"Delicious! Oh! it is heavenly! The
rose is sweet, and the white lily is sweet, and
the violet is sweet, and the yellow primrose
in its green leaves is sweet; but of all the
scents in the world, there is nothing to compare
with the hawthorn blossom—not even
the new-mown hay itself. Well, sir, the only
thing on the habitable globe that puts me in
mind of the Phœnix Park, and the hawthorn
in the month of May, is—Cavendish tobacco."

He commenced operations on the Cavendish.
"Now," said he—"Now for such a
draw in as I haven't had since I last saw the
Shannon. When I have taken two full pipes
of this, I wouldn't change places with the
Lord-Lieutenant: a child might play with
me, and the discourse that would be in me
would be better worth listening to than an
actor in Crow Street."

"You live, I suppose, in this neighbourhood?"
I said, determined not to let the conversation
drop with this rhapsody.

The man, without taking his eyes from his
work, nodded towards the high hill he sat
facing, and replied: "On the other side of
that hill there is a great big house, belonging
to a French baron, and I am living with him
in a double capacity."

"In a double capacity! discharging two
duties at the same time! May I ask what
they are?"

"You may, and welcome. The fact is, sir,
I am hired to do two things. I am an Irish
groom, and an English schoolmaster. I take
care of four French horses, and I am trying
to teach their owner English; and a bad hand
I am making of the two of them. I can't get
the master to understand one word of the
language; and I can never get the horses fit
to do anything: the unnatural brutes are
always troubled with the gripes: and that's
what brought me to the bridge of Lehon today.
I came here to smoke, and mature my
ideas on a new horse-ball I am thinking of
administering."

"Then you are a horse-doctor also."

"No; but Dolphy Bazan is; and I came to
consult him; and that I may never smoke
this pipe; but when the two of us got together
we forgot all about the horses; for he began
telling me of the old times, and what happened
in this very place; and he narrated a story
the like of which I never heard before. As
it is all to the honour and glory of one of the
saints of Ireland, I would like to tell it to
you, sir. It is really worth listening to; and
if you had the time to spare, I would be
delighted you heard it. I want to show you
I can be grateful for your beautiful present;
and the grateful feeling of an humble heart is
all poor Peter Gorman has to give to those
who are kind to him."

"Your name, I suppose, is Peter Gorman?"

"It is, sir."

"Very well, then, Peter Gorman, proceed
with your story. You shall find me an attentive
listener."

"It is no story at all, sir," said Peter
Gorman, as he lighted his pipe. "It is a
history I am going to recount. It was in the
year five hundred and forty-two of the
Christian era——."

"Are you quite sure as to the date, Peter
Gorman?"

"As sure as if I lived in that year," replied
Gorman. " But I beg your pardon, sir, for
saying one thing to you. Listen quietly to
me, if you can, and don't make any observations,
and I will narrate to you all I have just
heard, and, if I can, in the very words it was
told to me:"

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

There were, you must know, two saints,
born in Ireland, on the same day, and about
the same hour; and, of course, they both
lived in the same times, and each of them
tried to do, so long as breath warmed him, as
much good as he possibly could to his fellow
creatures. These two saints had both the
same name; for they were both called
Columb; but there was this difference
between them, that one of them never
stirred a step out of Ireland, and the other
never stopped travelling abroad, hither and
thither, backwards and forwards, in strange
costumes.

The Irish saint, that stayed at home, built
so many monasteries and churches, that he
was called Columb-kill: and the Irish saint
that went abroad, built so many churches,
and monasteries, that he was called Columb-
banus : and the reason, I suppose, for this is
that kill is the Irish for church, and banus,
I suppose, is the same thing in some
outlandish language of which I am teetotally
ignorant.

One day, these two Irish saints met together
on the Rock-road, near Dublin, and
after shaking hands as if they were two
brothers, the Irish stay-at-home saint said
to the saint who was always on the foot:
" Hulloo! Columb, I see you have got a new
pilgrim's staff, and a fresh pair of brogues on
you, a sure sign you are going somewhere.
Might I take the liberty of being after asking
you, what side of the world are you facing
to now?"

"Faix!" answered the travelling saint,
"it is a question as easily answered as asked.
I have had a letter this morning, telling me
there is horrid work going on in a part of
France, called Armorica (the same place that
is now called Brittany). I am told—that is,
it is stated in this letter of Bishop Felix—
you remember him, Columbkill—he is a
County Cavan man, and was born in
Bailieborough?"

"I do know him, as well as if I stood godfather
for him," answered Columbkill. " He
was one of the MacQuaides, and is Bishop of
Nantes, at the present writing."

"The very same," said Columbanus.

"An honest man," said Columbkill, "and