“Well, may our curse go along wid the rest upon him, for dhrivin’ us to sich an unnatural spot as this!  Hot an’ heavy, into the sowl an’ marrow of him may it penethrate.  An’ sure that’s no more than all the counthry’s wishin’ him, whether or not—­not to mintion the curses that’s risin’ out o’ the grave agin him, loud an’ piercin’!”

“God knows it’s not slavin’ yourself on sich a day as this you’d be, only for him.  Had we kep our farm, you’d be now well an in your larnin’ for a priest—­an’ there ‘ud be one o’ the family sure to be a gintleman, anyhow; but that’s gone too, agra.  Look at the smoke, how comfortable it rises from Jack Sullivan’s, where the priest has a Station to-day.  ‘Tisn’t fishin’ for a sthray pratie he is, upon a ridge like this.  But it can’t be helped; an’ God’s will be done!  Not himself!—­faix, it’s he that’ll get the height of good thratement, an’ can ride home, well lined, both inside an’ outside.  Much good may it do him!—­’tis but his right.”

The lad now paused in his turn, looked down on Jack Sullivan’s comfortable house, sheltered by a clump of trees, and certainly saw such a smoke tossed up from the chimney, as gave unequivocal evidence of preparation for a good dinner.  He next looked “behind the wind,” with a visage made more blank and meagre by the contrast; after which he reflected for a few minutes, as if working up his mind to some sudden determination.  The deliberation, however, was short; he struck his open hand upon the head of the spade with much animation, and instantly took it in both hands, exclaiming: 

“Here, father, here goes; to the divil once an’ for ever I pitch slavery,” and as he spoke, the spade was sent as far from him as he had strength to throw it.  “To the divil I pitch slavery!  An’ now, father, wid the help o’ God, this is the last day’s work I’ll ever put my hand to.  There’s no way of larnin’ Latin here; but off to Munster I’ll start, an’ my face you’ll never see in this parish, till I come home either a priest an a gintleman!  But that’s not all, father dear; I’ll rise you out of your distress, or die in the struggle.  I can’t bear to see your gray hairs in sorrow and poverty.”

“Well, Jimmy—­well, agra—­God enable you, avourneen; ’tis a good intintion.  The divil a one o’ me will turn another spadeful aither, for this day:  I’m dhrookin’ (* dripping) wid the rain.  We’ll go home an’ take an air o’ the fire we want it; and aftherwards we can talk about what you’re on (* determined) for.”

It is usual to attribute to the English and Scotch character, exclusively, a cool and persevering energy in the pursuit of such objects as inclination or interest may propose for attainment; whilst Irishmen are considered too much the creatures of impulse to reach a point that requires coolness, condensation of thought, and efforts successively repeated.  This is a mistake.  It is the opinion of Englishmen and Scotchmen who know not the Irish character thoroughly.  The