounds,indeed — those, namely, 
 of his own loud laughter, as, with his hat 
 raklshly to one side of his hot head, he now 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 FATIIKR CONNELL. 
 
 staggered along, quite abandoning, In the con- 
 firmed Intoxication caused by the open air, his 
 late attempts to look sober, control his swollen 
 tongue, and walk properly. " And oh !" lie 
 would cry — ;" Oh, that able-bodied sayman ! and 
 Xick Magrath the buffalo man !" and he clapped 
 his hands in rery rapture, and still laughed out 
 in roars. Turning the wrong way for going 
 home, he arrived at the shambles of the town, 
 before which stood some huge chopping-blocks, 
 mounted on very long legs, and clambering 
 up on one of these, he set his arms a kimbo, 
 and danced heartily upon it to his own whistling. 
 Suddenly, however, he recollected that he really 
 was not on the true road homewards ; and so he 
 clambered down from the chopping-block, and 
 gained the street again; and now his drunkenness 
 changed into anotj^er mode. And thereupon 
 Arthur became observantly and sagely drunk. 
 The bright, quiet, moonlight, and the quaint 
 terminations of the shadows produced by it, 
 were noticed ; and though he felt half inclined
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 51 
 
 again to laugh out at the fantastic shapes 
 assumed by the edges of the latter, as they 
 seemed to dance and intermingle before his 
 eyes ; still he was able to suppress the now 
 unseemly impulse, and indulged on the whole 
 in a grave contemplation of the wonders of 
 nature and of art. 
 
 He arrived at the market-house or tholsel, 
 and struck by its little pillars and arches, sat 
 down a short time before it, fully to gratify his 
 architectural tastes ; and — " Yes," he cried, in 
 his locally patriotic enthusiasm — " Yes, let 
 let them look at that ! — they may talk of their 
 Dublins, and their Londons, and their ould 
 Romes, and other foreign places — but let them 
 look at that, I say — there it's for them — (hiccup) 
 — there it's for them, before their eyes, to look 
 at for a patthern — (hiccup) — !" 
 
 He arose from his sitting posture on the 
 
 cold stones, and wending still homewards, 
 
 gained the middle of the bridge, beyond which 
 
 he had to proceed but a few yards to his own 
 
 D 3 
 
 h'rr,n^''"^«
 
 52 FATHER CORNELL. 
 
 door. Here, in the moonlight views up and 
 down the banks of the crystal stream, which 
 the bridge spanned, Arthur had indeed subject 
 for observation of the beautiful, in nature ; 
 and though but vaguely responding to its calls 
 upon his notice, he yet stopped short to admire 
 and mutter his admiration to himself. The 
 unusual novelty of footsteps sounding through 
 the silence around him, startled our friend, and 
 he looked backward and forward ; two women 
 approached him, advancing from the centre of 
 the town in the direction he had himself 
 come. 
 
 Drunk as he was, Arthur immediately recog- 
 nized these persons. They were sisters, living 
 in his own street ; the elder a widow, who even 
 during the lifetime of her husband, had perhaps 
 more than indicated to Arthur, though to his 
 utter disgust, approval of his well-proportioned 
 figure and handsome face ; and she had not 
 l)een otherwise, a woman of interesting charac- 
 ter. But upon this unfortunate night, Arthur
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 53 
 
 forgot every thing unpleasant in her past life, 
 only recollecting, for the first time with vanity, 
 her former flattering attentions to him. 
 
 So, when the ladies stopped in a neighl)ourly 
 way, to bid him good night, Arthur politely 
 returned their salutation. They mentioned 
 that they had been to a very pleasant evening 
 party in the town, which was the cause of their 
 being; out so late. Arthur answered with a 
 description of the happy evening he had himself 
 passed, at the Charitable Society ; and accounts 
 of the respect shown to him there, and of the 
 able-bodied seaman, and of the buffalo man, 
 and then of the beautiful pillars and arches of 
 the Tholsel, followed ; and next came liis 
 reasons for suddenly stopping on the bridge, as 
 he motioned up and down tlie river, speaking 
 fast and thick ; at which his neighbour, the 
 widow, ■ replied in a poetical vein ; her hand 
 resting on his arm, and Arthur, admiring that 
 hand, and then its owner's face, in the moon-
 
 54 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 light, thought and said, that both were very 
 handsome ; — and finally, at the lady's pressing 
 invitation, he agreed to see her home to her 
 door; and when they arrived at it, Arthur 
 further agreed to step in and take a little bit of 
 supper — a proposition to which his drunken 
 stomach immediately yearned. 
 
 About four hours afterwards, he was rushing 
 from that house, out of a fevered and hideous 
 sleep ! He ran wildly, and still staggering, 
 though now not with intoxication, up and 
 down his peaceful little street. His hands and 
 his teeth were clenched, his lips apart, and 
 frothy ; his eyes distended, bloodshot, and 
 fixed, and all his other features, haggard, and 
 rigid. His dress was disordered too, and he 
 was bare-headed, and he often fell on his knees, 
 groaning miserably, tossing his hands, and 
 beating his breast. In fact the heavy 
 throes of remorse, shame, and despair, were 
 upon him ; consciousness of unpardonable sin,
 
 FATHER CONNELL. DO 
 
 of a breach of his marriage vow, and towards 
 his own beloved, fond, and chaste-hearted 
 wife. " Never, never can I again raise my 
 face to her face," he resolved in his own heart 
 and mind, " no, nor to the face of any human 
 creature — I am a lost man — and somethinijj 
 here,'' again striking his breast, " tells me that 
 the life will not stay long in me, to be shameful 
 to any one." 
 
 Becoming in the wretched quietness of des- 
 pair, a little calmer, he walked to his own 
 door, stealthily looking to either side, and 
 before him, to ascertain if any chance passenger 
 might be at hand to observe him ; but he was 
 still alone. He stood at the door, and raised 
 his hand to its knockei', but turned from it 
 again. Over and over, he came back, and 
 over and over walked away from that hitherto 
 happy threshold. At length, now very feeble, 
 and with a deadly heart-beat, and leaning 
 against tlie walls of the houses for support as
 
 56 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 he came along, Arthur dared to knock ; but so 
 weakly, that those within could not have heard 
 him. After a horrible pause he ventured to 
 repeat the summons. 
 
 He heard a footstep inside, and bent down 
 his head upon his outspread hands. The door 
 opened, and his wife's old aunt appeared, 
 holding a light. After one look at him, she 
 started back. He staggered in, and without a 
 word sank exhausted in a little parlom' to one 
 side of the entrance passage. The old woman 
 followed him, greatly terrified. 
 
 "■ The Lord preserve us, Atty, my darling," 
 she began, " what's the meaning of all this ? 
 and what has haj^pened you ? — A^Tiy, your very 
 lips are as white as paper, and there is some- 
 thing like death in your face." 
 
 " Is there, aunt? — death! — I'm glad of that 
 — and glad that you can see it so soon." He 
 spoke hoarsely, and in gasps, wliile his hand 
 was held tightly over [his chest. " And there 
 ought to be death in my face."
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 51 
 
 " The Lord be good to us ! tell me, Atty, 
 what has come over you ?" 
 
 " Is — is Fanny — is my — is she in bed ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Och, yes, Arthur ; in bed these four hours, 
 and more ; she was complaining a little, and I 
 persuaded her to lie down." 
 
 " About four hours ago," he repeated, and a 
 low shuddering moan escaped him. "• Aunt 
 Mary, will you make up the little bed in the back 
 garret for me ? for I won't lie down, this night, 
 or this morning rather, in any other bed, — no, 
 nor any other night, nor any other morning." 
 
 " Arthur Fennell ! tell me, I bid you — as 
 Fanny's nearest living relation, I bid you tell 
 me all." 
 
 " Listen then," and in a hoarse, croaking 
 whisper, he did tell her all ; adding — 
 
 " And so, aunt Mary, you now see that I 
 
 can never again lay down my head on my 
 
 pillow in my good wife's bed ; — no, nor ever kiss 
 
 her lips ; — no, nor ever put shame even on her 
 
 D 5
 
 58 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 little hand, by taking it in mine, no ; — I am a 
 thraitor to her and to my God ; and the only 
 thing I can hope to do, before the death, you 
 saw in my face, relieves me, is to try, and pray 
 to Him to have mercy upon my sinful, sinful 
 soul." 
 
 His old confidante heard the poor fellow's 
 admissions at first, certainly in anger, but 
 quickly after in full compassion. She stared at 
 him, and the expression of his face, manner, 
 and actions seemed ominously to confirm his 
 heart-uttered forebodings of — death. She trem- 
 bled and wept profusely, and at length said — 
 
 " No, my poor Arthur, no ; you must not 
 quit your own old bed ; you are very sorry for 
 what has happened ; and it is your first falling 
 off; and the God you ask forgiveness of, will 
 forgive you ; and Fanny will forgive you too, 
 and you are very ill ; so come up with me, I 
 say." 
 
 *• Indeed and I am sick, dear aunt, and want 
 to lie down in a bed, but not in the bed you
 
 FATHER CON NELL. 59 
 
 speak of ; no, never, never; and as you, may 
 be, think it a trouble to make up that little 
 garret bed for me, I will try and make it up for 
 myself." 
 
 He half arose from the floor. 
 
 " Stop, Atty dear — the garret is damp, and 
 the bed is damp, and you will do yourself harm." 
 
 " Too good, too good, for one like me ; give 
 me the light, aunt." He scrambled up to his 
 feet. 
 
 The old woman was obliged to follow him 
 with the candle, still weeping and shaking. At 
 the bottom of the little stairs he slid off his 
 shoes ; and crept upwards, and particularly by 
 the door of his wife's bed-room, with the 
 caution of a thief. The garret bed was 
 arranged for him, and he wearily fell into it, 
 hiding his face and head in its covering. 
 
 The afflicted attendant withdrew, with still 
 streaming eyes, to her own place of rest, not 
 able to make up her mind, at such an hour, to 
 awaken her niece, and tell her what had hap-
 
 60 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 pened. Fanny, about to get up, at her usual 
 morning time, missed her husband, and per- 
 ceived that he had not the previous night been 
 in bed. Greatly alarmed, she quickly sought 
 an explanation from her aunt. Still, all the 
 poor old creature could force herself to say, 
 was, that Arthur, on his late return home, had 
 found himself ill, and lain down, in the garret 
 bed. 
 
 Fanny flew up stairs. His head was still 
 hidden under the bed-covering. She spoke to 
 him, and was answered, only by broken-hearted 
 moans. She gently withdrew the covering. 
 She saw his collapsed, and indeed death-stricken 
 features. His white lips moved rapidly, but, 
 his sunken eyes were closed hai'd — he dared 
 not, fulfilling his own fearful foreboding, look 
 up at her. She peered closer, and there was 
 blood about his mouth, and large blotches of it 
 stained the sheets. She screamed, and threw 
 herself by his side, beseeching him to say what 
 ailed him, and offering every endearment of
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 61 
 
 affection, which, to her astonishment, were all 
 refused ; and then he muttered a few w^ords : 
 '* No, no, no, my own darling — do not touch 
 me — do not come near me — do not speak to me 
 — I do not deserve it — but go down stairs, and 
 say to aunt Mary that I bid her tell you every- 
 thing that I told her." 
 
 His wife soon acquired the necessary infor- 
 mation ; again ran up to his bed-side — " and is 
 that all," she said, smiling and ci'ying together 
 — " is that all, to make you turn your face 
 from your wife, and your God, and lie down to 
 die in this unwholesome garret? Arthur, it 
 was not your fault — it was not your fault, 
 Arthur, dear ! — you were not master of yourself 
 — and you were tempted, Arthur —come look 
 up at me, Arthur — I forgive you from my 
 heart — this very instant I forgive you ! — only 
 look up and smile, Arthur !" 
 
 But he only could answer-"! cannot, 
 Fanny ; I have sinned terribly against God
 
 62 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 and you, and never, never am I to hold up my 
 head again." 
 
 A fresh effusion of blood followed. Physi- 
 cians were sent for. They advised quiet and 
 repose — the very things unattainable by their 
 patient. In a few days his heart again partially 
 freed itself, by still another en'ing and wasteful 
 flow of its vital fountain. The physicians now 
 advised a visit with all speed, from his clergyman. 
 Father Connell attended the summons. He found, 
 indeed, a sincere penitent, hopeful of forgive- 
 ness in another life, but shudderingly shrinking 
 from a continuance of existence in this world. 
 The old man w^ept like a child at the sight of the 
 dry-eyed anguish of the wife, as, before his 
 departure she came in, at his wish, again to try 
 her power in cheering and comforting ; and he 
 witnessed the first kiss, which, since poor 
 Arthur's falling off, he could bring himself to 
 receive from his wife's lips. Going down stairs, 
 the priest was beset in his way by his little
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 63 
 
 chapel pet Neddy, who, crying bitterly, saw 
 him to the street door. He squeezed the boy's 
 liands tightly, over and over, and told him he 
 would come back early next morning— it was 
 now far in the night. He kept his promise. 
 Neddy again met him at the door of the 
 house. 
 
 " Well, my child," asked the old priest, — 
 '^ and how is he to-day?" 
 
 " Dead, sir," answered his favorite, flinging 
 himself against the enquirer's knees.
 
 64 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 When Father Counell first undertook the 
 care of the parish in which he ministered nntil 
 he died, the whole code of penal laws, against 
 Catholics, was in full force, and, according to 
 one of them, no papist could impart literary- 
 instruction either privately or as teacher in a 
 public school, without subjecting himself to fines 
 and imprisonment. Yet, under hedges in bye 
 ways, and in gravel pits, or in confidential, or 
 in lonely suburb houses, contraband education 
 Avas stealthily whispered to ignorant youth and 
 childhood.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. Q5 
 
 The predecessor of Father Connell had con- 
 trived to found and maintain, on a very humble 
 scale indeed, in a cabin in the outskirts of the 
 town in which he lived, an illicit seminary for 
 the instruction of the poorer children of his 
 flock, and by great exertion, and many strata- 
 gems, his successor endeavoured to follow up his 
 example — though, indeed, by this time of day, 
 much of the good man's precaution might have 
 been spared: — for the unmerciful and wanton 
 law, which doomed to helpless ignorance an 
 entire population, had for many years been 
 looked upon as too barbarous to be literally 
 observed; so that — thanks to the self-asserting 
 principle of justice in the general human bosom 
 — even the very magistrates appointed to en- 
 force the unholy statute, winked at the smug- 
 gling system of education which was going on 
 almost under their eyes. 
 
 And something like better daj/s now began 
 to dawn on the efforts of Father Connell. In 
 the year 1780 this law was repealed. Little
 
 66 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 ragged papists could at last go to school openly 
 and legally, and sliout as shrilly as any of their 
 Protestant contemporaries, when let loose from 
 its threshold. Our priest therefore determined 
 to erect, in the shabby straggling suburb in 
 which was his own poor dwelling, an absolutely 
 public school-house for the instruction of the 
 children of the indigent. 
 
 The question however soon presented itself; 
 where could funds be obtained to purchase 
 even the materials for building the contem- 
 plated edifice ? 
 
 In truth he did not know. Private means 
 he had not ; in fact, his daily extravagance in 
 giving, often left himself a creditor for his 
 dinner ; so he pondered seriously for some 
 time, until at length a happy thought struck 
 him, and with a mixture of simple, and great 
 glee of heart, and yet as great perseverance of 
 head, he proceeded to carry it into effect. 
 
 Might not the poor urchins themselves be 
 made contributors to the uprearing of a build-
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 67 
 
 ing to be appropriated to their own advantage ? 
 To be sure they might ; and working his hands 
 together, and smiling to himself in the solitude 
 of his little parlour, he at once went to work 
 on his project. He purchased for the poorest 
 of his future scholars a great many wooden 
 bowls ; others of them, provided themselves 
 with some such implement of industry ; and in 
 a short time, almost all the ragged little fellows 
 in the parish might be seen running here and 
 there, like a swarm of bees — not indeed in 
 quest of honey, but of a few straggling stones, 
 wherever they could be found ; and when 
 these were obtained, heaping them into their 
 wooden bowls and other utensils, and then 
 trotting with their acquisitions to a place 
 appointed for the accumulation of a grand pile 
 destined for the erection of their own parish 
 poor school. 
 
 These small labourers had received strict in- 
 junctions to appropriate solely such stones as 
 they should meet scattered along the roads,
 
 68 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 and suburb streets, and which could not be 
 called the property of any particular person. 
 Yet it has been rumoured that when a scarcity 
 of unclaimed material began to prevail amongst 
 them, our zealous purveyors were not over 
 nice in ascertaining whether this or that stone 
 belonged to this or that individual ; nay, we 
 have it on authority that a good many infringe- 
 ments on jjrivate property were committed by 
 them ; certainly without the knowledge of 
 Father Connell, as we trust need not be stated. 
 And it also became impossible that among the 
 heterogeneous mass of stones, great and small, 
 now rapidly swelling in bulk, the owners of the 
 unlawfully abstracted portions of it could re- 
 cognize any evidences of the theft perpetrated 
 on his or her old Avail or loose enclosure. 
 
 No matter ; after some time the heap in- 
 creased to a magnitude fully equal to the hopes 
 and to the architectural plan and calculations 
 of our good priest ; and greater than ever was 
 his glee on the occasion. It might indeed
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 69 
 
 have been whispered by shrewd commentators, 
 that the great pyramid before which he now 
 stood with admiring eyes, was not composed of 
 stones of the best quality, or best suited to the 
 purpose for which they had been intended; 
 the greater part of them being in truth 
 little better than pebbles. Other critics whis- 
 pered that such as they were, they had cost 
 Father Connell nearly, if not altogether as 
 much as good square blocks from the quarry 
 might have been purchased for; and indeed 
 such was the fact. 
 
 But great had been his delight in observing 
 from day to day, the questing excursions of his 
 little stone-gatherers ; there was, he argued to 
 himself, industry, and therefore utility in the 
 whole proceeding ; and then the pigmy labour- 
 ers seemed so brisk and happy at their task 
 that their child-like, though not childish em- 
 ployer — for there is a mighty difference 
 between these two epithets — fully entered into 
 their feelings, and he and they became the
 
 70 FATHER CO^'NELL. 
 
 best friends in the world. And hence few of 
 them ever went home of an evening empty- 
 handed ; a dinner or some pence rewarded the 
 day's exertions ; and from these circumstances 
 very plausibly arose the conjecture, that apart 
 altogether from the quality and fitness of his 
 big heap of stones, the priest had even in a 
 pecuniary point of "vaew, no great bargain of it 
 in the end. 
 
 Another heap of another description of 
 building material was now necessary — namely 
 one of sand, and for this the boAvl bearers were 
 also sent out to quest — and exuberant success 
 ao-ain crowned their efforts ; — although cunning 
 judges still hinted that this acquisition, as well as 
 the former one, had been bought dearly enough. 
 
 But however all this might be, what with 
 well begged donations from every class of 
 society within his reach, and contributions from 
 his own pocket, whenever by chance he found a 
 spare shilling in it, before twelve months since 
 his first thought on the subject had elapsed
 
 FATHER CONNELL 71 
 
 Father Connell's grand public school-house was 
 erected, to the wonder and admiration of his 
 Catholic parishioners, and to the unutterable 
 o-rievance and abomination of some of his 
 dissenting ones : the important object of in- 
 terest on both sides being meantime nothing 
 but a thatched house, though more substantial 
 and better appointed as to the size and fashion 
 of its two front windows, and its door and 
 doorway, than the more reverend cabins with 
 which it grouped, and containing only two 
 apartments on the ground floor. If the critics 
 on the occasion of the uprearing of this 
 public edifice were at present alive, we wonder 
 what they would say to the beautiful Catholic 
 college now nearly finished at the aristocratic 
 end of Father Connell's native city, and already 
 inhabited by Popish ecclesiastical students, 
 walkino; under handsome colonnades, in aca- 
 demic caps and gowns. Well — to say uo 
 more of the pretensions of Father Connell's 
 parish school-house, there it was, and in
 
 72 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 a short time a goodly throng of the future 
 ragged men of Ireland were assembled in it ; 
 and it had been in existence twenty-five years 
 at the time when we first introduced its founder 
 to the reader's acquaintance. 
 
 The present teacher of the establishment had 
 been a pupil in it from his infancy to his early 
 youth ; and as it was customary with our priest 
 to select from amongst his scholars, the one 
 most distinguished for learning and good con- 
 duct, to be promoted to the very desirable 
 station of '' priest's boy," Mick Dempsey 
 became at about sixteen years the object of his 
 priest's patronage in this respect ; and after 
 proving under his own roof, until the boy was 
 a boy no longer, Mick's confirmed morality, 
 and exemplary behaviour, the good man then 
 pushed forward the humble fortunes of his late 
 servant, by appointing him head teacher, master 
 in fact, in the school house, in which he had so 
 long been a pupil ; king of the realm, where 
 he had once been a subject.
 
 FATHER CCNNELL. 73 
 
 And Mick was now a very well clad .nonarch 
 indeed, within the very walls which well re- 
 membered his former tattered inferiority ; and 
 we mention this pleasant progression of the 
 young man's luck in the world that we may have 
 an opportunity of relating a circumstance in 
 connexion with his present new clothes, which 
 took place between his patron and liimself. 
 
 Every Thursday the parish priest and his 
 curates used to attend, in their very humble 
 little chapel, for the purpose of instructing the 
 poor children of the parish, principally com- 
 posed of the pupils of the school-house, in 
 their catechism ; and, during Lent, every 
 evening after vespers was devoted to the same 
 purpose. The curates each taught a class ; but 
 as the number requiring instruction was large, 
 and made up of different ages and capacities, 
 it became necessary that these clergymen should 
 have lay assistants, who were also appointed by 
 Father Connell ; and while the boys on the 
 earthen floor of the chapel, and the girls on the 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 FATHER CONXELL, 
 
 galleries, assembled in little groups, each group 
 attending to its own instructor, the parish priest 
 walked up and down, from place to place, now 
 superintending the business of one class, and 
 now of another. Amongst the lay teachers 
 the master of the school-house held of course a 
 superior rank; and, after his appointment to 
 his new office Mick Dempsey fulfilled his duty 
 in the chapel as faithfully, and as well, as his 
 duty in the school. 
 
 For some time before the occurrence of the 
 little scene we are about to describe, Mick had 
 been attired indifferently enough ; but on a 
 certain evening in Lent, in the dimly lighted 
 chapel. Father Council having listened to, and 
 observed, as usual, his catechism classes, one 
 after the other, and reprehended or encouraged, 
 as the case might call for, suddenly remarked a 
 tall and exceedingly well dressed young man, 
 in tlie centre of a circle grouped round him, 
 very fitly discharging the office of teacher. 
 The old clergyman stopped short and looked
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 75 
 
 hard at the young man, standing at some 
 distance from him. " Wlio was he?" ques- 
 tioned Father Connell — " was he a stranger, or 
 had he seen him before ?" — he thought he had ; 
 yet the dress, and even the air of the individual 
 (for new clothes, when a rarity, do alter for 
 the better even the very mien of their wearer) 
 seemed quite strange to him. The person's 
 back was, however, at present, turned to our 
 priest, and he longed to look into his face ; but 
 feeling that it might be an indelicacy in man- 
 . ners to go at once up to him and stare into his 
 features, he walked down the chapel, as if quite 
 unobservant, yet turning his head every now 
 and then in curious criticism ; and presently he 
 made a wide circuit, that the object of his 
 interest might not suppose he was rudely in- 
 specting him ; till, at length, by prudent man- 
 agement, he stood face to face before his own 
 schoolmaster, Mick Dempsey. And now he 
 opened his smiling blue eyes, and contracted 
 his brows, and poked forward his head, from 
 E 3
 
 76 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 its usual erect position, and drew it back again, 
 and stood straioht as ever, and smiled and 
 smiled until his whole countenance lighted up — 
 the degree of severe authority Avhich he had 
 thought necessary to assume in it, as befitting 
 his character of inspector of the catechistical 
 instruction, quite subsiding; until, finally, he 
 nodded with undisguised delight, and almost 
 with familiarity, to his quondam " boy," now 
 attired from head to foot in a " spick and span 
 new suit" of elegant clothes. 
 
 But, anon, he bethought that the young- 
 observers around him might notice his raptures, 
 strange and unaccountable to them, and that 
 such an exhibition might not, in their eyes, be 
 seemly for the place and the occasion ; so he 
 suddenly resumed his former austere bearing, 
 and addressing his schoolmaster, said aloud — 
 laying a particular stress on the first word, and 
 using much courtesy of manner — " Mister 
 Dempsey, I shall be glad to see you below in 
 my house, when the teaching is over; and
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 77 
 
 don't fail to come, Mister Dempsey ; I have 
 something very particiihir to speak about, 
 sir. 
 
 " I'll attend upon your Reverence," replied 
 the well pleased, though jiuzzled Mister Demp- 
 sey ; and more puzzled was he when the old 
 priest moved the lids of one of his eyes into an 
 action, which could not indeed be called that 
 of a wink, for we doubt if he had been o-uiltv 
 of such a thing since his ordination — but still 
 moved them in a fashion that very nmch 
 resembled a wink ; and then he turned away 
 from Mick Dempsey, to pursue the routine of 
 his l)usiness of the evenino;, still lookino; l)ack 
 however very often to the person who had so 
 charmed him, and whenever their eyes met 
 still nodding and srailino;. 
 
 The evening's Instructions terminated ; Mis- 
 ter Dempsey followed Father Connell to his 
 house, and found him anxiously awaiting liis 
 arrival. 
 
 ^' Mick, Mick, is that you ? Is that you,
 
 78 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 Mick?" began the priest, gently rubbing his 
 hands within each other, and again smiling 
 with peculiar pleasure, while he dropped the 
 term Mister^ which he had deemed fit to assume 
 in tlie chapel. 
 
 " Indeed, and it is myself sure enough, sir," 
 replied Mick. 
 
 " Upon my word, Mick, very good — very 
 good indeed, Mick, upon my word, — turn round 
 Mick, my good boy, till I can have a full view 
 of you ; very nice, very handsome indeed ; and 
 very good, Mick, I declare you are a good boy ; 
 I do declare you are — a very good boy ;" and 
 while thus addressing Mick Dempsey, he 
 turned the young man round and round by the 
 shoulders ; noAV viewing him in front, now^ in 
 the back, and now upwards and downwards, 
 and in conclusion walking round about liim, 
 and clapping his hands softly together and 
 laughing out right. 
 
 " And now, Mick," he continued, more 
 seriously, after fully indulging liis joy ; " now,
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 79 
 
 ]\lick, I like that ! It sliows that you don't 
 throAV away your little savings ; and isn't it a 
 fine thing, Mick, for a good boy to buy elegant 
 new clotlies for himself, and look so decent 
 and respectable in them, and not lay them out 
 on whiskey, or cockfighting, or dancing houses, 
 isn't it a fine thina", Mick ?" 
 
 " Indeed, sir," answered Mick, somewliat 
 astray as to the term, he should use in assenting 
 to his own eulogv. " I think its a great deal 
 better than to use them in the other ways you 
 make mention of, sir." 
 
 " Sit down, ]\Iick, sit dovrn, my good boy — 
 Peggy !" and here Father Connell cried out as 
 loud as he could, and the burly person of his 
 house-keeper appeared in the doorway of the 
 parlour. " Come in, Peggy, and look at Mick 
 Dempsey's new clothes, Peggy, ar'n't they very 
 nice, Peg^oy ? and all bouorht with his own 
 earnings ; ar'n't they very nice, Peggy ?" and 
 he again made Mick Dempsey revolve on his 
 axis, for Mrs. Molloy's inspection, who with her
 
 80 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 hands and arras thrust up to her elbows in her 
 capacious pockets, critically analized her former 
 fellow servant's outside, and then happen- 
 ing to be in something like good humour on 
 the occasion, Mrs. Molloy pronounced Mick 
 Dempsey to be a first rate beau. 
 
 " Bring Mick Dempsey a drink of ale, 
 Peggy," continued Father Connell. " 'Pon my 
 word I think he deserves a little treat," and 
 Mrs. Molloy not demurring, a pewter vessel 
 of ale was shortly placed before Mick, who 
 drank from it to the health of his entertainer, 
 and to that of Mrs. Molloy also ; and here be 
 it noticed that to a measure of good ale was 
 limited all the libations in which our priest 
 indulged his favourites, or himself. 
 
 Mrs. Molloy retired to her kitchen, and a 
 silence of some moments ensued between Mick 
 Dempsey and his patron, the latter steadfastly 
 regarding Mick, though now evidently in a fit 
 of abstraction, for his old eyes opened and shut 
 very fast, and his well formed and handsome
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 81 
 
 old lips, although uttering no sound, tried to 
 keep up with them. At length, his face un- 
 bending to its former glowing smile, he re- 
 addressed Mick in a confidential whisper. 
 
 " Now, Mick, don't you think that some- 
 thing handsome, and respectable, and a little 
 like Avhat gentlemen wear, would be very be- 
 coming, with the new clothes, Mick ? a Avatch 
 now, Mick, svippose a watch ! don't you think 
 so, Mick?" 
 
 The schoolmaster shrewdly guessed to what 
 the question might lead, but fiddling with the 
 vessel from which he drank, he only assumed 
 great innocence, and unconsciousness, as he 
 said — 
 
 " I have no more money left, sir, and a 
 watch would be too dear a thing for me at the 
 present time, sir." 
 
