And so we became, as Dennis O'Shaughnessy 1 bids, the “sextons to animosity and care;” and having buried them decently, were going to bed, when dulcet notes from a musical instrument, which the performer thereupon alluded to as his “feelute,” and which was joyously warbling an Irish jig, attracted us to the kitchen. And what mortal man “that hadn't wooden legs,” could see blushing Biddy Joyce footing it merrily, and not feel himself as irresistibly disposed to dance, as a nigger when he hears a fiddle? In thirty seconds Frank and I were involved in a series of such swift, untiring saltations, as the world hath not seen, since Mevelava, the Dervish, danced for four days to the flute of Hamsa!
When we awoke the next morning (Sunday), “the richest cloudland in Europe,” as Kohl terms Ireland, was investing such abundance of its surplus capital in the lakes and mountains of _Connamara_, that it was impossible to leave our inn; and as difference of creed unhappily prevented a common service, every man became his own priest, and every bed-room an oratory. My friend, the Irish graduate, played some most solemn and impressive music, including the “Cujus Animam,” from the _Stabat Mater_, upon a Concertina, which now breathed forth notes sweet and clear, like a flute, and anon was grand and organ-like. At a later period, a perfume, which, at first, I supposed to be incense, issued from his dormitory; but it ultimately resolved itself into Latakia.
At last, the clouds began to break, and the grand old mountains to emerge from the mist, like the scenery in a dissolving view; the sunlight seemed to reach one's heart; and we sallied forth for a walk, the Irishman, Frank, and I, as happy as bees on the first warm day of spring, or as the gallant _Kane_, when, after a long Arctic winter, he saw the sun shine once more, and felt “as though he were bathing in perfumed waters.” The conversation, as we strolled towards Letter-Frack, was theological and brisk. Paddy said that “_our_ Church resembled a branch broken from the Vine, withering and moribund from inanition;” and we affirmed that “_his_ Church was like a tree unpruned, all leaves, and no fruit.” Then he pretended to have heard that Mr. Spurgeon had refused the See of Canterbury, and that Lord Shaftesbury was bringing in a Bill to abolish the Apostles' Creed. “You miscellaneous Christians,” he said, “will shortly have nothing to believe in common, unless it be--_Dr. Cumming!_”