i am afraid father letheby is getting irritable. perhaps he is studying too hard, and i don't spare him there, for he has the makings of a bishop in him; or perhaps it is that wretched coffee,—but he is losing that beautiful equanimity and enthusiasm which made him so attractive.

"i cannot understand these people," he said to me, soon after his adventure with the "boys." "such a compound of devotion and irreverence, meanness and generosity, cunning and child-like openness, was never seen. when i give holy communion with you, sir, on sunday morning, my heart melts at the seraphic tenderness with which they approach the altar. that striking of the breast, that eager look on their faces, and that 'cead milé failté, o thierna!'[3] make me bless god for such a people; but then they appear to be waiting for the last words of the de profundis, to jump up and run from the church as if in a panic. i can understand now how extemplo came to mean in a hurry, for if the roof were falling they could not rush from the building more promptly. then an old woman will haggle over sixpence in buying a pair of chickens, and then come to you the following day and offer you in a stocking all she had saved in this world. i give them up. they are unintelligible."

from which i perceive that our good schoolmaster, experience, is trying the rod on this most hopeful and promising pupil.

"i hope you did not perceive any such abrupt and sudden contrasts in your protégé, jem deady," i said. "he has realized your ideas of a nineteenth century goban saor."[4]

he laughed loudly.

"there's no use in talking," he said. i notice he is coming down gradually from his polished periods to our village colloquialisms.

"thou shalt lower to their level." god forbid! 'twas bad enough with myself; but with this bright, accomplished fellow, 't would be too bad. he then told me with delight and chagrin, rage and laughter, his experiences with jem.

it would appear that he made a solemn contract with this architect to stop the leak and restore the wall in st. joseph's chapel for twenty-five shillings. "'twas too little," said jem, "but what can you do with a gintleman that doesn't know a trowel from a spade." all materials were to be found by the contractor.

on monday afternoon there was a knock at father letheby's door, and jem was announced.

"well, jem," said father letheby, cheerfully, "getting on with the job?"

"yes, your reverence, getting on grand," said jem. "but i come to you about the laddher."

"the-e ladder?" echoed father letheby.

"yes, your reverence," echoed jem confidentially, "the laddher to get up on the roof, you know."

"but i understood you to say that you were getting through with this little job."

"oh, of course, your reverence, we're getting through the preliminaries; but i must get on the roof, you know."

"i presume so," said father letheby, a little nettled, "and why don't you go there?"

"does your reverence take me for an aigle, and want me to fly?"

"well, not exactly," said father letheby, with a slight touch of flattery and sarcasm, "i am more disposed to take you for a nightingale!"

"well, then, your reverence," said jem, melting under the happy allusion, "a gintleman of your grate expayrince in building should know that, of all things else, a laddher is the wan thing necessary."

"then you expect me to construct a ladder for your convenience?"

"oh, not at all, your reverence; but if you gave me a little note up to the 'great house,' i'd have it down while you'd be saying 'trapsticks.'"

there were some reasons why it was not at all desirable that he should ask favors from the "great house"; but there was no help, and jem got the letter.

"now, this is all you require," said father letheby, with determination.

"that is all," said jem. "do you think i'd be throubling your reverence every minit. long life to your reverence. may you be spared long in the parish."

about four o'clock that afternoon, father letheby was startled by a sudden commotion in the village. all the dogs were barking, and there are as many dogs in kilronan as in constantinople, and they are just as vicious; all the women were at the doors, rubbing their hands in their aprons; and the village loafers were all turned towards where a solemn procession was moving through the street. first came a gang of youngsters, singing, "sure, we're the boys of wexford," then a popular ditty; then came two laborers, dragging along a ladder with as much show of expended energy as if it were a piece of heavy ordnance; then the cart on which the ladder was placed; then two more laborers behind, making desperate efforts to second the arduous endeavors of their mates in front; then a squadron of bare-legged girls, trying to keep the hair out of their eyes; and finally, the captain of the expedition, jem deady, leisurely walking along, with his hands in his pockets, a wheaten straw in his mouth, whilst he looked from cabin to cabin to receive the admiration of the villagers. it was expressed in various ways:—

"wisha, thin, jem, 't is you're the divil painted."

"where is he taking it?"

"to the chapel."

"wisha, thin, i thought the priests had some sinse."

"whisht, 'uman, he's come around the new cojutor and got a job."

"th' ould job?"

"th' ould job!"

"wisha, god help his poor wife now. 't is she'll suffer," etc.

the men made desperate efforts as they passed father letheby's windows. he looked on hopelessly, as you look at a charade of which you have not got the key.

at six o'clock there was a deputation at the door, consisting of four laborers and the owner of the cart.

"we come for our day's hire, your reverence," said the foreman, unabashed.