 " And yet for all that, Mick, the watch 
 
 would show off the new clothes right well ; — 
 
 and so my good boy listen you to me. I told 
 
 you before that I did not like to see young 
 
 E 5
 
 82 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 men spending their money in public-houses, or 
 dancing-houses, or such resorts; I believe in 
 my heart, indeed I know well, that almost all 
 the misfortunes that befall young people, are 
 to be met with in places of the kind ; but I do 
 like, above all things, to see a young boy, or a 
 young girl either, dressed well, ay, even a little 
 above their station, Mick, because that shows 
 that they have a respect for themselves; and 
 self-respect, Mick, will surely obtain respect 
 from others. And now, Mick, because I brought 
 you up, and because I see that you are careful, 
 and don't spend your money badly, and because 
 I am sure that your good conduct gives good 
 example, I will take on myself to bestow a 
 token of my encouragement, and approval, 
 where I think it is so well due. I'll give you 
 the watch myself, Mick, to wear with your 
 new clothes ; and you may tell the people 
 when you take it out of your fob to see the 
 hour of the day, you may tell the people, ]\Iick, 
 that your jioor priest made you a present of
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 83 
 
 that watch ; and you may tell them too all the 
 reasons why he did so, just as you have nosv 
 heard them from his own lips, — and when I am 
 in my grave, and you show that watch as your 
 priest's gift, it will do you no harm to be a 
 little proud of it, and people may not think 
 the Avorse of you for having deserved it." 
 
 As the old gentleman finished this earnest 
 though simple address, tears trembled in his 
 eyes, and while the person so complimented 
 fumbled at some expression of his thanks, 
 Father Connell put on his spectacles, and 
 busied himself in writing a few lines, and 
 when he had completed them, he folded the 
 paper into the form of a letter, directed it, 
 handed it to Mick Dempsey, and added — 
 
 " Take this to Tommy Boyle, Mick," mean- 
 ing by Tommy Boyle, a wealthy and much 
 respected inhabitant of the town, fully of the 
 middle age of hvmian beings, on whom, how- 
 ever he still continued to bestow the appella- 
 tion, by which he used to address him a good
 
 84 FATHER CONNKLL. 
 
 many years before, when that person was only 
 a boy, " take this to Tommy Boyle, Mick ; I 
 have told him in it, to give you a watch, to 
 wear with your new clothes, which he will 
 charge to my account : 'tis not to be an expen- 
 sive watch, Mick, because I have not much 
 money to spare ; but I have told him to give 
 you a watch to the value of four pounds ; and 
 when he gives it to you, which I make no 
 doubt he will do, wear it for my sake, Mick." 
 
 The young man was sincerely thankful for 
 this handsome gift, and now found words to 
 express his feelings, promising that he would 
 be careful of it in remembrance of the donor ; 
 and the ale being despatched, and the priest 
 wishing to be aloue, Mick Dempsey bent his 
 head, to receive the old man's blessing; and 
 early the next day, a flaming red ribbon, indi- 
 cative of his watch, was seen streaming down 
 the school-master's right thigh, and he was 
 often stopped in the street, but not too often 
 to feel himself much annoyed at the circum-
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 85 
 
 stance, by humble persons requiring to know 
 the hour of the day ; indeed he would very 
 iwbanely inform, upon that subject, any indi- 
 vidual, man, woman, or child, who hinted, no 
 matter how remotely, his or her anxiety about 
 it.
 
 86 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It v.-as nearly a year after the death of Atty 
 Fennell, that Father Connell paid a visit to his 
 parish school. Christmas day was near at 
 hand, and the weather horribly, and peculiarly 
 cold, even for Ireland, in winter; that is to 
 say, it snowed a great deal, or it rained a great 
 deal, or to try and reconcile the two rival 
 whims of the amiable atmosphere, it sleeted 
 even more than it snowed, or even more than 
 it rained ; and after that, by way of jocose 
 variety, it froze hard, for a few hours — follow- 
 ino- which the short-timed frost came down, as
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 87 
 
 we natives say, in pleasing rain again ; and all 
 these things, it seemed happy to do over and 
 over, while through every interesting change, 
 it blew keenly, all the same from every 
 quarter ; and the surface of the earth became 
 upturned, and uprooted puddle ; and the clouds, 
 instead of sailing aljove the earth, at a con- 
 venient distance, absolutely sunk down upon 
 it, or rolled familiarly over, or along it ; and 
 all places, and all vitality were humid, and 
 shivering, and beyond human endurance, in- 
 sufferable, and abominable, in the land Ave 
 sincerely love best above all the lands we have 
 yet seen in this wide world. It must pardon 
 us, however, this one little demur against its 
 climate. 
 
 Father Connell's business to the school- 
 house, on the present occasion, was to supei'- 
 intend the distribution, amongst the most 
 deserving of his pupils, of certain clothing 
 which he had purchased for them ; indeed if 
 we said the worst clad amongst the poor
 
 88 FATHER COXNELL. 
 
 creatures we should be nearer to the real 
 motive that guided him in his selection of 
 objects for his benefaction. 
 
 About fifty suits of clothes awaited his 
 arrival in the school-house, some of one calibre, 
 some of another, and some of another ; in fact 
 all selected to the best of his judgment, as 
 available to boys of from about five to twelve or 
 thirteen. They were of nearly uniform ma- 
 terial ; namely, a sliirt, a felt hat, a grey frieze 
 jacket and waistcoat, a pair of worsted stock- 
 ings, and a pair of brogues, with the addition 
 of a very peculiar pair of breeches, or small 
 clothes, locally termed a " ma-a." And of 
 course this word " ma-a," requires some passing 
 explanation from us. It was, then, in the first 
 place, bestowed on the portion of dress alluded 
 to, as seeming to explain its pristine nature and 
 quality, by imitating the bleat or sound uttered 
 by the animal, from which the substance of 
 the article had been abstracted. In good 
 truth the " ma-a " was fabricated from a
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 89 
 
 sheep-skin, thrown into a pool of lime-water, 
 and there left until its fleshy parts became 
 corroded, and its wool of course separated from 
 it; — and with very little other preparation, it 
 Avas then taken out, dried in the sun, and 
 stitched with scanty skill, in fashioning it, into 
 something rudely resembling a pair of knee- 
 breeches. 
 
 Such as it might have been, however, a 
 " ma-a"' was the general wear of the humbler 
 classes in the district of which we now treat, 
 and at a period considerably later than that 
 with which we are concerned. Its manufacture 
 engaged many hands, as the term is ; but there 
 is no such trade now ; a '' ma-a" alas, is not to 
 to be had for love or money. Let us, notwith- 
 standing, before posterity loses sight of it for 
 ever, be allowed a little longer, on our gossiping 
 page, to hold up unto general admiration, this 
 once celebrated piece of costume. 
 
 We are beside a standing, near the market 
 house, in High Street, on a market day, and
 
 90 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 upon it are exhibited " ma-as" of all sizes, from 
 among which can be equally accommodated the 
 peasant of six feet, and the urchin who dons his 
 first masculine suit of clothes. Purchasers come 
 up to the standing in turn: one experienced young 
 peasant selects a " ma-a," which, when drawn 
 over his limbs, reaches nearly to his ancles, al- 
 though eventually destined to button just beneath 
 his knees, thereby making sage provision against 
 the drying of the article after the next shower 
 of rain — which would be sure to shrivel it up 
 to half its primary dimensions ; so that if he 
 chose one, extending, in the first instance, only 
 under his knees, he must shortly find it shrunk 
 up to about the middle of liis thigh. Another 
 gigantic " country boy", unacquainted with 
 this collapsing propensity in the " ma-a," 
 which it is the interest of the vender, very 
 often to conceal, chooses, on the contrary, the 
 tightest fittino- " ma-a" suited to his thew and 
 sinew, to make himself look smart at mass next 
 
 I 
 
 Sunday, as is mentioned by the seller ; it does
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 91 
 
 indeed seem even nither too small — that which 
 is so earnestly recommended to him ; and to 
 end all doubts on the matter, he and the trader 
 adjourn from the standing, the debated article 
 in the hands of the latter. We follow them 
 across the street into a little, unfrequented, 
 narrow lane, curious to observe their proceed- 
 ings; and there we notice that, having per- 
 suaded the rustic would-be dandy to squeeze 
 himself half way into the garment, the adroit 
 " ma-a" vender gripes the article at both hips — 
 himself being a very strong man, he tugs and 
 tugs, with professional dexterity, lifting the 
 half ashamed peasant oft' his feet, at every tug, 
 until, at last, forcing the over strained small- 
 clothes over the fellow's huge limbs, and half 
 buttoning it at the knees, he sends him blushing 
 and smiling away, Avith a slap on the tliigli 
 that sounds like one bestowed on a well braced 
 drum. But woe and treble woe to that skin- 
 fitted and already straddling dupe ! On his 
 way home the rain falls in torrents — the sun
 
 92 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 then shines out fiercely ; and by the time he 
 arrives at his mother's door he is a hiughing 
 stock to her and his whole family. The dandy 
 " ma-a" has coiled up more than midway along 
 his thighs, very like damp towels tightly bound 
 round them. 
 
 Antiquarians ! — and all ye lovers of the 
 worthless obsolete ! — forgive this digression, for 
 you will sympathize with it. 
 
 Honestly to resume. Fifty shirts, fifty little 
 felt hats, fifty frieze coats and waistcoats, fifty 
 pairs of the now (we trust) immortalised ma-as, 
 and at least twenty-five pairs of stockings and 
 broghes were heaped before Father Connell, in 
 his school-house ; and many more than fifty 
 poor little creatures assembled, upon the coldest 
 day that came that year, each hoping to be 
 chosen as a fit claimant, upon the bounty of 
 his parish-priest. 
 
 On entering the school-room, the good man's 
 compassion had been forcibly apj)ealed to, as 
 many of the almost naked children, ranged on 
 the forms at either hand, turned up to his face
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 93 
 
 (while their little bodies cringed, and their teeth 
 chattered) beseeching, and yet doubting eyes, 
 whose lids fluttered, and could not for a 
 moment meet his questioning regard. In fact 
 he knew the meaning of these self doubting, 
 mute appeals of the wretched urchins, and 
 his primitive notions of justice battling with 
 them, he was made unhappy. For in truth 
 his keen glance discovered among the greater 
 number of the Avearers of the petitioning faces, 
 individuals who were very irregular attendants 
 in his school ; whereas the Christmas clothinof 
 had been publicly notified to be intended for 
 the most regular visitants of it, taking always 
 into account the most generally deserving also ; 
 so that he plainly understood that a great 
 portion of the present expectants were not, in 
 point of strict school discipline, entitled to the 
 promised periodical favours. 
 
 And this discovery, while it grieved, also 
 puzzled Father Connell. Rigidly, and pro- 
 perly speaking, these young outlaws and street
 
 94 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 idlers, who daily sinned against his constant 
 admonitions, deserved no such reward. Yet 
 how could he send out again, into the snow, 
 which drifted upon a cutting north-east blast 
 against the windows of the school-house, their 
 little shivering carcases ? He turned his back 
 upon them, looked out through the windoAv at 
 the weather, shook his head, prohibitory of the 
 measure, while a few^ drops, too warm, and 
 fresh from the heart for that weather or any- 
 thino- else to freeze, stole from his winkino; 
 eyes. He quitted the window and walked up 
 and down the school-room, pondering over the 
 difficulty in his way. He sternly regarded the 
 young vagabonds again and again ; and, as if 
 in answer to his every look, they cringed 
 together, more and more piteously. AVhat was 
 to be done ? — and he resimied his w^alk up and 
 down the room ; and finally stopped , short 
 again, nodded, but now approvingly to himself, 
 and quite upright and austerely, went to 
 Mick Dempsey and addressed him.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 95 
 
 '' Mister Dempsey," for In this style already 
 noticed, he always spoke to Mick, in the 
 presence of liis pupils ; " Mister Dempsey, I'd 
 be tliankful if you call over the list of your 
 regular scholars, and then let every boy who 
 answers to his name, come down to this end of 
 the school-room;" and he bowed and waved 
 his hand to Mr. Dempsey, while pronouncing 
 aloud his request. 
 
 Mr. DempsQy obeyed the command ; and 
 when the muster-roll had been gone through, 
 more than twenty, alas, of unfortunate young 
 scamps, not comprised in it, remained huddled 
 together at the other end of the apartment, 
 with what looks of bitter disappointment must 
 be imagined. 
 
 The priest then took ]SIr. Dempsey by the 
 arm, and led him into a corner, where their 
 whispered conference could not be overheard. 
 
 " Mick, the poor children below are stran- 
 gers to our school, ar'n't they, Mick ?"
 
 96 
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 '' I hardly ever saw them here before, sir, 
 and now they only come to impose on your 
 Reverence for the Christmas clothing." 
 
 " Mick, this is bitter weather, and the un- 
 fortunate little wretches have scarce a tatter to 
 cover them against it, my good boy." 
 
 " But they have no right to get the clothes, 
 sir, from our own regular boys." 
 
 " That is true ; very true, Mich ; and I 
 know it is a bad example to encourage the idle 
 to the loss of the industrious ; so that I believe 
 to speak honestly and fairly, they ought to be 
 turned out into the snow, without getting any 
 clothes at all. But, Mick, they'd perish, 
 they'd perish in this severe weather, they 
 would indeed, poor little creatures, they'd 
 perish, Mick:*' and he took the school-master's 
 hand and squeezed it, and shook it, and looked 
 into his eyes appcalingly, as if he would turn 
 liim from the rigid justice of the case, to its 
 more merciful side.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 97 
 
 " It would be a cruel thing, Mick," he con- 
 tinued, " to send them out, to have the snow 
 and the biting wind going through their naked 
 bodies ?" 
 
 " It would indeed, sir, but—" 
 
 The priest stopped him, before he could go 
 beyond the admission he sought for; he did 
 not want to hear the other side of the question 
 at all. " Well, well, Mick; — ay;" and he more 
 emphatically squeezed the hand he held, while 
 his old face grew bright again. " I think I 
 see how we are to manage it ;" and now he 
 whispered certain instructions into the school- 
 master's ear, holding his mouth very close to 
 that organ, lest a breath of the purpose of his 
 plan should be overheard. 
 
 '* Give me the cat-o'-nine-tails, sir," he next 
 said, in a loud and tyrannical voice ; and having 
 received into his hands the awful weapon, he 
 walked with a lowering brow, and a more than 
 ever erect person, towards the now terrified 
 
 VOL.. I. F
 
 98 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 candidates for attire, which they had not 
 deserved. 
 
 " You unfortunate little street trotting sin- 
 ners," he said, " how dare you come here to 
 attempt to impose on Mr. Dempsey and my- 
 self? you have never come here before, or very 
 seldom at least ; and you have spent the time, 
 you ought to have spent here in idleness, and 
 of course in sin ; for don't you know, that 
 idleness is the father and mother of sin, and 
 that sin destroys Loth the body and the soul ? 
 don't you know all this, you little vagabonds ? 
 And yet like the drones of the bee-hive, you 
 would now devour the honey without having 
 helped to gather it in ; yes — you now come 
 here to ask for rewards that belong to more 
 deserving boys ; but I'll give you your true 
 reward ; I'll flog every one of you, one after 
 the other, and that will keep you warm ; every 
 one of you." Having delivered this oration in 
 a tremendous voice, he flourished the cat-o'-
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 99 
 
 nine-tails above his head, and all the offenders, 
 (all except one, who stood in suppressed glee 
 on the threshold of the doorway, half observant, 
 and wholly prepared to escape into the street 
 the moment it might become urgently neces- 
 sary ; ) all the offenders emitted an anticipating 
 yell of torture, and jumped up on the forms, 
 or even on the desk, or knelt down, or rolled 
 over each other on the dusty floor. 
 
 But the flourishing of the cat-o'-nine-tails 
 was a signal agreed upon between Mick Demp- 
 sey and himself; and Mick, therefore, now 
 advanced towards the seemingly enraged patron 
 of the school. 
 
 " Come, Mr. Dempsey, have all these young 
 cheats flogged one by one, for bad and idle 
 boys, and for imposing on you and me." 
 
 Louder than ever arose the despairing shrieks 
 of the culprits. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said Mick, " but 
 may be if you forgive them, they will be better 
 boys for the future." 
 F 3
 
 100 FATHER CONNELU 
 
 "Oh! we will, sir, we will — its ayo that 
 will !" shouted the score of impostors. 
 
 " I'm afraid there is little chance of that, 
 Mr. Dempsey," gloomily demurred the priest. 
 
 " If his reverence forgives you, will you ])ro- 
 mise to be good boys for the time to come ?" 
 
 A new and overpowering assent was given 
 to the school-master's proposition. 
 
 " Well; if I thought they Avould mend, I 
 might be prevailed upon to forgive them," 
 resumed Father Connell ; " but is there any 
 one here to go bail for them ?" 
 
 " I will myself, sir ; I'll be their bail to you 
 that they will be good boys and attend to their 
 school, sir." 
 
 " Very good ; very good, Mr. Dempsey ; — 
 do you hear what the master says, ye young 
 sinners ?" 
 
 The persons addressed, failed not to answer that 
 they did hear very well indeed, and their former 
 pledges of reformation were once more uttered 
 in a great clamour ; tones of hope and pleasure,
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 101 
 
 at theii- relief from the cat-o'-nine-tails, now 
 cadencing, however, their voices ; and their 
 priest, interpreting the result only in the way, 
 he had wished it to be, immediately rejoined — 
 " very well, very well, then I forgive you for 
 the present ; and Mister Dempsey forgives 
 you ; and I hope God will forgive you ; so 
 now, come with me to the other end of the 
 room ; come my boys, come ; come up here 
 among the rest — there is more joy in heaven," he 
 continued, as he approached the more deserving 
 claimants for winter clothing, speaking in a 
 loud voice, that they might hear him, and 
 as solemnly, and sincerely as if he addressed 
 an adult congreofation off his little altar. 
 " There is more joy in lieaven for the repen- 
 tance of one sinner, than for ninety-nine just." 
 And now he distributed equally among the 
 righteous, and the unrighteous, as well ;:s 
 his judgment permitted, tlie pile of winter 
 garments, " ma-a's" and tdl. One of the very 
 last, who shyly lingered to claim liis bounty.
 
 102 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 was the boy whom we have mentioned, dm'ing 
 the flourishing of the ' cat-o'-nine tails,' as 
 standing upon the threshold of the school-room 
 door, — prepared to escape into the street, in 
 case of emergency. And, in truth, this little 
 fellow was, perhaps, the very least entitled to 
 share in the holiday donations, for, indeed, he 
 had never before been in the priest's seminary 
 at all; and yet he seemed to want, perhaps, 
 more than any of the half-naked petitioners 
 around him, some protection against the bad 
 weather. Father Coanell had personally in- 
 spected the donning of his little gifts, and now 
 did the same towards the boy before him. 
 While the little stranger put on his new dress, 
 tears were seen to fall plentifully from his 
 eyes, and he suddenly glanced up into Father 
 Connell's face. The old priest started, seized 
 his arm, and led him close to a window. 
 
 " What is your name, my child ?" 
 
 " Neddy Fennell, sir." 
 
 " Neddy Fennell ! And are you the Neddy
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 103 
 
 Fennell that used to fix my surplice on me 
 iu the sacristy, and hurt my foot by treading 
 on it?" 
 
 " I am indeed, sir, the same Neddy Fennell.'" 
 " Poor child ! how changed you are then. 
 God bless me I and I was wondering what 
 had become of yourself and your mother, and 
 your poor aunt ! — after your poor father died, 
 you know, I often went to see ye all, Neddy : 
 but then came my absence from the parish, on 
 business, for a long while ; and then the bad 
 fever, that left me weakly, within the house, 
 for a longer time still ; and it was only the 
 other day I could creep out to ask after you. 
 when I missed you out of the choir : and then 
 your mother's house was shut up, and no one 
 could tell me where you had all gone, — only 
 that great poverty had overtaken ye ; and is 
 this true, Neddy ? And are ye so very poor, 
 Neddy?" 
 " We are indeed very, very poor, sir."
 
 104 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 " God bless me ; poor child, poor child ; and 
 where does your mother live now, Neddy Fen- 
 nell?" 
 
 " In a cabin on the green, sir." 
 
 " Well, Neddy, well ; you'll show me where 
 your mother lives, and I will go see her with 
 you ; wait for me until the boys go home by 
 the bosheen, and go there you with them ; but 
 don't go home with them — don't go any where 
 without me ; poor child, poor child — I must 
 see your poor mother. Now Mick," continued 
 the priest, again whispering the school-master 
 confidentially, " the snow-storm is nearly over, 
 and I will go into the bosheen, where no one can 
 oversee or overhear us, — and I will wait at 
 the churchyard gate, till you come up to me 
 with the boys." 
 
 And in a few minutes the old gentleman 
 occupied his post where he had mentioned 
 it as situated — at the little gate of the church- 
 yard of his chapel ; and half secreted between
 
 FATHER CONXELL. 105 
 
 its piers he now stood. " The Bosheen," — a soli- 
 tary, and unfrequented green lane, running 
 to his right, and to his left. 
 
 For a few minutes he waited here, smiling 
 to himself, and clawing the palms of his hands 
 with his fingers ; and anon, his ears were grati- 
 fied by the expected sound of a gi'eat many 
 little feet, softly tramping through tlie yet 
 thin layer of snow, in the bosheen ; and in a 
 few seconds more, appeared Mick Dempsey 
 heading his army of newly-clad pupils, wlio 
 coming on in great order, only two abreast, 
 formed a goodly column. They slowly defiled 
 l)efore their priest and patron, each as he came 
 u]), squeezing hard, betwixt his finger and 
 thumb, the narrow brim of his little felt hat, 
 chucking it downwards, and the head it con- 
 tained along with it ; and then abruptly letting 
 2:0, that both might l^ob back again, to their 
 usual position, and so altogether pei'lbrming a 
 l)ow to his reverence. And for every l)<)w he 
 got, every single one. Father Connell gave 
 F 5
 
 106 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 another bow, performed with studied suavity, 
 though his face all the "while glittered; and 
 when the troop had quite passed by, he stooped 
 forward, leaning his hands on his knees, to 
 peep after them ; and again standing upright, 
 he clapped those hands softly together, and 
 laughed, almost shouted forth his delight, 
 while not tears alone, but little streamlets of 
 tears, of happy, happy, tears trickled down 
 his })loomy old cheeks. 
 
 It was some time before his outbreak of 
 enjoyment permitted Father Connell's mind 
 to recur to his engagement, with Neddy Fen- 
 nell ; but now suddenly starting, he looked 
 about him for his young friend ; saw the boy 
 standing timidly and alone, at a little distance, 
 walked hastily to him, seized him by the hand, 
 and under his guidance went to visit the widow - 
 of poor Atty Fennell.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 107 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " The Green," so called by Neddy Fennell, 
 had not a bit of green about it, being a space, 
 enclosed at three sides, by wretched cabins, and 
 at the fourth side by the high wall of the 
 county hospital, within which that sedate edifice 
 stood. The cabins were tenanted by the 
 poorest of the poor. Their thatch half rotten, 
 and falling in ; with holes in their clay walls 
 for windows, and holes in their roofs for smoke 
 vents ; and if ever the semblance of a chimney 
 rose above one of them, it was contrived of a 
 kind of osier work, plastered with mud. Upon
 
 108 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 the area of the ground thus hemmed in, pre- 
 sided disorder, and want of cleanliness, in many- 
 inert varieties: heaps of manure before each 
 door, and everywhere about, carefully collected 
 by the inhabitants, as their most considerable 
 source of wealth ; little pools of dirty water, 
 and puddle in all weathers ; stones, great and 
 small, wherever they could find room ; while 
 tlu'ough these pleasing resorts pigs grunted and 
 wallowed, vicious cur dogs barked, and gam- 
 bolled, or else snarled and quarrelled, and bit 
 each other; miserable half starved cocks and 
 hens stalked here and there, in quest of some- 
 thing to pick up, and found nothing ;_ and half 
 naked, and sometimes wholly naked, children 
 ran, shouting, and playing, and enjoying them- 
 selves. 
 
 Fronting the hospital gate, but nearer to the 
 opposite side of the irregular square, the 
 gallows destined for the reception of city 
 malefactors of the highest degree, used, occa- 
 sionally — yet, we are bound to say, very seldom.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 109 
 
 recollecting the mass of squalid poverty around 
 it -to be erected; and this was one feature of 
 notoriety for the green, from which it improved 
 on Neddy Fennell's appellation, and was more 
 emphatically termed Gallows Green. But 
 there was also another trait of its celebrity, 
 now to be indicated. 
 
 It had, time immemorial, been a kind of city 
 corporate commonage. Everything with and 
 without life might take possession of it ; no 
 questions asked ; and the liberal indulgence 
 was not long unacknowled2;ed. When the 
 hospital was being built sand had been scooped 
 irregularly, here and there, from beneath the 
 surface of the green, nearest to the edifice's 
 site, so that, after its completion, and the 
 erection of its boundary wall, holloAvs remained. 
 L'pon the verge of one of those, or haply at 
 its bottom, some speculating, vagabond pauper 
 experimentally ventured to erect a hovel, still 
 more wretched than the buildings enclosing 
 three sides of the space around it. How he
 
 110 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 procured the materials, even for such a dwel- 
 ling, Heaven and he know — not we. No one 
 interrupted his proceedings, and he lived for 
 years, rent free, and tax free ; and in every 
 way luxuriantly free, in his new house. His 
 success emboldened others like himself to imi- 
 tate his example ; and in a few years, copies 
 of his domicile, perhaps to the amount of one 
 hundred or of one hundred and fifty, were 
 to be seen on the edges, or on the sinking 
 sides, or in the very depths of the old gravel 
 pits, and the population of the precious colony 
 soon became very numerous. 
 
 To get into this jumble of miserable dwell- 
 ings was a puzzle ; to get out of it, once in, a 
 still greater one ; for it contained no streets, 
 no lanes, no alleys, no enclosed spots, no 
 straight ways, no level ways ; but hovel turned 
 its back upon hovel, or its side, or its gable, or 
 stood upon the verge of an excavation, or 
 upon the declivity, or at the bottom of one, as 
 before hinted ; so that a stranger venturing
 
 FATHER CONNELL. Ill 
 
 iuto the settlements in quest of any one or 
 any thing, could not know where he was 
 going, or where to go, unless conducted by the 
 hand of an initiated resident ; as to escaping into 
 the green again, without some such friendly 
 agency, the thing was romantically out of the 
 question ; and if he were at all a broad shoul- 
 dered man he must have squeezed his way 
 through almost every random opening available 
 for his progress. In truth, compared with the diffi- 
 culties of this labyrinth the enigma of " The walls 
 of Troy," inscribed by urchins on their slates at 
 school, was a mere nothing ; and in our Chari- 
 table Society, from which the week's president 
 was sometimes deputed to pay the locality a 
 visit, it became jocosely fabled that a shower 
 of houses had fallen, — no time specified — from 
 the clouds, upon this inhabited portion of 
 Gallows Green, tumbling here and there, 
 helter skelter, and so remaining to the period 
 we speak of. And " the shower of houses" 
 became a distinguishing title of the quartier.
 
 112 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 A word as to the probable nature of the 
 characters inhabltliiG:: " The shower of houses." 
 At the first glance we recognize them as a set 
 of unhappy creatures, all living, in one way or 
 another, by chance. i\.t the second it is 
 admitted that many among them were com- 
 posed of individuals so modest as to retire 
 occasionally from the notice of the mayor, magis- 
 trates, constables, and other nice critics of the 
 adjacent city and suburbs ; for once within the 
 sanctuary of the shower of houses, a person of 
 seclusive habits might sequester himself for 
 any given time ; the approach of an uninvited 
 visitor spreading from house to house with 
 telegraphic despatch, and the object of such a 
 visit being helped at every hand to lie secret, 
 or to escape ; while it would have taken a 
 cordon militaire^ shoulder to shoulder, round 
 about the colony, to prevent the egress of any 
 one in it; as to catching amid its subtleties 
 that " any one," you might as well — to use the 
 boastful language of the natives themselves.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 113 
 
 you might as well " look for a needle in a 
 bundle of straw." 
 
 It will of course be borne in mind, that we 
 have sketched a place in existence about thirty- 
 five years ago. " The green," is at present 
 very much improved. Some years since, its 
 civic proprietors established a right of doing 
 what they liked with its little Alsatia ; from 
 which circumstance, resulted the fact, that the 
 vshower of houses vanished from the face of the 
 earth ; and — but we cannot indeed loiter to 
 point out any of the other changes for the 
 better, now visible upon Gallows Green. 
 
 Neddy Fennell stopped his patron before the 
 habitation they had come to seek — one of a 
 piece with all those around it. As Father 
 Connell stood at its threshold, his hat touched 
 the eve of its roof of rotten thatch. Its clay- 
 built walls were mouldering ; its foundations 
 crumbling away ; there was not a good promise 
 held forth by its whole ai^pearance that it 
 could adhere together for half an hour. To
 
 1 14 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 one side of its clumsily patched door was a 
 badly shaped oval hole, the only vent through 
 which, excepting the open door-way, the smoke 
 from within could in mild weather get out, or 
 the light, and the miasmatic vapour floating 
 abroad, and called fresh air, get in. But in 
 the piercing cold, and pelting stonns of the 
 season at present, this hole was stopped with a 
 mysterious bundle of old rags and straw, and 
 the curiouslv contrived old door also shut. 
 
 The initiated Neddy Fennell raised its latch 
 by tugging at a knotted string. Father Con- 
 nell entered the dwelling, bending almost 
 double in order to do so. He stood in the 
 middle of a puddled earthen floor, upon which 
 the thawing snow from above, oozing through 
 the decayed or partially open thatch dripped 
 and splashed, not, however, without becoming 
 tinted in its descent by the depositions of soot 
 formed, time out of mind, upon the therefore 
 blackened sticks that very infirmly supported 
 the roof of the edifice, staining every thing it
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 115 
 
 fell upon into a dingy brown, and hence 
 termed " soot rain." The walls around him 
 were bare chiy, as bare as their outsides, 
 excepting the fact of their being japanned with 
 smoke. 
 
