THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL. NUMBER 47. SATURDAY, MAY 22, 1841. VOLUME I. [Illustration: JIMMY DELANY, OR THE ASCENDANT IDEA.] “A merry morning to Father Connellan! Well, I dare north, south, east, and west, of our sweet county of Wexford, to produce such another comfortable domicile as this of your reverence; and the proof that it is so in every respect, is, that master, man, dog, cat, cow, and horse, have the same sleek sides and sleek looks. I wish I could say as much for some of the poor parsons.” “Alack! alack!” sighed Father Connellan in a lachrymose tone, “you speak of what we _were_ rather than what we _are_. Poor things! neither biped nor quadruped _here_ carries the same port as formerly. Now, how can you speak of sleek sides and sleek cheeks to me?--to me? Take another glance at me: fancy me with a pink jacket and black cap, and am I not just the cut, weight, and girth for a jockey? ‘Ah! what a falling off is _here_,’” pointing to a paunch that he asserted, with serio-comic phiz, was lamentably diminished. “Oh, most lamentably!” cried I, entering into his humour. “Bless me! what is the matter? Oh, thou _poor, poor_ disciple of holy mother church! black was the fast indeed that hath reduced thee to this pickle!” “_Black_ it has been more than once, sure enough,” returned the priest, laughing; “and as I am a christianable man, this strict Lent has been for the sins and follies of _others_, and not for my own. But you shall know all.” Then raising his voice, he called, “Jimmy! Jimmy Delany!” Thrice he shouted, and was still unanswered. “Ay,” continued his reverence, shaking his head and turning up his eyes, “this is the cut! Job’s boils and blisters were nothing to this! I may call and call, and have nothing but the echo of my own voice for my pains. Once more I’ll try, and if he doesn’t come then”---- and, placing his mouth close to the wall, he sang out, “Jimmy Delany!” so tremendously loud, that the delinquent must have heard it at half a mile’s distance. At this fourth summons, shuffling, lagging steps faltered up the hall, the parlour door opened, and the anatomy of a man presented itself-- So faint, so spiritless. So dull, so dead in look, so woe begone. While gazing on him, I thought that if such a man were to “draw my curtains in the dead of night,” he need not cry out “fire!” to appal me. “Well, Misther Delany,” began Father Connellan, “since you have condescended to appear--(why don’t you make your obeisance, sirrah?--draw back your shovel foot, bob forward your great mop-head, and bow to the lady--soh, that will do)--be plaised to explain how and why I, your spiritual pastor and lawful master, am reduced to half my natural dimensions, ‘clipt of my fair proportions.’ As some one says”---- But ere the priest could proceed with his quotation, I broke in with an exclamation of amazement.