"I have, sir."

"You have discharged your duty to that poor, sick widow?"

"I hope so, sir."

"And you have ridden under a severe night, along a naked road, a distance of fourteen miles?"

"I have, sir."

"And you feel your mind aisy, and your conscience at rest?"

"I can say so with truth, thank G.o.d," replied the curate.

"Well, then, in that case," proceeded the kind-hearted priest, "I think you had better take a tumbler of punch: it will comfort you, and make you sleep like a top."

"Thank you, sir," replied the curate, "I am much obliged to you; but I don't require it, I have no particular wish for it."

"But I tell you, man alive, that it will do you good; and lest you might feel solitary, I think I will take one with you, merely to keep you in countenance;--here Katty!"

Katty, a complacent, kind-looking woman, somewhat past the middle period of life, then made her appearance. "Well, your reverence?"

"Get hot water and tumblers--Father Pettier is starved after his long ride such a night, and must have a tumbler of punch to warm him, poor fellow, and I am going to keep him in countenance; and see, Katty, bring the poteen that's in Ould Broadbottom, at the right-hand side o'

the cubbard. Stir the fire a little, Pettier, and throw on a sod or two--it's getting dull."

This was complied with; and Father Peter observed, after he had trimmed the grate a little:--

"The country, sir, is in a frightful state. This t.i.the rebellion is quite general. On my way out to Drumfurrar and home again, I met large crowds on the roads, cold as the night is; and on speaking to, and remonstrating with them, upon meeting and being abroad at such hours, they desired me to mind my own business, and allow them to mind theirs.

The country is literally alive with them night and day."

"Very well," replied Father Anthony, "let them work out their own purposes, provided they keep within the limits of the law. You know the Established Church is nothing else than an English garrison to support and keep alive British interests in this country; but the people are going the right way to work; for I tell you, Pettier, that, by strictly observing the doctrine of pa.s.sive resistance, they will starve the same garrison clane and clear out o' the country. And won't that be a great day for Ireland, Pettier?"

"Yes, sir, no doubt of it; but in the meantime the unfortunate parsons are suffering dreadfully: many of them are starving literally, and it is those who have not h.o.a.rded up the mammon of unrighteousness, but have been charitable and benevolent to the poor, who are now suffering most."

"Ay, faith, that's not a bad thought, Pettier; but I tell you the mammon of unrighteousness is by no means a bad thing. We may say as we will, we priests and parsons, but I say to you, what is a man worth in this world without money? Not a thraneen. A complete nonenity, and sorras thing else. And whisper, Pettier; what is the starving of the parsons to us?

They had the fat an' marrow of the land long, enough, and I think it's full time that we should come in for a lick at last. Think of you or I living to see ourselves rolling about in a rich carriage, with a lump of a mithre, like a pair of a.s.s's ears stuck together, painted on the outride of it, and we waiting, and drinkn' of the best. Arra, salvation to me, but the prospect's a born beauty, so it is, and will be rayalized yet, plaise G.o.d."

"Too much wealth, sir, is an enemy to religion."

"Well, Pettier, that may be so occasionally; but here's your health, and in the meantime, I didn't care that some of us had a little more of it.

I would have given a pound-note today to have had five shillings about me; and sorra testher I had in my company."

"You must have been pretty closely pressed for cash, when you would have given such a premium."

"Troth, then, I was; and when the poor boy mentioned whose son he was, and when I saw his little delicate feet without shoes, and heard his story--mammon of unrighteousness! devil a thing in life aiquil to it.

It enables a man to do the practical good, and not satisfy himself or escape with empty words."

"They say our neighbor here, Mr. Goodison, is very ill off."

"Well, I dare say he's not on the top of the wheel; however, as I said, what's their starvation to us? If it was laid upon them for their sins, do you think it would be right in us to intherfare and set ourselves against Providence?--blessed be His name."

"Well, I must confess," replied his amiable curate, "that I was not prepared for such an argument as that from you. You know we ought to love our enemies."

"Very well," replied Father Anthony; "I have no objection to love our enemies, provided they feed themselves. But surely to love and feed them is rather too much of a good thing."

During this brief dialogue they had mixed each his tumbler of punch, and after a pause of some minutes, during which the hardhearted parish priest sighed deeply as he looked into the fire, he exclaimed--

"You know, Pettier, that I am opposed to a Protestant Established Church in this country; and you know, besides, that I have gone farther in this t.i.the affair than most of my brethren, and on that account I hope you are not surprised at my opinions. Starve them out's my maxim. But still, aftcher all, salvation to me, but it's a trying case to be without food, and above all, to see your own children--"

"My own children," exclaimed the curate, with a smile.

