Читать книгу The Station; The Party Fight And Funeral; The Lough Derg Pilgrim - William Carleton - Страница 4

* The people look upon that priest as the best and most

learned who can perform the ceremony of the mass in the

shortest period of time. They call it as above “tareing

off”. The quickest description of mass, however, is the

“hunting mass,” so termed from the speed at which the

priest goes over it—that is, “at the rate of a hunt.”

From the moment that Father Con became visible, the conversation of those who were collected in Phaddhy's dropped gradually, as he approached the house, into a silence which was only broken by an occasional short observation, made by one or two of those who were in habits of the greatest familiarity with the priest; but when they heard the noise of his horse's feet near the door, the silence became general and uninterrupted.

There can scarcely be a greater contrast in anything than that presented by the beginning of a station-day and its close. In the morning, the faces of those who are about to confess present an expression in which terror, awe, guilt, and veneration may be easily traced; but in the evening all is mirth and jollity. Before confession every man's memory is employed in running over the catalogue of crimes, as they are to be found in the prayer-books, under the ten commandments, the seven deadly sins, the Commandments of the Church, the four sins that cry to heaven for vengeance, and the seven sins against the Holy Ghost.

When Father Con arrived, Phaddhy and Katty were instantly at the door to welcome him.

“Musha, cead millia failtha ghud (* A hundred thousand welcomes to you.) to our house, Father Con, avourneen!” says Katty, dropping him a low curtsey, and spreading her new, brown, quilted petticoat as far out on each side of her as it would go—“musha, an' it's you that's welcome from my heart out.”

“I thank you,” said honest Con, who, as he knew not her name, did not pretend to know it.

“Well, Father Con,” said Phaddhy, this is, the first time you have ever come to us this, way; but, plase God, it won't be the last, I hope.”

“I hope not, Phaddhy,” said Father Con, who, notwithstanding his simplicity of character, loved a good dinner in the very core of his heart, “I hope not, indeed, Phaddhy.” He then threw his eye about the premises, to see what point he might set his temper to during the remainder of the day; for it is right to inform our readers that a priest's temper, at a station, generally rises or falls according to the prospect of his cheer.

Here, however, a little vista, or pantry, jutting out from the kitchen, and left ostentatiously open, presented him with a view which made his very nose curl with kindness. What it contained we do not pretend to say, not having seen it ourselves; we judge, therefore, only by its effects upon his physiognomy.

“Why, Phaddhy,” he says, “this is a very fine house you've got over you;” throwing his eye again towards a wooden buttress which supported one of the rafters that was broken.

“Why then, your Reverence, it would not be a bad one,” Phaddhy replied, “if it had a new roof and new side-walls; and I intend to get both next summer, if God spares me till then.”

“Then, upon my word, if it had new side-walls, a new roof, and new gavels, too,” replied Father Con, “it would look certainly a great deal the better for it;—and do you intend to to get them next summer, Paddy?”

“If God spares me, sir.”

“Are all these fine gorsoons yours, Phaddhy?”

“Why, so Katty says, your Reverence,” replied Phaddhy, with a good-natured laugh.

“Haven't you got one of them for the church, Phaddhy?”

“Yes, your Reverence, there's one of them that I hope will live to have the robes upon him Come over, Briney, and speak to Father Con. He's not very far in his Latin yet, sir but his master tells me that he hasn't the likes of him in the school for brightness—Briney, will you come over, I say; come over, sarrah, and spake to the gintleman, and him wants to shake hands wid you—come up, man, what are you afeard of?—sure Father Con's not going to examine you now.”

“No, no, Briney,” said Father Con, “I'm not about to examine you at present.”

“He's a little dashed, yer Reverence, be-kase he thought you war going to put him through some of his Latin,” said the father, bringing him up like a culprit to Father Con, who shook hands with him, and, after a few questions as to the books he read, and his progress, dismissed him.

“But, Father Con, wid submission,” said Katty, “where's Father Philemy from us?—sure, we expected him along wid you, and he wouldn't go to disappoint us?”

“Oh, you needn't fear that, Katty,” replied Father Con; “he'll be here presently—before breakfast, I'll engage for him at any rate; but he had a touch of the headache this morning, and wasn't able to rise so early as I was.”

During this conversation a little crowd had collected about the door of the room in which he was to hear the confessions, each struggling and fighting to get the first turn; but here, as in the more important concerns of this world, the weakest went to the wall. He now went into the room, and taking Katty herself first, the door was closed upon them, and he gave her absolution; and thus he continued to confess and absolve them, one by one, until breakfast.

