from these schools the noblest works of Irish Christian art all emanated. The glory of the school at Cong-technical and literary-began with the O'Conors and waned with their power as independent kings.

It would appear that Rory himself was first deposed for incapacity by his son and subjects, and then retired to his beloved Cong to spend the remnant of his days in peace and penance. But some years later, the old king growing tired of his seclusion, sought to recover his kingdom after the death of his gallant son, Conor Meenmoy, who was slain by his own friends in A. D. 1189. But the O'Conor princes and the clansmen would not have him, yielding submission to his brother, the illegitimate, it is said, Red Hand, in preference, and so once more the old king was forced to return to his retreat at Cong without hope of restoration. There he spent the last nine years of his life in peace. He had time to meditate on his own misdeeds and on the vanity of human things.

It was his lot to sit in the throne of his great father, but he was not able to keep it. The great crisis of Erin's fortunes, when Strongbow was besieged in Dublin, and Miles de Cogan made a desperate sally, found him in a bath instead of in the saddle. He and his men fled from Dublin like crows, and all Ireland knew that Rory was not the man to save his country. He had too

RUINS OF MOYNE ABBEY. many concubines. His life was the life of a sensualist rather than of a warrior. Cong was the proper place for him-to bewail his sins in its holy cloisters.

Looking out on the rushing river flowing forever into the great lake, he had time to think and objects to remind him of the fleeting vanities of human ambition and the great ocean of eternity beyond the grave. He had his own consolations, however; he had a beautiful, quiet home; he had dear and trusty friends; he had the solemn offices of the Church, with the converse and example of holy men around him. It was better-far better-for him to spend his last years in Cong than "in his wonderful castle" of Tuam, surrounded by false friends, with the din of battle in his ears, and his own sons and brothers waiting with ill-concealed impatience to see him die. His, from the spiritual point of view, was a fortunate lot, yet it was a sad if not an inglorious end. And for my own part I can fancy the old king in the midst of his prayers and penance thinking mournfully of the past.

There was another High King of Erin whose glorious end must have often occurred to his mind. Why did not he do what Brian Boru did on the famous field of Clontarf, when the clansmen of Erin, to the number of 30,000, gathered round him?

Why did he not risk his country's

fate and his own life in the glorious onset on one desperate day? If he won he would have kept his kingdom and his sceptre. If he fell, how could he have fallen more nobly than fighting to the last, with his face to the foe, for his country's freedom and his father's throne?

It is quite certain that Rory was buried at Clonmacnoise, as the Four Masters distinctly assert, but several other members of his royal family also sleep in the cloisters of Cong. We are told, A. D. 1224, that Maurice the Canon, son of Rory O'Conor, the most illustrious of the Irish for learning, psalm-singing and poetic compositions, died, and was buried at Cong, after the victory of "Unction and Penance." This shows, incidentally, that poetry and music were both cultivated by the Canons Regular of Cong; and another entry in the Annals of Lough Ce, two years later, confirms it, for it tells us that "Aedh, son of Dunley O Sochlachain Airchinnech of Cong, a professor of singing and harp-making, who made, besides, an instrument for himself, the like of which had never been made before, and who was distinguished in every art, both in poetry and engraving and writing, and in every science that a man could exercise, died in this year." This shows that there was a real technical school of the fine arts at Cong-which their work proves abundantly.