"oh, indeed," said father letheby, "i am not aware that you are in my employment."

"we dhrew the laddher down from the great house to the chapel; and i may tell your reverence 't was a tough job. i wouldn't do it again for five shillings."

"nor i, ayther."

"nor i, ayther."

"nor i, ayther, begor."

"well, look here," said father letheby, "i'm not going to submit to this infamous extortion. i didn't employ you, and i acknowledge no responsibility whatsoever."

"that manes you won't pay us, your reverence?" said the foreman, in a free translation.

"precisely," said father letheby, closing the door abruptly.

he heard them murmuring and threatening outside, but took no notice of them. later in the evening he took his usual stroll. he found these fellows loafing around the public house. they had been denouncing him vigorously, and occasionally a parthian shaft came after him:—

"begor, 't is quare, sure enough."

"begor, we thought the priests couldn't do any wrong."

but when he turned the corner he met a good deal of sympathy:—

"wisha, begor, 't is your reverence was wanted to tache these blackguards a lesson."

"wisha, 't was god sent you," etc., etc.

now, one shilling would have given these fellows lashings of porter, and secured their everlasting fealty and an unlimited amount of popularity. i told him so.

"never," he said, drawing back his head, and with flashing eyes, "i shall never lend myself to so demoralizing a practice. we must get these people out of the mire."

the next day, he thought he was bound to see how jem was progressing with his contract. he went down to the little church and passed into the sacristy, whence he had a clear view of the roof of st. joseph's chapel. jem was there, leisurely doing nothing, and on the graveyard wall were eight men, young and old, surveying the work and offering sundry valuable suggestions. they took this shape:—

"wisha, jem, take the world aisy. you're killing yerself, man."

"what a pity he's lost his wice (voice); sure 't was he was able to rise a song."

"dey say," interjected a young ragamuffin, "dat fader letheby is going to take simon barry into his new choir. simon is a tinner, and jem is only a bannitone."

"hould your tongue, you spalpeen," said a grown man, "jem can sing as well as twinty simons, dat is if he could only wet his whistle."

"thry dat grand song, jem, ''t is years since last we met.'"

"no, no," said the chorus, "give us 'larry mcgee.'"

"wisha, byes, wouldn't wan of ye run over to mrs. haley's for a pint. 't is mighty dhry up here."

"here ye are," said the chorus, chipping in and making up the requisite "tuppence." "don't be long about it, ye young ruffian."

"but what about the pledge, jem?" asked a conscientious spectator. "shure your time isn't up yet."

"'t is up long ago," cried another. "'twas three months yesterday since he took the pledge."

"byes," said jem, who was troubled at the possible scandal he was about to give, "i promised not to dhrink in a public house; and shure this isn't a public house, glory be to god!"

they took off their hats reverently; and then the pint came, was taken up the ladder with great care and solemnity, and a few minutes after, father letheby heard:—

"what is it going to be, byes? i've left me music on the pianney!"

"'larry mcgee!' 'larry mcgee!' no. no. 't is yares since last——.' no. no. 'the byes of wexford.'"

"byes, i think the majority is in favor of 'larry mcgee.'—here's to yer health!"

and then came floating from the roof in various quavers and semiquavers and grace-notes the following, which is all father letheby can remember.

"i—in the town of kilkinny lived larry mcgee,

oh—oh the divil's own boy at divarshion was he;

he—he had a donkey, a pig, but he hadn't a wife,

his cabin was dreary, and wretched his life."

then the notes came wavering and fitful, as the wind took them up, and carried them struggling over the moorland; and all that father letheby could hear was about a certain miss brady, who was reared up a lady, and who was requested to accept the name of mrs. mcgee. this suit must have been successful, because, as the wind lulled down, the words came clearly:—

"sure the chickens were roasted,—the praties was biled,

they were all in their jackets, for fear they'd be spiled;

and the neighbors came flockin', for to fling up the stockin',

and dance at the weddin' of larry mcgee."

it was interesting; but father letheby's temper was rising with the undulations of the song. he came out into the graveyard, and there was a stampede of the spectators. jem was lifting the porter to his lips, and looked down calmly and philosophically at the young priest.

"mr. deady," said the latter, putting on his strongest accent, "i do not think i engaged you to entertain the village with your vocal powers, much as i esteem them. i engaged you to work,—to do honest work for honest wages."

"begor," said the unabashed jem, "if i was a turk, or a armaynian, i'd be allowed to ate my dinner."

"but this is not your dinner hour!"

"twelve to wan is the dinner hour, except when i dines at the grate house, whin, for my convaynience, they puts it off till aight."

it was a sly cut at father letheby, and he felt it.

"and your dinner, i presume, is the usual quantity of filthy porter, such as i see represented in your hand."

