The circumstance of the message to M’Mahon’s, however, was the cause of a scene which we could not possiby omit, in a work treating of this peculiar and most distressing crisis.  As the boy Charles was on his way to M’Mahon’s—­and this he mentioned to the family afterwards—­he was met, he said, by a gentleman dressed in rusty black, mounted upon a strong, coarse horse; and who, after looking at him with a good deal of surprise, said—­“What is your name, my fine fellow?” and on hearing it he asked him where he was going.  The child, who had been trained to nothing but truth; mentioned at once the object of his message; upon which the gentleman in question, after having heard it, thrust his hands into his smallclothes pocket, and then drew them out with an air of impatience, exclaiming—­“Bad luck to it for poverty—­it’s the curse o’ the counthry.”  Now this worthy priest, for such he was, had not been many weeks in the parish at the period of his meeting with the little boy; and it so happened, that his residence was within about a quarter of a mile of the glebe house.  He was, besides, one of the few who had given, upon more than one occasion, rather unequivocal manifestations of violent opposition to the whole system of tithes.  As a matter of course, he was the last individual from whom anything like sympathy for those who suffered in such a cause might be expected.  Much of the same character was M’Mahon, to whom the distressed parson had applied for the humble loan of food.  He assailed, in fact, the whole Establishment, and took both an active and conspicuous part in the excitement which then agitated the country.  He joined the crowds, vociferated and shouted among them at the top of his lungs, and took the liberty of laying down the law on the subject, as he termed it:  that is to say, of swearing that one stick or stone of their dirty Establishment should not be left upon another, but that the whole bobbery of it must be sent to blazes—­where it would all go yet, plaise God.  Of course his neighbor, the parson, was by no means cognizant of this violence on the part of M’Mahon, or he would never have thought of applying to him, even under the severest pressure of absolute destitution.

Having premised thus much concerning these two individuals, we request our readers to accompany us to the house of the Rev. Anthony Casey, and to suppose that it is a little after the hour of eleven o’clock at night.  The worthy gentleman and his curate had just seated themselves in his snug, but humble little parlor, where a pleasant turf fire was beginning to get somewhat dim, when the following dialogue occurred between them: 

“Pettier,” said Father Anthony to his curate, who had just returned from a sick call, “you found the night bitther, I think?”

“It is very cold, indeed, sir.”

“You have had a long ride of it upon that mountain road, without even a bush to shelther you.”

“It is not less than fourteen miles I think,” replied the curate, “and a cold, desolate road as I ever travelled.”