1830.] Father Murphy's Dream. 429 



No such thing. And that's the reason why the starvation doesn't kill ye. 

 But just try your hands upon the Bible turn over to the Methodists 

 and then see how a mouthful of cold wind will do you for your break- 

 fasts. Once you think of fasting and turning Protestants, you're done 

 for as neat and clean as if Ould Nick was drilling you through and 

 through with a red-hot poker. Doesn't that expound to you the source 

 of the eating and gormandizing of the Brunswickers ? They eat and 

 drink hearty, you see, because they know well enough, the spalpeens, 

 although they won't acknowledge it, that the true faith isn't in them, 

 and that if they didn't feed like crammed fowl six times a day, and 

 double as much on a Sunday, they'd pine away into the clay under their 

 feet. But that isn't the way with the true church. The faith keeps you 

 up. Didn't the Savour of the world starve himself forty days and nights 

 to shew you the way to glory ? and sure there's many a one of you didn't 

 pass bite or sup for months upon months together, and the never a 

 worse are you for it in the end. There's nothing can kill a Catholic 

 but his own bad works. The soul of me doesn't know but you'd all 

 live for ever, only for something or other that happens to ye just as 

 you're nearly perfect, and whips you off with a flea in your ear. Och ! 

 then, if you could only mend yourselves, what a beautiful race of 

 blackguards ye'd be j that would want neither the meat nor the butter- 

 milk, and that'd be as ould as the hills every morning ye'd see the grass 

 growing. There ye'd all be on the day of judgment as hearty as a hive 

 of bees, with your grey hair twisted down into breeches and top-boots 

 to cover your dirty hides. Shame upon ye, that won't be Methuselahs 

 every one, when you know you could live if you liked it until there 

 wouldn't be a living soul in the world but Alderman Bradley King, 

 cocked up on the back of an ass to direct you on the road to Purgatory. 

 Think o' that, and pay your dues, and there's no fear o' you. 



You remember, the other day, that the Biblemen challenged us to 

 come to the fore in regard to the Scriptures. They wanted, you see, to 

 prove as clear as mud that the notes were written with the wrong end 

 of a pen, and that they had as much right to the Old and New Testa- 

 ment, as we that had them from the beginning, and that only lent them 

 out o' charity to the Protestants, just as Molly Kiernan would lend her 

 pitcher to Kitty Nowlan, expecting she'd return it when she'd done 

 with it. But the Protestants made a bad use of the loan, and got other 

 Scriptures made from the pattern, just as you would get false keys 

 made to pick a lock : so now they trump up their spurious books to us, 

 that have the real books of our own, and that never had any other. It's 

 no wonder we are careful of them, for we were treated so badly when 

 we lent them in pure friendship, that it would be no sin in us to burn 'em 

 altogether, for fear we'd make such born fools of ourselves again. 



You know I didn't go to the meeting, boys ; and may be you thought 

 it mighty odd that I staid at home, and let Father Audy go in my 

 place. But I'll soon shew you the meaning o' that ; although one priest 

 at a time is enough for a regiment of saints, and Father Audy is no bad 

 fist at a controversy. Indeed, Father Audy, you needn't look down at 

 your shoes as if the strings wanted tying ; for it's a vicar you ought to 

 be, and I a bishop, if every body had his rights. 



It was a dream I had that kept me from going. Now when a priest 

 condescends to dream, you may be sure there's something going to 

 happen. The ass doesn't bray unless there's to be rain ; the corns on 



