“What do you intind to do with them, Dominick?”

“In throth, that’s what brought me to yer Reverence.  I’ve one boy—­Jimmy—­a smart chap entirely, an’ he has taken it into his head to go as a poor scholar to Munster.  He’s fond o’ the larnin’, there’s not a doubt o’ that, an’ small blame to him to be sure; but then again, what can I do?  He’s bint on goin’, an’ I’m not able to help him, poor fellow, in any shape; so I made bould to see yer Reverence about it, in hopes that you might be able to plan out something for him more betther nor I could do.  I have the good wishes of the neighbors, and indeed of the whole parish, let the thing go as it may.”

“I know that, Dominick, and for the same rason well have a collection at the three althars.  I’ll mintion it to them after Mass to-morrow, and let them be prepared for Sunday week, when we can make the collection.  Hut, man, never fear; we’ll get as much as will send him half-way to the priesthood; and I’ll tell you what, Dominick, I’ll never be the man to refuse giving him a couple of guineas myself.”

“May the heavenly Father bless an’ keep your Reverence.  I’m sure ’tis a good right the boy has, as well as all of us, to never forget your kindness.  But as to the money—­he’ll be proud of your assistance the other way, sir,—­so not a penny—­’tis only your good-will we want—­hem—­except indeed, that you’d wish yourself to make a piece of kindness of it to the poor boy.  Oh, not a drop more, sir,—­I declare it’ll be apt to get into my head.  Well, well—­sure an’ we’re not to disobey our clargy, whether or not:  so here’s your health over agin, your Reverence! an’ success to the poor child that’s bint on good!”

“Two guineas his Reverence is to give you from himself, Jimmy,” said the father, on relating the success of this interview with the priest; “an’ faix I was widin one of refusin’ it, for feard it might bring something unlucky* wid it; but, thought I, on the spur, it’s best to take it, any way.  We can asily put it off on some o’ these black-mouthed Presbyterians or Orangemen, by way of changin’ it, an’ if there’s any hard fortune in it, let them have the full benefit of it, ershi misha.” ( ** Say I.)

* There is a superstitious belief in some parts of Ireland, that priests’ money is unlucky; “because,” say the people, “it is the price of sin”—­alluding to absolution.

It is by trifles of this nature that the unreasonable though enduring hatred with which the religious sects of Ireland look upon those of a different creed is best known.  This feeling, however, is sufficiently mutual.  Yet on both sides there is something more speculative than practical in its nature.  When they speak of each other as a distinct class, the animosity, though abstracted, appears to be most deep; but when they mingle in the necessary intercourse of life, it is curious to see them frequently descend, on both sides, from the general rule to those exceptions of good-will and kindness, which natural benevolence and mutual obligation, together with a correct knowledge of each other’s real characters, frequently produce.  Even this abstracted hatred, however, has been the curse of our unhappy country; it has kept us too much asunder, or when we met exhibited us to each other in our darkest and most offensive aspects.