our judgment and our passion together—and the first letter is torn :—'tis too severe; we write a second-we blot and interline, till it is nearly illegible; we begin a third; till at last we are tired out with our own angry feelings, and throw our scribbling by with a "pshaw! what's the use of it?" or "It's not worth my notice;" or, still better, arrive at the conclusion, that we preserve our own dignity best by writing with temper, though we may be called upon to be severe.

Furlong at this time was on his road to Dublin, in happy unconsciousness of Augusta's rage against him, and planning what pretty little present he should send her specially, for his head was naturally running on such matters, as he had quantities of commissions to execute in the millinery line for Mrs. O'Grady, who thought it high time to be getting up Augusta's wedding-dresses, and Andy was to be despatched the following day to Dublin, to take charge of a cargo of band-boxes from the city, to Neck-or-Nothing Hall. Furlong had received a thousand charges from the ladies, "to be sure to lose no time" in doing his devoir in their behalf, and he obeyed so strictly, and was so active in laying milliners and mercers under contribution, that Andy was enabled to start the day after his arrival, sorely against Andy's will, for he would gladly have remained amidst the beauty and grandeur and wonders of Dublin, which struck him dumb for the day he was amongst them, but gave him food for conversation for many a day after. Furlong, after racking his invention about the souvenir to his "dear Gussy," at length fixed on a fan, as the most suitable gift; for Gussy had been quizzed at home about "blushing" and all that sort of thing, and the puerile perceptions of the attaché saw something very smart in sending her wherewith "to hide her blushes." Then the fan was the very pink of fans; it had quivers and arrows upon it, and bunches of hearts looped up in azure festoons, and doves perched upon them; though Augusta's little sister, who was too young to know what hearts and doves were, when she saw them for the first time, said they were pretty little birds picking at apples. The fan was packed up in a nice case, and then on scented note paper did the dear dandy indite a bit of namby-pamby badinage to his fair one, which he thought excessively clever :--

"Dear Ducky Darling,

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'You know how naughty they are in quizzing you about a little something, I won't say what; you will guess, I dare say—but I send you a little toy, I won't say what, on which Cupid might write this label after the doctor's fashion, 'To be used occasionally, when the patient is much troubled with the symptoms.'

"P.S. Take care how you open it."

"Ever, ever, ever

"Yours,

"J. F."

Such was the note that Handy Andy was given, with particular injunctions to deliver it the first thing on his arrival at the Hall to Miss Augusta, and to be sure to take most particular care of the little case; all which Andy faithfully promised to do. But Andy's usual destiny

prevailed, and a slight turn of chance quite upset all Furlong's sweet little plan of his pretty present, and his ingenious note, for as Andy was just taking his departure, Furlong said he might as well leave something for him at Reade's the cutler, as he passed through College Green, and he handed him a case of razors which wanted setting, which Andy popped into his pocket, and as the fan case and that of the razors were much of a size, and both folded up, Andy left the fan at the cutler's, and took the case of razors by way of present to Augusta. Fancy the rage of a young lady with a very fine pair of moustaches, getting such a souvenir from her lover, with a note too, every word of which applied to a beard and a razor, as patly as to a blush and a fan-and this too when her jealousy was aroused and his fidelity more than doubtful in her estimation.

Great was the row in Neck-or-Nothing Hall; and when, after three days Furlong came down, the nature of his reception may be better imagined than described. It was a difficult matter, through the storm which raged around him, to explain all the circumstances satisfactorily, but by dint of hard work, the verses were at length disclaimed, the razors disavowed, and Andy at last sent for to "clear matters up."

Andy was a hopeful subject for such a purpose, and, by his blundering answers, nearly set them all by the ears again; the upshot of the affair was, that Andy, used as he was to good scoldings, never had such a torrent of abuse poured on him in his life, and the affair ended in Andy being dismissed from Neck-or-Nothing Hall on the instant; so he relinquished his greasy livery for his own rags again, and trudged homewards to his mother's cabin.