"Ay, Pether," proceeded this benevolent hypocrite, forgetting everything but the image that was before him--"Ay, in troth, your own children--your own children, poor things, without a morsel to put into their mouths; and your wife, Pether, that you love betther than--than--aye, than a station dinner, a thousand times--sittin' with a pale face and a breaking, or, maybe, a broken heart, looking on at their privations and their miserable dest.i.tution, without being able to render them the laist a.s.sistance. Bad luck to it, for a mammon of unrighteousness, it's never in the way when it's wanted."

After he had concluded, he took out a red cotton pocket-handkerchief, spotted at equal distances with white dice, and wiped away the tears that had gushed to his eyes whilst he spoke.

"Pettier," said he, immediately, "finish your tumbler and go to bed; you know we must be off to-morrow to station before six o'clock, and after your bitther ride to-night you want rest, poor fellow."

When about a quarter of an hour had elapsed, and he had seen Peter to bed, he went to the kitchen, and asked Katty, his housekeeper, who always attended upon him and his curate, if she had done what he desired her.

"It's done, your reverence," she replied, "but you'll never be able to carry it."

"That's not your affair, Katty--do you hear now?"

"I do, your reverence."

"Very well, then, I tell you that's none of your affair,--the sorra bit.

I hope you did'nt let Barney go to bed?"

"Of coorse not, sir, when you bid me keep him up."

"Very well, then; and if either he or you brittle a syllable of this to Father Pether, I'll read you both oat--do you hear that now? Bring Barney here, then."

Barney accordingly made his appearance.

"Now mark me," continued the priest, "if either of you ever brathes a syllable of this, salvation to me, but I'll read you both out from the althar. Here now help me on with this sack; it's for a distressed person in the neighborhood that wants it badly, as you may judge, or I wouldn't be trudging off with it at this hour of the night. Katty, you go to bed, and let Barney stay up till I come back--did you mind my words, I repate--read you both out, if ever a syllable comes to Father Pother's ears, or anybody's else's but our own."

The servant man accordingly a.s.sisted him to raise upon his stout and honest shoulders a short heavy bag of oatmeal, into which he had thrust a large flitch of newly-hung bacon; and thus loaded, the violent anti-t.i.the priest bent his way, nearly at the hour of twelve o'clock, to the residence of the Rev. Mr. Goodison, his neighbor.

It is necessary to state here, that the glebe-house of that gentleman was situated within about two hundred yards of two crossroads, one of which went by the gate of entrance to it. After a severe trudge, during a night that began now to brighten as the moon rose, Father Anthony found himself approaching the cross-roads in question, and for a moment imagined that he saw his own shadow before him, an impression which soon changed on observing that the shadow, or whatever it was, although loaded much as he himself was, that is to say, with a sack on his shoulders, evidently approached him--a circ.u.mstance which he knew to be an impossibility, and that it must, consequently, be a distinct individual. Having satisfied himself of this, he got under the shade of a hedge, a movement in which he was instantly imitated by the stranger.

Each stood concealed for some time, with a, hope that the other might advance and turn probably out of his way; but neither seemed disposed to move. At length, Father Anthony gave a kind of inquisitive, dry cough, by way of experiment, which was instantly responded to by another cough equally dry and mysterious. These were repeated two or three times without success, when at last Father Anthony advanced a little under shadow of the hedge, and found as before that the strange individual did the same; and thus, in fact, they kept gradually, coughing at each other and approaching until they fairly met face to face, each with a sack upon his shoulders.

"Con M'Mahon!" exclaimed the priest, "why, what on earth brought you out at this hour of the night, and--aisy, what is this you're' carrying?"

"Faix, your reverence," replied the other, "I might as well ask yourself the same two questions."

"I know you might," said Father Anthony; "but in the manetime you had better not."

The priest spoke like one whose wind had not been improved by the burthen he carried; and M'Mahon, anxious if possible to get rid of him, determined to enter into some conversation that might tire out his strength. He consequently selected the topic of the day as being best calculated for that purpose.

"Isn't these blessed times that's coming, plaise your reverence," said M'Mahon, "when we'll be done wid these t.i.thes, and have the millstone taken from our necks altogether?"