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Updated: June 11, 2025
Many of this race lie buried in the ruins of St. Mullen's Abbey, on the Barrow, in this county. But none of them, I opine, ever did such credit to the name as its present representative, Arthur MacMorrogh Kavanagh. I had some correspondence with Mr.
When the service was over, and the congregation filed out into the leaf-strewn paths of the churchyard, it was generally decided that Mr. Mullen's delivery had never been surpassed in the memory of the several denominations.
Mullen's report, down to 1871, the "whole force of English missionaries 579, and of native preachers, 1,993 had produced a native Christian population of only 280,600. There was probably a much larger number in the south of India about the middle of the eighteenth century." I heard everywhere corroborations of this statement.
Whoo hurroo! my darlings success to the Findramore boys! Hurroo hurroo the Findramore boys for ever!" "Boys, did ever ye hear the song Mat made on Ned Mullen's fight wid Jemmy Connor's gander? Well here is part of it, to the tune of 'Brian O'Lynn' 'As Ned and the gander wor basting each other, I hard a loud cry from the gray goose, his mother; I ran to assist him, wid very great speed.
He was going after his horse, I suppose." "Well, he's done enough harm for one day. I'm off to Piping Tree for Dr. Fairley." But two hours later, when he returned, with the physician on horseback at his side, Mr. Mullen's driving, like most earnest yet ignorant endeavours, had already resulted in disaster.
"Oh, I don't like to be preached at, and I'm sorry for Mr. Mullen's wife if he expects her to ease everybody's pains in the parish. He looked very handsome in church," she added, "didn't you think so?" "I didn't notice," he answered ruefully. "I never pay any attention to the way a man looks, in church or out of it." "Well, I do and even Judy Hatch does.
Mullen's ironing day, of the rector's darning, of the red flannel petticoats she had no longer time to make for the Hottentots. It was over one of these flannel petticoats that Mr. Mullen had first turned to her with his earnest and sympathetic look, as though he were probing her soul.
His mouth was open, and from time to time he shook his head and muttered to himself in an undertone a habit he had fallen into during the monotonous stretches of Mr. Mullen's sermons. Across from him sat Jim Halloween, and in the middle of the hearth, Solomon Hatch stood wiping the frost from his face with a red cotton handkerchief.
Mullen's this morning," she explained, "an' she told me her eyesight was failing, so I offered to do her darnin'." Slipping a small round gourd into the toe of a man's black sock, she examined it attentively, with her needle poised in the lamplight.
"Get the doctor at once, Abel," said Blossom, "Grandma says something has happened to bring on Judy's time. Had you two been quarrelling?" "Good God, no. Mr. Mullen's horse ran away with him and Judy saw it before I could catch her. I don't know yet whether he is dead or alive." "I saw him running bareheaded through the cornfield just as you brought Judy in, and I wondered what was the matter.
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