To those who wondered where the rest of this story was - I apologise, I got caught up with something else and forgot about it (kind of). I can say that this is the end of this part of the story - but, there is another part, which deals a bit with ribbon men in the area and also has a bit of anti-climax in relation to the Dihreoch. It is another 6 pages long and while interesting doesn't really tell you anything of the man. The oil portrait known as 'The Dihreoch's Legacy' is or was on loan to Heritage House, Abbeyleix from St. Brigid's Church, Shanahoe. --------------------------- Continuation of an extract of a story written by John Keegan of Laois, published in Dolman's Magazine September 1846. Source: John Keegan Selected Works, published by Galmoy press: ISBN 0 9531583 0 6 edited by Tony Delaney 1997 "No," said Mr. B., "you will live - live many a year to come, and, if you he content to forego your wandering mode of life, my house shall be your home, and never again shall you be exposed to the evils of poverty and destitution." "My destitution, as I have said before," said the stranger, "is entirely voluntary, and, did my strength allow it, I would quit your hospitable roof with the earliest dawn of morning. But I AM DYING: - My earthly wanderings and sorrows are over, and, as a last favour, may I request you will send some trusty messenger for the Roman Catholic clergyman of the parish." "Yes, yes, gladly;'"replied the kind-hearted gentleman. He rang the bell; a servant entered; Mr. B. gave his orders, and, in ten minutes afterwards, the carriage, harnessed to two fresh horses, with poor John Hoolahan in his usual position, was galloping as fast as the said horses' legs could move to the residence of the parish priest, about four Irish miles from the scene of death. The good father had retired to rest, but the darkness of midnight or the bellowing of the winter's storm have no terrors for the Irish Catholic priest when the expiring Christian requires his aid. He rose without a murmur, and, in little more than half an hour afterwards was seated by the bed of the dying pilgrim. Of course, no person was allowed to remain in the chamber, and what passed must remain a secret; no more of the history of the Dihreoch was ever revealed, Than what the Father must not say Who shrived him on his dying day, but it was remarked, that the old man's 'confession' was unusually long, and the tones in which the father spoke, unusually marked and emphatic. After hours had passed, the clergyman rang the bell: Mr. B. made his entrance to the chamber, and the priest cordially shook him by the hand. "Mr. B.;" he said, "from my soul's depth I must thank you for your benevolent attention to the woes of this poor dying fellow- creature. May God reward you, and, when the hour shall come that the Almighty will demand an account of your stewardship, may your good deeds of this night he mercifully remembered." "Amen!" fervently responded the dying man; "and now one word more before I am gone." -"Go on," said Mr. B. "Where is my little bundle?" Mr. B. withdrew. In a few minutes he returned with the pilgrim's parcel, which, on his being carried into the house, had been deposited in the hall. "Hand me that," said the old man, reaching for the parcel. Mr. B. gave him the bundle. "A knife, now," he added. The priest pulled forth his pocket-knife and gave it to him without speaking. The dying man, with quaking hand, cut open the string which tied the bundle: he opened the old blanket, and from its folds brought forth a dark-looking object, rolled tightly, and tied with a ribbon of red silk. He reached it to Mr. B. The latter opened the parcel: his eyes glistened with surprise and admiration. "Oh good father!" he exclaimed, addressing the priest; "see what we have here." The Priest seized it: - it was a picture of surpassing beauty - that rnagnificent bust Of St. Peter, which, at this day, hangs above the altar of the little rustic chapel of Shanahoe. The Priest was dumb: he gazed as if enchanted on the fascinating portrait. "The Peasants of Calabria," resurned Mr. B., "are said to have loved the Portrait Of the virgin with a carnal or human love. This I always considered a fable. yet, if painted by the same hand from which this divine production of the pencil ernanated, I should not wonder at any effect it might have on human passions - eh, father, did you ever see so noble an effort of human ingenuity as this portrait?" The priest was still silent - gazing entranced upon the charming object. "'Mr. B.," said the dying man, "this portrait must be yours. Do not disdain it because its owner can offer no better testimonial of his gratitude. It belonged to a once powerful and noble family, and it is the offspring of a pencil which was guided by inspiration. Like its Possessors, it experienced many a strange vicissitude, yet, 'tis not the less precious on that account. Take it, keep it, and when you gaze on those beautiful - those all-but-breathing features - think sometimes of the last of the - the - the - poor wandering Dihreoch." The old man ceased: he flung forth his arms convulsedly; his eyes were suffused with the last tears of struggling mortality; his breathing became thick and audible; he uttered one low protracted groan, and the spirit of the 'Dihreoch' mounted on the wings of the whistling storm, - let us hope to heaven. Requiescat in Pace.