id and dull--there were
neither belles nor balls; Fermoy (to use the doctor's well remembered
words) had "great feeding," and "very genteel young ladies, that carried
their handkerchiefs in bags, and danced with the officers."

They had not been many weeks in their new quarters, when they began to
pine over their altered fortunes, and it was with a sense of delight,
which a few months before would have been incomprehensible to them, they
discovered, that one of their officers had a brother, a young priest in
the college: he introduced him to some of his confreres, and the natural
result followed. A visiting acquaintance began between the regiment and
such of the members of the college as had liberty to leave the precincts:
who, as time ripened the acquaintance into intimacy, very naturally
preferred the cuisine of the North Cork to the meagre fare of "the
refectory." At last seldom a day went by, without one or two of their
reverences finding themselves guests at the mess. The North Corkians
were of a most hospitable turn, and the fathers were determined the
virtue should not rust for want of being exercised; they would just drop
in to say a word to "Captain O'Flaherty about leave to shoot in the
demesne," as Carton was styled; or, they had a "frank from the Duke for
the Colonel," or some other equally pressing reason; and they would
contrive to be caught in the middle of a very droll story just as the
"roast beef" was playing. Very little entreaty then sufficed--a short
apology for the "dereglements" of dress, and a few minutes more found
them seated at table without further ceremony on either side.

Among the favourite guests from the college, two were peculiarly held in
estimation--"the Professor of the Humanities," Father Luke Mooney; and the
Abbe D'Array, "the Lecturer on Moral Philosophy, and Belles Lettres;" and
certain it is, pleasanter fellows, or more gifted with the "convivial
bump," there never existed. He of the Humanities was a droll dog--a
member of the Curran club, the "monks of the screw," told an excellent
story, and sang the "Cruiskeen Lawn" better than did any before or since
him;--the moral philosopher, though of a different genre, was also a most
agreeable companion, an Irishman transplanted in his youth to St. Omers,
and who had grafted upon his native humour a considerable share of French
smartness and repartee--such were the two, who ruled supreme in all the
festive arrangements of this jov