Whenever a station occurs in Ireland, a crowd of mendicants and other strolling impostors seldom fail to attend it; on this occasion, at least, they did not. The day, though frosty, was fine; and the door was surrounded by a train of this description, including both sexes, some sitting on stones, some on stools, with their blankets rolled up under them; and others, more ostensibly devout, on their knees, hard at prayer; which, lest their piety might escape notice, our readers may be assured, they did not offer up in silence. On one side you might observe a sturdy fellow, with a pair of tattered urchins secured to his back by a sheet or blanket pinned across his breast with a long iron skewer, their heads just visible at his shoulders, munching a thick piece of wheaten bread, and the father on his knees, with a a huge wooden cross in hand, repeating padareens, and occasionally throwing a jolly eye towards the door, or through the; window, opposite which he knelt, into the kitchen, as often as any peculiar stir or commotion led him to suppose that breakfast, the loadstar of his devotion, was about to be produced.

Scattered about the door were knots of these, men and women, occasionally chatting together; and when the subject of their conversation happened to be exhausted, resuming their beads, until some new topic would occur, and so on alternately.

The interior of the kitchen where the neighbors were assembled, presented an appearance somewhat more decorous. Andy Lalor, the mass-server, in whom the priest had the greatest confidence, stood in a corner examining, in their catechism, those who intended to confess; and, if they were able to stand the test, he gave them a bit of twisted brown paper as a ticket, and they were received at the tribunal.

The first question the priest uniformly puts to the penitent is, “Can you repeat the Confiteor?” If the latter answers in the affirmative, he goes on until he comes to the words, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, when he stops, it being improper to repeat the remainder until after he has confessed; but, if he is ignorant of the “Confiteor,” the priest repeats it for him! and he commences the rehearsal of his offences, specifically as they occurred; and not only does he reveal his individual crimes, but his very thoughts and intentions. By this regulation our readers may easily perceive, that the penitent is completely at the mercy of the priest—that all family feuds, quarrels, and secrets are laid open to his eye—that the ruling; passions of men's lives are held up before him, the weaknesses and propensities of nature—all the unguarded avenues of the human heart and character are brought within his positive knowledge, and that, too, as they exist in the young and the old, the married and the single, the male and the female.

It was curious to remark the ludicrous expression of temporary sanctity which was apparent on the countenances of many young men and maidens who were remarkable in the neighborhood for attending dances and wakes, but who, on the present occasion, were sobered down to a gravity which sat very awkwardly upon them; particularly in I the eyes of those who knew the lightness and drollery of their characters. This, however, was observable only before confession; for, as soon as, “the priest's blessed hand had been over them,” their gloom and anxiety passed away, and the thoughtless buoyancy of their natural disposition resumed its influence over their minds. A good-humored nod, or a sly wink, from a young man to his female acquaintance, would now be indulged in; or, perhaps a small joke would escape, which seldom failed to produce a subdued laugh from such as had confessed, or an impatient rebuke from those who had not.

“Tim!” one would exclaim, “arn't ye ashamed or afeared to get an that way, and his Reverence undher the wan roof wid ye?”

“Tim, you had better dhrop your joking,” a second would observe, “and not be putting us through other, (* confusing us) when we have our offenses to remimber; you have got your job over, and now you have nothing to trouble you.”

“Indeed, it's fine behavior,” a third would say, “and you afther coming from the priest's knee; and what more, didn't resave (* Communicate) yet; but wait till Father Con appears, and, I'll warrant, you'll be as grave as another, for all you're so stout now.”

The conversation would then pass to the merits of Father Philemy and Father Con, as Confessors.

“Well,” one would observe—“for my part, I'd rather go to Father Philemy, fifty times over, than wanst to Father Con, bekase he never axes questions; but whatever you like to tell him, he hears it, and forgives you at wanst.”

“And so sign's an it,” observed another; “he could confess more in a day that Father Con could in a week.”

“But for all that,” observed Andy Lalor, “it's still best to go to the man that puts the questions, you persave, and that won't let the turning of a straw escape him. Whin myself goes to Father Philemy, somehow or other, I totally disremember more nor wan half of what I intinded to tell him, but Father Con misses nothing, for he axes it.”