The very same year, and in the same place the Church of the Canons of Cong-was buried the Lady Nuala, daughter of King Rory O'Conor, Queen of Uladh. She died at Cong and was buried at Cong. Indeed, it is not improbable that King Rory had a castle near the Abbey, where he himself and many of his family subsequently dwelt. In 1247 Finola, his youngest daughter, died at Cong, and was doubtless buried near by her sisters' side. And as it was at Cong so it was at Innismaine Abbey. There is some reason to think that King Turlough himself had a castle either at Innismaine or close at hand, near the present Lough Mask Castle, for we are told that his son, Cathal Crobhderg, was born at the port of Lough Mask, which was just under the castle. Moreover, the site of an ancient castle is shown near the Abbey, and we are told that an attack was made upon Innismaine in 1227 by Richard Burke and Aedh O'Conor, "who burned Innismaine," which seems to point to the castle rather than to the Abbey. It would appear that as the great Turlough had the Abbey of Canons Regular near him at Cong, he also restored the old Abbey of Inismaine and placed his own son, some say "his eldest legitimate son"-as abbot over it, for we are told that Maelisa, son of Turlough O'Conor, died Abbot of Inismaine in 1223, just the year before his brother Cathal, the Red-Handed, died in the habit of a Cistercian monk in the Abbey of Knockmoy, which he himself had founded. They were a strange race, the O'Conors, capable of great deeds, yet guilty of many crimes against God and their country, but they seldom failed to do penance when they got the chance to die in their beds. The thirteenth century was a very trying time for the two royal Abbeys. During the whole of that period, especially after the death of Cathal Crobhderg in 1224, there was a fierce struggle for the ownership of the beautiful lakeland between the Celt and the Norman. The Celts might have easily held their own, except for their unhappy divisions. Not only were the O'Flahertys fighting against the O'Conors, but the O'Conors were divided among themselves-especially the sons of Rory were in constant feud with the sons of Cathal, and each side joined the Norman against the other. The consequence was that after the battle of Athenry in 1316 the Burkes drove them all out of the beautiful lakeland. The O'Flahertys were driven beyond Lough Corrib, and the O'Conors were driven eastward of the Suck, and so the royal Abbeys became the inheritance of the stranger, and the baronies of Clare, Kilmaine and Carra knew their lords

no more.

Still, both victors and vanquished were Catholics, and when the stubborn fight was done the conquering Norman was eager to repair the injuries inflicted on the royal Abbeys during the protracted warfare of the thirteenth century. The Burkes gave new grants of land to both the Abbeys, especially to Cong, and we are told that Edmond

Albanagh gave considerable grants of land to the Abbey, and that Walter Burke, son of Thomas Fitz Edmond Albanagh, gave the lands of Arry, containing one-quarter, to the Abbey of Cong, "on condition that any female descending from him and taking the vow of chastity should be received by the Abbot and supported and maintained in this house," which goes to show that there was a Nunnery as well as an Abbey at Cong.

This Walter Burke was grandson of that Edmond Albanagh who was responsible for one of the darkest crimes in Irish history. It took place in 1338, on the night of Low Sunday, and, like other crimes, had its origin in agrarian feuds. I follow O'Flaherty's account as the most reliable. When the Dun Earl William de Burge was slain at the Ford of Belfast in 1333, his only daughter, Elizabeth, then aged seven, became heir-general to all the vast estates of the Red Earl. Shortly afterward her grand-uncle, Edmond de Burgo, a son of the Red Earl, was appointed the guardian of all those vast estates in the interest of the heiress. The western Burkes, headed by another Edmond called Edmond Albanagh, determined to get rid of the guardian and seize the lands for themselves. So Edmond was seized by a party of the retainers of his cousin, Edmond Albanagh, in the Augustinian Monastery of Ballinrobe. That night they carried their prisoner to Lough Mask Castle over the lake, where it is probable that Edmond Albanagh then dwelt. Next night he was taken to Ballydenagh Castle, near Petersburg, at the southern extremity of the lake. On the third night he was transferred to what is now called the Earl's Island, in the southwestern extremity of Lough Mask. The Archbishop of Tuam, Malachy McHugh, who was associated with the unhappy prisoner in the government of Connaught, came to the island in the hope of

arranging terms between the cousins. It would appear, however, that, while the conference was in progress certain of the Stauntons-McPaidins as they are called-fearing for their own safety if the prisoner was leased, secretly tied him up in a bag, with a stone in its bottom, and then cast the bag into the lake, which is very deep around the island.

