“As good as a station, and more drink,” whispered Fin into my ear.  “And now,” continued the priest, “ye must just permit me to re-christen ye both, and the contribution will not be the less for what I’m going to do; and I’m certain you’ll not be worse for the change Mr. Curseon—­though ’tis only for a few hours, ye’ll have a dacent name.”

As I could see no possible objection to this proposal, nor did Curzon either, our only desire being to maintain the secrecy necessary for our antagonist’s safety, we at once assented; when Father Malachi took me by the hand, but with such a total change in his whole air and deportment that I was completely puzzled by it; he led me forward to the company with a good deal of the ceremonious reverence I have often admired in Sir Charles Vernon, when conducting some full—­blown dowager through the mazes of a castle minuet.  The desire to laugh outright was almost irresistible, as the Rev. Father stood at arm’s length from me, still holding my hand, and bowing to the company pretty much in the style of a manager introducing a blushing debutante to an audience.  A moment more, and I must have inevitably given way to a burst of laughter, when what was my horror to hear the priest present me to the company as their “excellent, worthy, generous, and patriotic young landlord, Lord Kilkee.  Cheer every mother’s son of ye; cheer I say;” and certainly precept was never more strenuously backed by example, for he huzzaed till I thought he would burst a blood—­vessel; may I add, I almost wished it, such was the insufferable annoyance, the chagrin, this announcement gave me; and I waited with eager impatience for the din and clamour to subside, to disclaim every syllable of the priest’s announcement, and take the consequences of my baptismal epithet, cost what it might.  To this I was impelled by many and important reasons.  Situated as I was with respect to the Callonby family, my assumption of their name at such a moment might get abroad, and the consequences to me, be inevitable ruin; and independent of my natural repugnance to such sailing under false colours, I saw Curzon laughing almost to suffocation at my wretched predicament, and (so strong within me was the dread of ridicule) I thought, “what a pretty narrative he is concocting for the mess this minute.”  I rose to reply; and whether Father Malachi, with his intuitive quickness, guessed my purpose or not, I cannot say, but he certainly resolved to out-maneuver me, and he succeeded:  while with one hand he motioned to the party to keep silence, with the other he took hold of Curzon, but with no peculiar or very measured respect, and introduced him as Mr. MacNeesh, the new Scotch steward and improver—­a character at that time whose popularity might compete with a tithe proctor or an exciseman.  So completely did this tactique turn the tables upon the poor adjutant, who the moment before was exulting over me, that I utterly forgot my own woes, and sat down convulsed with mirth at his situation—­an emotion certainly not lessened as I saw Curzon passed from one to the other at table, “like a pauper to his parish,” till he found an asylum at the very foot, in juxta with the engaging Mister Donovan.  A propinquity, if I might judge from their countenances, uncoveted by either party.