When the last observation was finished, Father Con, finding that the usual hour for breakfast had arrived, came into the kitchen, to prepare for the celebration of mass. For this purpose, a table was cleared, and just in the nick of time arrived old Moll Brian, the vestment woman, or itinerant sacristan, whose usual occupation was to carry the priests' robes and other apparatus, from station to station. In a short time, Father Con was surpliced and robed; Andy Lalor, whose face was charged with commensurate importance during the ceremony, sarved Mass, and answered the priest stoutly in Latin although he had not the advantage of understanding that sacerdotal language. Those who had confessed, now communicated; after which, each of them took a draught, of water out of a small jug, which was handed round from one to another. The ceremony then closed, and those who had partaken of the sacrament, with the exception of such as were detained for breakfast, after filling their bottles with holy water, went home with a light heart. A little before the mass had been finished, Father Philemy arrived; but, as Phaddy and Katty were then preparing to resave they could not at that moment give him a formal reception. As soon, however, as communion was over, the cead millia failtha was repeated with the usual warmth, by both, and by all their immediate friends. Breakfast was now laid in Katty's best style, and with an originality of arrangement that scorned all precedent. Two tables were placed, one after another, in the kitchen; for the other rooms were not sufficiently large to accommodate the company. Father Philemy filled the seat of honor at the head of the table, with his back to an immense fire. On his right hand sat Father Con; on his left, Phaddhy himself, “to keep the-clargy company;” and, in due succession after them, their friends and neighbors, each taking precedence according to the most scrupulous notions of respectability. Beside Father Con sat “Pettier Malone,” a “young collegian,” who had been sent home from Maynooth to try his native air, for the recovery of his health, which was declining. He arrived only a few minutes after Father Philemy, and was a welcome reinforcement to Phaddhy, in the arduous task of sustaining the conversation with suitable credit.

With respect to the breakfast, I can only say, that it was superabundant—that the tea was as black as bog water—that there were hen, turkey, and geese eggs—plates of toast soaked, crust and crumb, in butter; and lest there might be a deficiency, one of the daughters sat on a stool at the fire, with her open hand, by way of a fire screen, across her red, half-scorched brows, toasting another plateful, and, to crown all, on each corner of the table was a bottle of whiskey. At the lower board sat the youngsters, under the surveillance of Katty's sister, who presided in that quarter. When they were commencing breakfast, “Father Philemy,” said Katty, “won't yer Rev'rence bless the mate (* food) if ye plase?”

“If I don't do it myself,” said Father Philemy, who was just after sweeping the top off a turkey egg, “I'll get them that will. Come,” said he to the collegian, “give us grace, Peter; you'll never learn younger.”

This, however, was an unexpected blow to Peter, who knew that an English grace would be incompatible with his “college feeding,” yet was unprovided with any in Latin—The eyes of the company were now fixed upon him, and he blushed like scarlet on finding himself in a predicament so awkward and embarrassing. “Aliquid, Petre, alliquid; 'de profundis'—si habes nihil aliud,” said Father Philemy, feeling for his embarrassment, and giving him a hint. This was not lost, for Peter began, and gave them the De profundis—a Latin psalm, which Roman Catholics repeat for the relief of the souls in, purgatory. They forgot, however, that there was a person in company who considered himself as having an equal claim to the repetition of at least the one-half of it; and accordingly, when Peter got up and repeated the first verse, Andy Lalor got also on his legs, and repeated the response.* This staggered Peter a little, who hesitated, as uncertain how to act.

* This prayer is generally repeated by two persons, who

recite each a verse alternately.

“Perge, Petre, perge,” said Father Philemy, looking rather wistfully at his egg—“perge, stultus est et asinus quoque.” Peter and Andy proceeded until it was finished, when they resumed their seats.

The conversation during breakfast was as sprightly, as full of fun and humor as such breakfasts usually are. The priest, Phaddhy, and the young collegian, had a topic of their own, whilst the rest were engaged in a kind of by play, until the meal was finished.

“Father Philemy,” said Phaddhy, in his capacity of host, “before we begin we'll all take a dhrop of what's in the bottle, if it's not displasing to yer Reverence; and, sure, I know, 'tis the same that doesn't come wrong at a station, any how.”