 The length of the hut, from end to end, 
 might be about twelve feet. Quite along this 
 extent ran a mud partition, not, however, 
 reaching to the roof,'_ and enclosing an inner 
 apartment some two short paces in breadth, a 
 doorless blank orifice in the dividing screen 
 affording entrance into it. Against the gable, 
 to our priest's right as he entered, a very little 
 grate was contrived, ingeniously fixed in yellow 
 clay hobs, and fashioned out of pieces of old 
 iron hoops, obtained we cannot venture to 
 affirm how, or where ; and in this grate burned, 
 or rather brightly glowed a brisk fire — glowed 
 we say, because the little balls of mixed clay 
 and ashes composing its materials emitted no 
 flame, but went on igniting like a kiln ; not 
 failing, however, to spread through the shut
 
 116 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 up apartment— unsupplied of course with a 
 chimney, a sulphurous, and otherwise choaking 
 vapour, which made any strange visitor cough 
 and sneeze, much against his will. 
 
 Before the ardent little fire, and almost 
 touching it, squatted a middle aged woman, 
 dressed in rags and tatters; cooking upon a 
 " griddle," (a round flat piece of iron,) a cake 
 which occupied the full space of her apparatus ; 
 and curious to relate, she was so happy in her 
 den of seeming wretchedness, that she en- 
 deavoured to shape her cracked voice into what 
 was intended for a merry song. 
 
 Catching the sound made by the old squeak- 
 ing door as Father Connell came in, the 
 woman stopped short in her melody, though 
 not in her cooking process ; and without turn- 
 ing or looking behind her, jocularly shouted 
 out — 
 
 " Ah, then, the divil welcome you, honey, 
 and is that yourself?" 
 
 A step or two brought Father Connell close
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 117 
 
 upon her. These steps did not sound like 
 those she had expected to hear. She glanced 
 sideways at the feet and legs which now almost 
 came in contact with her own. The friend she 
 had counted on, and for whom her salutation 
 was intended, certainly did not wear black 
 knee-breeches, and large silver buckles in her 
 shoes. She looked quite up, and recognized 
 the formidable hat and wig of her parish 
 priest; and then, Avith surprising agility, up 
 she bounced from her squatting position, re- 
 treated as far as the dimensions of her dwell- 
 ing would permit, and there clasping her 
 hands, gazed in terror at the old clergyman. 
 
 " I fear the word that is on your lips is in 
 your heart," he said sternly, " sinful woman." 
 
 " Och, then, may the word choke me if — " 
 
 " Stop ! — or I fear you may get your prayer ; 
 I fear you will die with that very word in your 
 mouth." 
 
 " I won't — I won't, your rivirince ! — I'll die 
 a good Christian."
 
 118 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 '* AVell, well — God mend you — God mend 
 you," and Father Connell passed into the inner 
 chamber of her house. 
 
 Here, not able to see distinctly any object, 
 he called at the orifice, through which he had 
 squeezed himself, for a light ; the woman 
 without came with some burning straw in her 
 hand, which only flared for an instant, and 
 then left him in redoubled darkness. He asked 
 for a candle, and unable to produce such a 
 luxury herself, the dame tucked up her tatters 
 and left the wigwam to hunt, as she said, 
 " among the good neighbours for a scrap of 
 one ;" during which hunt she did not fail to 
 telegraph through the shower of houses, that 
 their most dreaded enemy, their parish priest, 
 was among them. 
 
 She came back, however, with something 
 like the article for which she had issued forth ; 
 by the aid of which her visitor now discerned 
 two female figures stretched upon loose and 
 damp straw, shaken into two separate beds, as
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 119 
 
 it were, over the puddled earthen floor ; while 
 their bodies were covered with some indefinable 
 patch work of shreds and rags, and while the 
 roof over them now and then sent down heavy 
 drops ; and one of these women was the widow 
 Fennell, and the other her aunt Mary. The 
 old priest's blood ran cold ; liis heart wept 
 within him; but he tried to keep down his 
 feelino's. Obtainino; an old three-leo:2:ed stool 
 
 O r^ DO 
 
 from the next apartment, he sat down on it at 
 the head of the miserable couch now occupied 
 by the once idohzed pet of a comfortable 
 home ; took her little bony hand and listened 
 to her sad tale of explanation. 
 
 " After her husband's death," she said, '^ every- 
 thing went wrong with her; " she was no 
 good," continued her little, feeble, murmuring 
 voice; "she could only mope, cry, and fret all the 
 live-long day ; and the wicked journeyman that 
 Arthur Fennell left behind him, in his shop — 
 — God forgive her if she wronged him ! — turned 
 out to be a very bad man, making his own of
 
 120 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 the profits of her trade, and giving her no 
 accounts ; and debts for stock laid in were 
 asked for, and there was nothing to pay them ; 
 and workmens' wages too were asked for, every 
 week ; and as long as she could she tried to 
 satisfy these demands, bit by bit, out of a little 
 store of money, which Arthur had saved ; and 
 at last, when she had not another penny to give, 
 real poverty came upon her and her aunt ; the 
 interest of her house, her furniture, all was sold 
 and swept away ; and her aunt and she sank 
 lower and lower, changing from one poor 
 lodging to another, until, at last, they were 
 obliged to seek refuge in the place where 
 Father Connell now found them. " We have 
 A eiy little to live on this time back, sir — very 
 little indeed : nothino; but what we are allowed 
 weekly by the good members of the Charitable 
 Society, as the widows of tradesmen — as much 
 as they can give, sir, but still very little between 
 my aunt, and the little boy and myself; and 
 out of it we must pay two shillings a week, for
 
 FATHER CONNELL 121 
 
 the corners we are lying in, and the rest barely 
 keeps the life in us ; and — whisper sir — the old 
 woman and I, poor as our food is, stint ourselves 
 that we may give Neddy something like enough 
 to ate. And oh I Father Connell, this kind of bed 
 I lie on is worse to me than it would be to 
 people always accustomed to such poverty, and 
 to my poor aunt Mary too : indeed and indeed, 
 sir, the could of the flure numbs me, and I feel 
 very, very chilly and miserable, day and night 
 — shivering all over, and never warm as I used 
 to be formerly ; and then the ould covering over 
 our bodies is very thin ; and the rain often 
 drips down on us, so that my very bones get 
 sore, and I have no rest ; and whichever way 
 I turn, is all the same, sir." 
 
 Here the widow Fennell moved herself on 
 her straw. Part of her squalid coverlid fell oft 
 her shoulders; and Father Connell saw that 
 her body was quite naked. He started up 
 from the three legged stool, paced to the 
 second couch occupied by her aunt, and ascer- 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 FATHKR CONNELL. 
 
 tained that the aged woman was in the same 
 condition. Acting upon an impulse, but one 
 which before now he had often fully obeyed, 
 when the sex of the poor object per- 
 mitted, Father Connell walked quickly to 
 a remote nook of the comparatively long slip 
 of dungeon, and was preparing, without ob- 
 servation as he thought, to disrobe himself of 
 his very inner garment, when, glancing behind 
 him, he was suddenly put in mind that he must 
 not, at present, follow up his purpose. He next 
 thrust his hands into all his large pockets, and 
 finding notliing in them, strode up and down, 
 moaning dismally. And, at length, forming a 
 resolution, he alei'tly issued into the outer 
 apartment — not, however, without taking the 
 poor young widow's hand again, squeezing it 
 hard and whispering to her — " I'm going from 
 you, my child, but I won't be long away ; rest 
 you here as quietly as you can till I come 
 back. ' 
 
 " "Where ai'e you, Xeddy ?" he called out :
 
 FATHER CONNELL. ' 123 
 
 the boy ran to him from one of the hobs of the 
 densely glowing little fire ; " give me your 
 hand, Neddy, and lead me out of this sinful 
 place, as you led me into it ; and, after that, 
 come home with me; yes, Neddy, my poor 
 little boy, come home with me ; but we will 
 come back soon again to your mother — we 
 will indeed, Neddy — indeed we will." 
 
 « 3
 
 124 FATHER CONNELL 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 In quitting the abode, holding fast by Neddy 
 Fennell's hand, Father Connell had no eyes 
 for any thing around him. He did not there- 
 fore perceive, that the woman he had first 
 seen cooking her griddle cake, was now sitting 
 on her heels at the fire, along with another 
 woman, habited very like herself ; the friendly 
 visitor, in fact, for whom she had mistaken 
 Father Connell on his coming in ; and who, 
 during his conference with Mrs. Fennell, had 
 really returned to her co- partner, in a certain 
 traffic, her body bent vmder a little sack, se-
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 125 
 
 cured thereon by a hay rope passing across 
 her forehead. 
 
 Upon the meeting of the two friends, a 
 subdued " whist !" — and nodding and winking 
 towards the inner room, on the part of the 
 cook, and then, whispering exphinations at the 
 fire, enabled them to sit quietly until the 
 priest passed out — not, however, without dis- 
 agreeable apprehensions of what might be his 
 notice of them before he left their house. 
 But he did leave it, paying no attention to 
 them ; and then, after a cautious pause to 
 give him time to get far enough away, they 
 ventured to indulge a few sneers and jests, 
 at his expence ; turning by and by to other 
 topics. 
 
 The two persons before us were, what is 
 locally called " potatoe beggars ;" it should be 
 added, potatoe sellers too, as they certainly 
 vended to good advantage, the food received 
 as alms. Amongst the farmers' wives, whom 
 in pursuit of their calling, they very often
 
 126 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 visited, one of them was in the habit of 
 admitting that she " toent hy the name'''' of 
 Nelly Carty, and the other by that of Bridget 
 Mulrooney ; and both used to tell pathetic 
 stories of their large families of orphans, and 
 how they were left aloLe in the wide world, 
 without a " mankind, to do a hand's turn 
 for them on the flure," or to earn as much as a 
 cold potatoe for themselves and their starving 
 children. Co-partners in trade, it has been 
 said they were ; joint owners of their crumbling 
 hut, they also were, and every article of 
 its furniture had two mistresses ; and in all 
 the hardships of business, as well as in all 
 its profits, they had share and share alike. 
 
 Perhaps the majority of the colonists of the 
 shower of houses, living upon chance, as we 
 have intimated, were made up of potatoe beg- 
 gars ; as well, indeed, as were a good portion 
 of the occupiers of all the miserable suburbs 
 at that time surrounding our city ; yet, none 
 of them seemed dissatisfied with their social
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 127 
 
 position ; and, in fact, compared Avitli the less 
 brazen-faced paupers around them, who were 
 ashamed to beg, little reason had these sturdy 
 vagabonds to be so. If famine did not reign 
 over the land, in consequence of the destruc- 
 tion, by an unfavorable season, of the potatoe 
 root, " there was little fear o' them," as they 
 said themselves ; and a passing notice of the 
 manner in which Xelly Carty, and Bridget 
 Mulrooney drove their thriving trade, may 
 prove the assertion, as regards the whole 
 of their numerous and respectable body. 
 
 At break of day in winter, and at six o'clock 
 during every other portion of the year, out 
 sallied either one or the other of them ; her 
 well patched bag of indefinite material chucked 
 under her arm, leaving her helpmate at home, 
 to take care of the house, and perform other 
 necessary duties of the firm. And suppose, 
 Nelly Carty went out, Bridget Mulrooney had, 
 compared with Nelly's responsibilities, a day 
 of eqxuisite rest, — and hence, by the way.
 
 128 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 arose the necessity of the extensive association 
 of potatoe-beggars following their vocation, in 
 couples at least, if not in trios, or quartettos. 
 So, Nelly went out, and after cleai-ing the 
 town and its environs, traversed a pretty wide 
 district, in mud and in mire, in sunshine and 
 in all its contraries, hail, rain, snow, frost, fog, 
 wind and tempest, and so forth ; along high 
 roads, and bye roads, along bosheens and field 
 paths ; over hedge and ditch, over hill and 
 valley, until at last she succeeded in amassing 
 in her sack, a creditable load, amounting to 
 about one hundred weight, gained by most 
 plausible beggary from all the well known 
 farm-houses in her chosen haunt ; and also 
 very often from the c .bins of the working 
 peasants encountered on her way. 
 
 But Nelly was not tuch a fool as to caiTy 
 her bag from door to doijr with any appearance 
 of plenty in it. So soon as it began to assume 
 a plethoric shape, she knew well some con- 
 venient spot in the open fields in which to
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 129 
 
 deposit its contents ; after which, she could 
 bear it quite empty and open-mouthed, and 
 beseechingly to tlie thresholds next to be 
 visited ; and before evening fell, after receiving 
 the " bit and sup," along with her usual dona- 
 tion of raw potatoes, at more than one of the 
 truly charitable dwellings among which she 
 quested, Xelly recurred with the certainty of 
 a raven, to the hiding hole glanced at ; secured 
 the mouth of her now well distended wallet : 
 passed a rope of hemp, or of hay over its 
 middle, when she had poised it between her 
 shoulders ; repassed the rope across her fore- 
 head ; then gained by the shortest cut, a place 
 of rendezvous on the hio^h road, where she met 
 perhaps a dozen of her sisterhood, though by 
 no means in partnership with her, who there 
 had sat down to rest a little while, after 
 the happy termination of their day's inge- 
 nuity ; rested, and smoked, and gossiped, 
 merrily and loudly along with them ; in 
 their company walked home, bent double, 
 G 5
 
 130 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 though on sturdy bare red legs and feet ; 
 gained the rent free, and tax free dwelling of 
 which she and Bridget Mulrooney were joint 
 proprietors; entered it, and found Bridget pre- 
 pared to afford her in every way a luxurious 
 welcoming, after her tramp of at least fifteen 
 long Irish miles ; relieved herself, with her 
 helpmate's joyous aid, of her formidable fardel, 
 and sat down at the bi'isk little fire to become 
 very happy. And the next morning Bridget 
 Mulrooney went out Avith the bag, of course, 
 and Nelly staid at home to enjoy Aer day of 
 repose ; and so, day after day the year round, 
 the business of their concern was regularly 
 carried on. 
 
 The shower of houses has passed away ; 
 not a trace even of the foundations — if ever 
 they had any, of its hundred and fifty wig- 
 wams can be seen ; but potatoe-begging has 
 thereby suffered nought, either in popular 
 estimation, or in the numbers of its professors. 
 To this very hour, towards the close of the
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 131 
 
 day, detachments of the amiable sisterhood 
 homeward bound, and generally proceeding in 
 single file, Avhile they all gabble and laugh, and 
 gibe, and shout, to each other, from front to 
 rear, may be encountered upon every high 
 road divero;ino- from their native town. 
 There is one of those roads, by the way, along 
 which the good ladies do not trudge in very 
 high spirits, but rather with clouded brows, 
 scowling eyes, and muttering voices, and that 
 one is the road to the left hand side, of which, 
 just as it is about to join Gallow's Green, a 
 certain building now begins, with every pro- 
 mise of being soon finished, to erect its austere 
 looking front — the district poorhouse in fact. 
 
 But Bridget and Nelly are still before us, 
 at their fire, provokingly inviting us to turn 
 from a general notice of them to something; 
 more individual and domestic ; and it was 
 Bridget Mulrooney who had been out that day 
 with the bag. 
 
 When they became quite assured that the
 
 132 FATHER CONNEI.L. 
 
 priest was beyond hearinj^ or observation, 
 Nelly recurred to her griddle cake, which, du- 
 ring his retreat into the inner apartment, she 
 had not forgotten to take c^re of, and now 
 found it done " to a turn," and to her heart's 
 full satisfaction, as it exhibited on both sides 
 the proper speckled surface of brown and 
 white, which demonstrated her culinary suc- 
 cess. She removed it from the griddle, cut it 
 up into measured portions, and placed these on 
 edge round the hob, to keep them still com- 
 fortably hot. She then put a short fonu in 
 front of the smirking fire ; and using a ricketty 
 old chair as a sideboard, deposited upon it her 
 odd cups and saucers, as she called them — and 
 indeed " odd" they were in every sense of the 
 word, of different sizes, patterns and colours ; 
 by their sides, or among them, one leaden tea- 
 spoon, a little jug with a broken nose, three 
 white delft plates with blue edges, a wooden 
 *' noggin" a little black tin teapot, and a 
 wooden-hafted knife. This done, she drew
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 133 
 
 out of one of her capacious pockets a Hat 
 bottle, containing whiskey, which, when used 
 as on the present occasion, is jocularly termed 
 " colliery crame;" again from the same ample 
 receptacle a small folded paper, holding one 
 quarter of an ounce of tea, and after it a second 
 parcel somewhat larger, enveloping two ounces 
 of intensely Ijrown sugar. During her pro- 
 ceedings so far, a small three legged metal pot 
 had been boiling away gloriously, after the 
 removal of the cake and the griddle, on the 
 fire ; with the aid of the wooden noggin she 
 now abstracted from this pot, water to make 
 her tea in the little dingy tin tea-pot ; and, still 
 continuing her allotted household duties, split 
 the different portions of her cake with the 
 wooden hafted knife, and then heaped butter 
 upon the insides of each portion until the 
 dainty was saturated through and through. 
 
 Pending these preparations, Bridget Mul- 
 rooney, squatted on the floor, at one end of 
 tlio short form, looked on at Nelly's process.
 
 134 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 with very pleasing anticipations, and asking a 
 careless question, now and then, and uninter- 
 ruptedly extending the palms of her red hands 
 and the soles of her red feet so closely to the 
 fire as, by nice and habitual calculation, barely 
 to avoid the uncomfortable result of having 
 them blistered, enjoyed, it may be boldly 
 affirmed, a position and situation of great bliss. 
 Her day of labour was over ; she was delici- 
 ously resting herself; she had not to stir in the 
 performance of any household duty ; abundant 
 and cheering refreshment was close at hand ; 
 and she was not to go on the tramp for one 
 whole day again — what earthly lot could sur- 
 pass hers ? Ask a queen ! 
 
 Everything being in readiness, Nelly Carty 
 also squatted herself at the end of the form 
 opj)osite to which Bridget INIulrooney sat. The 
 pair rubbed their hands in gleeish anticipation ; 
 and the pig, nestled in his corner, thrust out his 
 snout from his straw, regarded his mistresses, 
 and good humouredly grunted his satisfaction
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 135 
 
 at seeing them so comfortable, and so near the 
 point of perfect enjoyment. 
 
 Our hostess of the evening poured out tlie 
 scalding hot tea, sweetening it well with the 
 thoroughly brown sugar, and more than once 
 sipping with the little leaden spoon from both 
 the cups before her, to ascertain, as in duty and 
 etiquette bound, the quality of the beverage, 
 according to the judgment of her own palate. 
 She next infused into each cup no stingy 
 portion of the " colliery crame," which, as it 
 o-urgled throuo;h the neck and mouth of the 
 flat bottle, so tickled the ears of both ladies 
 as to produce a pleasant chuckle. And again 
 the smiling Hebe of the feast stirred the 
 compound mixture with her little leaden spoon, 
 again took a sip out of each cup, wagged her 
 head in approval of the final fitness of the 
 beverage ; and handing over one measure of it 
 to her helpmate Bridget, cried out in a tone of 
 utter joviality —
 
 136 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 " Here, my ould Duchess — will that lie in 
 your way we wondher ?" 
 
 "" That's nate tay sure enough, Nelly," after 
 swallowing a mouthful so hot and so pungent 
 that it obliged her to close her eyes during its 
 descent throuo;h her throat — "but I think 
 yourself is as much of an ould Duchess as I 
 am, Nelly ?" 
 
 " 'Faith we're a pair of ould Duchesses, 
 Bridget, and much good may it do ns, I 
 say." 
 
 " There's them is worse off, Nelly, wid our 
 good tay and our butthered cake." 
 
 " Well, well Bridget, alanah machree, if 
 you were lookin' at me to-day evenin' when the 
 ould priest came in ! By this same blessed tay, 
 I thought the ground would open and swally 
 me. Sure I thought that t'was your four 
 bones that lifted the latch ; and, so, what does 
 I do, but sings out ' divil welcome you, 
 honey,' to the face iv his big wig."
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 137 
 
 " Oh-a, oh-a ! and what did he say to you, 
 Nelly?" 
 
 " He has no good will to me of ould — 
 and he tould me I'd die with that word in my 
 mouth — but I won't — I'll die a good christian 
 yet, Bridget, as I tould him." 
 
 " And we'll all do that Nelly, and why 
 not?" 
 
 " If there's anything comes across you, 
 Bridget, the grass won't grow under my feet, 
 till I hunt out the priest for you, and bring 
 him to the bedside to you — and, by coorse, 
 you'll do the like for me, Bridget ?" 
 
 " By coorse, Nelly, by coorse ; but tell me 
 what's the rason that Father Connell would 
 have an ould grudge against you, Nelly ?" 
 
 " Faix, and that you'll know afore long, my 
 jewel, if Nelly Carty's tongue dosn't get the 
 palsy in it." 
 
 " Och, there's little dhread ov that, Nelly." 
 
 " Divil a fear, my ould duchess, but wait a 
 bitob you plase — Go skurra dhuch naa skaol goea
 
 138 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 one way, but I say, no story widout the 
 supper." 
 
 A second cup of tea, j^recisely manufactured 
 as its predecessor had been, was served out, 
 and Nelly continued. 
 
 " I b'lieve its ten years agone sense you 
 an' I kem together, Bridget. I lived on the 
 Lake at that time, an' Father Connell has a 
 mortil hathred to the Lake ; and I was livin' 
 under the wan roof with Tim Donoher — you 
 know Tim Donoher, Bridget ?" 
 
 " No, I never stopped on the Lake, Nelly, 
 and so I had'nt a knowledo-e ov him." 
 
 " He goes by the name of Woodbine." 
 
 " Woodbine, enagh ! And what do they 
 call him by that name for, Nelly ?" 
 
 " He has wan good leg, Bridget, but the 
 other is'nt the fellow iv it; and he carries a 
 critch at the side where the odd leg hangs ; and 
 if you war to see that leg ! — it twists round 
 the critch, wan or two times, afther the man- 
 ner iv the woodbine that grows in the hedges :
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 139 
 
 and for the same raison they calls him Wood- 
 bine." 
 
 *' He, he, he ! divil a betther." 
 
 '* Well, my ould hare, I lived under the one 
 roof wid Woodbine, at the time I'm goin' 
 to tell about ; and Tim and the whole of us 
 liked a bit of mate well enough ; so, myself 
 was out in the direction of Ballysalla, and 
 there was as fine a dhrake as ever you could 
 lay your two eyes on, and as nice a duck 
 along with the dhrake becoorse, and the both 
 were paddlin' on afore me ; — and shure it 
 come into my head, that they were tired — the 
 cratures ; they waddled over and hether at 
 sich a rate ; but sense that time I was often 
 thinkin' twas the fat that made them hobble in 
 their gate o'goin' — what do you think, Bridget?" 
 
 " Och ! and it was the fat, sure enough, — 
 he, he, he !" 
 
 " Faix, and may be your in the right. 
 Well, howsomdever, havin' the notion that 
 they were tired, sure I said to myself, I'd
 
 140 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 carry e'em a start, and enough to do, I had to 
 ketch e'm." 
 
 " Well, well ; but sure that might put id 
 in your head that they were'nt tired, Nelly." 
 
 " It never crossed my mind at that time, 
 and more betoken ; there's no dependin' on a 
 duck or dhrake. I often seen 'em undher 
 a horse's foot, an' you'd think the hoof was 
 down on their backs ; and afther all, they'd 
 twist out o' the-w^ay, like a 'cute ould eel, 
 and there would'nt be a feather touched." 
 
 " Well, afther a rale chase, shure I had my 
 duck and my dhrake safe enough, and I puts 
 one undher one arm, and another undher the 
 other arm, an' draws the cloak over 'em, 
 and I was goin' my way, when the widow 
 Delouchry comes up to me, and she puts ques- 
 tions to me about the same duck and dhrake. 
 Myself said I seen 'em crossin' the stubble 
 field a little while agone, but then up comes 
 the widow Delouchry's son to her help, and 
 afther him her daughther — and they were all 
 lookin' across the stubbles, when, my jewil, the
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 141 
 
 threacherous cluck cries out, " walk, walk, 
 walk," undher one arm, and her dhrake naakes 
 answer to her undher my other arm ; and 
 ochone, lanna machree, they tore open my 
 mantle, widout sayin' by your leave, or how 
 do you like it, and out they pulls misther 
 dhrake and misthress duck for nent the world ; 
 and I gets a slap on one cheek wid the dhrake, 
 and a slap on th' other cheek wid the duck, and 
 they falls pullin' me to babby rags ; but afore 
 they had me toi'e asundher entirly, up gallops 
 Father Connell on horseback, and he thried to 
 make pase ; and then, shure they tould him the 
 whole story, and iv a sartainty, he looked very 
 black at me, and shuck his wig frightful to see, 
 and yet for all that, the ould creathure of a 
 priest would'nt let em touch me any more, but 
 tould me to make the best o' my way into the 
 town ; and he overtuk me on the road, and 
 he gave me the best of advice ; and he made 
 enquiries about my way of livin', and every 
 thing ; and shure I tould the poor man how
 
 142 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 the husband was dead, and how the childher 
 war very badly off entirely ; and I did'nt say I 
 stopped in the house wid Woodbine at all, only 
 I gave him the name of another place — and 
 what would you have of it, Bridget ? when he 
 came to help myself and the childher, he did'nt 
 find me where I said I had my lodgin'." 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! faix, and that was conthrary 
 enough." 
 
 " Och, mostha, and the worst is to be tould 
 yet, Bridget Mulrooney. Woodbine, as I made 
 known to you, liked a bit o'mate, and he was 
 hard run for the same one time ; and Father 
 Connell had two goats, to give him crame for 
 his tay, the poor genthleman, and Woodbine 
 comes across the goats ; and as shure as you're 
 planked there afore the fire, he brings the goats 
 home wid him — so that becoorse we didn't want 
 for roast and biled while they lasted. But 
 murdher an' ages !- just as we were on the last 
 of 'em, and it was purty late in the night when 
 we were sitten at the faste — the latch o' the
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 143 
 
 dour was riz up, my jewel, and in Avalks Father 
 Connell his own self! — and shure the goatskins 
 was hangin' agin the walls, and they sould the 
 pass on us. Oh ! oh ! oh ! you wouldn't give 
 threppence for our souls and bodies when we 
 saw him standin' on the flure — we thought he'd 
 ate us alive. But what do vou think? — the 
 poor foolish man spoke to us paceable enough, 
 considhering we was afther devourin' his purty 
 goats ; and before goin' away, he tould us the 
 worst thing he'd wish us was that they might 
 be cryin' " mag-a-maa" in our stomachs ; and 
 now it's a downrio;ht truth I'm going to tell 
 you, Bridget: Woodbine and myself, and two 
 more, used to hear the " mag-a-maa" inside iv 
 us every night for a long while afther." 
 
 " Well, Bridget, asthore ; if Woodbine and 
 the rest of 'em was in throuble from the priest, 
 sure its myself was in the rale, downright 
 scrape. I thought to hide my head, remem- 
 berin' about the dhrake and the duck ; but he 
 knew me at the first peep, my honey — and
 
 144 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 though you'd think from the way he goes, that 
 he wouldn't be able to take notice of you at 
 all, his ould blue eye darts through you as 
 sharp as a needle for all that." 
 
 " That's the tmth, Nelly : we all know he 
 has the sharp eye in his head." 
 
 " And yet, Bridget, if he seen thp man that 
 I seen to-day — though he has good rasontoknow 
 that man well — keen as his eyes are, he could 
 never call to mind who he was lookins: at." 
 
 " Arrah ! d'ye say so, and who was that 
 man, Xelly?" 
 
 " I'll till you then, Bridget, and you'l say its 
 a story. worth harkenin' to. Its beyond thirty 
 years ago, sence what I'm goin' to reharse for 
 you happened. There was a clane young boy, 
 at that time, livin' not far from this very place, 
 and he went by the name of Robin Costigan ; 
 and I was a very young girl then, and I'll say 
 no more about Robin and myself, at present ; 
 — only somehow it happened that Robin bor- 
 rowed the loan of a horse, without axin lave,
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 145 
 
 and he was cotcli on the back of that horse, at 
 a fill r, in the Queen's county; and — but nuir- 
 ther ! What's that at the door o' the house ?" 
 
 Neither of the dames had heard Father Con- 
 nell impart to Neddy Fennell his intention 
 of soon coming back that very evening to 
 their domicile. After his departure with the 
 boy, they had sat down, without fear of 
 interruption, for the night, to enjoy their 
 ** tay ," and had therefore secured, on the inside, 
 their crazy door, as well as they coukl. Plence, 
 upon now hearing a loud thuniping and kick- 
 ing at it, considerable was their surprise, if not 
 alami. Up they bounced together, and to- 
 f^ether bawled out, throu2;h the chinks in their 
 door, a questioning challenge to the unex- 
 pected visitors. ^ 
 
 " Let me in, ye unfortunate creatures," 
 answered the tones of Father Connell's well 
 known voice, not angrily however. 
 
 Suppressing their screams, shouts indeed, if 
 they had let them escape, one of the ladles 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 hastened to hide away as quickly as possible, 
 all evidences of merry-making ; while the 
 second, with fi'ank and hearty avowals of an- 
 swering the priest's request, seemingly fumbled 
 with great zeal to try and open the door ; and 
 when at last she did pull it open, great was her 
 astonishment to see Father Connell and little 
 Neddy pass in, each heavily laden with dif- 
 ferent kinds of burdens. 
 
