“At all events, if you’re not with me, father, I’ll keep you comfortable wherever you’ll be, whether in this world or the other; for, plase goodness, I’ll have some influence in both.—­When I get a parish, however, it is not improbable that I may have occasion to see company; the neighboring gentlemen will be apt to relish my society, particularly those who are addicted to conviviality; and our object will be to render ourselves as populous as possible; now, whether in that case it would be compatible—­but never fear, father, whilst I have the means, you or one of the family shall never want.”

“Will you let the people be far behind in their dues, Denis?” inquired Brian.

“No, no—­leave that point to my management.  Depend upon it, I’ll have them like mice before me—­ready to run into the first augerhole they meet.  I’ll collect lots of oats, and get as much yarn every year as would clothe three regiments of militia, or, for that matther, of dragoons.  I’ll appoint my stations, too, in the snuggest farmers’ houses in the parish, just as Father Finnerty, our worthy parochial priest, ingeniously contrives to do.  And, to revert secondarily to the collection of the oats, I’ll talk liberally to the Protestant boddaghs; give the Presbyterians a learned homily upon civil and religious freedom:  make hard hits with them at that Incubus, the Established Church; and, never fear, but I shall fill bag after bag with good corn from many of both creeds.”

“That,” said Brian, “will be givin’ them the bag to hould in airnest.”

“No, Brian, but it will be makin’ them fill the bag when I hold it, which will be better still.”

“But,” said Susan, “who’ll keep house for you?  You know that a priest can’t live widout a housekeeper.”

“That, Susy,” replied Denis, “is, and will be the most difficult point on which to accomplish anything like a satisfactory determination.  I have nieces enough, however.  There’s Peter Finnegan’s eldest daughter Mary, and Hugh Tracy’s Ailsey—­(to whom he added about a dozen and a half more)—­together with several yet to be endowed with existence, all of whom will be brisk candidates for the situation.”

“I don’t think,” replied Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, “that you’ll ever get any one who’d be more comfortable about you nor your own ould mother.  What do you think of takin’ myself, Denis?”

“Ay, but consider the accomplishments in the culinary art—­in re vel in arte culinaria—­which will be necessary for my housekeeper to know.  How would you, for instance, dress a dinner for the bishop if he happened to pay me a visit, as you may be certain he will?  How would you make pies and puddings, and disport your fancy through all the varieties of roast and boil?  How would you dress a fowl that it would stand upon a dish as if it was going to dance a hornpipe?  How would you amalgamate the different genera of wine with boiling fluid and crystallized saccharine matter?  How would you