"She'll be as mad as a hatter with me," said Andy; "bad luck to them for razhirs, they cut me out o' my place: but I often heard cowld steel is unlucky, and sure I know it now.-Oh! but I'm always unfort'nate in having cruked messages.-Well, it can't be helped-and one good thing, at all events, is, I'll have time enough now to go and spake to Father Blake ;"-and with this sorry piece of satisfaction, poor Andy contented himself.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE Father Blake of whom Andy spoke, was more familiarly known by the name of Father Phil, by which title Andy himself would have named him, had he been telling how Father Phil cleared a fair, or equally "leathered" both the belligerent parties in a faction-fight, or turned out the contents (or malcontents) of a public-house at an improper hour; but when he spoke of his Reverence respecting ghostly matters, the importance of the subject begot higher consideration for the man, and the familiar "Father Phil" was dropped for the more respectful title of Father Blake. By either title, or in whatever capacity, the worthy Father had great influence over his parish, and there was a free and easy way with him, even in doing the most solemn duties, which agreed wonderfully with the devil-may-care spirit of Paddy. Stiff and starched formality in any way is repugnant to the very nature of Irishmen; and I believe one of the surest ways of converting all Ireland from the Romish faith would be found, if we could only manage to have her mass celebrated with the dry coldness of the Reformation. This may seem ridiculous at first sight, and I grant it is a grotesque way of viewing the subject, but yet there may be truth in it, and to consider it for a moment seriously, look to the fact, that the north of Ireland is the stronghold of Protestantism, and that the north is the least Irish portion of the island:

there is a strong admixture of Scotch there, and all who know the country will admit that there is nearly as much difference between men from the north and south of Ireland, as from different countries. The Northerns retain much of the cold formality and unbending hardness of the stranger-settlers from whom they are descended, while the Southern exhibits that warm-hearted, lively, and poetical temperament for which the country is celebrated. The prevailing national characteristics of Ireland are not to be found in the north, where protestantism flourishes; they are to be found in the south and west, where it has never taken root. And though it has never seemed to strike theologians, that in their very natures some people are more adapted to receive one faith than another, yet I believe it to be true, and perhaps not quite unworthy of consideration. There are forms, it is true, and many in the Romish church, but they are not cold forms, but attractive rather, to a sensitive people; besides, I believe those very forms, when observed the least formally, are the most influential on the Irish; and perhaps the splendours of a high mass in the gorgeous temple of the holy city, would appeal less to the affections of an Irish peasant, than the service he witnesses in some half-thatched ruin by a lone hill side, familiarly hurried through by a priest who has sharpened his appetite by a mountain ride of some

fifteen miles, and is saying mass for the third time, most likely, before breakfast, which consummation of his morning's exercise he is anxious to arrive at.

It was just in such a chapel, and under such circumstances, that Father Blake was celebrating the mass at which Andy was present, and after which he hoped to obtain a word of advice from the worthy Father, who was much more sought after on such occasions, than his more sedate superior who presided over the spiritual welfare of the parish—and whose solemn celebration of the mass was by no means so agreeable as the lighter service of Father Phil. The Rev. Dominick Dowling was austere and long-winded; his mass had an oppressive effect on his congregation, and from the kneeling multitude might be seen eyes fearfully looking up from under bent brows; and low breathings and subdued groans often rose above the silence of his congregation, who felt like sinners, and whose imaginations were filled with the thoughts of Heaven's anger; while the good-humoured face of the light-hearted Father Phil produced a corresponding brightness on the looks of his hearers, who turned up their whole faces in trustfulness to the mercy of that Heaven, whose propitiatory offering their pastor was making for them in cheerful tones, which associated well with thoughts of pardon and salvation.

Father Dominick poured forth his spiritual influence like a strong dark stream, that swept down the hearer resistlessly, who struggled to keep his head above the torrent, and dreaded to be overwhelmed at the next word. Father Phil's religion bubbled out like a mountain rill,bright, musical, and refreshing;-Father Dominick's people had decidedly need of cork jackets :-Father Phil's might drink and be refreshed.

