[ 414 ] [OcT 



THE IRISH PRIEST AND HIS NIECE. 



THE parish of Ruthbeg, in the west of Ireland,, is placed in the centre 

 of a range of ragged hills, as if it had been dropt there by accident. It 

 is a lonely place, dotted over with trees, and ponds, and wide stretches 

 of meadow, and somewhat fantastically intersected with a silver vein of 

 water that takes its source in one of the mountains. The extent of the 

 parish is about twenty miles, and as the population is thin and scattered, 

 the clerical duties of the priest are laborious, it being a part of his busi- 

 ness to visit the parishioners at stated times, and give mass on alter- 

 nate Sundays at the distant stations. But Father Macdermott con- 

 trived to make his task as agreeable as, under all circumstances, could be 

 expected. He travelled on horseback ; stopped at the Ihcbeen houses 

 for refreshment, which was gratuitously accorded to his Reverence, and 

 which he was never slow to partake of; and, by short stages and merry- 

 makings, he never failed to enjoy himself on the road. He had a word 

 for every body, for he was jocular by nature ; and so, between his fun 

 and his functions, he made light of his journey. Imagine him mounted 

 on a well-fed charger, as sleek as himself; and follow him down the 

 sloping bridle-path that leads into the first rent of cabins beyond the 

 bridge: you shall judge of the pleasant life he passes in his retired 

 parish. 



" Ha ! Mrs. Finnegan, what's upon you this morning, with that 

 quare looking bundle under your apron ?" 



" Troth, your Reverence, it's only a basket of eggs." 



" Where there's eggs there must be chickens, Mrs. Finnegan." 



Cf Never a word of lie in it, your Reverence." 



" I wouldn't be put out of my way, Mrs. Finnegan, if one or two of 

 them same chicjkens were laying their eggs up in my barn ; there's a 

 beautiful pool for the creatures there." 



" May-be your honour means to do me a good turn this blessed morn- 

 ing ?" 



" And why not, Mrs. Finnegan ? Who's sick ?" 



" Poor Thady is lyin' under the measles." 



" Oh ! we'll make a terrible intercession for him." 



' ' The grace of the world go wid you, sir." 



" When will the chickens come, Mrs. Finnegan ?" 



" If I'm a living woman they'll be breaking their hearts laying eggs 

 for your Reverence before they're an hour older/' 



" You're in the true way, and I'll take care of Thady." 



Spurs to his horse, and off he goes to a wake. 



The eldest son of the house of Shanahan is dead. He lies on a dingy 

 bed, surrounded by numerous candles and the elite of the village. When 

 the priest enters, Michael Shanahan, the father, greets him. 



" There he is, your Reverence ; sure the world couldn't keep him 

 together when once the last fit came upon him." 



" Well," rejoins the priest, " it's one comfort, that, do what you will, 

 you can't bring him back again." 



This consolation was followed by dipping a goblet into a gigantic 

 bowl of punch that stood on a table in the middle of the apartment, and 

 drinking off its contents to the " sarvice" of the " ladies and gentle- 

 men." 



