conclusion of the ceremony, in the road outside. I had attended early
Mass, and arranged to drive home with my people. A number of boys were
playing marbles outside the church-yard wall, in a blind alley. The
vestry door opened and Father O'Dwyer came out, clad in his soutane and
carrying the well-known whip. He crouched and crept along the wall, out
through the gate and to the entrance of the alley. The boys were so
intent upon their game that they never noticed his approach until he
was close upon them. Then they sprang up with wild yells, but the lash
descended on them like a well-aimed flail; they rolled over and over in
a writhing heap. After the heap had broken up and its shrieking units
scattered, the irate priest calmly pocketed the marbles and, whip in
hand, stalked back to the vestry.

Confession to Father O'Dwyer was an ordeal much dreaded by the younger
members of our family. As we were his parishioners, he expected us to
attend to our religious duties at his church, but we endeavored by
every possible subterfuge to perform such at Glencullen, where the
priest was more sympathetic.

My father used to tell a story of the confessional which always amused
us. When a boy, he occasionally visited relations in Dublin who were
exact in the matter of regular confession. It was, in fact, the rule of
the household that not alone every member, but the stranger within its
gates, should confess each Saturday night. As it is on Saturday night
that most people confess, a number of penitents were usually sitting in
church awaiting their respective turns. On one occasion my father was
sitting near a cubicle into which a rather disreputable woman had just
entered. He heard the muttering of the voices of the priest and the
penitent alternately; once or twice the former emitted a long, low
whistle, indicative of extreme surprise.

Another story was told me by a relative. The episode is said to have
occurred at Cashel, but I do not guarantee it in any respect. Whether
it is true or not does not much matter.

Part of the ritual of confession is this: The penitent repeats a
formula of three sentences: "Mea culpa mea culpa mea maxima culpa,"
striking the breast with the closed hand as each sentence is uttered.
On this occasion the words of the penitent, an old countrywoman, could
be distinctly heard outside the cubicle. They were: "Mea culpa, mea oh!
dammit I've bruk me poipe."

In 1867 befell the Fenian outbreak. At Glencul