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In short, there was around the good man--vice, with all her discordant
sounds and hideous aspects, clanging in his ear the multitudinous din
that arose from the loud and noisy tumult of her brutal, drunken, and
debauched votaries.
The priest, who respected his cloth and character, did not lay aside
his jock, nor expose himself to the coarse jests and ruffianly insolence
with which the vagabond minions of justice were in those days accustomed
to treat their prisoners. He inquired if he could get a person to carry
a message from him to a man named Corbet, living at 25 Constitution
Hill; adding, that he would compensate him fairly. On this, one of those
idle loungers or orderlies about such places offered himself at once,
and said he would bring any message he wished, provided he forked out in
the first instance.
"Go, then," said the priest, handing him a piece of silver, "to No. 25
Constitution Hill, where a man named Corbet--what am I saying--Dunphy,
lives, and tell him to come to me immediately.


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