428 Father Murphy's Dream. [Octf. 



gant accomplishments of life are utterly unknown. The utmost they 

 aspire to is a meretricious finery a mincing gallantry a lisp in speak- 

 ing an air of heedlessness and some little ambition in dress. I have 

 known many priests, and never met but one who pretended to possess 

 any acquaintance with English literature (bad Latin is. their vernacular). 

 He, poor fellow, used to quote Milton, and even defended the subli- 

 mities of Don Juan. But he was sadly out in his judgment. His criti- 

 cisms were enthusiastic, but faulty, and even contradictory in principle. 

 He has paid the penalty of seeking for the springs of delight beyond the 

 dark confines of dogmatic theology. His brethren declared him insane, 

 and unfit for his ministry. That was, of course, to preserve the pulpit 

 from the pollution of a taste chastened by cultivation. He is now wast- 

 ing an imagination run to seed in the gloomy chambers of a lunatic 

 asylum ! 



There are two distinct classes of priests the country and the town 

 priests. The former are richer in all the materials of Hibernicism than 

 their more aspiring fellows, who live in cities and mix with people who 

 move in the world. They generally speak the Irish language fluently, are 

 accustomed to the habits of the peasantry, and make their knowledge of 

 low life subservient to the improvement of their local influence. Thus 

 the sermons of these pastors are familiar to the capacity of their congre- 

 gations ; and are generally found to illustrate the truths of Christianity, 

 and the doctrines of the Roman creed, by images drawn from the occu- 

 pations, and adapted to the mental condition of the people. We will 

 conclude this article with a specimen of one of these addresses, in which 

 the priest, by an adroit admixture of the simple and the mysterious, 

 endeavours to enforce the heavenly origin and immaculate purity of his 

 religion. It may be entitled, 



THE PRIEST'S DREAM. 



DON'T be making such a noise over there, shutting and opening that 

 door, while I'm preaching. It's hard for the word of God to be spread 

 amongst ye when it's chewing tobacco and spoiling your mouths ye are, 

 instead of listening to me. Shut your teeth, Jemmy Finn, or the flies 

 will get down your throat, and bother your stomach entirely. Now, 

 can any of ye tell me what's the reason that, when you've nothing to eat, 

 which, God help you, is no fault of your own, you don't die for 

 want of nourishment ? There's a puzzler for you, Jem Neale, big as 

 you are ! 



Now just turn that problem in your heads while I'm seeing whether 

 the water is drying out of my new coat ; sure enough it's the only one 

 I have. 



[A pause of wonder in the chapel, while the priest descends from the 

 altar to see after his coat. It is evident, from the confusion visible in the 

 faces of the audience, that the problem is a poser. The priest returns.] 



Well, there's never a one among ye can find out the reason of the life 

 that's in ye, in spite of the starvation. Sure, that's the use of the priest, 

 to shew you what you can't see of yourselves. Did you ever hear of the 

 moving bog ? It walked over Cavan and Armagh, dripping rain the 

 whole way, and sorrow a clod of turf on it but belonged to the Orange- 

 men. The cause of that is as plain as the blossoms on Pat Duggan's 

 ugly nose. You never knew of a moving bog of real Catholic turf. 