 But, before continuing any -longer this his- 
 tory, under the roof of Nelly Carty, and 
 Bridget Mulrooney, we suddenly perceive a 
 necessity for premising why our parish priest 
 took Neddy Fennell with him, upon a pro- 
 mise of soon returning to the lad's mother, 
 and where they went together, and how they 
 now re-appeared burthened as has been noticed.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 147 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Still piloted by his friend Neddy, Father 
 Conuell had threaded his way through the 
 shower of houses. He aud his faithful guide 
 cleared them, and the old man walking at so 
 bi'lsk a pace as almost to make the boy trot in 
 order to keep up with him, the confidential 
 pair halted before the outer door leading into 
 the yard of the clergyman's residence. It was 
 partially open, and Father Connell thought he 
 should know the meaning of that circum- 
 stance ; he said nothing, however, but crossing 
 the yard to a little stable just opposite to him 
 H 3
 
 148 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 unhasped its door as quietly as possible, and 
 stealing in with his companion, who, no ways 
 dull for his age, watched^ the priest's proceed- 
 ings with much wonder, and perhaps some 
 humour, took Neddy by the shoulders, placed 
 him out of sight from any one passing by, 
 mounted with great agility a ladder in one 
 corner, gaining by its agency a hay and straw 
 loft, and after a moment's delay handed down 
 to his juvenile helper some four or five small 
 bundles of fresh straw. 
 
 " And now don't stir out of that, for your 
 life," he whispered, shaking his clenched hand 
 at Neddy. " No, not a foot until I come back 
 to you again, Neddy." 
 
 " Never fear, sir," answered the boy in a 
 like cautious whisper, while he, in turn, shook 
 his little fist in good mimicry — '*' I'm not the 
 lad to budge on you, sir," and his priest patted 
 his head, and seemed very well pleased at 
 having so excellent a colleague in his contem- 
 plated enterprize.
 
 FATUER CONNELL. 149 
 
 Then he hasped the stable door upon Neddy ; 
 took out his latch key and opened the door of 
 his house ; stood upon its threshold, and peered 
 before him and to each side, with increased 
 vigilance. There was no one as yet visible. 
 He advanced a step or two, paused, again 
 peered in every direction, and listened ; — all 
 was still, right, and safe. He trod on tiptoe 
 into Mrs. Molloy's kitchen : it was seemingly 
 quite untenanted. He took a candle off her 
 kitchen table and dared to invade her bed- 
 chamber. He stealthily stripped the blankets 
 from her bed ; and was also about to steal a 
 heavy patchwork quilt, but conscientiously 
 hesitated for a moment; and deciding ,after 
 much deliberation, that the greater portion 
 of it might have resulted from her own in- 
 dustry and contrivance, and not from his 
 pocket, finally resisted the sore temptation. 
 Yet, after that, he approached Mrs. Molloy's 
 wardrobe, — an old trunk in which she kept 
 all her more useful portions of dress ; abstracted
 
 150 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 from its contents, after much, and indeed not 
 unpuzzled scrutiny, two nicely folded linen 
 robes, of a certain description ; rolled tliem up 
 in her blankets ; stealthily passed out again — 
 his bundle under his arm — from her bed-room, 
 and through her kitchen ; and as stealthily 
 ascended a little, narrow and very short stair- 
 case to his own sleeping apartment. 
 
 Here, the first theft he had to commit was 
 easily got through ; the blankets of his own 
 bed were soon coiled over the pack he had 
 already accumulated. But he also wanted a 
 few shillings, and now some delay occurred. 
 He placed ]Mrs. ]\Iolloy's candle on a chair, sat 
 down on another and gazed wistfully and 
 debatingly at an old fashioned piece of oaken 
 furniture, partly writing desk and book case, 
 and partly chest of drawers. In one of its 
 recesses was a little linen bag with a runnino; 
 string containing money begged exclusively for 
 the sui)port of his parish poor school ; durst he 
 fairly and honestly make use, for a time, of any
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 151 
 
 portion of the contents of that little bag for 
 any other purpose? He reasoned this case 
 with his heart as well as with his mind ; at last 
 resolved that the call at hand was so urgent 
 and peculiar that he indeed might do so — firmly 
 promising to himself to replace with interest 
 what he should now only borrow from the 
 small hoard ; and then he courageously appro- 
 priated the few shillings he had wanted and 
 returned to the stable, there helping his youthful 
 accomplice in this burglary on his own house to 
 mount the straw on his shoulders, while he 
 himself arranged to carry under one of his 
 proper arms the goodly bundle plundered within 
 doors. 
 
 In all his proceedings the good man was quite 
 serious and earnest ; while ISIaster Neddy 
 Fennell saw so much drollery in the whole 
 affair that, in assisting with all possible gra- 
 vity, as he was desired to do, in every necessary 
 proceeding, a looker on might have detected in 
 his eye and manner signs of a waggish enjoy-
 
 152 FATHER CONNELU 
 
 ment, which, liowcver, fully escaped Father 
 ConuclFs notice. 
 
 But Father Conncll had not been as success- 
 ful as he imagined, in avoiding observation. 
 To be sure, as he had sagely surmised, upon 
 finding the door of his yard open, Mrs. Molloy 
 ■was not at home — the lady having " slipped 
 out" for a little gossip with some of the 
 neighbours. But she had left " the boy" 
 behind in care of the premises, strictly charging 
 him not to stir till her return, and then care- 
 fully latching the door of the house upon him, 
 and purposely leaving the outer door ajar, that 
 she might steal in at her pleasure, and ascertain 
 if her sentinel was duly on his post. 
 
 As the evening was bitterly cold, Tom 
 Naddy, the "priest's boy," resolved to establish 
 himself, while keeping watch and ward, in the 
 most comfortable position possible, within the 
 house — which, as every one knows, or ought to 
 know, must have been upon one of the huge hobs 
 within the capacious kitchen chimney. Yet he
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 153 
 
 paused for an instant, refinedly canvassing the 
 question as to which hob he ought to prefer to 
 the other. That on which the cat reposed 
 he finally resolved upon preferring, and so 
 displaced madam puss, and sat down exactly 
 where she had been, his knees up to a level 
 with his chin ; and as some recompense to her 
 for his unceremonious usurpation of her throne, 
 he then fixed Puss across his thighs, speaking 
 fondly to her, and stroking her down, upon 
 Avhich his kitchen companion winked up at him 
 with both her eyes, and began to purr grate- 
 fully. Thus established, the east wind might 
 whistle, and the snow flake might dance to the 
 tune, but neither Tom Naddy nor the cat 
 chattered their teeth in unison with it. 
 
 Tom Naddy began to dose. The sound of 
 a latch-key turning in the door of the house, 
 fully restored him to his powers of observation. 
 It was either Father Connell or Mrs. Molloy 
 who was about to enter. If Mrs, Molloy, he 
 did not care very much ; if his master, he 
 u 5
 
 154 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 did fear a remonstrance against sloth and idle- 
 ness, accompanied perhaps by some hard pull- 
 ing at his ears ; so without absolutely distui'b- 
 ing himself, he prudently bent his faculties of 
 hearing, to interpret, to his o\Yn mind, the 
 sound of the footstep which must follow the 
 other sound he had just heard. Be it re- 
 marked, that Mrs. Molloy had, as well as 
 Father Connell, a latch-key to the house 
 door. 
 
 In one instant he became convinced that it 
 was the priest who had come in; upon which 
 discoYcry Tom Naddy had no resource but to 
 cringe himself up along with his cat, into the 
 corner of the hob he occupied, that fortunately 
 being the one thrown into deep shadow by the 
 side of the chimney opposed to the small taper on 
 Mrs. Molloy's kitchen tabic. The priest crept 
 on tiptoe into Tom's presence, and for the 
 reasons given, as well indeed as because his 
 mind's eye had prepared itself for discerning 
 solely the figure of his housekeeper, his " boy"
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 155 
 
 remained quite unnoticed by him. But that 
 boy did not therefore continue ignorant of 
 Father Connell's larceny in Mrs. Molloy's 
 bedroom. 
 
 Before going farther, there is a slight reason 
 why you should be loosely sketched, Tom 
 Naddy. You were, at this time, about 
 sixteen or seventeen, though no one could 
 venture to say as much by looking at you. 
 You were very significantly described, by your 
 homely neighbours, as a " hard-grown brat ;" 
 short for your years, and not making up in 
 bulk what you wanted in height. You 
 had a jackdaw-colored eye, of which, it was 
 not easy to define the expression. It did not 
 we hope mean dishonesty ; for according to 
 Lavater's rule, you looked straight into one's 
 face ; yet there was something in your glance, 
 which made your philosophical observer curious 
 to find out, what that something was. Again, 
 according to the sage mentioned, your nose 
 had no hypocritical di'oop in it, but was on
 
 lo6 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 the contrary — a goodly broad snub ; and a 
 further and a greater puzzle about you Avas, 
 that ijobody could ever say, whether it was a 
 smile or a grin, which alw.iys played around 
 your fleshless lips. And moreover, Tom Xaddy. 
 there appeared no boyishness about you. To 
 be sure you had a certain easy slowness in your 
 whole manner; not laziness, as your poor 
 master would have called it, but a peculiar 
 self-possession, often broken up by an unex- 
 pected briskness ; and you were not a person 
 of many words, although you whistled a great 
 deal — not, however, it is conjectured, fur want 
 of thought ; because your queer face never 
 looked vacant; and even while seemingly given 
 up, mind and soul, to produce the fidl pathos 
 of " Molly Asthore," there used to be occasi- 
 onally an abstract meaning in yoiu* eye, foreign 
 from your harmony, and you would wink, or 
 grin, or smile, or wag your white-haired head, 
 in the very middle of the tune. 
 
 So, no sooner had Father Connell ascended
 
 FATHER CONNELU 157 
 
 to his own bedroom, than Tom Naddy, start- 
 ing into one of bis unusual instants of energy, 
 very unceremoniously removed puss from his 
 lap, darted through the open doorway of the 
 house, and through that of the little yard also, 
 and abnost the next minute was shouldering 
 into the cabin where he guessed Mrs. Molloy 
 to be stationed, his assumption of briskness 
 being, however, now forgotten, just as sud- 
 denly as it had seized upon him, while he 
 moved very leisurely, and whistled slowly and 
 beautifully. 
 
 When he confronted her, Mrs. I\IoIloy 
 paused in the midst of a holding forth, her 
 hand suspended in mid air, and her tongue, for 
 a novelty, between her open lips. 
 
 " Didn't I lave ijou, well latched in, to mind 
 the house ?" she asked in stern astonishment. 
 
 "• There's some latch kays that opens what 
 other latch kays shets in," answered Tom. 
 
 " What's that you say ?" 
 
 '' Fhu !" (shivering) " it's a cowld bitther
 
 158 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 night to sleep Avidout blankets," was Tom's far 
 off answer, and he resumed his interrupted 
 Avhistling. 
 
 " Didn't you hear me, Tom Naddy ? — didn't 
 I lave you in charge of the place ?" 
 
 " Yes ma — ma'am ; but mostha, I couldn't 
 stop his hand, if 'twas his liking to sthi-ip the 
 house from the kitchen to the tatch on the roof 
 in it, wliati b'lieve he'll do afore he laves off." 
 
 " It's the masthcr at his work agin, neigh- 
 bours," cried Mrs. Molloy, starting up and 
 seizing her cloak, '*jist as I was telling you ! 
 lie won't lave himself, poor fool iv a man, a 
 blanket to cover his bed — no, nor a shirt to 
 cover his ould skin ! I'll tell ye something he 
 done that-o-way, for the hundredth time, a 
 little while agone — " 
 
 Tom Naddy deemed that she was staying 
 
 too long from home, and interrupted her — 
 
 " there's other blankets in the house as well as 
 
 his own, and other things like shirts, too." 
 
 She started back, asking in her gutteral
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 159 
 
 tones, with utter surprise — " Is it my blankets, 
 or any of my things you'd spake of?" 
 
 Tom broke up his -whistling only with a 
 sedate nod of assent. 
 
 Mrs. Molloy bounded, as well as she could, 
 out of the cabin. She encountered Father 
 Connell and Neddy Fennell in the middle of 
 the yard, each heavily laden, and just about to 
 escape with their spoil. She whisked the tails 
 of her cloak over each arm, thus having her 
 hands at liberty to stretch themselves out, 
 while her voice croaked more than usual, and 
 the beard on her two chins miglit be said to 
 stir and bristle. 
 
 " Well to be sure ! Isn't this a poor case ! 
 I'm downright ashamed o' you, sir ! It's a 
 burning scandal, sir — an' will you never give 
 up these doings? — an' I'll not stand this, sir — • 
 an' I'll not put up with it, sir — an' I'll have you 
 to know that I won't, sir I" 
 
 Father Connell, thus detected, after all his 
 precautions, only smiled inwardly, however, as
 
 160 FATUER CONNELL. 
 
 he said in a temporising voice, " Peggy, Peggy, 
 anger is a deadly sin !" 
 
 " An' what kind of a sin do you call thievin', 
 sir ? Yes, thievin' — I can call it by no other 
 name, sir." 
 
 *' Let me pass out, good woman," said the 
 priest sternly, although he was now more dis- 
 posed to laugh heartily ; " and be patient, Peggy, 
 be patient." 
 
 " Patient in troth ! patient ! I can't be pa- 
 tient — and to ould Nick I pitch patience ! — 
 Look at that big hai)e undther your arum — my 
 own things rovvled up along wid your's ! — 
 patient ! why, if a holy saint was sent o' pur- 
 pose down to keej) house for you, and to look 
 afther herself and yourself, you'd torment the 
 very life and sowl out iv her in a week, so you 
 would ; here I am, from Sunday morning to 
 Saturday night, striving, an' scraping, an' 
 piecing, an' patching, for the two ov us — an' 
 all to no purpose — no, but worser an' worser 
 for all I can do ; an' now to make up the
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 161 
 
 matther, you come ov sich au evening as this, 
 and ov sich a night as this will be, to make me 
 an' you get our death o' could in our beds." 
 
 " There is no fear of that Peggy ; we can 
 still manage to rest comfortably for one short 
 night, in a good, warm house ; but I must go 
 with these things, to the help of two poor, 
 naked women, who might really perish before 
 morning on the damp earth, and without 
 covering of any kind ; so you had better let us 
 go on our way peaceably, Peggy." 
 
 Mrs. Molloy darted quickly at Neddy Fen- 
 nell, making a grasp at his burden, as she 
 vociferated — '^ go on your way ! — the long and 
 the short ov it is, since you put me to it, there 
 is no blanket to lave this to-night — no, nor the 
 thread ov a blanket." 
 
 Her master now became really severe and 
 determined. He removed her arm from the 
 boy's fardel, put her to one side, and saying, 
 '• be silent, my good woman, be silent, and 
 etand out of my way; — more than once since you
 
 162 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 came in here, you have uttered sin with your 
 lips, and offended me — of that we will speak 
 another time ; — now, go out of my way, I say 
 — I command you; — come, Neddy Fennell, 
 come ;" and without further opposition from 
 Mrs. Molloy, who became perfectly stunned 
 at this sudden and most unexpected annihilation 
 of her authority — the priest and his follower 
 cleared the premises. 
 
 A moment after their departure, Tom 
 Naddy lounged to her side from the corner 
 of an end wall of the stable, round which all 
 along he had been listening and peeping; and 
 while Mrs. Molloy still stood silent and utterly 
 confomided, remarked — "Ho! ho! — so, the 
 priest is to do whatever he likes in the house 
 for the future." 
 
 " Get out, you kiln dried brat !" was the 
 housekeeper's only reply, as she stamped in much 
 dignity, into her kitchen ; while on his part 
 Tom only sauntered after her, and resumed 
 his place and his cat upon the hob.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 163 
 
 Father Conuell, closely followed by Neddy 
 Fennell, bent his steps, by the least observable 
 route, back again to the shower of houses. 
 On his way thither, however, he stopped at 
 more than one suburb shop to purchase, with 
 the shillings he had almost thieved from his 
 own curious escrutoire, additional articles of 
 comfort for the Widow Fennell and her aged 
 aunt. 
 
 He has been observed re-entering the abode 
 of the potatoc beggars. A moment after, the 
 two poor shivering, half-dead women, in the 
 inner dungeon saw, with feelings and sensa- 
 tions, which only those who for a long time 
 have been very, very poor, and neglected, 
 can at all understand, the unloading from the 
 shoulders, and the arms, and the hands of the 
 old man, and the boy, the nice, clean, fresh 
 straw, the gracious roll of blankets, a basket 
 full of bread, a little crock of salt butter, a 
 whole pound of halfpenny candles, and two or
 
 164 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 three black bottles, with old corks in them, 
 containing huxter's ale and porter. 
 
 Standing quite erect, a disencumbered man, 
 after getting rid of his burdens, Father Connell 
 paused a moment, to wipe his brow with his 
 handkerchief; then silently went to the mis- 
 erable couches of the two forlorn sufferers ; 
 squeezed their hands in turn, and passed into 
 the comparatively aristocratic abode of Nelly 
 Carty and Bridget Mulrooney ; and just after 
 doing so, he thought he caught whisperings 
 between Mrs. Fennell and her young son, 
 as if in explanation of what had come about, 
 and, almost immediately following sounds of 
 suppressed crying, though not in an unhappy 
 cadence. 
 
 No matter how our hero. Father Connell, 
 arranged with the two good ladies of the 
 mansion, they quickly went into their lodgers, 
 to all appearance most benevolently, and of 
 course, fussily active. The priest sat down.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 165 
 
 before their impudent little fire, calling 
 Neddy Fennell to him. The little lad, slowly 
 though immediately obeyed his old friend's 
 summons, reclining on the floor, and gently 
 leaning the side of his head upon one of the 
 priest's knees. He did not speak a word, but 
 knowing that he was weeping plentifully in 
 his silence, his patron just slid down his hand, 
 fumbled for one of Neddy's, and squeezed it 
 and squeezed it. 
 
 The pair rose up, as the two potatoe beggars 
 approached the fire, each with one of their poor 
 inmates, carried like weak, burthenless infants, 
 in her arms — and be it added, both the hitherto 
 destitute women well wrapped up in blankets, 
 with intimations here and there about their 
 necks, of inside personal comforters, previously 
 the property of Mrs. Llolloy. 
 
 i^^ather Connell then went back to their bed- 
 room, with Neddy's help bore out portions of 
 the bread and butter and a bottle of the small 
 porter; mulled some of the latter with his own
 
 166 FATHER CONN ELL. 
 
 hands, and leaving his protegees to enjoy so 
 far, under the still bustling attentions of their 
 landladies, unwonted luxuries, again took Neddy 
 into the inner chamber, which he and his 
 young assistant did not quit until they had 
 heaped, breast high, their stolen straAV into 
 two palmy couches, and scientifically pressed 
 each down, and covered each Avith a half of a 
 yet unappropriated l)lanket, torn asunder by 
 them according to their best skill. In fact 
 that blessed night our old fairy friend, poor little 
 Fanny Fennell and her infirm old aunt went to 
 sleep, the first time for many months, in downy 
 comfort ; and with a happy sense of animal 
 warmth and refreshment, and a still, still 
 happier moral sense of yet having a single 
 friend left to them in the wide, cold Avorld. 
 Before they quite closed their eyes, as they 
 laughed and cried at one and the same time, 
 how often did their prayers and their blessings 
 ascend, not unheard we do reverently hope, to 
 the footstool of The Throne, for the earthly and
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 167 
 
 eternal welfare of their simple hearted, unos- 
 tentatious, humble Samaritan ! 
 
 It was still necessary, for the second time 
 this evening, that Neddy Fennell should guide 
 liis priest through the mazes of the shower of 
 houses. They arrived at the spot where they 
 were finally to part for the night. The priest 
 licre stopped for an instant, to bid Neddy good 
 night, and give him his blessing. As he was 
 turning homewards, the boy spoke in low, 
 broken accents. — 
 
 " Wait a minute sir, if you please — I want 
 to say a word to you ; — it may be on your 
 mind, sir, from the way that I helped you, and 
 spoke to you, this evening in the stable, Avith 
 other things, that I'm a cold-hearted boy, with 
 no thought or feeling in me, for my mother's 
 and my aunt's distress, and for your kindness ; 
 — but, indeed I'm not, sir ; — I'm not that, sir, 
 indeed ; — I — I — " and here the giddy-pated 
 little fellow, could get no further, but breaking 
 out into sobbing and crying, turned his back
 
 168 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 on the priest, and ran home as fast as he 
 could. 
 
 In a very short time afterwards, Father 
 Connell, and J\Irs. Molloy, and Tom Naddy, 
 were as good friends as ever they had been in 
 their lives. The housekeeper placed before 
 him the little measure of ale, with a foaming 
 head on it, which he emptied every niglit before 
 going to bed, and which, with a crust to eke it 
 out, was his beau ideal of luxurious indulgence. 
 A good fire, renewed by cinders, heated his 
 outstretched limbs, and glittered in the large 
 silver buckles of his shoes. To his left hand, 
 was his allowance of ale ; to his right, pen and 
 ink ; and while he sipped his beverage, and 
 munched his crust, we may transcribe — peeping 
 over his shoulders, as well as the protuberance 
 of the great Avig above his ears will allow, the 
 following entries, made by him in a curiously- 
 covered book, which he called his journal, and, 
 in which, for very many 3'ears, he had made 
 tome daily notes.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 169 
 
 *' I got up at three o'clock tins morning to 
 say my usual matins : it threatened to be a 
 bitter day, and a bitter day it has been. I went 
 to bed at four, and slept very well until seven ; 
 attended the chapel at eight : the snow was 
 pelting in my face. God help the poor ! Will 
 the disbeliever persuade the poor man that 
 there is no Heaven ? — he would then make the 
 lot of the poor a hard one indeed. Those who 
 sleep on beds of the softest down, and need but 
 to wish for everything in order to have it, are 
 they as good Christians as the Widow Fennell 
 and her aunt have been ? God bless the good 
 friends whose bounty enabled me to put warm 
 clothing on so many naked children and boys 
 this day. Mick Dempsey would cover the 
 shivering body of only a good boy — Mick does 
 not remember that the blast is as bitter to the 
 bad boy as to the good boy ; and that the Lord 
 does not send the sunshine to the good only. 
 It is not wise to drive even the most wicked to 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 despair ; if they have no hope of being better 
 they will not try to be so ; and Mick Dempsey 
 was not right when he gave me to understand 
 that I was encouraging idleness. I humbly 
 hope that I ^vas doing something that may help 
 to change it into industry. Neglected my 
 middle of the day prayers. Misere mei Dominel 
 Our prayers should never be overlooked, especi- 
 ally by a priest ; a priest is bound to give good ex- 
 ample ; he cannot hope to do this without grace ; 
 and grace is chiefly to be obtained by prayer. 
 Reprehended Peggy Molloy for her tongue and 
 bad language — not too severely, I think — and 
 she seems the better of it ; she is fiiithful and 
 honest; a faithful and honest servant is a 
 treasure ; but Peggy must be taught not to 
 fall into a passion ; violent anger is like drunk- 
 enness — for the drunken and the angry man 
 both forget their wisdom ; almost as many 
 crimes spring from the one as the other. The 
 first fair day I have I must beg all through the
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 171 
 
 town, and then in the country, for the 
 Widow Fennel], her poor aunt, and young 
 Neddy. God help them all. I love that little 
 boy in my very heart ; and with God's help 
 will be an earthly father to him." 
 
 And so ended our priest's entries in his 
 journal for one day. 
 
 I 3
 
 172 
 
 FATHER COKNELL. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Active charity, like all other active things, 
 when once put into motion, soon gains its goal. 
 Father Connell had been saying and doing, 
 and going backwards and forwards a good deal, 
 to say nothing of contriving and suffering a 
 good deal, since he first left his school-house 
 for the shower of houses this evening ; and yet 
 though all his cox^.templated work is now over, 
 and he is luxuriantly preparing for bed at 
 home, it is still early in the night. Neddy 
 Fennell arrived at the door of his lodgings, 
 after his final parting with his priest, while
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 173 
 
 the nine o'clock bell — the curfew — or as it was 
 locally aud elegantly termed — the " black- 
 guards' bell" rang out a quick peal from the 
 curious wooden structure, very like an opera 
 glass pulled out — surmounting the market- 
 house of his native city. 
 
 His knock and request for re-admission were 
 soon attended to, his small boy's voice outside, 
 being a sufficient warrant to his landladies of 
 his identity. Passing into their house, a glance 
 towards the fire showed him that the honest 
 dames had contrived, during his short absence, 
 to replace, as originally arranged, all the mate- 
 rials for their feast, which Father Connelfs 
 unexpected return caused them to push aside 
 here and there and hide as well as they could, 
 and the cook, for the evening, had the "• tay " 
 again nearly hot enough, while the bottle of 
 " colliery crame " once moi'e flanked it. 
 
 Without making further observations, how- 
 ever, the boy passed into the apartment 
 occupied by his mother and her aunt, to observe
 
 174 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 how they were disposed of for the night. 
 Under the influence of all the comforts they 
 had just experienced, the poor women already 
 began to doze. One of his mother's hands hung 
 by the side of her couch. He went on his 
 knees and gently stole it back again — but not be- 
 fore his lips had touched it — under the blankets ; 
 and then, bestowing a little thought on himself, 
 Neddy took a goodly lump of bread from the 
 basket on the floor ; at the repeated invitations 
 of Nelly Carty and Bridget Mulrooney, stole 
 out on tiptoe, to their fire, accepted a proffered 
 seat on one of the yellow clay hobs ; and while 
 industriously making way through his supper, 
 he could not avoid becoming greatly interested 
 in the resumed conversation of his hostesses. 
 
 " Well, Nelly," said Bridget, " here we are 
 on the hunkers before our little fire again, and 
 what is left of the tay and the cake a'most as 
 good as ever ; and its mad intirely I am, yis 
 indeed, to hear the rest that you have to tell 
 about that Robin Costigan."
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 175 
 
 " Well an' sure lanna machree, Nelly Carty, 
 won't be long till she satisfies you. Well, 
 Bridget, siu-e, as I gave you to untherstand 
 afore the ould priest kem in, Robin and myself 
 were great cronies, and faix, I'll never deny 
 that I liked the boy well. Bud, Bridget, sure 
 it happened one of a time, that my poor Robin 
 borry'd the loan iv a horse, widout axin lave, 
 an' sure over again, he was cotch on the back 
 of that horse at a fair in the Queen's county ; 
 and they brought the poor boy to his thrial 
 afore the judge, an' I thought my heart would 
 break, they found him guilty, an' sintinced him 
 to die. An' sure enough, the ugly lookin' gallows 
 was put up for Robin on the Green abroad, 
 and sure enough he was walked to the gallows, 
 and it was the same Father Connell that quitted 
 us a little while agone, that stepped out by his 
 side to the o-allow's fut. Well asthore. The dav 
 that was in it, was a winter's day. I'll never 
 forget it, one o' the dark, black days afore 
 Christmas ; and the eveuln' began to fall amost
 
 176 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 before he was turned off; an' when the time 
 come to cut the rope, cut it was; and sure 
 meeself was the very girl that caught him in my 
 arms." 
 
 " Yourself, Nelly ?" half shrieked Bridget. 
 As for Neddy Fennell, his jaws stopped grind- 
 ing his loaf, while he stared in startled surprise 
 at the narrator. 
 
 " Meeself, Bridget. Well, alanna-machreey 
 sure I thought I felt a stir in my poor Robin," 
 Neddy Fennell had taken another bite at his 
 loaf, but again stopped short in his preparations 
 to masticate it. 
 
 " An' you could'nt count twenty, afore I 
 had him in a good warm bed, and Darby 
 Croak the bleether there by his side ; an' 
 surely, surely, the stir in poor Robin got more 
 life in it from time to time ; an' surely, surely, 
 over agin, many hours didn't go by till we had 
 my poor fellow alive, an' as well as ever — ay, 
 an' laughin' heartily too at the brave escape he 
 had — tho' that afther all, might be a little bit
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 177 
 
 iv a secret betuxt himself an' the skibbeeah* — 
 an' faix we spent as pleasant a night as kem from 
 that to this — in wakin' the poor corpse, as we 
 called it." 
 
 " Are you tellln' the truth, Nelly Carty ?" 
 gasped Neddy Fennell quite aghast. 
 
 " Wait, Neddy my pet — sure there's a little 
 more to come. It was about an hour afore 
 day-break, when my poor Robin strolled out, 
 just to see how his legs would go on along 
 some iv the roads convainent afther the dance 
 upon nothin' they had the day afore. In the 
 coorse iv the night, sure he swore a big oath to 
 us, that he'd never borry a horse agin, becase 
 they war unlooky cattle ; but he made no oath 
 agin cows, and it's as thrue as that I'm sittin' 
 here tellin' it, afore the mornin' quite broke, 
 Robin borryed a nice fat cow, out of a field 
 by the road-side. Well, alanna machree, the 
 cow didn't turn out a lookier baste for Robin 
 nor the horse." 
 
 * Hangman. 
 
 I 5
 
 178 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 " What's that you're goin' to say now," again 
 interrupted Neddy Fennell, " was he hanged 
 over again, Nelly ?" 
 
 " Faix an' if he was'nt, Neddy my honey, 
 he had very little to spare that he was'nt ; 
 for the man that thought he had a betther 
 right to the cow than Robin, soon missed 
 her, an' ran thro' the town clappin' his hands, 
 an' got all the help he could ; an' sure they all 
 kem up with the poor boy, on the road to the 
 fair ov Bennet's-bridge, an' he in the cow's 
 company ; an' so they laid hoult on him, an' 
 made him turn back, without the cow, and 
 they rammed him into their gaol agin." 
 
