The curate was a tall, raw-boned young man, with high jutting cheek-bones, low forehead, and close knees; to his shoulders, which were very high, hung a pair of long bony arms, whose motions seemed rather the effect of machinery than volition.  His hair, which was a bad black, was cropped close, and trimmed across his eye-brows, like that of a Methodist preacher; the small-clothes he wore were of the same web which had produced Father Ned’s, and his body-coat was a dark blue, with black buttons.  Each wore a pair of gray woollen mittens.

“There, Pether,” said Father Ned, as he entered, “hook my bridle along with your own, as your hand is in—­God save all here!  Paddy Smith, ma bouchal, put these horses in the stable, till we dry ourselves a bit—­Father Pether and I.”

“Musha, but you’re both welcome,” said Nancy, wishing to wipe out the effects of the last tift with Father Ned, by the assistance of the stranger’s punch; “will ye bounce, ye spalpeens, and let them to the fire?  Father Ned, you’re dhreepin’ with the rain; and, Father Pether, avourneen, you’re wet to the skin, too.”

“Troth, and he is, Nancy, and a little bit farther, if you knew but all.  Mr. Morrow, how do you do, sir?—­And—­eh?—­Who’s this we’ve got in the corner?  A gintleman, boys, if cloth can make one!  Mr. Morrow, introduce me.”

“Indeed, Father Ned, I hav’nt the pleasure of knowing the gintleman myself.”

“Well, no matter—­come up, Pether.  Sir, I have the honor of introducing you to my curate and coadjutor, the Reverend Pether M’Clatchaghan, and to myself, his excellent friend, but spiritual superior, the Reverend Edward Deleery, Roman Catholic Rector of this highly respectable and extensive parish; and I have further the pleasure,” he continued, taking up Andy Morrow’s Punch, “of drinking your very good health, sir.”

“And I have the honor,” returned the stranger, rising up, and diving his head among the flitches of bacon that hung in the chimney, “of introducing you and the Rev. Mr. M’—­M’—­M’——­”

“Clatchagan, sir,” subjoined Father Ned.

“Peter M’Illclatchagan, to Mr. Longinus Polysyllabus Alexandrinus.”

“By my word, sir, but it’s a good and appropriate name, sure enough,” said Father Ned, surveying his enormous length; “success to me but you’re an Alexandrine from head to foot—­non solum Longinus, sed Alexandrinus.”

“You’re wrong, sir, in the Latin,” said Father Peter.

“Prove it, Peter—­prove it.”

“It should be non tantum, sir.”

“By what rule Pether?”

“Why, sir, there’s a phrase in Corderius’s Colloquies that I could condimn you from, if I had the book.”

“Pether, you think you’re a scholar, and, to do you justice, you’re cute enough sometimes; but, Pether, you didn’t travel for it, as I did—­nor were you obliged to lep out of a college windy in Paris, at the time of the French Revolution, for your larning, as I was:  not you, man, you ate the king’s mutton comfortably at home in Maynooth, instead of travelling like your betters.”