Under them we not only had a good map of Ireland, but they taught us, in our geography lessons, the correct Irish pronunciation of the names of places, such as (spelling phonetically) “Carrawn Thooal,” “Croogh Phaudhrig,” and similar words.

But our old master, Mr. Connolly, was a good man too, according to his lights.  Hearing of Father Mathew’s visit, he asked how many of the boys would go to Crown Street to “take the pledge”—­their parents being willing?  Out of some 250 boys there were about a dozen who did not hold up their hands.

It is unnecessary for me to say that my mother was there again with her afflicted boy and the rest of her children, and again she pleaded in vain.  She was a courageous woman, with great force of character—­and a third time she went to Father Mathew’s gathering.  This was in St. Anthony’s chapel yard, and amongst the thousands there to hear him and to take the pledge she awaited her turn.  Again she besought him to touch her boy’s foot.  He knew her again, and, deeply moved by her importunity and great faith he, at length, to her great joy, put his hand on my brother’s foot and gave him his blessing.  My mother’s faith in the power of God, through His minister, was rewarded, for the foot was healed.

I had an aunt—­my mother’s sister—­married to a good patriotic Irishman, Hugh, or, as he was more generally called, Hughey, Roney, who kept a public house in Crosbie Street.  The street is now gone, but it stood on part of what is now the goods station of the London & North Western Railway.  Nearly all in Crosbie Street were from the West of Ireland, and, amongst them, there was scarcely anything but Irish spoken.  I have often thought since of the splendid opportunity let slip by O’Connell and the Repealers in neglecting to revive, as they could so easily have then done, so strong a factor in nationality as the native tongue of our people.  My Aunt Nancy could speak the Northern Irish fluently, and, in the course of her business, acquired the Connaught Irish and accent.

After a time Hughey Roney retired, and the house was carried on by his daughter and her husband, John McArdle, a good, decent patriotic Irishman, much respected by his Connaught neighbours, though he was from the “Black North.”  It used to be a great treat to hear John McArdle, on a Sunday night, reading the “Nation,” which then cost sixpence, and was, therefore, not so easily accessible, to an admiring audience, of whom I was sometimes one, and his son, John Francis McArdle, another.  This younger McArdle, originally intended for the Church, became in after life a brilliant journalist, and was for a time on the staff of the “Nation,” the teaching of which he had so early imbibed.  The elder McArdle was a big, imposing looking man, with a voice to match, who gave the speeches of O’Connell and the other orators of Conciliation Hall with such effect that the applause was always given exactly in the right places, and with as much heartiness as if greeting the original speakers.