 " Well," whispered Neddy. 
 
 " Well, a-cuishla-gal-machree^ there he was, 
 shure enough — only not for a long time, for 
 well became Robin, he found manes ov breakin' 
 out ov their gaol, an' from that blessed hour to 
 this no livin' crature but myeslf ever set eyes on 
 him in the town. But now listen well to me, 
 Bridget, and you, Neddy Fennell ; afther five
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 179 
 
 an' thirty years is past an' gone, an' I an oiild 
 woman, I seen Robin Costigan this day, as 
 sure as I now see ye both forenent me." 
 
 Many were the ejaculations of surprise, and 
 indeed ahnost of terror, uttered by the listeners. 
 " And to-day, Nelly ? when ? where ? how ?" 
 they asked together. 
 
 " Whist ! spake lower, none ov us spoke 
 very loud yet, but now we are to spake lower 
 than ever — and for a good rason. I said that 
 Father Connell had a sharp eye, and that he 
 ought to remember Robin Costigan, for wasn't 
 it he that made his sowl for him at the gallow's 
 fut? But the ould priest couldn't know him 
 now, Bridget, for Kobin is changed by years, 
 and he is changed by conthrivances, but / 
 knew him well, Bridget, from the minute I 
 saw him. I can't say that he had the same 
 knowledge of me when he looked me in the 
 face — but / used to be too fond iv him long ago, 
 ever, ever to forget him. And I tell you I 
 saw him this very day, and I tell you more
 
 180 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 than that ; I saw him in the very next house — 
 in Joan Flaherty's house." 
 
 Bridget Mulrooney thumped her breast, 
 crossed herself, and turned up her eyes. Neddy 
 Fennell jumped off the hob, breathing hard, 
 and frowning abhorringly, and it would seem 
 indignantly, at the remote end wall of the 
 hovel, which divided him from Joan FlahertyV 
 house. This wall however, did not rise higher 
 than the point at which the wattles of the roof 
 commenced, so that an inmate of either abode, 
 could by standing on a chair, or even upon a 
 stool, peep into the other. 
 
 After a few moments, Nelly Carty resumed 
 slowly, and in whispers, and Neddy again seat- 
 ing himself ou the hob, changed his wide opened, 
 glowing eyes from the end wall to her face. 
 
 " An' he is a beggerman now iv youplaise: 
 and he has a poor, withered limb, mon/a* an' I 
 seen three childhcr wid him that he takes 
 into the street, when he goes a bee"<iino-." 
 
 * By the way.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 181 
 
 " Tell me this, Nelly," asked Neddy Fennell 
 suddenly, and as if wishing for an answer in 
 the affirmative, " if the judge heard he was 
 alive, would'nt he have him hung over again ?" 
 
 " Faix, an' I'm thinking he would my lanna ; 
 sure they owe him the last hanging at any 
 rate ; an' I'd go bail that if they had a hoult 
 iv' him now, they'd — but be asy wid your 
 thricks, ye young limb." 
 
 A handful of small pebbles, as it seemed, 
 clattering and jingling among Nelly's " tay 
 things" caused her thus suddenly to inteiTupt 
 herself. 
 
 " It wasn't I that did it, Nelly, though I 
 often played you a trick before now," answered 
 Neddy Fennell very slowly, and in the least 
 possible whisper — " it wasn't I that did it ; but 
 just turn your head behind you, and look 
 towards the far end of the room." 
 
 " Don't, Bridget I Don't for the world wide," 
 admonished Nelly — " it's himself is in it— I
 
 182 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 know it is ; for there is no male crature living 
 on Joan Flaherty's flure along wid him." 
 
 So neither of the good ladies obeyed Neddy 
 Fennell's command. The boy, however, saw 
 indistinctly, in the almost complete darkness, 
 at the remote point he peered at, the head and 
 shoulders of a man elevated over the imperfect 
 division wall. 
 
 " Is the ould priest gone ?" asked this appa- 
 rition, in stealthy and husky tones. 
 
 Nelly winked at Bridget to answer, and 
 Bridget accordingly said — " he is gone these 
 three hours, neighbour." 
 
 " Will he come agin to night, ye ould col- 
 lochs ? "* continued the same voice. 
 
 " No, surely, neighbour, he is gone for this 
 night, sartin." 
 
 " Bannath lath,] then," and the head and 
 shoulders disappeared. A dead silence svic- 
 
 * Hags f Good night
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 183 
 
 ceeded. Nelly Carty held up her hand, and 
 significantly looked her meaning at Bridget 
 Mulrooney, who, in return, nodded her head. 
 " Neddy Fennell," added Nelly, "for the 
 worth ov the life that's in you, and that's in all 
 our bodies,"— she whispered these words into 
 his very ear—" don't let out o' you a breath of 
 what you have heard here this night ; mind my 
 
 words." 
 
 They all went to bed, Neddy lying down on 
 some straw, confronting that side of the house 
 occupied by Monsieur the pig ; while his gentle 
 hostesses unfolding certain rolled-up parcels in 
 the corners to the right and left of the fire- 
 place, but which, after all, contained only straw 
 pallets, with very wretched covering, made 
 their own couches thereof.
 
 184 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 So full of the idea of Robin Costigan— the 
 man that had been nearly twice hung, thirty- 
 five years ago, and yet at present was alive — 
 so full of this unique personage was Neddy 
 Fennell's head, that for hours he could not 
 sleep. He felt, above all things, great curi- 
 osity to see, distinctly, the features of the fellow 
 towards whom he could not avoid indulging 
 prepossessions of awe and terror along with 
 those of strong dislike and distrust. Neddy's 
 terror was not, however, of the cowardly kind.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 185 
 
 At last he did sleep, but his slumbers were 
 disturbed, with dream after dream of the 
 fearful robber, and each of the most dis- 
 tressingly nervous kind ; until at last, he 
 started awake again, trembling and shuddering, 
 and bathed in perspiration. 
 
 The darkness around him was so deep, that 
 '* a horror of it," as is sublimely said in the 
 holy writings, " fell upon him." The wintry 
 winds abroad, whistled and piped around the 
 half rotten hovel which enclosed him, and 
 sometimes, swelling into a great rage, pushed 
 and jostled as it were, against its mud walls 
 until they shook again. Presently, a weak 
 cry of human sorrow, mingled he thought, 
 with the alternate wailing, and howling, 
 and roaring of the blast. He quickly sat up 
 on his straw couch, and listened intently. 
 The cries were repeated, he became quite 
 sure ; and more, they came over the boundary 
 wall, between him and Robin Costigan's 
 lodging.
 
 186 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 He continued to listen. In one of the half 
 pauses of the tempest, the poor, weak cry 
 changed into a smothered shriek, immediately 
 after the sound, as if of a heavy blow, had 
 reached Neddy's ears. 
 
 " Helo there !" he suddenly screamed out, 
 his shrill, young voice, piercing above the 
 various noises of the wind. 
 
 All sounds ceased in the neighbouring hut. 
 He listened attentively, still neither the poor 
 weak cry, nor the blow, nor the shriek, was 
 repeated. He dropped asleep again ; and, as 
 the first peep of day struggled, doubtless un- 
 willingly, through the atmosphere of the shower 
 of houses, Neddy Avas up and out, washing 
 his face in the snow, drifted before the house-door, 
 half in great glee, half in a luxurious feeling 
 of refreshment ; and when his toilet had been 
 completed, the light-hearted boy, industriously 
 fell to work, making snow-balls, piling them 
 pyramidically at his side, and peering around 
 him in every direction for the approach of
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 187 
 
 some foe, against whom, he might discharge 
 them. 
 
 In the twilight of the bleak and bitter 
 winter morning, not many objects of enmity 
 appeared, however, stirring abroad ; but the 
 few who did appear, within range of his battery, 
 soon felt a snow shot breaking about their ears ; 
 for Master Neddy Fennell had often shared in 
 a " pelting match" of no very playful charac- 
 ter, between the mutually abhorring boys of 
 two rival schools ; so that from practice, his 
 aim, particularly when directed against a human 
 cranium, became almost unerring. 
 
 He was pausing for a new enemy ; none ap- 
 peared; but the patched and tattered door of 
 Joan Flaherty's abode uttered a squeak, and 
 then it slowly opened a little, and a man's head, 
 thickly covered with matted grey hair, pro- 
 truded itself through the opening, and now 
 turned one way, and now another, as if, by 
 the agency of its proper eyes, taking an obser- 
 vation of the weather.
 
 188 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 • 
 
 " The old robber's head !" thought Neddy, 
 frowning and setting his teeth, and looking 
 hard to make out Robin Costigan's features. 
 But. he could distinguish none ; the head being 
 poked forward, so that only its large crown 
 became satisfactorily visible; Neddy had in 
 his right hand as nice a snow-ball as even he 
 had ever manufactured. With both hands he 
 now gave it two or three additional squeezes, 
 until it grew almost as hard as a stone; the 
 next instant bang it went, like a bursting 
 bomb-shell, against the crown of the mysterious 
 and detested head, causing, it may be pre- 
 sumed, an explosion like thunder in the ears 
 and in the interior of its object, at all events 
 making that object disappear, as if it and its 
 owner had been sent staggering backwards into 
 Mrs. Flaherty's, or Miss Flaherty's tenement ; 
 for the question of title, was in the present 
 case rather a debated one. 
 
 Many seconds did not elapse before Neddy 
 had the door of his own temporary residence
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 189 
 
 secured on the inside ; and, while his landladies 
 and their pig still slept on and snorted together, 
 was peeping into his neighbour's apartment, 
 over the division wall, just as Robin Costigan, 
 though from its other side, had peeped over it, 
 the night before, into the secrecy of the resi- 
 dence of Mesdames Carty and Mulrooney. 
 
 Here he at first saw nothing but smoke. 
 Waiting sometime, and peering more sharply, 
 he at length imperfectly discerned Joan Fla- 
 herty — a half blind, and a wholly deaf and 
 stupid old crone, sitting on her heels at a 
 hearth, upon which, using her own mouth as a 
 bellows, she puffed and puffed with a view of 
 kindling some atrocious materials for a fire ; 
 while almost for every puff she coughed and 
 coughed, as if earnestly trying to force up her 
 worn out old lungs. But though the young 
 eaves-dropper covild as yet see no living thing but 
 Joan, he could hear the sounds of other human 
 voices than her's. He could hear threats and 
 imprecations uttered in a morose, masculine
 
 190 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 voice ; and plaintive expostulations, or lamenta- 
 tions, in the tones, he believed, which had 
 reached him, the previous night ; and the sub- 
 dued cry of an infant, too, and the sturdier 
 wail of another young voice— all mixed up with 
 the coughing, and the wheezing, and the 
 bellows-blowing, of old Joan. The venemous 
 smoke made Neddy's eyes smart and run 
 water ; still he perseveringly clung, insecurely 
 supported, to the top of the mud wall. In 
 about half an hour, the exhausted beldame had 
 succeeded, in kindling her fire, and having pre- 
 viously thrown open the door of her house, to 
 let out the pestilent fog it had engendered, 
 Neddy could make further observations. Stand- 
 ing near to her, and towards the farther side of 
 the fire, he saw a man of rather low stature, 
 yet of herculean build, combing with his 
 fingers, over his forehead and face, and even 
 upon his shoulders, his long, dishevlled, grey 
 hair ; and from the care with which the 
 operation was performed, it seemed evident
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 191 
 
 that he considered it one of great importance. 
 He was enveloped in a loose, blue, fi'leze coat, 
 reaching in tatters below his knees ; the half 
 of his legs, that could be seen from under it, 
 were bare ; and old brogues, too large for him, 
 and partially stuffed with straw— as was indi- 
 cated by blades of that article starting up over 
 their inner sides — adorned his immense ill 
 shaped feet. Again Neddy Fennell tried to make 
 out the features of Robin Costigan ; but the 
 redoubtable robber stood with his side turned 
 to Neddy ; and this circumstance, aided by the 
 thick veil of grey hair, and the high standing 
 collar of Robin's wi'ap-rascal, once more baffled 
 his scrutiny. 
 
 Other objects drew Neddy's deep attention. 
 'While engaged in his toilet, as has been 
 described, Robin Costigan severely studied 
 tlie proceedings of three children, who had not 
 yet quite arisen from the straw, in which 
 during the night they had biuTowed. One 
 was a girl of about nine yeai's, wearing only
 
 192 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 the scantiest and most shreddy drapery, secured 
 by any possible contrivance, around her ele- 
 gantly formed little person. The second was 
 a boy, an incipient giant — say of five years. 
 His upper dress, consisted of an old waistcoat, 
 his bare arms thrust through its arm holes ; 
 while a threadbare piece of sacking tied round 
 his waist, descended almost to liis feet. And 
 the third child was no more than an infant, 
 rolled up in a most curious bundle of rags ; 
 its sex is not yet known ; but the strong pre- 
 sumption is, that it was a little female human 
 creature. 
 
 The girl Avas busily employed, scrubbing at 
 the infant's face, with a coarse damp cloth. 
 The boy was sitting in his straw, his chin 
 resting on his little fists, and they in turn 
 resting on his crippled-up knees — it was per- 
 fectly evident, that he contemplated in mortal 
 terror and deep dislike, the process he beheld 
 going on, inasmuch as he expected to be him- 
 self very soon subjected to a similar one.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 1 93 
 
 The infant gave a restive squall, and had 
 it been any other infant, would certainly have 
 fought, with full lungs, kicks, and wreathings, 
 against the uncongenial friction Inflicted upon 
 its face, in such very, very, cold weather. 
 But a bellow from the man, of the tattered 
 *' riding coat," at once terrified the little animal 
 into seeming acquiescence; it became silent 
 and still, tears only running down its miserable 
 face, as it fixed its fi-ightened eyes on the 
 bellower. 
 
 " Divil's in your wizend, ye sheeog*''^ apos- 
 trophized the superintendant of the scrubbing, 
 *' there's no squall from you, when its wantin' ; 
 but I'll larn you to bawl out in the right time, 
 and to hould your whisht in the right time — 
 burroo!" — another bellow — " hould it up to 
 me here," addressing the scrubber, who with 
 visible trepidation obeyed. The man critically 
 inspected the face, neck, hands, and arms of 
 
 * Fairy-struck child— a fairy, 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 the unfortunate baby, twisting it and its little 
 limbs, here and there, with about as much 
 compassion, as if he were scrutinizing the 
 points of a turkey offered to him for sale. He 
 continued ; speaking to the little girl. 
 
 " Well for you, you jade, that there's not a 
 speck, the size of a pin's head, or I'd make 
 you rue the day ; fall to the legs and feet now, 
 an' make 'em as clane as a whistle ;" and he 
 went on combing his hair with his fingers. 
 
 " Hould it up agin," he commanded after a 
 short pause. 
 
 " Do you call them washed, you faggot?" 
 and he accompanied his words with a blow 
 from his open hand, that sent the girl and the 
 infant rolling in the straw. She could not 
 keep in a scream. " Not a tune from you now, 
 or I'll give you last night over agin," he 
 snatched up a cudgel near at hand. 
 
 " I won't cry, nor I won't say one word — I 
 won't, I won't, sir, dear," said the little scrubber, 
 clasping her charge with one of her bare arms,
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 195 
 
 rising to her knees, and joining both lier 
 hands. 
 
 *' It will keep for another time, then," and 
 the cudgel was put aside; " but go on with 
 your work I tell you, and don't bring my hand 
 on you."' 
 
 Her eyes gushing, but every whisper kept 
 in, she proceeded, still further to torture the 
 Infant, by rubbing wdth the coarse, wet cloth, 
 at its legs and feet, as if she were bound to 
 rub them quite away. Her overseer inspected 
 her work again, and grumbled something like 
 a half approval. He then examined the cap 
 which was to cover the little being's head for 
 the day, and which the girl ought to have 
 perfectly washed over night. It was found 
 not to be at all satisfactory, and a second 
 swinging blow from his open hand followed. 
 
 The tire-woman before she could recover 
 
 herself, was next ordered to attack with 
 
 her cloth the shivering, and detesting young 
 
 rascal, who, it has been said, awaited his 
 
 K 3
 
 196 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 turn in no amiable feelings. Very well did he 
 know that he must not utter a sound of disap- 
 proval in the presence of the grey-headed 
 supervisor; but to make amends for his silence he 
 bit, whenever he thought that he was unob- 
 served by his tyrant, the hands and arms of 
 his attendant, until he almost fetched blood 
 from them; while she, poor young creature, 
 durst not utter a sound of complaint. 
 
 Her own person was next to be looked after ; 
 her pretty little face, her neck, arms, and hands, 
 and her lower limbs and extremities to be care- 
 fullv washed ; and her abundant golden hair to 
 be combed and adjusted in its natural curls 
 adown her cheeks and shoulders with the best 
 possible effect. And until this new task was 
 completed, to the full approval of her master, 
 she was scrutinized and found fault with, as in 
 the case of the infant and boy, and heavy 
 punishment was still inflicted. 
 
 She now produced a small bag, containing 
 about one dozen of potatoes ; and these she
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 197 
 
 was commanded to wash, and place on the fire 
 to boil ; after which the man gave peremptory 
 orders that the *' breakfast" should be finisshed, 
 and the three children ready to set out with 
 him into the streets " in the turn of a hand ;" 
 and then he left the hovel. A short time after- 
 wards he might be found in a mean public 
 house, sitting to a good fire, with his own 
 breakfast placed before him, consisting of a 
 loaf of bread, a cut of butter, a dish of 
 " rashers and eggs," and a quart of mulled 
 porter, with a '* stick in it" — that is to say, 
 about two glasses of whiskey. As he opened 
 the door to go out, Neddy Fennell abandoned 
 his post of observation, with the view of at last 
 fully confronting him abroad, and reading 
 attentively the mysterious features of the half- 
 hanged scoundrel ; but a call from his mother's 
 couch was not to be neglected. 
 
 He found the poor woman and her aunt 
 much refreshed, after a good night's sleep. 
 Milk had been sent that morning, by Father
 
 198 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 Connell, for their and his use ; this he heated, 
 jind Neddy's patients soon ate a hearty break- 
 fast. He then prepared some for himself, and 
 put it into a noggin, lent to him by his land- 
 ladies; also furnished himself with his share of 
 bread — and be it noticed, not more than his 
 share — took a few bites and sips, and passed 
 with the bread in one hand, and the noggin in 
 the other, into the neighbouring wigwam. 
 
 The small pot containing the dozen potatoes, 
 was now boiled in this plentiful house and 
 taken off the fire ; and to one side of it, sat the 
 cook who had prepared them — the baby on her 
 knees ; to the other, the gruff little boy, who 
 had so well bitten her, knelt to his occupation, 
 as if he felt more devotion towards it than 
 could be expressed by a sitting posture ; for 
 the trio were engaged, each more or less, iu 
 consuming the contents of the pot. 
 
 To make amends for the late coercion im- 
 posed on its natural propensity to cry out as 
 shrilly as it could, the nondescript infant now
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 199 
 
 screamed at the pitch of three Scotch bagpipes; 
 while its nurse endeavoured literally to stop its 
 mouth with the largest potatoes she could find ; 
 herself being only able from time to time, to 
 swallow a scanty mouthful. Not so the wicked- 
 faced young cannibal opposite to her. Resolved 
 he seemed, as in truth resolved he was, to take 
 ample advantage of her inability to satisfy her 
 appetite. He peeled off the skins of the pota- 
 toes, and then dropped them as it were, into 
 his [stonaach with astounding despatch ; yet it 
 was not an expression of relish of his fare that 
 appeared in his face ; it was the jealous fierce- 
 ness of craving hunger ; and his scowl at the 
 girl was actually ferocious, whenever she 
 abstracted a potatoe from the limited store, 
 which he could have well appropriated entirely 
 to himself. 
 
 Neddy Fennell stood over this group with- 
 out being noticed by any one of it. Laying 
 his bread across his noggin, and the hand that
 
 200 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 had lately held it, upon the glossy golden hair 
 of the little maid-of-all-work. 
 
 " My p.oor little girl," he said, " will you 
 take a little bit of bread, and a little hot milk 
 from me." She started and raised her eyes ; 
 now that it could be viewed clearly her face 
 looked prettier than before ; but she only 
 stared at Neddy without uttering a word. 
 
 " Try it, poor little girl," he went on, seat- 
 ing himself on the floor by her side, " taste it 
 — do now ; 'tis very nice — and 'tis my own," 
 he did not know how to account for her look of 
 speechless astonishment ; but it was the very 
 first time during that little creature's whole 
 life, that a human voice had so sounded in her 
 ears, or a human hand had been so stretched 
 forth to offer her unbegged food. He broke a 
 morsel of bread, and put it into her hand ; she 
 mechanically conveyed it to her lips, and then 
 ate it ravenously. Neddy held up his noggin 
 to her, and inclining it sideways for her ac-
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 201 
 
 comodation, she drank a little of the hot milk. 
 Tears then ran from her eyes, while in the 
 cant of the profession in which she had been 
 tutored, she whined out : — 
 
 *' May God reward the hand of help, and 
 the tendher heart of charity." 
 
 '* Give me some of that," growled the little 
 savage at the other side of the pot. 
 
 " You ?" answered Neddy—'* I won't give 
 you a mouthful." 
 
 " By the big divil, I'll tell the ould fellow, 
 if ye don't," retorted the apt scholar of a 
 worthy teacher. 
 
 " Here then, here," said the governess, 
 quickly handing over to him almost the whole 
 of the pieces of bread her young visitor had 
 given her, in the teeth of Neddy's remon- 
 strances to prevent her doing so. They dis- 
 appeared as quickly as does a fish into water. 
 
 " And the good milk !" he continued hoarse- 
 ly, for some of the unaccustomed food had 
 stuck in his throat. 
 K 5
 
 202 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 She ran over to him, the infant chucked up 
 on one arm, with the noggin, which Nedd/ 
 had now left, according to her entreaties at her 
 disposal. 
 
 The bundled-up infant seeing that all was 
 holiday around it, held out its arms, opened 
 its mouth, to an unusual span, and also tyran- 
 nically insisted upon its share. Its poor little 
 attendant could not, or at least did not reject 
 its appeal, so that in a few moments, neither 
 Neddy nor his new acquaintance had another 
 mouthful of the bread and milk to divide be- 
 tween themselves. 
 
 But in a very short time, notwithstanding 
 this privation, they were making each others ac- 
 quaintance rapidly. At Neddy's repeated soli- 
 citations, the little girl went into a history of 
 all her sorrows, — speaking in whispers, lest 
 the prematurely desperate character, who had 
 80 often fastened his tusks in her flesh, might 
 overhear the discourse. Neddy listened, some- 
 times in pity, sometimes in wrath; and with
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 203 
 
 his whole heart and soul his eyes were fastened 
 unwinklngly upon her face, and one of his 
 hands was again laid unconsciously on her 
 shining, golden hair ; suddenly he felt her 
 start and shudder, while her looks fixed upon 
 some object, In a very agony of terror. The 
 next instant, Neddy Fennell a id Robin 
 Costigan were staring directly at each other. 
 
 The beggarman's lip and chin had not been 
 shaved for some time, so that the growth of 
 his beard, disguised the form of his mouth. 
 His nose too, was but half distinguishable 
 through the streaks of grey hair, which he 
 had combed with his fingers nearly over its 
 whole length, and so far, all appeared suffi- 
 ciently lachrymose, and pity-stirring in his 
 physiognomy. But even through the shade 
 of that hair, two eyes darted their rays upon 
 Neddy Fennell, under the bad and deep ex- 
 pression of which, the Intrepid boy quailed 
 for a moment, but it was only for a moment ;
 
 204 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 and then, his steady though inquisitive glance, 
 fully met the baleful glare of the other. 
 
 '* Who are you, my chap ?" demanded the 
 beggannan. 
 
 " I'm myself, and who are you ?" smartly 
 asked Neddy in his turn. 
 
 '* You live in the next house ?" 
 
 " To be sure I do— well ?" 
 
 The man did not immediately continue 
 speaking. He took up the infant, and folded 
 it very deliberately into the bosom of his 
 loose blue riding-coat. 
 
 " Are ye coming ?" he roared to the girl, 
 and the wicked little boy. They took their 
 places at his either side. He seized the 
 younker with one hand ; crippled up the 
 fingers of the other towards his mouth, and 
 then issued with his " helpless orphans," from 
 the miserable hut. 
 
 Outside its threshold he foimd Neddy Fen- 
 nell, still closely studying himself and his 
 actions ; and —
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 205 
 
 *' Take care of yourself, my bouchal, and 
 keep out of my way," he growled. 
 
 *' Let you take care of yourself, and keep out 
 of my way," retorted Master Neddy. 
 
 And, at a little distance, the boy followed 
 him and his poor companions through the 
 puzzle of the shower of houses, and then, 
 through a scarcely less dirty suburb, into the 
 town, pondering much as he trudged through 
 the snow and the biting blast. He had, at 
 length, scrutinized, as far as was possible, the 
 features of the object of his great wonder and 
 detestation. And they did not much disappoint 
 his notions beforehand, of what those of the 
 hero of Nelly Carty's tale ought to have worn. 
 They were such features too, as well became 
 the brutal fellow, whom he had seen tor- 
 menting and beating the children a few hours 
 ago. But why he should have so tormented 
 and beaten them, merely to have their hands 
 and faces, and little limbs, scrubbed perfectly to 
 his satisfaction, seemed a difficult question to
 
 206 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 solve. The beggarman began, in the first con- 
 siderable street of the town, an oratorical 
 appeal to the public, in which those very little 
 creatures were noticed in the most affectionate 
 and touching terms; and Neddy's difficulties 
 increased : he could see no identity between 
 the robber, w^ho had been nearly twice walked 
 to the gallows' foot, and who, so very lately, 
 had given proofs of the unaltered scoundi*elism 
 of his nature, and the poor mendicant now 
 before him, whom every one pitied and relieved, 
 on account of his love and care of his little 
 orphans. But ere the appeal had been quite 
 gone through he began to understand the 
 matter. The wretched man, who could not 
 afford for himself or for them, any thing like 
 covering, sufficient in the present perishing 
 weather, still, it was evident to any observer, 
 tried to perform towards the innocents, some 
 of the duties of a parent, and upon this con- 
 viction public sympathy could not fail to be 
 aroused.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 207 
 
 " Avoch, see," cried the women as he passed 
 along, " he's hardly able to keep a stitch on 
 himself or them ; and yet, see how clane and 
 dacent he has 'em, the cratures." 
 
 His appeal must be transcribed. It was 
 made up of short sentences, and published, in 
 a loud, sonorous voice, Avhich rose and fell, in 
 oratorical cadence, with, it may be said, each 
 separate verse. As he went on with it, his 
 head turned, from side to side ; his crippled 
 hand and arm (the same which had clutched 
 and wielded the cudgel, the night before) im- 
 perfectly gesticulated, in a very awful manner ; 
 ;ind all his features, even his eyes, so far as 
 they could be read, through the veil of hair, 
 expressed deep avoc, and the veins of his neck 
 swelled with the strength of his feelings. Here 
 then follow the exact words of his petition, 
 neither added to, nor diminished. 
 
 *' I was left with a motherless charge. 
 
 " God help the motherless ! 
 
 *' I was left with a child six days oidd.
 
 208 ' FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 " I am a desolate man, the Lord pity me ! 
 
 " It isn't by the words of the mouth, I tell 
 ye— look into my breast, an' look at ache side 
 o' me ! 
 
 '* I was left, for a space ov nine weeks, sick, 
 an' sore, an' lone, in a small wilderness ov a 
 cottage. 
 
 " The mother o' the childther was taken 
 away a corpse from my side. 
 
 " God in Heaven be merciful to the poor 
 crature ! 
 
 " I had no friend in the wide world, to 
 succour myself or my chilther. 
 
 " The Lord look down on the desolate ! 
 
 " An' I come to spake out my hard case, to 
 the feelin' hearts of the Christian people. 
 
 " Good Christians, pity me ! 
 
 " Pity the motherless charge ! Pity the 
 forlorn father! Ah, do, worthy an' tinther 
 hearted servants o' God !" 
 
 Not many hours after hearing this piece of 
 pathetic eloquence, Neddy Fennell was again
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 209 
 
 prying into the secrets of Joan Flaherty's 
 house. As nearly as possible the scene of 
 the morning became repeated, under his 
 eyes. Some question arose, concerning a mor- 
 sel of bread, which the little girl had received 
 during the day, as an alms. Indeed, while 
 famishing with hunger, during their miserable 
 perambulations, she had stealthily eaten it, 
 and so, at present, it was not to be found in 
 her little wallet. The protector of the mother- 
 less charge, seized, with his crippled hand, now 
 again made quite straight, his dreaded cudgel, 
 and began to belabour the poor child most 
 heartily. But while so employed, a good lump 
 of hardened clay, suddenly smiting liim, on 
 the side of the head, sent Robin Costigan 
 staggering about the hovel ; and ere he could 
 recover from his astonishment and confusion, 
 another missile of the same material, but of 
 greater size and weight, followed its prede- 
 cessor, and actually brought him down. With 
 one dash of his hands, the beggarraan drew
 
 210 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 back to either side of his forehead and face 
 their curtain of matted, grey locks, the better 
 to enable him to discern his assailant; and 
 while in the act of doing so, and while he yet 
 lay prostrate, Neddy Fennell at length beheld, 
 distorted by rage and ferocity, a face, which, to 
 his dying day, he never forgot. 
 
