Mr. Mahony, about whom I perceived very little of the impatience alluded to, was a grim-looking old Christian, in a rabbit-skin waistcoat, with long flaps, who fumbled in the recesses of his breeches pocket for five minutes, and then drew forth three shillings, which he laid upon the plate, with what I fancied very much resembled a sigh.

“Six and sixpence, is it? or five shillings?—­all the same, Mr. Mahony, and I’ll not forget the thrifle you were speaking about this morning any way;” and here he leaned over as interceding with me for him, but in reality to whisper into my ear, “the greatest miser from this to Castlebar.”

“Who’s that put down the half guinea in goold?” (And this time he spoke truth.) “Who’s that, I say?”

“Tim Kennedy, your reverence,” said Tim, stroking his hair down with one hand, and looking proud and modest at the same moment.

“Tim, ye’re a credit to us any day, and I always said so.  It’s a gauger he’d like to be, my lord,” said he, turning to me, in a kind of stage whisper.  I nodded and muttered something, when he thanked me most profoundly as if his suit had prospered.

“Mickey Oulahan—­the lord’s looking at ye, Mickey.”  This was said piannisime across the table, and had the effect of increasing Mr. Oulahan’s donation from five shillings to seven—­the last two being pitched in very much in the style o a gambler making his final coup, and crying “va banque.”  “The Oulahans were always dacent people—­dacent people, my lord.”

“Be gorra, the Oulahans was niver dacenter nor the Molowneys, any how,” said a tall athletic young fellow, as he threw down three crown pieces, with an energy that made every coin leap from the plate.

“They’ll do now,” said Father Brennan; “I’ll leave them to themselves;” and truly the eagerness to get the plate and put down the subscription, fully equalled the rapacious anxiety I have witnessed in an old maid at loo, to get possession of a thirty-shilling pool, be the same more or less, which lingered on its way to her, in the hands of many a fair competitor.

“Mr. M’Neesh”—­Curzon had hitherto escaped all notice—­“Mr. M’Neesh, to your good health,” cried Father Brennan.  “It’s many a secret they’ll be getting out o’ye down there about the Scotch husbandry.”

Whatever poor Curzon knew of “drills,” certainly did not extend to them when occupied by turnips.  This allusion of the priest’s being caught up by the party at the foot of the table, they commenced a series of inquiries into different Scotch plans of tillage—­his brief and unsatisfactory answers to which, they felt sure, were given in order to evade imparting information.  By degrees, as they continued to press him with questions, his replies grew more short, and a general feeling of dislike on both sides was not very long in following.

The father saw this, and determining with his usual tact to repress it, called on the adjutant for a song.  Now, whether he had but one in the world, or whether he took this mode of retaliating for the annoyances he had suffered, I know not; but true it is, he finished his tumbler at a draught, and with a voice of no very peculiar sweetness, though abundantly loud, began “The Boyne Water.”