vain he fled to the door; its massive folds resisted mortal might.  In vain he cast his eyes around in quest of a loophole of retreat—­there was none.  Closer and closer pressed on the slowly-moving phalanx, and the uplifted croziers threatened soon to put their sentence into execution.  Supplication was all that remained—­and Larry sunk upon his knees.  “Ah! then,” said he, “gintlemin and ancient ould saints as you are, don’t kill the father of a large small family, who never did hurt to you or yours.  Sure, if ’tis your will that I should go to—­no matter who, for there’s no use in naming his name—­might I not as well make up my mind to go there, alive and well, stout and hearty, and able to face him,—­as with my head knocked into bits, as if I had been after a fair or a patthern?” “You say right,” said St. Patrick, checking with a motion of his crozier the advancing assailants, who returned to their seats.  “I am glad to see you coming to reason.  Prepare for your journey.”  “And how, plase your Saintship, am I to go?” asked Larry.  “Why,” said St. Patrick, “as Colman here has guided you so far, he may guide you further.  But as the journey is into foreign parts, where you arn’t likely to be known, you had better take this letter of introduction, which may be of use to you.”  “And here, also, Lawrence,” said a Dublin Saint—­perhaps Michan—­“take you this box also, and make use of it as he to whom you speak shall suggest.”  “Take a hold, and a firm one,” said St. Colman, “Lawrence, of my cassock, and we’ ll start.”  “All right behind?” cried St. Patrick.  “All right!” was the reply.  In an instant!—­vault—­table—­saints—­bell—­church, faded into air; a rustling hiss of wings was all that was heard; and Larry felt his cheek swept by a current, as if a covey of birds of enormous size were passing him. (It was, in all probability, the flight of the saints returning to heaven, but on that point nothing certain has reached us up to the present time of writing.) He had not a long time to wonder at the phenomenon, for he himself soon began to soar, dangling in mid sky at the skirt of the cassock of his sainted guide.  Earth, and all that appertains thereto, speedily passed from his eyes, and they were alone in the midst of circumfused ether, glowing with a sunless light.  Above, in immense distance, was fixed the firmament, fastened up with bright stars, fencing around the world with its azure wall.  They fled far, before any distinguishable object met their eyes.  At length a long, white streak, shining like silver in the moonbeam, was visible to their sight.  “That,” said St. Colman, “is the Limbo which adjoins the earth, and is the highway for ghosts departing the world.  It is called in Milton, a book which I suppose, Larry, you never have read”—­“And how could I, plase your worship,” said Larry, “seein’ I don’t know a B from a bull’s foot!” “Well, it is called in Milton the Paradise of Fools:  and if it were indeed peopled by all of that tribe who leave the world, it would