 Their regards met. Neddy was now astride on 
 the wall, kicking it with his heels as if it were 
 a restive horse, which he spurred against a de- 
 tested enemy ; and his right arm was raised 
 high, ready to discharge a third shot, and his very 
 handsome boyish face glowed, and his brows 
 frowned deeply over his flashing eyes as he shouted 
 out, " Yes, Costigan — I'm the very boy that did 
 it ! and if you ^beat that little girl again, I'll 
 pelt the brains out of your robber's scull ! — 
 take this over again for a warning." 
 
 The third bullet flew from his hands, but 
 this time missed its billet. The next instant, 
 the beggarman was on his feet; and before 
 Neddy could re-arm himself, a swinging blow
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 211 
 
 from the cudgel, staggered him in his seat on the 
 top of the old clay wall, which had supplied 
 him with ammunition ; while a tug at one of 
 his legs, made almost simultaneously with the 
 blow, fairly dropped him under her own roof, 
 into Nelly Carty's arras, who had just returned 
 from her day's quest. 
 
 " You misfortunate bit iv a boy," whispered 
 Nelly, in great wrath and alarm, " d'ye want 
 to get yourself an' all iv us murthered ?" 
 
 She glanced towards the door, which she 
 had left open. The beggarman came into them 
 through it, as Neddy roared out louder than 
 ever : — "' I'll make the gallow's-bird stop beating 
 that little girl !" 
 
 The cudgel whizzed over his head, just 
 missing it. Had it taken effect, with half the 
 strength exercised by the herculean arm that 
 wielded it, the boy must have fallen dead ou 
 the spot. Nelly Carty pulling the hood of her 
 cloak quite over her face, so as to hide her 
 terror-stricken features as well as she could.
 
 212 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 threw her ai*ms round Neddy, standing between 
 him and her old crony; Bridget Mulrooney 
 sprang to her assistance ; both women began to 
 remonstrate and scold in their shrillest tones ; 
 their poor lodgers in the inner den, though 
 not well knowing what was going forward, 
 screamed violently; while the penny-whistle 
 squeak of old Joan Flaherty's lungs chimed 
 in from some corner of her own dwelling. 
 
 Still the intruder seemed bent on taking a 
 fell revenge. He was tearing away the two 
 potatoe-beggars from the boy, and liis right 
 hand and arm were gathering and knitting all 
 their deadly strength for a better aimed blow of 
 the cudgel, when another hand, and not a weak 
 although an old one, collared him from behind, 
 and Father Connell's voice, almost for the 
 first time, breaking through its usual mild or 
 grave cadence, demanded, while it over 
 mastered all the hideous noises around him, the 
 cause of the affray. 
 
 The expression of Costigan's face instantly
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 213 
 
 and completely changed. His set teeth widely- 
 separated — he gasped — his jaw dropped ; the 
 murderer's cloud left his brow ; and then he 
 turned his head over his shovdder, to observe 
 the features of the new comer ; and after one 
 look at them, twisted, not without an effort, 
 out of the old priest's gripe, the standing collar 
 of his riding-coat, and hastily retreated through 
 the yet open doorway. 
 
 It was a long time, before Father Connell 
 could obtain any clear information, regarding 
 the nature of the scene, he had just witnessed. 
 Nelly Carty did not, by any means, wish to 
 be candid. From Neddy Fennell he gained 
 however, some useful evidence. He learned 
 that the person that he had just seen, was 
 the same he had once endeavoured to prepare 
 for a felon's death ; — and again questioning 
 Nelly Carty, still closely, and more authorita- 
 tively, she, with great wringing of her hands, 
 was compelled to admit the fact. Neddy also 
 fully explained the cause of the personal
 
 214 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 quarrel, between himself and the formidable 
 robber ; and although his priest sternly repre- 
 hended him, it was not difficult to perceive, 
 that he almost excused the boy's act of aggres- 
 sion, for the motive that had prompted it. 
 He passed into the next cabin, Neddy Fennell 
 attending at his heels. The beggarman 
 was not to be seen ; but he saw the three 
 wretched children, and he pitied them. He 
 questioned the girl. He asked where she 
 came from? — where she was born? — she could 
 not tell. — Who Avere her parents ? — she did 
 not know ; but Darby Cooney— the name by 
 which she had always known her tyrant — had 
 often told her, while beating her, that she wns 
 no child of his ; though indeed, she had no 
 remembrance of ever living with any one else 
 but him. And the wicked boy had been given 
 into her charge, about three years ago, and the 
 infant a few months ago ; but where they 
 came from, she could not tell, no more than 
 if they had dropt down from the sky.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 215 
 
 It was with great difficulty, that Father 
 Connell obtained even this scanty information ; 
 and when she had concluded, the poor child, 
 her cheeks streaming tears, earnestly stipulated 
 that Dai'by Cooney might not be told, *' she 
 had informed on him." 
 
 '•' Och !" she added, her fears increasing into 
 passion, " he would kill me stone dead, wi' 
 the stick ; och yes, he would'nt lave a bit 
 o' life in me." 
 
 Father Connell asked her some questions on 
 religious points ; she had scarce an idea on 
 the subject. The good man then contemplated 
 her and the other children, in silent commise- 
 ration and thoughtfulness. His little favourite 
 crept to his side, venturing in whispers to plead 
 for his young protegee^ and to hope that he was 
 now forgiven for having pelted the old robber 
 from the top of the wall. Our parish priest 
 seized his hand, and although he did not still 
 speak a word, but only squeezed it again and 
 again. Neddy was satisfied with the answer.
 
 216 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 " I will be here early to-morrow morning, 
 Neddy, please God, to meet tliis Darby Cooney 
 and to see what we can do for the poor 
 children. Now I must go to your mother's 
 bed-side." 
 
 After sitting a little while with Mrs. Fen- 
 nell, her visitor informed her that better 
 lodgings had been provided for her and her 
 aunt, into which he would have them removed 
 next morning. He then took his way home- 
 ward. 
 
 As usual, his little squire saw him safe 
 through the mysteries of the potatoe-beggars' 
 town. Returning to his lodgings, Neddy per- 
 ceived the door of Joan Flaherty's abode still 
 open, and ventured in. The girl stood up to 
 meet him. 
 
 " May a blessing be upon your road, good 
 honest boy," she said, " for the pity you have 
 •to me ; no crature ever had pity for me 
 afore." 
 
 " What is your name, poor little girl ?"
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 207 
 
 ** Mary Cooney." 
 
 *' And you're not the daughter of that rogue 
 and rascal ?" 
 
 *' Sure he says himself, that I'm not, an' sure 
 if I was, he wouldn't be so hard on me entirely." 
 
 " And why don't you run away from him, 
 and never go next or near him again ?" 
 
 " Och ! och 1 where in the world, could I go 
 to?" 
 
 " I'll give you half of my breakfast, and 
 half of my dinner ; and when I'm a big man, 
 and have money, as my father used to have, 
 I'll give you half of that, too." 
 
 This very plausible and very practicable 
 plan, seemed to open, for a moment, to the 
 mind's vision of the poor listener, a new and 
 dazzling vista of hope and happiness. Her 
 "beautiful eyes glowed with momentary delight, 
 and looked intently forward, as if she, even 
 materially, enjoyed the fairy prospect. But 
 suddenly all changed in that young face, and 
 she moaned out. 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 208 FATHER CONNELL, 
 
 ''■ Och, my good and my tendher hearted boy ; 
 but I couldn't hide anywhere from Darby 
 Cooney — och, he knows where everybody is; 
 an' he'd find me out if the earth covered me ; 
 and if I thry'd to hide from him, it's then he'd 
 murther me !" 
 
 " I wouldn't let him murder you, and Father 
 Connell wouldn't let him murder you." 
 
 " An' och," she went on, suddenly clasping 
 her hands and starting aside from her young 
 champion — " if he kem back upon me now 
 an' found the childher not washed and put to 
 bed, and the babby's cap not washed, an' myself 
 not washed — och, och, it would be a sore night 
 to me ! — an' you, here, would be the worst ov 
 all ! Good-bye to you, tendher hearted boy." 
 She sprang back to him, threw her arms round 
 his neck, and kissed him. '' Don't stay here 
 any longer — don't, don't come with me over 
 the threshold — an' may the blessing o" the 
 motherless an' the fatherless be in your road !" 
 she ran into the hovel and shut the door.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 209 
 
 Neddy Fennell turned into his own resting 
 place, full of plans for the emancipation and 
 future happiness of his new acquaintance. 
 
 The next morning Father Connell came, 
 according to his promise, to converse with 
 Darby Cooney. But neither Darby Cooney, 
 nor any of his motherless charge were any- 
 where to be found ; nor could the most minute 
 enquiries supply the slightest information re- 
 garding the hour at which they had abandoned 
 their lodgings, or the route they had afterwards 
 pursued. 
 
 T. 3
 
 210 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 To one side of the principal street of Father 
 Connell's little city, and nearly at its termina- 
 tion, was a low, long house, having quite the 
 appearance of a private residence, — except that 
 its entrance door Avas always open, and yet it 
 was an apothecary's establishment. It had no 
 shop front— no huge bottles of tinted water, 
 fit for not a single earthly purpose, ornamented 
 its unbusiness like window ; nor in the apart- 
 ment assigned to it's owner's professional 
 occupations, were there many of the usual 
 indications of an apothecary's shop, nor indeed
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 211 
 
 of a shop of any kind. And people sald^ that 
 Dick Wresham, although depending exclu- 
 sively on pestle and mortar for his support, was 
 too much of a gentleman, to carry on his trade 
 in anything like the common way. 
 
 In his — what shall it be called ? hall of 
 audience perhaps, there were five or six old 
 mahogany parlour chairs, with very broad, flat, 
 black-leather bottoms, secured at the front and 
 sides, with large, round-headed brass nails; 
 and the stone window-sills, on the outside of 
 his long house, were worn into a peculiar 
 smoothness and polish. And why are 
 these two facts mentioned? It will appear 
 why. 
 
 The proprietor of the medical mart was a thin- 
 bodied, sharp-featured, active-minded, little 
 man, with a malicious twinkle in his ferret 
 eye, and a mischievous grin round his 
 mouth. He wore black, except that his stock- 
 ings were of grey worsted; a long, slender 
 queu, perked out between his shoulders ; his
 
 212 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 hair was well pomatumed and powdered ; and 
 abundance of powder also lay on the collar of 
 his coat. And he must uoav put himself into 
 action for us. 
 
 It is still a bitter December morning, not a 
 great many removed from that with which we 
 have last had to do. Dicky Wresham runs to 
 his open door, peeps up and down the street ; 
 runs in again to his drugs, and out again in a 
 few minutes, to take another peep. He evi- 
 dently expects the arrival of some person, or 
 persons, and he is very anxious and fidgetty on 
 the point. And one by one the wished for 
 visitors arrive, and one by one, he greets 
 them heartily. 
 
 Are they customers ? No : they are indivi- 
 duals who, every day in the year, come to polish 
 the bottoms of the old black-leather chairs, 
 within doors, if it be inclement weather ; or 
 else the window stools in the street, if it be 
 ftiir weather ; and they come each to empty his 
 budget of small gossip, or to have a similar one
 
 FATHER CONNELL 213 
 
 emptied into him ; or to join, open-mouthed, in 
 scandal, not always of a harmless nature, or to 
 make remarks on all passers by in the streets ; 
 or, in a word, idly to spend their idle time, in 
 the best way they can possibly devise. So 
 Dick Wresham has them almost all about him 
 for the day, at which he rubs his hands and 
 looks fully happy — and he is so ; for, doubtless, 
 a stock of capital gossip, and scurrility, and 
 fun, is now laid in for him ; and Dick's craving 
 appetite for such mental food should be satisfied 
 every morning as soon as ever he had powdered 
 his head and coat collar. 
 
 And this assemblage, in Dick's laboratory, 
 was familiarly known, through the town, as 
 ** Dick Wresham's school." They also styled 
 themselves " gentlemen ;" and Dick and many 
 others admitted the title, though a good many 
 people besides questioned whether the standard 
 used by the little apothecary and his immediate 
 friends, for measuring a *' gentleman" agreed, 
 in all respects, with that adopted for the same
 
 214 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 purpose by " Ulster King-at-Arms." But 
 however this may be the school has now as- 
 sembled. All the scholars are, upon this par- 
 ticular morning, within doors, of course, the 
 weather not permitting a meeting in the open 
 air. Two of their number post themselves as 
 sentinels of observation, face to face, against 
 the jambs of the doorway, and their business 
 is to look out for objects and subjects of com- 
 mentary, among the simple people who pass 
 by ; or haply (for the videttes are great wags) 
 to beckon some one of the simplest among 
 the simple into Dick Wrcsham's school-room, 
 and there exercise some practical joke — that 
 smallest and most country-townish way of pre- 
 tending to wit. 
 
 A few of Dick Wresham's school may just 
 be pencilled in. 
 
 Gaby Mac Neary was one of them. He 
 had began life with, as he himself would beauti- 
 fully express it, " a blue look out ;" that is 
 with little to recommend him, except a hand-
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 215 
 
 some person, and a good flow of red Protestant 
 blood in his veins. These two qualities, how- 
 ever slender they might prove in other 
 countries, gained him a rich enough wife in 
 Ireland ; legacies from her relatives afterwards 
 dropt in, so that he was now, at an advanced 
 age, able to live " genteely," that is, without 
 doing any one earthly thing, except to eat, 
 drink, and sleep, and have his own way, right 
 or wrong; and Dicky "Wresham accoi^dingly 
 wrote him down '* gentleman." 
 
 Gaby was tall and bulimy, but stooped in his 
 shoulders. He could not be said to have an 
 ill-tempered face ; but it had a domineering 
 look, befitting a person of much importance in 
 the world, both as to rank and religious creed ; 
 and this was one of the characteristics of what 
 the papists of the time used to term a " Pro- 
 testant face." 
 
 Jack Mac Carthy was another of the school ; 
 whilome a ganger, but now retired on a pension 
 and some money to boot. He was a sturdy 
 L 5
 
 216 FATHER CONNELL, 
 
 built, low sized " gentleman" of about sixty, 
 with tremendous gi'ey eye-brows, always knit 
 together, and a huge projecting under lip. 
 He seemed as if ever revolving some unpleasant 
 subject ; and Jack was said to have a " Pro- 
 testant face" too ; that is, he looked as if he 
 did not like a papist, and was therefore con- 
 scious that a papist could not like him. 
 
 And Kit Hunter was upon this morning 
 at " school" also ; and he possessed property 
 sufficient, we will not stop to say exactly how 
 obtained, to satisfy Dick Wresham of his 
 pretensions to be admitted into his seminary. 
 The wrinkles about Kit's mouth, had formed 
 themselves into a perpetual smile. He was 
 known as the shadow of the great personage 
 of the town, Avhether a Lord or a Baronet, 
 shall not now be told. He constantly attended 
 that great man's levee, was honoured by being 
 leant upon by him, whenever he flattered the 
 streets by walking through them ; he was 
 always ready to run on his errands ; and to crown
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 217 
 
 all his glory, frequently invited to dine with, 
 and drink the choice old wines of the high, and 
 for the present, mysterious personage. 
 
 An easy tempered, middle-aged man was 
 Kit, with a great talent for picking up gossip 
 of every kind, and for retailing it too ; for it 
 may be fairly conceded that the sack of a news- 
 gatherer gapes almost equally at both ends. 
 In person he was tall, slight, thin, almost 
 emaciated, and bent and weak in the hams ; 
 and always drest carefully and sleekly, in the 
 best brushed clothes of the leading fashion of 
 the day. 
 
 After the sages here particularly noticed, 
 there were two or three others of less interest; 
 the sentinels who filled the door-way were 
 younger pupils, " gentlemen, bloods of the city," 
 roystering, swaggering blades ; and hoaxers or 
 practical jokers by profession. 
 
 The " school" has repeated some of its les- 
 sons for its master, and for each other, conned 
 since they last assembled before him. Dick
 
 218 FATHER CONNELL, 
 
 WresLam, occasionally eyeing a prescription, 
 continues :-- 
 
 " All Kit, what about the old friar and his 
 bell ?" 
 
 " Aye Kit, my worthy," echoed one of the 
 sentinel wags, " tell us about the friar and 
 his belle — ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 And the ha, ha, ha ! ran through the whole 
 " school" — for a si^arkling and original witti- 
 cism had been uttered. 
 
 " Aye, joke away on it," said Gaby Mac 
 Neaiy, — '' but by Gog, — " and he banged his 
 stick across Dick Wre&ham's " genteel" and 
 delicate subterflige, for a counter, " you'll soon 
 have them fi'iars devouring up the fat of the 
 land again. Ila, 'tis'nt ould times with them 
 now ; the're creeping out of their holes among 
 us again, — an honest man can't walk the 
 streets without being jostled by one of them." 
 
 " And how divilish sleek the rascals look," 
 sputtered Jack Mac Carthy, knitting, wickedly, 
 liis awful, grey eyebrows.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 219 
 
 " Well, but Kit Hunter, tell us about 
 Father Murphy," commanded Dick Wresham 
 impatiently. 
 
 " Why, you must know, he has built a kind 
 of a little steeple on the gable of his chapel, 
 and hung up a small bell in it ; and this he 
 rings out for his mass, as sturdily as if there 
 was no law to prevent it." 
 
 " Ho !" grunted Gaby Mac Neary, " if 
 that's not popish impudence, the divil's in the 
 dice. Gog's blug !" he continued in a kind of 
 soliloquy, puckering his lips into a fierce snarl, 
 as he stumped about the school- room, and 
 punched his stick downwards at every step. 
 
 " Well, Kit?" again asked Dick Wresham. 
 
 " Well : the dean was made acquainted 
 with the matter, and requested to use his au- 
 thority, in having the bell taken down, and so 
 he called on Father IVIurphy for the purpose. 
 The friar, you know is a big, bluff kind of an 
 ould fellow — and hah ! he said to the dean — 
 and can't I have a bell to call my coachman,
 
 220 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 and my groom, and my footmen, and all my 
 other man servants, and ould Alley, the cook, 
 to their dinners— eh? — ha !" 
 
 Some laughed at Kit Hunter's anecdote ; 
 but Gaby j\[ac Neary, and Jack Mac Carthy, 
 could only ejaculate their indignation, at such 
 a piece of audacious papistry. Kit Hunter 
 went on. 
 
 '^ You must take it down, my good sir," 
 said the dean. 
 
 " Take it down, is it, after all the trouble I 
 had putting it up ? Hu ! hu ! no, I won't take 
 it down ; but if you want it so much, there it 
 is — and you may climb up, and take it down 
 yourself — hu! hu!" 
 
 " And what did the dean say to this?" de- 
 manded Gaby Mac Neary. 
 
 " "\Yliy he could say notliing at all farther, 
 for, after pointing up at the bell, the friar 
 walked off as fast as he could." 
 
 Gaby and Jack now expressed a huger 
 indignation than ever. Gaby, in particular.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 221 
 
 though not feeling half of the real asperity 
 experienced by his friend Jack, burst forth in 
 his might. He imprecated, he cursed, and he 
 swore, he bellowed as he stumped about ; and 
 " the vagabones !" he went on, '^ there is'nt 
 a friar, no nor a priest of 'em, that I would'nt 
 hunt out of the counthry, over again ! why 
 they'll ride rough shod over us, as they did 
 before, by Gog ! They walk the very middle 
 stone of the street already — blur-ayi-ages T 
 
 " And here is one of them walking the 
 middle stone of the street, this very moment," 
 reported one of the sentinels. 
 
 " Father Connell, no less — hat and wig, and 
 all.'' added the other. 
 
 " Blug-a-bouns /" roared Gaby Mac Neary, 
 becoming almost lachrymose in his wrath — 
 " hunt them out of the country, did I say ? 
 no, but hang 'em all up, sky high, that is what 
 I meant to say !" 
 
 "He is on one of his begging exiDeditions to-
 
 222 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 day," again reported the faithful vidette. "Look 
 there Is Con Loughnan, handling him a note, 
 nothing less — " 
 
 Little Dickey Wresham raced to the door, 
 thrust out his neck and head for a peep, and 
 raced back again to his pestle and mortar. 
 The sentinels at the door-way whispered to- 
 gether, and as Father Connell passed them, 
 they saluted him very ceremoniously, and in- 
 vited him to enter the school-room —he did so. 
 
 The persons among whom our jjarish priest 
 now stood, seemed quite strangers to him. 
 One of them, indeed, namely Gaby Mac 
 Neary, he might have recognized in a difterent 
 light, had he been able distinctly to observe 
 him ; but at his first appearance, Gaby had 
 flung himself upon one of the black leather* 
 bottom chairs, and twisted it and himself face- 
 wise towards the w^all. 
 
 Some of the other persons of the circle 
 acted as follows. Kit Hunter prudently moved
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 223 
 
 backwards into the shade ; Jack Mac Carthy 
 tried to smile, but it was a hideous attempt — a 
 vicious donkey might equal it ; and Dick 
 Wresham grinned most maliciously ; while, for 
 the purpose of disguising the venemous mirth, 
 he pretended to use his teeth in assisting liis 
 fingers to tie up a paper of drugs. 
 
 It was surmised by one of the juvenile wit- 
 lings, that Father Connell was out on a mission 
 of charity. The old priest assented. 
 
 Particulars of the case of distress which at 
 present interested him, were politqly demanded. 
 In the simplest and the fewest Avords possible 
 he told his little tale of woe. Again he was 
 solicited to name the parties, and he named 
 them. 
 
 " Ah, yes, sir," resumed the young " gentle- 
 man." " I might have guessed that it was for 
 one of the fair portion of the creation your 
 reverence took so much trouble this cold day ?" 
 
 " And indeed it is to the credit of clergymen
 
 224 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 in general that they are such champions of tlie 
 weaker sex," resumed his comrade. 
 
 " I remember the little Widow Fennsll 
 right well," quoth Dick Wresham, " and a 
 plmnp little bit of flesh she was, and must be 
 to the present hour." 
 
 At these words, to the surprise of all who 
 caught the action. Gaby Mac Neary suddenly 
 turned his head over the back of his chair, and 
 scouled very angrily at the speaker. 
 
 " There certainly is some satisfaction, in 
 bestowing charity, on such a pretty little 
 widow," continued the chief sentinel — " one of 
 her smiles, is good value for a guinea, any 
 day — " and he took out of his waistcoat pocket, 
 a glittering coin, and with a face of much ear- 
 nestness, placed it on the priest's palm and 
 closed the old man's fingers upon it. 
 
 Father Connell glanced, however, at the 
 offering, and then reclosed his fingers upon it 
 himself. The waggery and the sparkling wit 
 went forward.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 225 
 
 " By my oath and conscience," said the 
 really spiteful Jack Mac Carthy, " I'd give a 
 leg of mutton and ' thrimmins ' to any one that 
 ud tache me the knack of making friends 
 among the women, as the priests do." 
 
 " Why, Father Connell might give you an 
 insight," said another, " but nothing for nothing 
 all the world over ; no money, no pather-nos- 
 ther— eh. Father Connell?" 
 
 Gaby Mac Neary did not now look round, 
 but he seemed to grow very uneasy or very hot 
 on his chair. 
 
 " Father Connell is a spruce ould buck," 
 cried little Dicky Wresham " and there is 
 no wonder that the women should be friendly to 
 him." 
 
 " But how does he make the hat and wig go 
 down with them ?" resumed the brutal Jack 
 Mac Carthy. 
 
 " Blur-an-ages-an-hy-Go(/ /" exploded Gaby 
 Mac Neary, jumping up at the same time, and 
 jostling forward to where Father Connell stood
 
 226 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 — " and," he continued during his progress, 
 " and every kind of sweet damnation seize upon 
 my soul, if I can stand it any longer, or if I 
 will stand it any longer ! — give me your hand 
 Father Connell — how do you do, sir?" 
 
 Father Connell did as he was bid, standing 
 somewhat aghast, however, at the roaring ap- 
 proach of such a forty-horse oath engine. 
 
 " Why, what are you at now. Gaby ?" 
 asked the principal hoaxer — " you that swore, 
 as no other man can swear, but you, — a little 
 while ago, that you'd hang every rascally priest 
 of them, sky high." 
 
 " You lie, you whelp I" answered Gaby, 
 " I never swore, nor said any such thing, you 
 young rascal ! and you're all nothing but a pack 
 of rascals — nothing else — to bring this good 
 hearted ould gentlemen in here, to scoff* at him, 
 and to insult him." 
 
 *' Well done. Gaby," shouted the second 
 hoaxer, and he slapped old Gaby on the 
 shoulder,
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 227 
 
 " Do that again, ye kout,^ and I'll dust your 
 puppy's jacket, while a dusting is good for it 
 or you !" and he flourished his stick about him, 
 at a rate that made his old friends jump out 
 of his way ; while the only object he hit was, 
 the hat of the very person whose champion he 
 now was, and this, with the violence of his un- 
 intended blow, flew some distance oflf its 
 accustomed resting place. But Gaby soon 
 picked it up, replaced it on the apex of the 
 wig, and then slapped it down, with a force 
 that betokened in his own flitting apprehension, 
 ranch friendly energy, and a liberal promise 
 of chivalrous protection towards the wearer. 
 
 " Come away. Father Connell, out of tliis 
 blackguard place," he went on, passing the 
 priest's arm through his, " come along, sir, 
 come along I tell you !" 
 
 " My dear," said Father Connell, laying 
 his hand on the arm of his doughty defender 
 
 * A mean chap.
 
 228 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 " do not get angry, do not curse or swear on 
 my account ; these gentlemen have done me no 
 harm ; I wish I could say they had done them- 
 selves any good ; nor have they been as suc- 
 cessful in ridiculing me as they think ; neither 
 my years, now nearly four score, nor my hat 
 and wig have made me so very stupid as they 
 suppose. As for the witty young gentleman 
 who gave me this," and he held out the counter- 
 feit guinea on his oj)en palm, and then allowed 
 it to drop on the floor at his foot — " I won't 
 say God reward him, no, no ;" the old man 
 shook his head, touched the brim of his hat, 
 and looked upward — " the reward, if my poor 
 prayer were heard, might be in proportion to 
 the gift ; but I can, and I do say — God forgive 
 him." 
 
 *' Hah ! take that, you dirty curs I" triumphed 
 Gaby Mac Neary, . as he and Father Connell 
 turned into the street. 
 
 To the great surprise of the whole town, the 
 pair were in a few minutes after seen parading
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 229 
 
 the streets, arm in arm, and begging of every 
 one they mutually knew, a donation for the 
 poor Fennells. Protestant and Catholic looked 
 after them as they marched along ; and, agree- 
 ing in opinion, for at least, once in their lives, 
 sagely remarked, that " wonders would never 
 cease." 
 
 In the heat of his charitable enthusiasm, — ■ 
 as much, one may venture to say, as in the 
 heat of his wrath, against Dick Wresham's 
 '^ dirty curs — " Gaby's own contribution, to 
 Father Connell's list, was large, almost out of 
 character. But this was not all. He led him 
 to his own house, and there " made much of 
 him ;" and over a hearty luncheon, and a glass 
 of good wine. Gaby Mac Neary requested 
 and obtained a minute account of the former 
 and the present situation of the poor family 
 for whom he sought relief. 
 
 To every word the old priest uttered. Gaby's 
 only daughter was an attentive listener. This 
 little girl may be called very lovely — very, very
 
 230 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 lovely. Her age was not more than ten years. 
 No description of her face or person is about 
 to follow; but it is asserted over again that 
 little Helen Mac Neary was very, very lovely, 
 and bright, laughing, joyous — a very sun-burst 
 of beauty, flashing over the freshness of life's 
 almost break of day. 
 
 During the priest's statements, however, 
 little Helen showed none of her usual brilliant 
 joyousuess. Her features became gently sor- 
 rowful, and tears started from her eyes. Father 
 Connell took leave of his new friend. At the 
 door of the hout^e he felt his jock j^ulled, and 
 turning round, he saw this beautiful little being 
 looking up earnestly at him, and moving her 
 fingers in a mute request that he might bend 
 down to her. He laid his open palm upon her 
 shining hair — of the same color, by the way, 
 as that of the poor little beggar girl — gazed 
 in smiles, for a space, uj)on her glowing, up- 
 turned features; and muttered involuntarily — 
 " may the Lord bless you, my little angel."
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 241 
 
 She beckoned to liim again, and he bent his 
 ear to her lips. 
 
 " I got this for a Christmas box," she whis- 
 pered, sliding half-a-guinea into his hand — 
 " but will you give it, sir, along with the rest 
 you have, to poor Mrs. Fennel!, and her old 
 aunt, and to poor little Neddy ? — Oh, you're 
 hurting me, sir !" she suddenly cried out, 
 pained by Father Connell's ardent pressure of 
 both her tiny hands in his. He relaxed his 
 unconscious clasp ; but still held her tightly, 
 and he still gazed at her, his lips working to 
 keep in his emotion. 
 
 '' Helen, Helen ! where are you, girl ?" bel- 
 lowed out her father, descending the staircase. 
 " Good bye to you, sir," she continued, again 
 endeavouring to extricate her fingers. 
 
 " Blug-a-houns I what's all this ?" questioned 
 her father, making his appearance. 
 
 " Your little daughter," answered Father 
 Connell, " is a blessed child. She is beautiful 
 to look upon ; but her fresh, young heart is 
 
 VOL,, I. M
 
 242 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 more beautiful still. See — she has given me 
 for the poor widow, what was bestowed upon 
 her, these happy Christmas times, to buy play- 
 things and sweet things — and she is only a 
 little girl still," — he inclined his head, and 
 laid his cheek to Helen's — " I thought at first 
 of giving back her little gift ; — and I thought 
 too of bestowing upon her, a Christmas box, 
 and a good one, out of my own pocket ; but 
 I won't do either." 
 