But with all this intrinsic worth, he was, at the same time, a strange man in exterior manners; for with an abundance of real piety, he had an abruptness of delivery, and a strange way of mixing up an occasional remark to his congregation in the midst of the celebration of the mass, which might well startle a stranger; but this very want of formality made him beloved by the people, and they would do ten times as much for Father Phil as for Father Dominick.

On the Sunday in question, when Andy attended the chapel, Father Phil intended delivering an address to his flock from the altar, urging them to the necessity of bestirring themselves in the repairs of the chapel, which was in a very dilapidated condition, and at one end let in the rain through its worn-out thatch. A subscription was necessary; and to raise this among a very impoverished people was no easy matter. The weather happened to be unfavourable, which was most favourable to Father Phil's purpose, for the rain dropped its arguments through the roof upon the kneeling people below, in the most convincing manner; and as they endeavoured to get out of the wet, they pressed round the altar as much as they could, for which they were reproved very smartly by his Reverence in the very midst of the mass, and these interruptions occurred sometimes in the most serious places, producing a ludicrous effect, of which the worthy Father was quite unconscious, in his great anxiety to make the people repair the chapel.

A big woman was elbowing her way towards the rails of the altar, and

Father Phil, casting a sidelong glance at her, sent her to the rightabout, while he interrupted his appeal to heaven to address her thus:

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Agnus Dei—you'd betther jump over the rails of the althar, I think. -Go along out o' that, there's plenty o' room in the chapel below there-."

Then he would turn to the altar, and proceed with the service, till turning again to the congregation, he perceived some fresh offender.

"Orate, fratres !—will you mind what I say to you, and go along out of that, there's room below there.-Thrue for you, Mrs. Finn-it's a shame for him to be thramplin' on you.-Go along, Darby Casy, down there, and kneel in the rain-it's a pity you haven't a dacent woman's cloak undher you, indeed!-Orate, fratres!"

Then would the service proceed again, and while he prayed in silence at the altar, the shuffling of feet edging out of the rain would disturb him, and casting a backward glance, he would say

"I hear you there-can't you be quiet and not be disturbin' my mass, you haythens."

Again he proceeded in silence, till the crying of a child interrupted him. He looked round quickly

"You'd betther kill the child, I think, thramplin' on him, Lavery.Go out o' that-your conduct is scandalous-Dominus vobiscum !”

Again he turned to pray, and after some time he made an interval in the service to address his congregation on the subject of the repairs, and produced a paper containing the names of subscribers to that pious work who had already contributed, by way of example to those who had not.

Sun

"Here it is," said Father Phil, "here it is, and no denying it-down in black and white; but if they who give are down in black, how much blacker are those who have not given at all;-but I hope they will be ashamed of themselves, when I howld up those to honour who have contributed to the uphowlding of the house of God. And isn't it ashamed o' yourselves you ought to be, to lave His house in such a condition--and doesn't it rain a'most every Sunday, as if He wished to remind you of your duty-aren't you wet to the skin a'most every day?-Oh, God is good to you! to put you in mind of your duty, giving you such bitther cowlds, that you are coughing and sneezin' every Sunday to that degree, that you can't hear the blessed mass for a comfort and a benefit to you, and so you'll go on sneezin' until you put a good thatch on the place, and prevent the appearance of the evidence from Heaven against you every Sunday, which is condemning you before your faces, and behind your backs too, for don't I see this minit a strame o' wather that might turn a mill running down Micky Mackavoy's back, between the collar of his coat and his shirt?"

Here a laugh ensued at the expense of Micky Mackavoy, who certainly was under a very heavy drip from the imperfect roof.

"And is it laughing you are, you haythens?" said Father Phil, reproving the merriment which he himself had purposely created, that he might reprove it.--" Laughing is it you are-at your backslidings and insensibility to the honour of God-laughing, because when you come here to be saved, you are lost intirely with the wet; and how, I ask you, are my words of comfort to enter your hearts, when the rain is