ge were Mrs. Kelly of the inn, and her two sworn friends,
the parish priest and his curate. The former, Father Geoghegan, lived
about three miles out of Dunmore, near Toneroe; and his curate, Father
Pat Connel, inhabited one of the small houses in the place, very little
better in appearance than those which offered accommodation to
travellers and trampers.

[FOOTNOTE 11: shebeen-houses--unlicensed drinking houses, where
un-taxed ("moonshine") liquor was often served]

Such was, and is, the town of Dunmore in the county of Galway; and I
must beg the reader to presume himself to be present there with me on
the morning on which the two young Kellys went to hear Sheil's speech.
At about ten o'clock, the widow Kelly and her daughters were busy in
the shop, which occupied the most important part of the ground-floor
of the inn. It was a long, scrambling, ugly-looking house. Next to the
shop, and opening out of it, was a large drinking-room, furnished with
narrow benches and rickety tables; and here the more humble of Mrs.
Kelly's guests regaled themselves. On the other side of this, was the
hall, or passage of the house; and, next to that again, a large, dingy,
dark kitchen, over which Sally reigned with her teapot dynasty, and in
which were always congregated a parcel of ragged old men, boys, and
noisy women, pretending to be busy, but usually doing but little good,
and attracted by the warmth of the big fire, and the hopes of some
scraps of food and drink.

"For the widow Kelly--God bless her! was a thrue Christhian, and didn't
begrudge the poor--more power to her--like some upstarts who might live
to be in want yet, glory be to the Almighty!"

The difference of the English and Irish character is nowhere more
plainly discerned than in their respective kitchens. With the former,
this apartment is probably the cleanest, and certainly the most
orderly, in the house. It is rarely intruded into by those unconnected,
in some way, with its business. Everything it contains is under
the vigilant eye of its chief occupant, who would imagine it quite
impossible to carry on her business, whether of an humble or
important nature, if her apparatus was subjected to the hands of the
unauthorised. An Irish kitchen is devoted to hospitality in every sense
of the word. Its doors are open to almost all loungers and idlers; and
the chances are that Billy Bawn, the cripple, or Judy Molloy, the deaf
old hag, are more li