 " Don't don't," roared Gaby Mac Neary, 
 half crying, " blug-an-ages T 
 
 " No : I will not ; no my child I will not, 
 I'll leave it in the hands of your God, to repay 
 you for your charity. Here, sir, — take your 
 little daughter to you, and kiss her, and be 
 proud of her." He took up the child, placed 
 her in her father's arms, and left the house.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 243 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Yet another school-house is to be visited, and 
 it will make the third presented in these pages. 
 But monotony need not, therefore, be appre- 
 hended ; for if Dick Wresham's school has been 
 found unlike Father Connell's school — and 
 there is little doubt but it has — that which 
 must now be described will prove unlike either. 
 
 And the " main street," is again to be re- 
 curred to. Jammed in between two mere 
 modern houses, with shop windows, there was 
 in it a curious old structure, or rather a succes- 
 sion of very curious old structures, situated to the 
 rear of this introductory one. It had a high, 
 parapeted front, over which arose a gable, very 
 M 3
 
 244 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 sharp angled at top, and surmounted by a tali, 
 roundish, stone chimney. 
 
 A semicircular archway, gained by a few 
 steps, ran through it from the street, and led 
 into a small quadrangle, one side of which was 
 formed by its own back, and the other three 
 sides by similar old buildings ; that side to 
 your left being partially dilapidated. A second 
 semicircular archway passed under the pile 
 confronting you, as you entered the enclosure 
 from the street, and gave egress into a second, 
 but larger quadrangle. Of this, the far or top 
 side was composed of one range of an old 
 edifice, still ; that behind you of the rear of 
 the house that fronted you, in the lesser quad- 
 rangle, that to your right, of other ancient 
 buildings, entirely ruinous ; and that to 
 your left, partly of a dead wall, partly of a 
 shed, before which was a bench of mason-work, 
 and partly of a little nook, containing some 
 evergreens, and remarkable for affording 
 place to a queer sentry-box kind of structure, 
 built of solid stone.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 245 
 
 And now there was yet a third archway 
 before you, but much narrower than the others, 
 and very much darker, boring its way under 
 the lower part of the structure facing you. In 
 traversing it, your eye caught, to your right 
 hand, doorways unperfectly filled up by old 
 oak doors, half hanging off their old-time's 
 hinges, and leading into large, unoccupied, 
 coal black chambers ; and when you emerged 
 from it, the cheery daylight was again around 
 you, in a third enclosed space, of which the 
 most remarkable feature was a long flight of 
 wide stone steps, terminating in a sharply 
 arched door, which led into an elevated garden. 
 
 Whv dwell on the features of the odd old 
 place? Has no one guessed? Here, Father 
 Connell put his adopted son to school. Here 
 was the scene of years of that boy's pains and 
 pleasures, sports and tasks, tears and laughter 
 — likings and dislikings — friendships, — nay, of a 
 stronger and a higher passion, which though 
 conceived in mex*e boyhood, passed into his 
 youthful prime, and afterwards swayed
 
 246 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 and shaped the fate, not only of himself, but 
 alas ! of his aged protector. 
 
 All the nooks and corners of the odd, old 
 place, were all, all the play grounds of him, 
 and his school-fellows. He will stop to this 
 day, before the streetward archway, and look 
 into the two quadrangles, until recollected 
 pleasure becomes present pain. For as he 
 looks, his mind's eye sees, flitting and jumping 
 through the sunshine and the shade, with which 
 they are chequered, the features and forms of 
 those early mates ; and his ears seem to hear 
 their shouts, and their shrill untirable gabble ; 
 until anon, he seems to distinguish the very 
 accents of their voices, and even by that, knows 
 them from each other ; and at last they pipe 
 out his own name, and he is sure, what boys 
 from time to time utter it ! And then, 
 turning away from the old archway, he 
 asks himself — what days have since been 
 like the days which his passing vision has just 
 o-iven him back ? What hour of satiated passion, 
 what hour of worldly success, has been worth
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 247 
 
 one minute of the passionless, thoughtless plea- 
 sures, experienced within the intricacies and 
 the quaiutnesses of the odd, old place ? 
 
 And, as he plods along the streets of his 
 native town, other questions and recollections 
 come upon him. He calls to mind some of his 
 fancies ; for instance, of the kind of old people, 
 who must originally have inhabited the 
 jumble of old structures ; — who were they ? 
 What did they there? What did they look 
 like ? How were they dressed ? He did not 
 know a bit at that time ; still he used to imagine 
 them clad in long robes of black or dark grey, 
 silently moving about their then silent little 
 squares, or sitting stock still on the bench in 
 the larger one; or gliding, (not walking,) up 
 the long flight of stone steps to their primitive 
 garden ; (and what in the world used to grow 
 in that garden ?) or, mysteriously vanishing 
 into the large, black chambers, to be found to 
 the right of the third archway. 
 
 And the imps his fancy has just seen ! Their 
 progress from childhood, or boyhood, into man-
 
 248 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 hood ! But Ned Fennell will insist upon tlii& 
 topic more at length in another place. Foi* 
 the passing instant, he can do little else than 
 boast of all his old haunts of play and frolic^ 
 
 In the middle of the inner quadrangle, there 
 used to be a roundish space, quite smooth, and 
 well sanded over, while the rest of the yard 
 around it was roughly paved — and could 
 human foresight have contrived anything more 
 appropriate for the marble ring, and the peg- 
 top ring? In " hide and seek," where could 
 the appointed seeker find such a retreat as the 
 old stone sentry-box — the boys called it an old 
 confessional — in which to turn away his head 
 and eyes, until the other urchins should have 
 concealed themselves among some of the fan- 
 tastic recesses around them? And where 
 could leap-frog be played so well, as under the 
 old archways ? — and if a sudden shower came 
 
 on, how conveniently they afforded shelter 
 from it ! To such of the boys as had courage for 
 
 the undertaking, what places above ground, ay, 
 
 or under ground, so fit for enacting " the ghost,"
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 249 
 
 as were the pandemonium retreats of the black 
 chambers of the third archway ? Was there ever 
 so luxurious a seat for a tired boy to cast himself 
 upon, fanning his scarletted face with his hat, 
 as that offered to him by the bench in the 
 larger quadrangle, canopied over head by its 
 two umbrageous sycamores, one at its either end? 
 Or, if a poor boy happened to play too much, 
 and too long, and Avere summoned up to his 
 task, without having conned a single word of 
 it, what crumbling old walls under the sun 
 could compare with those at the opposite side 
 of the square, for supplying in perfection, a 
 weed called— locally at least — " Peniterry," to 
 which the suddenly terrified idler might run in 
 his need, grasping it hard, and threateningly, 
 and repeating the following " words of power :" 
 
 " Peniterry, peniterry, that grows by the wall, 
 
 Save me from a whipping, or I pull you roots and all." 
 
 And there was a third sycamore, in a corner 
 belonging to a thrush, who, from year to year 
 M 5
 
 250 FATHER CONNELI.. 
 
 built her nest, and brought forth her young in 
 it, and she was the best fed thrush in the 
 world. Her nest lay almost on a level with 
 one of the school-room windows — you could 
 nearly touch her, by stretching out your arm 
 from it — and outside this window projected a 
 broken slate, constantly kept filled with various 
 kinds of provisions, for her and her fomily. 
 Her husband seemed to grow lazy under these 
 circumstances. He would scarce ever leave 
 home in quest of food, and, indeed, do little 
 else than perch upon the very topmost bough 
 over her head, and whistle to her all day long. 
 As for herself, she seemed, out of her trustiness 
 in her little purveyors, to live in a delightful 
 state of happy quietude. Not a bit startled 
 was she, or even put out, by all their whoopings 
 and uproar in the yard below. Nay — she 
 seemed to take a matronly interest in their 
 studies too; for the boys of the head class, 
 during school hours, could plainly see her, 
 sitting on her eggs, while they sat to their
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 251 
 
 books or slates, and they would fancy that her 
 little, round, diamonded eye, used to be watch- 
 ing them. 
 
 Well. The old house confronting you, as 
 you entered the first quadrangle, from the 
 street, and the rear of which looked into the 
 second quadrangle, Avas the old school-house. 
 Passing its sharply arched doorway of stone, 
 you entered a hall, floored with old black oak, 
 and ascended a spiral staircase of black oak, 
 coiling round an upright of black oak, and 
 stepped into the school-room, floored Avith 
 black oak, and divided by a thick partition of 
 black oak from the master's bed-chamber ; in 
 fact, all the partitions, all the doors, all the 
 stairs, all the cieling beams — and ponderous 
 things they were — down stairs, and up stairs, 
 through tlie interior of the crude old edifice, 
 were all, all old black oak, old black oak, nearly 
 as hard as flint, and seemingly rough from the 
 hatchet, too ; and the same was the case in the 
 interiors of the other inhabitable portions of 
 the concatenation of ancient buildings.
 
 252 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 Through the partition separating his bed- 
 cliamber from the school-room the head of the 
 seminary had bored a good many holes, nearly 
 an inch in diameter, some straight forward, 
 some slantingly, to enable himself to peer into 
 every corner of the study, before entering it 
 each morning ; and this is to be kept in mind. 
 At either end of the long apartment was a 
 large square window, framed with stone, and, 
 indeed, stone also in its principal divisions. 
 Over head ran the enormous beams of old oak, 
 and in the spaces between them were monoto- 
 nous flights, all in a row, and equally distant 
 from each other, of monotonous angels, in 
 stucco — theusual children's heads, with goose 
 wino-s shootino; from under their ears : and 
 sometimes one or two of these angels became 
 fallen angels, flapping down, on dipt wings, 
 either upon tlie middle of the floor, or else 
 upon the boys' heads, as they sat to their 
 desks, and confusing them, and their books, 
 and slates with fragments of stucco and mortar, 
 rotten laths, and rusty nails.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 253 
 
 In a kind of recess^ on the side of the school- 
 room opposite to the boy's double desks, was an 
 old table, flanked by a form, to which, at 
 certain hours of the day, sat some half dozen 
 young girls, from six to ten years, who 
 came up from the quaint old parlour below, 
 under the care of the master's daughter, who 
 therein superintended their education in inferior 
 matters, to be occasionally delivered into his 
 hands for more excelling instruction. 
 
 The principal of this celebrated seminary wrote 
 himself down in full, and in a precise, round hand, 
 James Charles Buchmahon ; and his establish- 
 ment as " the English Acamedy :" — principal, 
 we have called him — despotic monarch, we 
 should have called him; for he never had had 
 more than one assistant, and the head of that 
 one he broke before' they had been many weeks 
 together. 
 
 And never were absolute monarchy, and 
 deep searching scrutiny, more distinctly stamped 
 and carved on any countenance, than upon that 
 of James Charles Buchmahon, master of the-
 
 254 FATHER CONNKLL. 
 
 English Academy. And that countenance was 
 long and of a soiled sallow colour; and the 
 puckering of his brows and eje-lids awful ; 
 and the unblinking steadiness of his blueish 
 grey eyes insufferable; and the cold blooded 
 resoluteness of his marbly lips unrelaxable. 
 At the time we speak of him, James Charles 
 Buchmahon might have been between fifty and 
 sixty, but he wore well. He was tall, with a 
 good figure and remarkably well turned limbs. 
 " and he had the gift to know it," for in order 
 not to hide a point of the beauty of those limbs 
 from the world, he always arrayed them in 
 very tight fitting pantaloons, which reached 
 down to his ankles. His coat and waistcoat 
 were invariably black. A very small white 
 muslin cravat, and a frill sticking out quite 
 straight from his breast, occupied the space 
 from his chin to his waist. And James Charles 
 Buchmahon's hat was of cream colour beaver, 
 hioh crowned, and broad brimmed : and he 
 ever carried either a formidable walking stick 
 of stout oak, or else a substitute for it, made of
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 255 
 
 five or six peeled switches, cunningly twisted 
 together, and at one end loaded with lead. 
 
 It has been hinted that Ned Fennell has 
 promised us some further notice of a few of his 
 former playmates ; the subjects over whom, in 
 common with himself, the master of the English 
 Academy held sway ; and this is the place into 
 which again in the teeth of our critical remon- 
 strances he beseechingly insists to be permitted 
 to introduce his little living picture gallery. 
 It is not quite waywardness, he says, which 
 induces him to be so pertinacious. Admitting 
 some yearning, for mere feeling's sake, to 
 reproduce and record characters, once either 
 dear or interesting to him, Ned will have it, 
 that lie can prove, by his faithful portraiture 
 of their eai-ly bent, and its similarity with 
 their eventual fortunes or fate, how true it is, 
 that the sapling contains the full grown tree ; 
 — that " the child is father to the man."
 
 256 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 CHAPTEK XIII. 
 
 First, then, Ned presents his friend James 
 Graham, his old, old friend — even to this very 
 blessed day and hour, his old friend. 
 
 James was an English boy — a curiosity of 
 course to the whole school; a small-boned, 
 wiry little fellow, and not remarkable for first- 
 rate talent. But he was remarkable for, per- 
 haps, a still better kind of talent — that, namely, 
 of untiring industry and application, which, in 
 the end, enabled him to sweep out of his way 
 all scholastic diflficulties. And even in those early 
 days of his life, James Graham had iDrudence
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 257 
 
 and foresight, aye, and thrift enough, for forty 
 years of age. In everything that concei'ned 
 him he went steadily on, looking neither to the 
 right nor to the left, by the shortest road to 
 his object. After school wss dismissed, and 
 when almost every other boy loitered to play, 
 James would race home, as fast as he could, to 
 con his tasks for the following morning ; and 
 sometimes, to be sure, some of his classmates, 
 after having worked for the purpose, like mill 
 horses, an hour or so, would succeed in putting 
 him down in his class ; but, after that, it be- 
 hoved them to be watchful and continuously 
 industiious ; for if they were not, little lank 
 James Graham, who was always watchful, 
 always industrious, and always prepared, would 
 be sure to step up again. James's father 
 resided in the country ; while he boarded and 
 lodged in a humble, respectable family, in the 
 town. He was allowed a certain weekly sum 
 for what his friends considered necessary ex- 
 penses, apart from his boarding and lodging.
 
 258 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 But out of this sum, limited, of course, as it 
 was, James contrived to save money for the 
 future — absolutely for the future, almost in the 
 full meaning of the Avord. Partly in the fol- 
 lowing manner. 
 
 Pending from small nails inside his trunk — 
 Ned Fennell often saw the arrangement — were 
 little cotton bags, one containing half-pence, 
 another penny-pieces, another five-penny silver 
 pieces, another ten-penny silver pieces, another 
 half-crowns, another whole crowns, and the 
 last golden guineas, or else pound notes. And 
 when his half-pence amounted to penny-pieces, 
 he would transfer them in that shape to the 
 next little bag ; and when that contained 
 something above five-penny pieces he would 
 confirm them into the smallest silver coin ; 
 and so, on and on he went in rotation, through 
 all his little satchels, until finally half-pence, 
 &c., &c., merged into the guinea, or the 
 pound note. 
 
 But though thus saving, he did not hoard
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 259 
 
 like a miser, — a title given to him, by com- 
 momplace observers at school; whose chance 
 pence used to " burn their pockets," as they 
 themselves admitted, until they threw them 
 away upon the purchase of some unnecessary 
 toy, or sweet thing. From James' wealth first 
 resulted a full though miniature library of " the 
 British classics ;" and having since carried into 
 more active life, and even into the mighty com- 
 petition of the city of cities, matured and con- 
 firmed, his early school-boy characteristics, it 
 is many years since he has reaped the solid 
 advantages which, when almost a child, they 
 assuredly promised to him. 
 
 " Dear James !" adds Ned Fennell, " I do 
 not yet well know why so perfect a character 
 as yourself ever could like, or love a harum- 
 scarum fellow, like what I then was ; and yet 
 you did — and some of my school cronies, along 
 with me ; aye, and often made us the better of 
 your little pocket library too. To be sure 
 they and I always used to fight your boxing
 
 260 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 battles for you, at any odds against all your 
 gibing or cowardly assailants ; and though you 
 were not a frolicsome boy, you were a mirthful 
 one ; and at last, we could often make you 
 laugh heartily, in your queer, English Avay, at 
 our queer Irish fun — aye, and now and then join 
 in it too, under sufficient protection ; for your 
 frame, dear James, was not strong enough for 
 all the haps of school-boy adventure and war- 
 fare ; still I do not know how it was, that you 
 loved us, and to this day do love us so well ; 
 except indeed, my conjecture be right, that 
 your good nature was equal to your other 
 good qualities." 
 
 George Booth very little resembled James 
 Graham. He was the biggest and tallest boy 
 in the school. In fact he was eighteen or 
 nineteen — and quite a giant compared with 
 every other boy around him. Yet he never 
 could acquire enough to entitle him to a place 
 in the head class, and so was always a member 
 of some inferior one, where he towered above
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 261 
 
 his compeers — very little fellows indeed — 
 like Gulliver among the Lilliputians. Still it 
 was in stature only that he surpassed even 
 these — aye, or even equalled them. He was 
 always at the tail of his class — or, as the little 
 people termed it, " Paddy last," and as matter 
 of consequence, George Booth wore, nearly 
 from morning to night, the idler's cap — a curious 
 head-gear enough, and of such a height, as to 
 make George seem nearly twice as tall as he 
 really was. 
 
 But all this seemed to give George very little 
 trouble. Day after day, he bore, with a stolid, 
 unwincing endurance, his coronation as mo- 
 narch of dunces, and the sore humiliations, 
 scoifs, and insults, resulting therefrom. In 
 fact, he seemed to have made up his mind, that 
 he had been sent to school, for the purpose and 
 for no other of wearing the idler's cap ; and 
 as he plodded home, every evening, George 
 used to be heavily good-humoured and jocose, 
 in his own peculiar way, as if he felt convinced.
 
 262 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 that he had gone through his day's duty with 
 consistent credit to himself. 
 
 Before school broke up, each day, all who 
 could tack words of two syllables together, 
 stood in a semicircle round the room, first, 
 second, third, or fourth classes as it might be. 
 Upon these occasions, if a boy of an inferior 
 class, spelt correctly a word, which his neighbour 
 in a higher one had " missed," James Charles 
 Buchmahon's discipline, to meet the case, w^as 
 rather sino-ular. As no member of the third 
 class suppose, could take the place of one of 
 the second class, he was entitled as an equiva- 
 lent triumph, over the dunce of the moment, 
 to seize his nose between his right finger and 
 thumb, and so lead liim round the school- 
 room. Now, it may be believed, that George 
 Booth, very often, subjected his organ of smell, 
 to such vile usage. But in the contrivances of 
 the little fellow— scarce higher than George's 
 knee — to lay hold on George's nose, much of 
 the interest of the scene consisted. From some
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 263 
 
 olliness of surface, or else fleshy elasticity, pe- 
 culiar to it, the feature was very slippery, so 
 that when the tiny boy, helped by a good jump 
 upwards, succeeded in catching it, it would 
 slip, over and over, through his fingers, until 
 James Charles Buchmahon, to end the pro- 
 ceeding, would, in the calmest but most authori- 
 tative tone, direct George Booth, to bend 
 himself half double, so as that his countenance 
 might come within reach of the pigmy aspirant ; 
 and George would quietly obey, and then be 
 led about, amid the laughter and shouts of all 
 the lookers on ; and yet, when he was again 
 allowed to stand upright in his class, neither 
 shame, nor sorrow, nor excitement could be 
 ti-aced in his pale, fat countenance. And so 
 far George's character seemed legible enough. 
 Blockheadism and insensibility to disgrace very 
 fairly go together. But there were some points 
 about him which no human beino; not even 
 James Charles Buchmahon could comprehend : 
 certain dull, muddy, and it must have been
 
 264 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 unintended quiddities, labouring, like asthmatic 
 lungs, in the recesses of his brain — or rather of 
 whatever it ■svas, which stood in the place of 
 brains to him. For instance, he would now 
 and then be imaginative, forsooth ; but we 
 cannot venture, no more than James Charles 
 Buchmahon could, to define these precious 
 portions of George's mental existence, or con- 
 sciousness. An illustration of them, in facts, 
 shall, however, be attempted. 
 
 As if beginning to grow a little tired of per- 
 forming his daily dutj, under the edifice of 
 the idler's cap, George, one sunny autumn 
 morning, after breakfast, took a stroll into the 
 countrv, instead of going back, to the EnQ-lish 
 Academy ; and all that day he was not to be 
 heard of until hunger at last drove him home to 
 his father's house. 
 
 And next day, he took his place as " Paddy 
 last" in liis class, apparently as undisturbed as 
 if there were no reckoning in store for him ; or as 
 if there had been in existence no such man as
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 265 
 
 James Charles Buchmahon, master of the 
 English Academy ; and for a time George 
 seemed perfectly right. 
 
 A good portion of the day wore on, George 
 sat looking down on his book, his mouth, as 
 well as his eyes, wide open, as if he were won- 
 dering at some crabbed Chinese manuscript. 
 James Charles Buchmahon after hearing many 
 classes in rotation, stood, according to invariable 
 custom, before his magisterial desk, scraping, 
 and paring, and splitting, and nibbing pens, 
 and placing them in most formal rows upon its 
 outer ledge. The boys were all engaged, or 
 seemingly so, in conning fresh tasks, until the 
 pens should be quite ready to enable them to 
 engage in writing their copies. During his 
 progress of scraping and so on, James Charles 
 Buchmahon, looking over his spectacles, and 
 under his eyebrows, sent his searching glances 
 round and round the room, nay, from each indi- 
 vidual boy to the other. There was almost dead 
 jjilence, as was usual in the school-room at this 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 time every clay, when the words " George 
 Booth," pronoimced, in the slowest, and most 
 deep and solemn manner, by James Charles 
 Buehmahon, sounded through the stilly school- 
 room. George Booth looked in the well 
 known direction of the summoner — his miser- 
 able features suddenly jerking themselves, as it 
 w'ere, from their expression of inane stupidity 
 into contortions and twistings of a horrible 
 kind ; and his terrified glance informed him 
 that the fore finger of a certain right hand was 
 slowly beckoning him up to the judgment seat. 
 The fore-doomed wretch arose and advanced — 
 now gulping down something, every other in- 
 stant, as if he were vainly endeavouring to 
 swallow back again, the sickening fears that 
 bubbled up from his heart. 
 
 " George Booth, you were yesterday absent 
 from the English Academy." 
 
 " Yes, sir," (gulp.) 
 
 '* And pray where did you spend the day, 
 Georae Booth ?"
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 267 
 
 ** In Sir John's wood, sir, picking nuts." 
 
 " Humph !" James Charles Buchmahon in- 
 terrupted himself, in his process of mending 
 the pens, and stared straight forward, into 
 poor George's blinking, pig's eyes, as if seri- 
 ously endeavouring to make him out. The 
 conference was resumed. 
 
 " Very good. And pray, Mr. George Booth, 
 at whose suggestion, did you go to Sir John's 
 wood, to pick nuts ?" 
 
 " At — " (a great gulp — another, and another) 
 at Satan's, sir." 
 
 "At whose?" 
 
 " Satan's sir." 
 
 James Charles Buchmahon now laid down 
 the pen-knife, and placed the pen beside it, and 
 there was another look into George's eyes, 
 and through and through them, until it could 
 almost be seen coming out at the back of his 
 scull. 
 
 " Satan's, you say, sir?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 N 3
 
 268 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 " Will you be good enough, Mister George 
 Booth, to say also in what manner Satan and 
 you haj)pened to interchange words on the sub- 
 ject ?" 
 " Sir?" 
 
 " AVhere did you meet Satan, Mr. George 
 Booth." 
 
 "I saw him, sir, up — " George became at fault, 
 and swallowed the air more violently than ever. 
 " Up where, pray ?" 
 
 " Up — up in the clouds, sir — at the top of 
 Meeting-House Lane," the lane that led di- 
 rectly from his own street into the country. 
 
 " Very good, again, sir. And pray what 
 kind of person is Satan ?" 
 
 " He's — just — about your size, sir," and 
 George bobbed his head, as if the confession he 
 had made required something like an apo- 
 logetic bow ; while James Charles Buchmahon 
 deliberately raised his cream coloured hat from 
 his head, bowed very formally and politely in 
 his turn, and then replaced his beaver. But
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 269 
 
 oh ! even George Booth could comprehend that 
 this excessive politeness boded him no good. 
 
 " Well sir, about my size, you say: will you 
 please to favor me with a more detailed descrip- 
 tion ? Was there any further likeness ?" 
 
 " No, sir," George hastened to aver — " No 
 — 'pon my word and credit, sir !" 
 
 *' Well, sir — go on with your description." 
 
 " He was black, sir — and he had horns and 
 the tail, sir — and he had hoofs on him, sir, 
 instead of shoes." 
 
 " I — see. Well, what words did he address 
 to you ?" 
 
 " George, says he" — (gulp.) 
 
 « Well, sir." 
 
 " George, says he, don't go to school to the 
 English Academy to-day, says he." 
 
 " Well." 
 
 " But go out to Sir John's wood, says he, 
 and pick nuts, says he — there's the best nuts in 
 the whole country there, says he." 
 
 " Any other conversation between you, sir ?''
 
 270 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 During the last part of the catechism, James 
 Charles Buchmahon had advanced a step, and 
 now, with one blow, the unhappy being was 
 stretched at full length upon the old oaken 
 floor, which shook under him, as he roared like 
 a bull calf. 
 
 This was, indeed, an unusual proceeding on 
 the part of the systematic master of the 
 English Academy, but it will be recollected 
 that there was no boy in the school of suflScient 
 years or strength to bear George Booth's weight 
 upon his shoulders, so that George might have 
 had the advantage of receiving ideas from the 
 fanos of the cat-o'-nine-tails : while in the 
 apprehension — or rather in the momentary 
 fancy of James Charles Buchmahon, for, to 
 this hour, even he has not been able to arrive 
 at certainty upon the point — some punishment 
 became indispensable for George's attempt to 
 enact the mere idiot. 
 
 And George Booth, from that day to this.
 
 FATHER COXNELL. 271 
 
 through all the jirogress and changes of ad- 
 vanced life, has remained '• last in his class," 
 and seems quite satisfied with his j^osition. 
 
 It is to be added, however, that very, very- 
 strange to say, after having become married, 
 and after having swelled into a truly Falstaff 
 shape, George, at the appointment of his Avife, 
 has turned schoolmaster himself; for she keeps 
 a seminary, in which children are taught the 
 first rude combinations of their alphabet ; and 
 he perhaps feels a re-acting pleasure in exer- 
 cising his late-come power of torturing the 
 poor little animals into a comprehension of a 
 process which he himself could never understand. 
 
 Tommy Palmer comes next ; he is called 
 Tommy rather than Thomas, because he had 
 been always so called in the old school-house, 
 the sound of the word seeming more expressive 
 of his character. 
 
 Tommy can scarce be recollected, as racing 
 about at play hour, Avith the general throng, or 
 as ever joining in a game of ball, of top, or of
 
 272 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 marbles. Neither was he ever at the head of 
 his class, though by no means often at the tail 
 of it. And yet he did not want power of body 
 or of intellect, either for play or for study ; he 
 was only always ashamed of trying to compete 
 with anybody in anything. Mauvaise honte, 
 Avas the devil that beset him. He would blush 
 suddenly, to the very top of his forehead, if 
 abruptly spoken to, on the most indifferent 
 subject ; and if once he made a slip, in re- 
 peating his lesson, Tommy became so con- 
 founded, that any attempt to mend the matter, 
 only plunged him, head over ears into the most 
 helpless state of confusion. 
 
 Once, while standing uj) in his class. Tommy 
 was reading the anecdote, in Sterne's Senti- 
 mental Journey, which gives an account of a 
 French peasant's supper, and of a succeeding 
 dance, before engaging in which, the young 
 people took off their " sabots or wooden shoes." 
 Tom read out very distinctly, " their sabots, or 
 wooden dishes."
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 273 
 
 *' Wooden wha-at?" questioned James Charles 
 Buclimahon. 
 
 " Wooden dishes, sir," repeated Tommy 
 Pahuer. 
 
 •' Look at it if you please, dearee." Tommy 
 knew, as so did all the other boys, that the 
 term *' dearee," meant anything on earth but 
 kindnesss. 
 
 But he looked on the book, with the most 
 intense anxiety, while James Charles looked at 
 him, with the full power of his large, frozen, 
 blue eye. 
 
 *' Well— dearee ?" 
 
 " Wooden dishes," again read out poor 
 Tommy Palmer. 
 
 " Open your eyes, j)et, and try it again." 
 Taking the command literally, he elevated 
 his eyebrows to their utmost stretch, and 
 strained his eyes till their balls seemed ready 
 to fall out ; still, he could absolutely see no- 
 thing on the page, but wooden dishes. James 
 Charles Buchmahon advanced with the cat-o'- 
 N 5
 
 274 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 nine tails, and the poor fellow felt her claws on 
 the backs of his hands, on his head, and about 
 his legs ; still and still, " wooden shoes," as 
 plain as the printer could print the words, were, 
 to his vision, nothing but •' wooden dishes." 
 