"it is, your reverence, excep' whin i dines with the captain. den we haves roast beef and champagne."

all this father letheby told me, with a look of puzzled anger, and with many exclamations.

"i never saw such a people; i'll never understand them," etc. his magnificent impetuosity again.

"tell me," i said, for he had given me most cordially the privilege of speaking freely, "do you make your meditation regularly?"

"well, i do," he replied, "in a kind of way."

"because," i went on to say, "apart from the spiritual advantages it affords, that closing of our eyes daily and looking steadily into ourselves is a wonderfully soothing process. it is solitude—and solitude is the mother country of the strong. it is astonishing what an amount of irritation is poured from external objects through the windows of the soul,—on the retina, where they appear to be focused, and then turned like a burning-glass on the naked nerves of the soul. to shut one's eyes and turn the thoughts inward is like sleep, and, like sleep, gives strength and peace. now, would you accept from me a subject of meditation?"

"willingly, sir," he said, like a child.

"all that you want to be perfect is to curb your impetuosity. i notice it everywhere. probably it is natural; probably it is accentuated by your residence in feverish cities. now, i have a right to give an advice on this matter, for i got it and took it myself. when i was as young as you i said mass in twenty minutes, and said the office in forty minutes. how? because i slurred over words, spoke to the almighty as a ballad-singer, and for a few years went through these awful and sacred duties without ever resting or dwelling on their sublime signification. one day a holy old priest said to me:—

"'father, would you kindly give me an easy translation of the first stanza of the hymn for terce?'

"i was completely at sea. he saw it.

"'ah, never mind. but what means factus sum, sicut uter in pruina? you say it every day nearly.'

"i couldn't tell him.

"'herodii domus dux est eorum.' what is that?"

"i made a feeble attempt here, and translated boldly, 'the house of herod is their leader.'

"the venerable man looked smilingly at me; and then asked me to look up my bible. i did, and found that i had been speaking an unknown language to almighty god for years, and i called it prayer."

father letheby looked humbled. he said: "true, father, i fear; and if you had to say the entire office, commencing matins at eleven o'clock at night; or if you had to crush vespers and compline, under the light of a street lamp, into the ten minutes before twelve o'clock, you'd see the absurdity of the whole thing more clearly. a strictly conscientious confrère of mine in england used always commence prime about ten o'clock at night; but then he always lighted a candle, for consistency, before he uttered jam lucis orto sidere. it is a wonder we were never taught the very translation of the psalms in college."

"well, we're wandering. but set apart, hic et nunc, a half-hour for matins and lauds; twenty minutes for the small hours; a quarter of an hour for vespers and compline; and take up no other duty until that time has expired. then never say your office from memory, even the parts you know best. read every line from your breviary. it is not my advice, but that of st. charles borromeo. take half an hour for the celebration of mass. it will be difficult at first, but it will come all right. lastly, train yourself to walk slowly and speak slowly and deliberately—"

"you are clipping my wings, father," said he, "and putting soles of lead on my feet."

"did you ever hear of michael montaigne?" i said.

"yes. but that's all i know about him."

"quite enough, indeed. he hardly improves on acquaintance. but his father trained himself to wear leaden shoes in order that he might leap the higher. that's what i want from you. but where's this we were? oh, yes! you must take these poor people more easily. you cannot undo in a day the operations of three hundred years—"

"yes, but look how these people spring into the very van of civilization when they go to england or america. why, they seem to assume at once all the graces of the higher life."

"precisely,—the eternal question of environment. but under our circumstances we must be infinitely patient."

"what vexes me most," said father letheby, "is that we have here the material of saints; and yet—look now at that wretched deady! i don't mind his insolence, but the shifty dishonesty of the fellow."

"let him alone! by this time he is stung with remorse for what he said. then he'll make a general confession to his wife. she'll flay him with her tongue for having dared to say a disrespectful word to god's minister. then he'll go on a desperate spree for a week to stifle conscience, during which orgies he'll beat his wife black and blue; finally, he'll come to you, sick, humbled, and repentant, to apologize and take the pledge for life again. that's the programme."

"'t is pitiful," said the young priest.

but the following sunday he recovered all his lost prestige and secured immortal fame at the football match between the "holy terrors" of kilronan and the "wolfe tones" of moydore. for, being asked to "kick off" by these athletes, he sent the ball up in a straight line seventy or eighty feet, and it struck the ground just three feet away from where he stood. there was a shout of acclamation from the whole field, which became a roar of unbounded enthusiasm when he sent the ball flying in a parabola, not six feet from the ground, and right to the hurdles that marked the opposite goal. the kilronan men were wild about their young curate, and under his eye they beat their opponents hollow; and one admirer, leaning heavily on his caman, was heard to say:—

"my god, if he'd only lade us!"