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Updated: September 1, 2025
I afterwards had a letter from him in reference to my "Irish in Britain," in which he said: "I saw long ago some of the little Irish books you published in Liverpool, and know you for an old and zealous worker in the national seed field." His son, George Gavan Duffy, is a solicitor, practising in London, and an active worker in the national cause.
"Was the child looking sick, and as if he was likely to die?" Father Duffy asked. "He was, father," Ellen answered; "I couldn't deny that." "Then it was right for her to christen him," the priest answered, "and he'll not need to be christened again. In fact, he can't be christened again." But long after that, when they tried to take him to church, he would never go.
You will excuse us, reader, disturbing the current of our thoughts, by recollecting any of this forty novel-power of inanity, vulgarity, and pertness; but if you take up any of the many volumes in marbled boards, with calf backs, that you will find in cart-loads at the circulating libraries, and look over a page of the fashionable "lingo" the Lord Jacob talks to the Lady Suky, or the conversation between Sir Silly Billy and the Honourable Snuffy Duffy; or what the Duke of Dabchick thinks of the Princess Molly; and when you are satisfied, which we take it will be in the course of two pages, if you do not throw down the book, and swear by the Lord Harry why then, read on and be jolly!
We want the mitts, an' comforters, an' helmets, but we don't want their humbuggin' religion." "Shame, Dick!" said David Duffy, as he wound a comforter round his thick neck. "You shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. We're bound to take the things as they've been sent to us, an' say `Thank 'ee."
The Committee said, 'Hear, hear. It is a pity they could not have heard what Sapper Duffy was saying as he sat up in his dirty wet straw, listening to the rustle and patter of rain on the barn's leaky roof and tugging on an icy-cold board-stiff boot. The remains of the Regiment were slowly working their way back out of action.
I can remember arguing until five in the morning with Duffy now Secretary for India pacing round and round those cloisters until we decided it was too late to go to bed, and we went for a ride instead. Whether we ever came to any conclusion that's another matter. Still, it's the arguing that counts. It's things like that that stand out in life. Nothing's been quite so vivid since.
"I was wrong," nodded Duffy unabashed, "that's the regular kind. Let's have a look at it." And he stretched out his hand. No one would ever have guessed how closely the table followed what now happened, for each man began talking in a voice even louder than before. It was as if they sought to cover the stratagem of Duffy with their noise.
"Who'll spin it?" asked Duffy, sitting down, and preparing to add to the fumes of the place. "Come, Stub, you tape it off; it'll be better occupation than growlin' at the poor weather, what's never done you no harm yet though there's no sayin' what it may do if you go on as you've bin doin', growlin' an' aggravatin' it." "I never spin yarns," said Stubley.
The young man walked up the hill with Flora McNabb in an equal state of satisfaction. He had the pleasant assurance that his young flock liked him and he felt sure he was going to be very happy in Glenoro. He wondered laughingly what his fastidious Helen would say could she have seen him playing "Blind Man's Buff" with Miss Duffy.
"That's the last job that sneakin' Duffy and Dan McGaw'll ever put up on me. Oh, but ye should'a' minded the face on him, Gran'pop!" untying her hood and breaking into a laugh so contagious in its mirth that even Babcock joined in without knowing what it was all about.
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