 Many years afterwards, Tommy Palmer was 
 met by an old school-fellow in the throng of 
 the great metropolis. His flither had pro- 
 cured for him a situation in a government 
 office. His old friend encountered him mid 
 the roar and clatter of Fleet street, and cor- 
 dially and suddenly addressed him, holding out 
 his hand. Tommy stept back ; staring, blush- 
 ing, stammering, and wringing his fingers. 
 In fact, to London he had carried, — that 
 excellent market for disposing of it — his whole 
 stock of mauvaise honte, being about twenty- 
 five years of age, at that time ; and, in his 
 new position, on he went, blushing and stam- 
 mering, and calling " wooden shoes," " wooden 
 dishes," until, although no dunce, he was 
 returned on his father's hands, with the cha-
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 275 
 
 racter of having been found unfit for the 
 discharge of a duty which any dunce could 
 have got through. 
 
 Mick Hanlon was, at thirteen, the bully of 
 the school, — but nothing else. Not that he 
 wanted capacity for obtaining scholastic dis- 
 tincton, but that his ambition always aimed at 
 the " bad eminence," surrendered to him. 
 He was a boy of low stature for his years, 
 with a fierce eye, a fleshy, out-curled, defying 
 lip, and a manner always overbearing. His 
 shoulders were broad enough for a person six 
 inches taller ; his arms long, and his nether 
 limbs muscular and hard. In running, in 
 leaping, in wrestling, in boxing, Mick had 
 no rival. — Except a few who kept aloof from 
 him, he brought every boy in the school to 
 acknowledge his absolute supremacy, and his 
 slaves submitted to him, in mingled terror, 
 and admiration. Having thrashed into sub- 
 mission any one who dared to dispute his rule, 
 he would next thrash, just as soundly, any
 
 276 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 other one who even presumed " to look crooked" 
 at his newly made vassal. 
 
 Such was Mick, at thirteen. At about two- 
 and-twenty, after having, on a St. Patrick's 
 day, " in the evening," overwhelmed, at the 
 head of a gang of youthful worshippers of the 
 saint, the whole city constabulary, who were 
 about the streets, to keep peace and order, 
 Mick next charged a guard of soldiers, who 
 were coming to supply their place, and died on 
 the point of one of their bayonets — the weapon, 
 in his tiger spring forward and upward, having 
 directly entered the young bravo's heart. 
 
 And there was Joe White, who, when di- 
 rected, in common with his classmates, to tack 
 two lines of poetry, to the end of a prose 
 theme, produced, after days of eflbrt — 
 
 " Joe White, my hand and pen. 
 Will be good, but God knows when." 
 
 And Joe died, prematurely, an ensign in a
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 277 
 
 militia regiment — the butt and the sot of its 
 mess. 
 
 And upon the same occasion, Joe's constant 
 crony, John Arran, rivalled him in a distich — 
 
 " Sticks and stones, 
 And dead men's bones." 
 
 And John, refusing to be sent to college, 
 and afterwards placed in a liberal profession, 
 upon leaving the English Academy, is now, 
 only a hosier— and a hosier of no great parts 
 either. 
 
 It may be added, that a third aspirant for the 
 poetic wreath, Keeran Fitzgerald, who would 
 be original, produced the following admirable 
 couplet — 
 
 " It's a %'ery fine thing, for a boy to follow. 
 The tune of the harp, that's played by Apollo.' 
 
 And that Keeran, during his whole life after- 
 wards, was indeed, very original in every
 
 278 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 respect, with, however, about as much claim 
 to eminence, or common sense, in his origina- 
 lity, as may be found in the lines, for which 
 posterity are indebted to him alone. 
 
 And in the English Academy, there were 
 two or three very dirty fellows — dirty in their 
 j)ersons and attire, as well as in their minds and 
 sensations — dirty fellows inside as well as out- 
 side ; — and dirty fellows of exactly the same 
 description they continue to be to this very 
 hour. 
 
 And mean boys, that have only grown into 
 mean middle-aged men. And generous boys, 
 who at five-and-forty, are still generous. And 
 gentlemanlike boys, who through their whole 
 after lives, have always been gentlemanly. 
 And all the boys who were " Paddy lasts" in 
 the English Academy, are " Paddy lasts" in 
 the world. And the great majority of its pupils 
 were content with middle places in their class 
 — and farther than middle places, they never 
 have got into in society.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 279 
 
 And very few indeed, of all that miniature 
 crowd, struck out for real fame or eminence 
 in any way — but it is a grateful and a gracious 
 duty to add, that they who did so, in verity 
 and from the heart, have since reached the 
 smiling shore, of their boyhood's ambition ; not 
 one of them, at all events, has been drowned 
 in his bold struggle, to attain it.
 
 280 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 CHAPTEK XIV. 
 
 Sometimes, even the redoubtable James Charles 
 Buehmahon, master of the English Academy, 
 used to indulge in a social glass, after dinner, 
 nay, after supper too, with a few select friends ; 
 and the following day, was sure to remain longer 
 than was his wont, in his bed-chamber. By 
 some means or other, the young gentlemen of 
 his seminary were scarcely ever ignorant of the 
 recuiTcnces of such evenings; and consequently, 
 for an hour or so, upon the mornings that suc- 
 ceeded them, the school-room of the Eno;lish 
 Academy used to be very unusually relaxed m
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 281 
 
 discipline. It was, indeed, rather a venture- 
 some thing, even with the temptation mentioned, 
 to utter a loud breath, or for a moment vacate 
 a seat, when, as will be remembered, the young- 
 students were divided, from the awful bed- 
 room, by an oak plank, solely ; to say nothing 
 of the spy-holes, which James Charles Buch- 
 mahon had bored through the old partition. 
 
 It is evident, however, to the meanest capa- 
 city — and even George Booth quite understood 
 the matter — that if the spy-holes were good, 
 for the master's espionage, upon the boys, they 
 were just as good, for the espionage of the boys 
 upon the master — and, indeed, they were as 
 often used one way as the other. Almost every 
 morning in the year, reconnoitering parties 
 were appointed, from the fii'st and second classes, 
 who, with the help of those spy-holes, and 
 their own eyes, telegraphed through the school, 
 the most minute proceeding of James Charles, 
 from the instant he gave the first stir in his 
 bed, until he laid his hand on the door-handle,
 
 282 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 to pass out to begin his duties for the day; and 
 it need not be added, that upon the especial 
 occasions of stolen enjoyment alluded to, our 
 young acquaintances were most particularly 
 watchful. 
 
 It is, then, one of these half-holiday morn- 
 ings, before breakfast. The school abounds 
 with fun and gambol, Neddy Fennell being 
 one of the greatest, if not the very greatest 
 truant among all his compeers. James Charles 
 has been sleeping later than ever was known 
 before; and his subjects, believing that he 
 must have been very drunk indeed the previous 
 night, happily conjecture that he may not 
 waken time enough for the morning lessons — 
 nay, nor for the afternoon lessons — nay, that 
 under Providence he may never waken at all. 
 
 But a change soon occurred in Neddy Fen- 
 nell's sportive idling. 
 
 Mention has been made of some very dirty 
 fellows in the English Academy. They were 
 in their own way jocose fellows, too, particu-
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 283 
 
 larly upon this memorable morning. They had 
 prepared a little blank paper book, and written 
 upon upon each of its pages words that be- 
 tokened, they said, a future fortune, of some 
 kind or other, to any or everybody who, by 
 insinuating a pin between two of its leaves, 
 should cause the mystic volume to unfold. The 
 device was not a very original one in the school ; 
 and when practised by boys of anything like 
 neatness of mind, produced much harmless fun. 
 But in their hands the simple plaything, from 
 the nature of the matter they had scribbled 
 through it, degenerated, of course, merely into 
 a vehicle of nastiness. 
 
 Neddy Fennell passed them after they had 
 just offended, aye, and abashed to the very 
 crown of his head, Tommy Palmer, by in- 
 ducing him to read his future destiny ; our 
 little friend could also see that James Graham's 
 eyes were fixed on the dirty fellows with deep 
 indignation. They enjoyed, however, the suc- 
 cess of their joint invention in fits of smothered
 
 284 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 laughter ; and he overheard them arrange to 
 have " rare sport" among the girls at the other 
 side of the room, so soon as they should come 
 up from the parlour to receive their morning 
 lessons, at the hands of James Charles Buch- 
 mahon. He started, reddened, and said — " I'll 
 try my fortune too." 
 
 They held the book of prophecy to him. He 
 divided its leaves in the usual manner and read 
 something very like what he had expected. He 
 turned over some more of its leaves, and 
 became satisfied of the nature of all its contents. 
 Just then, the young girls entered the school- 
 room, chaperoned by their mistress, as far as 
 the door. Neddy glanced towards one of the 
 little troop, and his blood boiled. 
 
 " You shall never take this fortune-book to 
 the other side of the room, you blackguards," 
 said Neddy. 
 
 " An' who'll liinder us ?" asked they. 
 
 " I'll hinder you," he replied, and he put the 
 book into one of the side pockets of his jacket.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 285 
 
 There was a remonstrance, and then a pulling 
 and dragging scuffle, and, at last, a boxing 
 match : the two dirty fellows, now even more 
 cowardly than they were dirty, falling together 
 upon one little boy, much their inferior in 
 years, height, weight and strength, while he, 
 nothing daunted, jumped about them, rolling 
 his little fists round each other, making a good 
 hit whenever he could, and taking all their 
 heavy punishment like a Trojan, But he 
 could not tail having the worst of it. His lips 
 and nose were bruised, and spouted with blood ; 
 his left eye became unwillingly half shut up, 
 and he staggered often, and was clean knocked 
 down at last. 
 
 A little scream came from the girls' table, 
 and at the same moment one of the dirty fel- 
 lows said — " the master is coming out." 
 
 " Wait till I see," said Neddy, " and if he 
 is not I'll come back to you." 
 
 He ran round the long desk, and was just 
 applying his eye —his only available one — to
 
 286 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 one of the spy -holes, when, ye Gods ! — another 
 eye, a well-known, large, greyish blue eye, 
 a cold, shiny, white and blue delft eye, was 
 in the act of doing the same thing, at the other 
 side of the augur-hole. 
 
 Neddy's first impulse, was of course to start 
 back, in terror ; but the next instant, he stuck 
 his own eye, as closely as ever he could, into the 
 opening, shrewdly judging, that such a pro- 
 ceeding was the only one which could hinder 
 his opponent from noting and ascertaining his 
 personal identity. And now, it became a real 
 trial of skill and endurance, between the two 
 eyes ; but, oh ! the horrors of the ordeal, that 
 Neddy had to endure ! Sometimes, the large, 
 greyish blue eye would withdraw itself, about 
 the fourth part of an inch, from its own side of 
 the partition, as if to admit light enough into 
 the orifice, to enable it to mark the rival orb, 
 and connect it with its owner ; and then, the 
 cold, freezy scintillations, which shot from it, 
 curdled his very blood ! Sometimes, it would
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 287 
 
 adhere as closely to its end of the hole, as did 
 Neddy's at the other end ; and then, all was 
 darkness to Xeddy's vision— but he thought the 
 fringes of the two eyelids touched ! and his 
 trembling limbs scarce supported him. He 
 winked, and blinked, and so did the antagonist 
 organ — and then, he became assured, that the 
 opposing eyelashes absolutely intertangled, and 
 felt as if his own optic was to be drawn out of 
 his head. Mental delusion almost possessed 
 him. The cold, greyish blue eye, seemed to 
 become self irradiated, and to swell into the 
 compass of a shining crown piece, while it 
 darted into his, rays of excruciating light. 
 Still, however, he courageously held on, until at 
 last, James Charles Buchmahon gave up the 
 contest, and withdrew towards his bed-room 
 door ; upon which, Neddy hastened to his place 
 at his desk, but not before he had ascertained by 
 a glance across the room, that the two dirty 
 fellows, having filched the fortune book from 
 his pocket during his late trepidation, were
 
 288 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 in the act of introducing it to the notice of the 
 little dames, who sat to the old table in the 
 recess. In fact, the alarm that had been given 
 by one of the dirty fellows, that " the master 
 was coming," was but a ruse to send Keddy 
 to the spy-hole, in order to e^wble himself, 
 the more easily to recover his precious property ; 
 and this was now evident, from the two friends 
 being seen, without the least apprehension of 
 the approach of that said master, endeavouring, 
 in high glee, to impart a portion of their own 
 nastincss, to the pure little hearts and minds 
 before them. Neddy had scarcely resumed 
 his seat, when James Charles entered the 
 school-room, and Neddy's eyes, or rather eye, 
 fastened on his book. Almost at the same 
 moment, the little voice — Neddy knew it well — 
 which had before uttered a little scream, broke 
 into a sudden fit of crying. Neddy again 
 glanced to the girl's table. The child who was 
 crying, had just flung into the middle of the 
 room, the atrocious fortune-book ; and he was
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 289 
 
 about to vault across the desk, a second time to 
 possess himself of the evidence of blackguardism, 
 when James Charles Buchmahon saved him the 
 trouble, by picking it up himself. 
 
 The two detected dirty fellows, were slinking 
 to their place? " Have the goodness to stand 
 where ye are, gentlemen," entreated James 
 Charles Buchmahon. They stood stock still 
 before him. He sat down to his desk, put on 
 his spectacles, and deliberately began to read 
 the fortune-book. 
 
 In a few seconds, he suddenly stopped read- 
 ing, drew his chair smartly back from his desk, 
 raised his hands and eyes, and then screwed 
 the latter into those of the base culprits ; he 
 resumed his studies, again pushed back from 
 the desk, again made a silent appeal upwards, 
 and again as silently told the two dirty fellows 
 what he thought of their playful device, and of 
 themselves, and what they had to expect for 
 their cleverness. Having quite finished the 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 290 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 rare volume, he stood up, and beckoned them 
 towards him. 
 
 They came. He held it open in his hand, 
 before their eyes, pointed to it, and uttered the 
 one word, '■' read." He then pointed to the 
 girl's table, tapped the now closed book with 
 his fore-finger ; slowly opened his desk, slowly 
 deposited therein the " sybilline leaves," and 
 uttered another monosyllable — " kneel." 
 
 The despairing blackguards knelt. 
 
 " No !" interrupted James Charles Buchma- 
 hon with great and severe dignity, stepping 
 back from them — " I was wrong; do not 
 kneel ; go on all fom's ; prop yourselves on your 
 knees and hands together, and remain in that 
 position ; I will explain to you why, anon." 
 
 Again they obeyed him, their dirty faces 
 growing pallid as death, and their dirty hearts 
 quailing with an undefinable fear and horror, 
 at this unprecedented proceeding. 
 
 James Charles Buchmahon, again returned 
 to the desk, now standing upright before it.
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 291 
 
 however. Very slowly and solemnly, he next 
 drew out his pocket handkerchief, used it — and 
 what a quavering, trumpet sound there then 
 was ! — folded and rolled it up, into a round 
 hardish lump ; held it in both hands tightly ; 
 bent his head over it, and began rubbing across 
 it, from side to side, the base of his very broad- 
 backed and hooked nose. Great awe fell upon 
 his subjects, big and little. The process de- 
 scribed, — which they used to call, " sharpening 
 his beak," was one which, by experience, they 
 well knew betokened the approach of some 
 terrific catastrophe ; while they were also very 
 well aware, that during the sharpening of the 
 beak, the two bluish grey eyes were scowling 
 round, from one to another of them — as before 
 remarked, under their proper brows, and over 
 their proper spectacles. 
 
 The beak was sharpened. The pocket hand- 
 kerchief was unfolded from its sphere-like 
 form; shaken, and put up. James Charles 
 Buchmahon then produced before himself, a 
 o 3
 
 292 FATUEU CONNELl.. 
 
 horn snufF-box, of his own manufacture ; tapped 
 it often ; gravely took off it's lid ; dipped deep 
 his finger and thumb, into its pungent con- 
 tents ; put on it's lid ; returned it into his 
 waistcoat pocket, sniffed up in a long, long- 
 drawn sniflF, about half of the huge pinch, he 
 had abstracted from it; and then he uttered 
 three words more. 
 
 " Master Edmund Fennell." 
 The individual so summoned, left his seat, 
 and stood before the throne. 
 
 James Charles applied his spectacles close to 
 Neddy's face, deliberately and diligently scan- 
 ning it, now upwards and downwards, now 
 from side to side. With much suavity, he 
 then took him by the shoulder, and induced 
 him to turn round and round, that he might 
 critically inspect the evidences left upon his 
 dress of his fall on the very dusty, old, oak 
 floor. 
 
 This investigation ended, a piercing '^whew!" 
 — which continued while his breath lasted, fol-
 
 FATHER CONNELI.. 293 
 
 lowed It ; the " whew" was, by the way, usual 
 on such occasions as the present, and it used to 
 traverse the boys' heads, as if a long needle had 
 been thrust into one ear, and out through the 
 other. And then, after finishing the pinch of 
 snufF, he politely addressed Neddy. 
 
 " Wliy, sir, you are quite a buffer — a perfect 
 Mendoza. I had no conception whatsoever, 
 sir, that my seminary had the honor of con- 
 taining such an eminent pugilist. But, sir, 
 any young gentleman, who aspires to become a 
 bully, under this roof, must begin by fighting 
 with me, and more than that — he must become 
 my conqueror, before I can permit the English 
 Academy, to be turned into a bear-garden. 
 But we shall speak of this, sir, when I shall 
 have discharged a more pressing duty. In the 
 mean time. Master Edmund Fennell, have the 
 kindness to kneel down — a little apart, how- 
 ever, from those two prone animals," pointing 
 to the two dirty fellows, who of course still 
 continued on their hands and knees. 
 
 Neddy could have said sometliing in his own
 
 294 FATHER tONNELL. 
 
 defence, but he was either too proud, or too 
 much put out to do so ; or perhaps he wisely 
 reserved himself for the re-investigation of his 
 case, which seemed to have been promised ; so, 
 he knelt down. 
 
 A new fit of crying and sobbing was heard 
 from the old table in the recess, and a beautiful 
 little girl, her cheeks streaming tears, ran for- 
 ward to the judgment seat. 
 
 And — " Sir, sir," she exclaimed, clasping her 
 little hands, " do not punish Ned Fennell — he 
 doesn't deserve it ! — he is a good little boy, and 
 often comes to see my father, with old priest 
 Connell — and my father says he is a good boy 
 — and so does priest Connell ; — and least of all 
 does he deserve your anger, for what has hap- 
 pened this morning ! I saw and heard it all, 
 sir — and I can make you sure, that he has done 
 nothing wrong, — no — but done every thing 
 that was right, sir. Oh! good Mr. James 
 Charles Buchmahon, do not take him into your 
 room, and hurt him !" 
 
 Neddy had not shed a tear before this mo-
 
 FATHER C'ONNELL. 295 
 
 ment ; after an upward glance, at his little ad- 
 vocate, he now cried heartily — but they were 
 happy tears he shed. James Charles Buchma- 
 hon stood motionless — his large, cold eyes, be- 
 came half covered by their upper lids. He 
 smiled, in something like the kindliness of hu- 
 man nature, and the boys thought, as well as 
 they could judge through his spectacles, that a 
 softening moisture came over them. At all 
 events, he quietly sat down, took the little girl 
 by the hand, drew her to his knee, and began 
 to question her in a low voice. 
 
 She informed him that Neddy's seafRe, in 
 the first instance, with the two dirty fellows, 
 arose out of his endeavouring to hinder them 
 from approaching the girls' table with their 
 atrocious book of fortunes. She repeated the 
 words that had passed between Neddy and 
 them ; and how Neddy put the book into the 
 pocket of his jacket, and then, hoAv they fell 
 upon him, while he would not give up his 
 prize, but defended himself as well as he was
 
 296 FATHER CONNELL, 
 
 able. James Charles listened attentively, and 
 questioned the child over again, and very 
 minutely. When she had said all she could 
 say, he bent his lips to her ear and whispered a 
 few words. The little thing clapped her hands, 
 dashed aside with them the tears and the golden 
 hair at once, which were both blinding her, and 
 her lovely little face was one glowing smile, as 
 she whispered in her turn — " Oh ! thank you, 
 sir." But James Charles Buchmahon, becoming 
 somewhat scandalized at so unaffected a show 
 of feeling and of nature raised his fore finger 
 and said, in almost one of his freezing tones — 
 " Now go back to your seat. Miss Mac 
 Neary." 
 
 Little Helen, after making her little salaam, 
 obeyed ; but not before her smiling eyes, and 
 those of Neddy Fennell, now also smiling, had 
 contrived to meet. 
 
 A death-like silence ensued. 
 
 •' It was as if the general pulse 
 Of life stood still, and nature made a pause, 
 An awful pause, prophetic of her end I"
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 297 
 
 And during the " awful pause" James Charles 
 Buchmahon, half inclining himself backwards, 
 and holding his head perfectly erect, while his 
 hands hung clenched by his sides, frowned 
 downwards upon the two dirty fellows, in, as 
 it were, speechless abhorrence and indignation. 
 
 At length he broke the pause by uttering, 
 in tones, that seemed to come from the depths 
 of his labouring bosom — 
 
 *' Quadrupeds ! become, for a moment, bipeds 
 — imitate humanity by standing upright." 
 
 With the facility of dancing bears tlie 
 quadrupeds did as they were bid. 
 
 " Quadrupeds ! how many senses are there ?" 
 
 " Five sir !" they bawled out in a breath. 
 
 " You, quadruped, to my right hand, name 
 those five senses." 
 
 " Feeling, hearing, seeing, tasting, and 
 smelling, sir." 
 
 All this seemed very wide of the mark, and 
 puzzled the dirty fellows, and the whole school 
 besides, exceedingly. 
 o 5
 
 298 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 " So far, so good. Well, then, none of my 
 five senses, ever yet perceived, so as to cause 
 my reflective powers to apprehend, and thereby 
 my understanding to arrive at the conclusion 
 |hat the English Academy was founded and 
 instituted by me, for the training up of any of 
 the inferior animals — of any of the brute 
 creation, in fact. I could not have possibly 
 imagined that, at this time of my life, I was to 
 degenei'ate into an instructor of beast brutes — 
 aye, of the foulest among the foul brutes — of 
 foul, snorting swine. But you have undeceived 
 me. And allow me to ask you, how has it 
 come to pass that you have been enabled to 
 stand upright in your sty, and present your- 
 selves, upon two feet, at the threshold of the 
 English Academy ? By what ' mighty magic' 
 has been wrought the presumptuous decep- 
 tion ?" 
 
 The quadrupeds did not venture to answer 
 the question. 
 
 " I say to you both, that in daring to stand
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 299 
 
 erect on your hinder legs, you have attained 
 the very climax of audacity. But — " here 
 James Charles slowly took out of his desk the 
 cat-o'-nine-tails — " but I will assert over you 
 the outraged dignity of human nature. Great 
 as may have been the spell which enabled you, 
 for a season, to look like human beings, I can 
 overmaster that spell by a higher one, and force 
 you to resume your pristine positions on the 
 earth. Down, therefore ! Down again on all 
 fours — I command your re-transformation !" he 
 waved the cats slowly round his head, " aban- 
 don the bearing of humanity, and once more 
 move along with prone visages and snouts, 
 delving into your native mire and filth." 
 
 The swine, as James Charles now called 
 them, evidently did not comprehend this long 
 harangue, and only glared at him with pallid 
 visages. 
 
 " Did you not hear me, unclean brutes?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," they gasped. 
 
 " Obey, then I" — a hissing of whipcord came 
 round their ears, and then its crash descended
 
 300 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 on their bare heads. They shouted, clapped 
 their hands to their smarting craniiims, and 
 jumped aside. The cat next apphed her claws 
 to the backs of those hands ; and there was a 
 still louder yell, and a wider jump aside. 
 
 " We don't know what you w^ant us to do, 
 sir !" they screamed out. 
 
 But James Charles Buchmahon soon made 
 them know; and again they were on their hands 
 and knees. 
 
 " Grunt now, ye swine — manifest your 
 nature a little further. Grunt!" he again 
 elevated the cat. 
 
 Tbey earnestly assured him they could not 
 grunt. 
 
 " Can't ? I w ill soon show all the young 
 gentlemen here that I have not mistaken your 
 nature or qualities — come, grunt, I say T' and 
 the cat was scratching wherever she could in- 
 sert a claw. 
 
 "Ugh, ugh — ugh, ugh — oh-ah!" they at 
 last grunted and shouted together. 
 
 " Did I not judge aright, gentlemen of the
 
 FATHER CONNELL, 301 
 
 English Academy — hark, how plainly they can 
 speak their original language — walk forward, 
 now, swine — but still, still, on your four legs — 
 do you hear ? and grunt as ye go, that all 
 human beings may avoid you." 
 
 Round and round the school-room he made 
 them crawl, while, per force, they still imitated 
 the discordant sounds of the animals they per- 
 sonified. In vain did they attempt to escape 
 under desks or forms. With a smart cane, 
 which he had now substituted for the cat, their 
 merciless driver soon hunted them out again to 
 the middle of the floor; and if they ceased 
 their motion, for one instant, or refused to 
 grunt, down came the cane on them. 
 
 At last, growing tired of his occupation, 
 James Charles halted, and allowed them to do 
 the same. 
 
 " So far swine," he said, " you have been 
 only enforced to resume your proper natures, 
 and display your proper attributes. Real pun- 
 ishment for vour crimes you have not vet
 
 302 FATHER CONXELL. 
 
 received. Punishment, first, for your unnameable 
 crimes at yonder table, and all your proceedings 
 connected therewith; punishment, secondly, 
 for your cowardly swinish crime of attacking 
 together one little boy ; one little human crea- 
 ture, certainly inferior to you in mere brute 
 streno-th, — and rendino; and disfiourine' the 
 comely human features that providence had 
 blessed him with. I am still your debtor 1 
 admit. But please God, I shall not long be 
 so." 
 
 Only waiting to imbide a fresh pinch of snufF, 
 as a kind of piquante stimulus, to his already 
 perfect good will, for the task before him. 
 James Charles then belaboured the two dirty 
 rascals, from the nape of the neck, to the ter- 
 mination of the back-bone — allowing them, at 
 last, to go .halting and roaring to their places, 
 only because his arm was no longer able to hit 
 them hard enough. 
 
 Again returning to his desk, he again called 
 out, " Master Edmund Fennell — " speaking
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 303 
 
 still very loudly, though the boy was within a 
 very few inches of him. Neddy arose, wil- 
 lingly enough. 
 
 " I, the more readily, and the more easily 
 have been induced to remit the punishment due 
 to your offence, sir, of repelling even by one 
 single ungentlemanlike blow, the attack made, 
 no matter how brutally, upon you, because 
 your late re-entrance into the English Aca- 
 demy, after a long absence from it, since your 
 good father's death — " Neddy burst out crying— 
 " may have caused you to forget that I require 
 from the youth of my establishment, not the 
 turbulence of prize-fighters, but the habits of 
 young gentlemen. Sir, there shall be no box- 
 ing matches in the English Academy. If there 
 be cause of quarrel, it must be immediately 
 referred to me, and justice shall be dealt to both 
 parties. Go now. Master Edmund Fennell, and 
 return your respectful thanks to Miss Helen 
 Mac Neary, to whose generous interference, 
 you stand chiefly indebted on this important
 
 304 FATHER CONNELL. 
 
 occasion; go, sir — if indeed the young ludy, 
 can bear to regard, even for an instant, the 
 present very ungentlemanlike state of your 
 features." 
 
 Neddy was instantly hastening, as fast as he 
 could walk, his arms wide open, to obey this 
 reasonable and pleasant request. 
 
 " Stop, sir," roared James Charles Buclmia- 
 hon. This unexpected countermand sounded 
 like a gun-shot in Neddy's ears, and he certainly 
 did stop. 
 
 " Pray, sir, in what seminary did you ac- 
 quire that uncouth and bruin-like method of 
 paying your respects to a young lady ? Retire 
 some distance back, and make an obeisance to 
 Miss Mac Neary : thus, sir ; look at me, sir, if 
 you please." 
 
 Ned looked accordingly, and beheld James 
 Charles Buchmahon advance his finger and 
 thumb to the brim of his cream-coloured 
 beaver, keeping his elbow turned out, and 
 his arm well rounded as he did so ; and then
 
 FATHER CONNELL. 305 
 
 he beheld hun solemnly raise the beaver 
 from his bald, grey head, sway it downward 
 gradually and gracefully, and bend his bod}^, 
 until his head came on a line with his hips ; 
 and James Charles, during all this process, 
 smiled and simpered his very best, and at last 
 "^ said, in a fascinating tone — " Miss Helen Mac 
 Neary, I return you my most sincere and 
 respectful acknowledgments." — " Now sir." 
 and James Charles again stood very strait, and 
 holding his head very high, proud of the per- 
 fection of his politeness, while his eye took a 
 short circuit round the school-room, to notice 
 the imiversal admiration, which his dignified 
 gracefulness must have called forth. Neddy 
 Fennell contrived to turn his face from the 
 observation of his preceptor, while he per- 
 formed the task prescribed to him ; and then 
 gave — repeating every syllable he had heard — 
 so correct an imitation, in tone, manner, and 
 action of James Charles Buchmahon, that 
 the row of young ladies before him, and all
 
 306 FATllEll CONNELL. 
 
 the boys around him, were nearly sufFocatecl 
 with the attempt they made to suppress their 
 laugliter. 
 
 " That will do sir : you may now retire to 
 your place," added James Charles. 
 
 And Neddy did so ; and afterwards took 
 his own time and opportunity for returning, in 
 his own way, to Miss Helen Mac Neary, " his 
 most sincere and respectful acknowledgments ;" 
 nor is it mentioned, that the little lady dis- 
 liked this repetition of a display of his gratitude, 
 or indeed, that she considered Neddy's way 
 on the occasion, as very much inferior to James 
 Charles Buchmahon's way. — But this looks 
 too like telling tales out of school. 
 
 END OF VOTi. I. 
 
 T. C. Newbt, Printer, 65, Mortimer Street, Cavendish Square. 
 
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