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This tragedy changed the whole face of Connaught. The Burkes, having no longer one head, split into parties, Edmond Albanagh himself for many years became a fugitive, but his family still were able to retain the manor of Lough Mask, and we find his descendants in Perrott's composition of 1585 claiming and obtaining as his patrimonial inheritance the castles and manors of Kinlough, near Cong, of Ballyloughmaske and of Ballinrobe-the very lands held by the royal tribes of the West from the dawn of our history.

This brings me to an interesting point in the history of Cong Abbey. Mr. Martin Blake, to whom our Galway archaeology already owes so much, has sent me a rental of Cong Abbey, written in 1501, by the monk, Tadgh

O'Duffy, under the direction of his Abbot, Flavus O'Duffy, which shows that the O'Duffys were there still. The abbot was setting out for Rome and wished to have a certified copy of the rental duly executed before his departure.

This document-which I hope soon to publish in extenso-sets out the gifts of land made to the Abbey by its founder, by Turlough O'Conor and by the Burkes, among others, by this Edmond Albanagh, of whom I have spoken. But, strangest of all, it sets out how Cormac McCarthy, chief of his nation, gave certain lands in Bere and Bantry to the Abbey of Cong, and among other privileges, a bellrope for the Abbey from every ship sailing out of his harbors of Cork and Dunboy. It would appear that in 1133 Cormac and his friends from Munster burned Cong and Dunmore, and plundered a great part of the country, so when Turlough got the upper hand, he compelled Cormac to give certain lands and privileges to his own beloved Abbey of Cong by way of restitution.

From immemorial ages the Kings of Connaught held those other lands and duns and castles, and so the chiefs of the Mayo Burkes, succeeding to their authority in the west, claimed the ancient and beautiful inheritance as their own. They, too, in their turn passed away, and other men of another race and religion held their lands and castles -destined, too, in their time to pass away. Old King Eochy has seen it all from his cairn over the lake, and his hoary monument will, so far as we can judge, outlive them all.

Let me say a word about the architecture of the two abbeys. It belongs to what is known as the Irish Romanesque, which took its rise in its ornamental forms about the beginning of the eleventh century-say the time of the battle of Clontarf-and reached its perfection during the first half of the twelfth century (that is, up to the time of the Anglo-Norman invasion, when its further development was arrested), and it gradually gave way to the Gothic or early-pointed style of architecture.

From 1150 to 1200 was a period of transition, during which the two styles are often found together in buildings of that period-for instance, in some of the Cistercian monasteries erected toward the close of the twelfth or the beginning of the thirteenth century. We have in Cong itself evidence of this transition, for the windows and one doorway are purely semi-circular or Romanesque, while we have the other two beautiful doorways slightly pointed, as if the artist wished to make a compromise between the two styles of architecture. It is impossible at present to say for certain whether the three doors are contemporaries, or, as I think more probable, the two pointed doors are later additions or insertions.

Now the Irish Romanesque in its most characteristic feature is a purely national development of the foreign Romanesque of Italy and Southern France-Romanesque meaning simply

an outgrowth of the Roman architecture. In this development, as an eminent professional authority (Brash) has said: "The Irish exhibited wonderful fertility of invention, taste, and fancy in design the utmost accuracy in drawing and of harmony in coloring;" but he admits that in their attempts to represent the human figure either in painting or sculputre they were "decided failures."

In book painting and decoration, and even in stone carving they excelled, but in painting and reproducing the human figure they failed. This is apparent in the crude figures of the two ecclesiastics on the base of the Tuam market cross, whom I take to represent Archbishop O'Muireadheach and Abbot O'Hession; there is neither grace nor dignity about the figures. But in beauty of design and fertility of invention in ornament the Irish Romanesque school was unsurpassed and unsurpassable.

