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Updated: June 12, 2025
Hyacinth Conneally had submitted himself to such emotions time after time when, fresh from the wilds of Connemara, he made his way to the examination-hall, an outside student in a borrowed cap and gown.
Among other names appeared: 'Hyacinth Conneally, B.A., T.C.D., deacon, by the Bishop of Ripon, for the curacy of Kirby-Stowell. Shortly afterwards the Croppy printed the following verses, signed 'M.O'D.: 'EIRE TO H. C. 'Bight across the low, flat curragh from the sea, Drifting, driving sweeps the rain, Where the bogborn, bent, brown rushes grow for me, Barren grass instead of grain.
What we ought to do is throw our whole force and energy into the work of regenerating Ireland. It is possible for us to do this, and we ought to try. 'Well, well, said the Canon, 'I must not let you make me argue with you, Conneally; but I hope you won't preach these doctrines of yours to my daughters.
'It would have been very pleasant, now, if she would have spent the next few weeks with me in Paris. You won't mind my saying that I'd rather have had her than you, Conneally, as a companion in a little burst. However, I saw at once that it wouldn't do. Anyone with an eye in his head could tell at a glance that she wasn't that sort. He sighed. Hyacinth was not quite sure that he understood.
Conneally may be ready to start at a moment's notice, but he must at least pack up his tooth-brush. May we see you safe back to town, Miss O'Dwyer? Remember, we shall expect a valedictory ode in the next number of the Croppy. Write us something that will go to a tune, something with a swing in it, and we'll sing it beside the camp fires on the veldt.
He found it, and once when exalted he said, spiritually paraded the streets cursing the Virgin Mary. Worse followed, and the committee in London dismissed the man. A diminishing income forced on them the necessity of economy, and no successor was appointed. For a few years Mr. Conneally laboured on.
If ever a few of them escape into the open and find means of expressing themselves, the whole machinery of modern religion will become dislocated, and the Church will very likely relapse into the barbarity of the Apostolic age. 'I believe, Conneally, said the Canon at last, 'that you are a good man.
'Isn't it a queer life a priest lives in a place like this, with never a minute of quiet peace from morning to night but somebody will be coming interrupting and destroying it? First it's you, Hyacinth Conneally not that I grudge the time to you when you're going off so soon and now it's Michael Kavanagh. Indeed, he's a decent man too, like yourself. Come in, Michael come in.
The Canon, however, was aggressively, perhaps suspiciously, wide awake. 'Who is that? he asked. 'Oh, Conneally, it is you. I am very glad to see you. Curiously enough, I thought of going down to call on you this afternoon. I wanted to have a talk with you. I dare say you have come up to consult me. Hyacinth was astonished. How could anyone have guessed what he came about?
I don't suppose anyone ever before was recommended for a post by a Protestant divinity professor, a notoriously violent political agitator, a Roman Catholic priest, and a well, we won't describe my brother. How do you come to be mixed up with all these people? Who are you? 'I am the son of Æneas Conneally, Rector of Carrowkeel, who died last Christmas.
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