with a heavy sigh, 'but where will we find the equal of the Major? By japers, it was a comfort to be cursed by him!' ('Wild Sports of the West.')
In my part of the country there is—or was—a legend—a very circumstantial one too—which however I am not able to verify personally, as the thing occurred a little before my time—that Father Buckley, of Glenroe, cured Charley Coscoran, the greatest swearer in the barony—cured him in a most original way. He simply directed him to cut out a button from some part of his dress, no matter where—to whip it out on the instant—every time he uttered a serious curse, i.e, one involving the Sacred Name. Charley made the promise with a light heart, thinking that by only using a little caution he could easily avoid snipping off his buttons. But inveterate habit is strong. Only very shortly after he had left the priest he saw a cow in one of his cornfields playing havoc: out came a round curse, and off came a button on the spot. For Charley was a manly fellow, with a real sense of religion at bottom: and he had no notion of shirking his penance. Another curse after some time and another button. Others again followed:—coat, waistcoat, trousers, shirt-collar, were brought under contribution till his clothes began to fall off him. For a needle and thread were not always at hand, and at any rate Charley was no great shakes at the needle. At last things came to that pass with poor Charley, that life was hardly worth living; till he had to put his mind seriously to work, and by careful watching he gradually cured himself. But many score buttons passed through his hands during the process.