or

I know a beautiful thing, I hopeanimate or inanimate-whenever wherever I see it, and I must say I admire it also, but as I am no artist I do not feel myself qualified to enter into minute details on this subject. I can only say I pity the man who has no eye to admire the cloister of Cong, with all its pure and graceful lines, and the infinite variety and delicacy of its ornamentation. And no less admirable, to my mind, are the window and doorway of Inismaine, and also the foliated sculptures of the capitals of its noble chancel arch now, alas, in great part overthrown. But I would say visit these places for yourselves: examine them not hurriedly, but leisurely and carefully. Let the eye and the mind drink in their beauty by thoughtful, patient observation. Take in the whole scene and its surroundings in the present; and, if you can, in the past, when kings and prelates and monks, and scholars trod these silent, cloisters; when royal maidens touched their harps in tones responsive to their own sweet Gaelic songs; when the vesper bell woke the echoes around those pleasant waters; when the voice of prayer and praise rose seven times a day from the lips and hearts of holy men behind those chancel arches; when the hospice was ever open to the poor and the stranger; when many a sinful soul came to find pardon and peace among the blessed Brotherhood of God. And I believe that the thoughtful contemplation of these beautiful ruins in this patient and loving spirit will exercise an elevating and refining influence on your own minds, and tend also, I think, to soften and purify your hearts. More than all, you can ever point to the architecture and the sculpture of these beautiful ruins as a very striking proof of what Irish genius can effect, and has effected, when inspired by the elevating influences of an independent national existence.

In spite of many unfavorable circumstances resulting from the almost continuous wars of the time, architecture and its kindred arts made marvelous progress on purely native lines during

the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Turlough O'Conor and his son Rory was the last of our native independent kings, and they were a fighting race; yet in their reigns marvelous progress was made. When the foreigners came all this progress was arrested. And, bear in mind, this wonderful development was the outcome of native genius -all these great and beautiful works were accomplished through the munificence of our native princes, under the inspiration of Irish talent, and by the hands of Irish workmen.

Of this there cannot be a shadow of doubt for we have the names of many of them still-of the craftsmen who wrought the choicest of them all. This you should never forget; it affords solid grounds to glory in our country's past, and to hope for our country's future. For myself, the sight of these ivied ruins, so eloquent of glories gone has been to me at all times an inspiration and a joy more pleasing than dainty fare; more exhilarating than generous wine. I have felt proud whenever I was able to point them out to sceptical strangers as the undoubted work of Irishmen before the Norman ever set foot on Irish soil. I readily admit that the great Anglo-Norman Cathedrals of England surpass our own in lofty grandeur and majestic dignity. But neither in England nor anywhere else can ancient churches be found to surpass ours in sympathy of outline and proportion, or in the varied beauties of their marvelous ornamentation. And it was in the hope of awakening in your minds some of those ennobling thoughts that have long been familiar to my own that I have consented to prepare this paper.

Ꮤ

E have received from Messrs. M. H. Gill & Son, publishers, Dublin, a copy of "The Last Irish King," an interesting historical play from the pen of Mr. T. O'Neill Russell. The work is a historic drama in three acts, partly founded on a legend about a supposed ancestor of the celebrated Captain Tyrell, who fought on the Irish side during the Elizabethan wars, the most prominent character in it being an English officer who was taken prisoner in battle, became Irish, and married the daughter of Art MacMurrough, the last of the Irish provincial Kings, by whose men he had been captured. The play throws a strong light acress a particularly dark period of our national history.

The price of the book in paper covers is only six pence.

On all that is sacred to Freedom and Man?

Ah! tho' thy best sons to their prisons be taken,

And soldiers surround thee with blood-seeking steel,

Thy sorrows and wrongs will forever awaken

The fires which the noblest of patriots feel.

-Sir Wm. Allan.

Don't fall to procure MRS. WINSLOWS SOOTHING SYRUP for your Children while cutting teeth. It soothes the child, softens the gums, allays all pain, cures wind colic and is the best remedy for diarrhoea.

T

HE last glimmer of daylight was struggling with the coming

darkness, and the murky veil of thick fog which was creeping down from the Knockfierna hills was making matters uncomfortable for persons whose business held them out of doors. A group of five or six, comprising old Michael Shanahan, Kitty, his wife; their son, Tom, and daughter, Ellie, and two of "the neighboring boys," in the persons of John and Thady Donovan, were seated round the cheery fire which blazed on the capacious hearth, and enervated the chilled limbs of the good husbandman and the young men who had returned from their toil in the fields.

