ble--mumble--"to the Pope," said Father Luke, pronouncing the last
words distinctly, after the approved practice of a Dublin watchman, on
being awoke from his dreams of row and riot by the last toll of the
Post-office, and not knowing whether it has struck "twelve" or "three,"
sings out the word "o'clock," in a long sonorous drawl, that wakes every
sleeping citizen, and yet tells nothing how "time speeds on his flight."

"Louder," said the sentry, in a voice of impatience.

_____ "to the Pope."

"I don't hear the first part."

"Oh then," said the priest, with a sigh that might have melted the heart
of anything but a sentry, "Bloody end to the Pope; and may the saints in
heaven forgive me for saying it."

"Again," called out the soldier; "and no muttering."

"Bloody end to the Pope," cried Father Luke in bitter desperation.

"Bloody end to the Pope," echoed the Abbe.

"Pass bloody end to the Pope, and good night," said the sentry, resuming
his rounds, while a loud and uproarious peal of laughter behind, told the
unlucky priests they were overheard by others, and that the story would
be over the whole town in the morning.

Whether it was that the penance for their heresy took long in
accomplishing, or that they never could summon courage sufficient to face
their persecutor, certain it is, the North Cork saw them no more, nor
were they ever observed to pass the precincts of the college, while that
regiment occupied Maynooth.

Major Jones himself, and his confederates, could not have more heartily
relished this story, than did the party to whom the doctor heartily
related it. Much, if not all the amusement it afforded, however,
resulted from his inimitable mode of telling, and the power of mimicry,
with which he conveyed the dialogue with the sentry: and this, alas, must
be lost to my readers, at least to that portion of them not fortunate
enough to possess Doctor Finucane's acquaintance.

"Fin! Fin! your long story has nearly famished me," said the padre, as
the laugh subsided; "and there you sit now with the jug at your elbow
this half-hour; I never thought you would forget our old friend Martin
Hanegan's aunt."

"Here's to her health," said Fin; "and your reverence will get us the
chant."

"Agreed," said Father Malachi, finishing a bumper, and after giving a few
preparatory hems, he sang the following "singularly wild and beautiful
poem," as some one calls Christabel:--

"Here's a health to Martin Haneg