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second son of a British peer. He, very early in life, knew that he had a vocation for the priesthood. He was the handsomer lad of the two, and his father had had hopes that his breeding, face and carriage, and undeniable intellect would attract a girl of some family and money, or, perhaps, a rich American. The father had even saved enough to send the youth to America in pursuit of the necessities. But Edward wanted to be a priest. “If only we were High Church,” said the father, with a little wistfulness. “We Catholics, even those of us with illustrious names and fortunes and castles, are not truly acceptable in this society. Now, if we were High Church we could be assured that Edward would be a Bishop within a short time.”
     
    Edward went to a Seminary, and his priestly superiors were not particularly impressed that he was ‘a second son’. They demanded faith, character, a true vocation, and dedication and sincerity. He had all of them. Eventually he was ordained a priest. However, he had characteristics that did not quite meet the approval of his superiors. He was inclined to be proud, remote and a little disdainful of his ‘inferiors’. His superiors believed that a parish in one of the more destitute sections of Ireland would have a salutary effect on him. (“Ireland!” cried his father, with horror, never forgetting for a moment that he was an Englishman. “I will write a letter at once to his Eminence! Ireland!”)
     
    His Eminence was kind, but realistic. “A priest must learn to go anywhere,” he wrote to his friend. “It will do Edward good.”
     
    Edward was not certain of this. But he kept his doubts between himself and his confessor, who did not have too high a regard for the Irish, either. So Edward soon found himself in a very wild parish, indeed, where his parishioners implicitly believed in the ‘little people’, and fairies and banshees, and were quite ‘superstitious’. Moreover, they were both awed and resentful at having a Sassenagh as their pastor, a man from Oxford at that. Edward tried desperately to be humble, as his Lord had been humble, but he could not help his proud carriage, his high head, his cold and handsome young face, his lack of warm and simple sympathy. He prayed that his nature might be changed, that he could be one with his parish. He would accept the usual reverence paid to a priest, such as a pulled forelock or cap, or a curtsey, but nothing else. His rectory was a small and tumble-down place, and he had no servant. The poor village women, but only the old ones, would take turns cleaning up the tiny rooms. The thatched roof leaked. It was very cold. His stipend was practically nothing. He returned the small cheques his parents sent him. So, he was always hungry. He never demanded anything for himself from his parishioners, and they believed that he ‘rolled in it’. No one offered to clean his outdoor privy, so he did the odorous work himself. “It’ll take the pride from him, sure and it will,” the men of the parish would chuckle, only too glad to be relieved of a task rightfully theirs.
     
    His church was hardly more splendid than his rectory. He had trouble obtaining altar boys. The old women washed and ironed the simple altar linens; an old man was surly at being appointed sexton, though he had served in this capacity most of his life. The Sisters, who had a wretched convent and little school, were all Irish, and did not like the English pastor, who was given to be rigorous at times and liked absolute discipline. In short, Father Harrington-Smith’s life was made a minor hell by his parish, especially by the Mother Superior of the convent, an old lady with a mind like iron and a will like a Toledo blade. She called him ‘that boyo’. When the Sisters giggled at this, she frowned at them in only a perfunctory way. Edward met the hostility head on, and Edward lost.
     
    Edward had only two joys: the celebration of the Mass, and walking the wild and