Shanahan's was the rendezvous for all, the neighboring boys, and betimes, the colleens dropped in, too, when a lively jig, reel, or "set," would be gone through to the flute accompaniment of the district wit and musician, Con Foley, a man of diversified occupations and accomplishments. On the bagpipes, too, he played with an acnowledged expertness and sweetness, and at many a wedding "Jackson's Morning Brush," "The Humors of Lurret Jackson," "Jackson's Cup," etc., "Moll Roe," "The Kilruddery Hunt," "Sighle Ni Gadhara," "Plancam Peirbhig," "Batha Buidhe," and many more choice and exquisitely sweet, old Irish airs were rendered by him and rapturously received.

Just now he has crossed the threshold with a cheery greeting, and in response to the genial "draw your seat to the fire, Con," he takes possession of his customary corner beside the hob, and after a few discursive remarks regarding the nature of the weather, proceeds to replenish his well-smoked dudheen. "Faith, I see," remarked Ellie Shanahan, beamingly, "that you didn't forget the flute, Con." "Kate an' Mary Morrissy, Han an' Mary and Bridgie O'Donnell an' the Connors' promised to roll hither this evenin' an' we'll have a good bit of a dance, never fear."

By Cormac Cas.

Her mother in the chimney corner, raised her eyes from her knitting, and sarcastically remarked, "what ails you at all, for one ownshaugh of a little girl. Faith, 'twould be a nice evenin' for girls to be gallavantin' over the fields, through wet thraneens, an' over gripes, with a mist an' wind goin' that would tan old Ned Meehan, himself, that they say has a skin as thick as a pig."

"Iyeh-wisha, the old miser; his face would cap a gravestone, an' you'd think the weasel eyes of him would see through a deal floor, an' his thin jaw would shave an ass. Bad manners to the crawthacawn," interjected Con Foley.

Con's naivete was generally understood by his companions, as the thin veil which concealed a dormant wit, and the indifference with which he generally spoke added to the pungency of his utterances. He had long since attained a local fame as a "quare fella," and innumerable were the quizzical acts laid down to his credit.

The circle, round the blazing logs and coals, was further augmented by the entrance of Mike Collins and Jerry Foley, who informed the anxious colleen of the house that the girls were sorry for disappointing her.

Con having satisfied himself with a pipeful of Irish twist, the boys saw an opening for the rehearsal of one of his amusing exploits, and a whispered conversation with the vanithee had the desired effect.

"Wisha, Con, as the night is raw an' hazy, an' the girls can't come, tell us all about Ned Meehan an' how ye secured the wife for him, or rather how ye didn't. 'Tis a long while since ye towld us the story an' my father, God be merciful to his sowl an' the sowls o' the faithful departed, had a great wish for ye over the same elopement, an' poor Father Dee used to laugh hearty, the poor man, when he'd draw it down to him."

"Yerah, I dun-no, ma'am; the hunger

creeps into me body when ye talks about that schamer."

"Wisha, he's nothing else," chorused the group, "an' he never met his match till you crost his path."

"Go on, Con."

"Well, as ye axed me, I may as well endeavor to kill time tho' I think he'll kill us in the long run."

"I was only sixteen years when my father died, God be good to him, an' me poor ould mother an' two sisters an' little Jack, who was only three, were to be helped on. The neighbors were good, but what the devil could they do an' to do their best with the failure of the praitees, big rents, an' charges bigger still, an' the landlords conspiring with the big boddagh to drive every poor craythur into the workhouse or into exile, an' lots dyin' by the roadside, and some keeping the sowl in their bodies by dint of eating prissaugh buidhe, an' the pound o' relief meal they earned by breaking stones up in the mountain, where they could never be dhrawn from."

And a lump came into his throat, while two big soft tears rolled down his seared cheeks. He made a hard effort to hide his emotion, but nature overcame the man of mature years, and for a few moments he ceased to speak.

In

The cause was palpable to all. the famine years, his brother and a sunny-haired sister, the light of his life, died of fever, the result of hunger and meagre care.

The silence was broken by a short narration of old Shanahan's description of a scene which he himself had witnessed in '48, and after a short pause, Con again took up the thread of his tale.

"Well, the first man I had the misfortun' o' fallin' in with in the way of service, happened to be Ned Meehan, at five shillings a quarter. My meals were not over reg'lar to be sure, but the exercise was first class, never fear.

"Yerrah, I could fill a book with his doin's, an' like the story writers, I'd have to put at the tail of it, 'to be continued.'"

"But he had a failin'. He was fond of a nice girl, but she should have a good fortune, or, as he used to say, when I'd remark sich an' sich a girl is good lookin', 'has she the means, d'ye think, Con?'"

"Afther been' with him three or four weeks, I knew his weak point, an' begor I commenced to blow him up with what this girl an' that girl said about him, an' how their fathers an' mothers praised him as a good sensible man."

"Well, there never was a more apt pupil than me; an', begor, the neighbors were surprised how well we were gettin' on.

"His mother was poor in health and gettin' ould an' stiff, an' complainin' daily about the hardship of doin' the house work an' advisin' Ned to settle down at wanst, but not to tackle any of the girls with the new ways.

"A great idea seized me one day after thinkin' over things for many an hour.

"I met a boy of the Clancy's, that was in service with a well to do farmer near Adare, an' as we were talkin' about our situations, I axed him would he do me a bit of a turn."

"Faith, an' sure, I will," says he. "Well, there an' then, I explained me trick, an' me hand an' word to ye poor Clancy wasn't false,

"We had a good many rounds of punch, an' I axed what sort of a servant girl they had. "Begorr," says he, "a divel of a wicked one; but she's full of natural an' unnatural roguery, an' how could she be otherwise seein' she is a daughter of Jimmy Brien's the tinker.

"Do you think," says I, "would she put herself in the way of earnin' a little money?"

"Money!" says he; "the Brien's would sell their gran'mother's coffin for money."

"Well, I up an' told him about Meehan an' his anxiety for marriage. I explained how I told Meehan that Mr. Carey's daughter, of Adare, seen him at the fair of Ballingarry, an' was axin' about him, an' I gave you as my author," says I to Clancy. "Now, sez I, you must write a letter explainin', in Miss Carey's name, that ould Carey is forcin' her to marry an ould sherager agin her will, an' that she'll elope with him some night that'll he suitable, as she's heard a great character entirely of him, as a good obedient son, an' a spunkey man outside.

"First an' foremust," says I, "you must see Kate O'Brien and tell her that she must transform herself into Miss Mary Carey, an' be prepared to

elope with Meehan, who's rotten with money."

"Begor," says Clancy, "you're a knowin' boy; I have ye," says he, "an' Katien O'Brien is ye're girl to th'inch." "Thiggin tu, mo bouchail," says I, with a wink?

"Faith I do," sez he, "an' Kate 'ill have to give me the price of a good round spree over it."

"All of a sudden Claney gev a knowin' wink, an' banged his hand on his knee; "begor I have it," says he.

"Ould Carey, an' wife an' daughter, an' son, 'ill be goin' to a party at Clarina next Tuesday night, the 22d of December. I'll get a neighborin' boy that's handy with the pen to write a rale love letter to your master in Miss Carey's name to-morrow, an' to make matters more likely I'll come with the bit of writin' meself," sez Clancy. "Isn't this Thursday?" says he. "'Tis of course,' says I.

"Well, as sure as I have this coulther in me hand, I'll be wit' ye Saturday,” says he.

"We shook han's at Taylors' forge over it, where he was gettin' a coulther pointed."

"Begor, airly, Saturday mornin', in spite o' the snow, me bouchail came axin' the neighbors 'Where here does Mister Meehan live?"

"He met Ned at work in' the yard. "God bless the work, sir," Clancy.

says

"And ye, too," says Ned. "Goin' to the fair o' Rat'kale, sir?" says Clancy, fumbling in his pockets. "I don't think I will," says Ned. "Thago-mogh," says he to himself as Clancy drew out the leteer; "an' account of a match."

"Miss Mary Carey, of Graique, sent me with this bit of writin' to you, an' towld me wait for an answer.'

"Miss Carey!" exclaimed Meehan, "sure the Carey's are said to be worth a power of money."

"Come in an' be seated, man, you must be cowld an' hungry after the journey."

"Faith then I am," answered Clancy, "and' 'tis the devil of a wet counthry your place."

"Faith your snug here, Mr. Meehan," says he, lookin' round the yard an' place.

"Well, then, I am, glory be to God, an' 'tisn't but I leave out a lot, an' give assistance to the poor. Th'ould mother is one of the generest craythurs you ever met, an' 'tisn't for me to say it. Many's the one she relieves." "Wisha," says Clancy, "she'll never miss it."

"When he entered, the ould woman looked at him.

"God bless ye," says Clancy, "an' yere house an' work, an' family." She never replied.

Ned went over to his mother and whispered into her ear, an' she was a changed woman in a minnit, she got up an' made one of the funniest attempts at smilin' you ever see." "I hope yere well?" says Clancy. "Yesha, middlin'," says she. "Take a seat, buachaileen."

"The mother an' son went into the room after a while chattin' over the letter, an' very soon the word wint out to me, that I'd betther go at once to Ned Burns, of Knockierna, for refreshments."

"Don't be long, a gradgill," says the ould woman, as she handed me two an' sixpence.

"Off I canthered, dramin' on the way of a great evenin'.

"When I reached the house again, th' ould woman met me outside."

"Well," says she, "did the Burns' ask you who was here?"

"They did sure," says I, "an' I told um 'twas a man o' Mister Carey's with an account of a match."

"Gimme the message," says she an' she concealed them in her apron so's that Clancy wouldn't see the whiskey, muryah.

"Begor, I knew at once that there was no chance of a drop."

"After a while I was called in, an' I saluted Clancy as if I never knew him at all."

"Con, sit down to your dinner. You must have a bit of meat an' a praitee," says she.

"When we made a sort of a finish Ned left us, telling Clancy he'd be back agin in a minute."

He went down to Shemus Connor's at the Cross, to get him to write a reply to Mary Carey's letter as he was a very poor hand himself, an' Clancy an' meself, while he was away, had a long chat about the elopement.

"He tould me what was in the letter, an' 1 marked out the course to be pursued, when Meehan would go down on Tuesday night.

"I was fodderin' the cows when he came back, lookin' mighty plaised.

"Them is as nice a set of cows as you could meet," says he to Clancy. lookin' from Clancy to the cows an' back agin.

"That's what I was sayin', sir," says Clancy, "an' me master made the same remark when he past this way last Shrove, buryin' ould Mick Jordan in Shana voha."

"Wisha faith?" says Meehan, delighted.

"Divil a word of a lie I'm tellin' you, Mister Meehan," says the lad, "an' be the same token, he noticed a fine heap of manure mixed an' ready to be spread, an' he said you wor a settled man."

"Oh, then, as far as means goes, an' bein' above me calls, divil a more comfortable man in your parish," says Meehan.

"Faith, that's you characther," with a side wink at his shadda in the shnow. "Come into the house," says Meehan, "an' I'll write a reply to the letter." He wasn't, of course, long writin' it, as he had it in his pocket.

"When he came back, he called me into the room, an' says he 'you're a good, quiet, honest boy, an' 'tis natural for you to be so.' He kep' axin' questions for a long while, till at last he says that boy to-day brought me letter from Miss Carey of Grague, axin' me to meet her Tuesday night near her own place, an' to elope with her." 'She says that her father is marryin'

a