This, more majorum, was complied with; and the glass, as usual, went round the table, beginning with their Reverences. Hitherto, Father Philemy had not had time to bestow any attention on the state of Kitty's larder, as he was in the habit of doing, with a view to ascertain the several items contained therein for dinner. But as soon as the breakfast-things were removed, and the coast clear, he took a peep into the pantry, and, after throwing his eye over its contents, sat down at the fire, making Phaddhy take a seat beside him, for the especial purpose of sounding him as to the practicability of effecting a certain design, which was then snugly latent in his Reverence's fancy. The fact was, that on taking the survey of the premises aforesaid, he discovered that, although there was abundance of fowl, and fish, and bacon, and hung-beef—yet, by some unaccountable and disastrous omission, there was neither fresh mutton nor fresh beef. The priest, it must be confessed, was a man of considerable fortitude, but this was a blow for which he was scarcely prepared, particularly as a boiled leg of mutton was one of his fifteen favorite joints at dinner. He accordingly took two or three pinches of snuff in rapid succession, and a seat at the fire, as I have said, placing Phaddhy, unconscious of his design, immediately beside him.

Now, the reader knows that Phaddhy was a man possessing a considerable portion of dry, sarcastic humor, along with that natural, quickness of penetration and shrewdness for which most of the Irish peasantry are in a very peculiar degree remarkable; add to this that Father Philemy, in consequence of his contemptuous bearing to him before he came in for his brother's property, stood not very high in his estimation. The priest knew this, and consequently felt that the point in question would require to be managed, on his part, with suitable address.

“Phaddhy,” says his Reverence, “sit down here till we chat a little, before I commence the duties of the day. I'm happy to, see that you have such a fine thriving family: how many sons and daughters have you?”

“Six sons, yer Reverence,” replied. Phaddhy, “and five daughters: indeed, sir, they're as well to be seen as their neighbors, considhering all things. Poor crathurs, they get fair play* now, thank Grod, compared to what they used to get—God rest their poor uncle's sowl for that! Only for him, your Reverence, there would be very few inquiring this or any other day about them.”

* By this is meant good food and clothing.

“Did he die as rich as they said, Phaddhy?” inquired his Reverence.

“Hut, sir,” replied Phaddhy, determined to take what he afterwards called a rise out of the priest; “they knew little about it—as rich as they said, sir! no, but three times as rich, itself: but, any how, he was the man that could make the money.”

“I'm very happy to hear it, Phaddhy, on, your account, and that of your children. God be good to him—requiescat animus ejus in pace, per omnia secula seculorum, Amen!—he liked a drop in his time, Phaddhy, as well as ourselves, eh?”

“Amen, amen—the heavens be his bed!—he-did, poor man! but he had it at first cost, your Reverence, for he run it all himself in the mountains: he could afford to take it.”

“Yes, Phaddhy, the heavens be his bed, I pray; no Christmas or Easter ever passed but he was sure to send me the little keg of stuff that never saw water; but, Phaddhy, there's one thing that concerns me about him, in regard of his love of drink—I'm afraid it's a throuble to him where he is at present; and I was sorry to find that, although he died full of money, he didn't think it worth his while to leave even the price of a mass to be said for the benefit of his own soul.”

“Why, sure you know, Father Philemy, that he wasn't what they call a dhrinking man: once a quarther, or so, he sartinly did take a jorum; and except at these times, he was very sober. But God look upon us, yer Reverence—or upon myself, anyway; for if he's to suffer for his doings that way, I'm afeard we'll have a troublesome reck'ning of it.”

“Hem, a-hem!—Phaddhy,” replied the priest, “he has raised you and your children from poverty, at all events, and you ought to consider that. If there is anything in your power to contribute to the relief of his soul, you havs a strong duty upon you to do it; and a number of masses, offered up devoutly, would—”

“Why, he did, sir, raise both myself and my childre from poverty,” said Phaddhy, not willing to let that point go farther—“that I'll always own to; and I hope in God that whatever little trouble might be upon him for the dhrop of dhrink, will be wiped off by this kindness to us.”

“He hadn't even a Month's mind!”*

* A Mouth's Mind is the repetition of one or more

masses, at the expiration of a month after death, for

the repose of a departed soul. There are generally more

than the usual number of priests on such occasions:

each of whom receives a sum of money, varying according

to the wealth of the survivors—sometimes five

shillings, and sometimes five guineas.

“And it's not but I spoke to him about both, yer Eeverence.”

“And what did he say, Phaddy?”

“'Phaddy,' said he, 'I have been giving Father M'Guirk, one way or another, between whiskey, oats, and dues, a great deal of money every year; and now, afther I'm dead,' says he, 'isn't it an ungrateful thing of him not to offer up one mass for my sowl, except I leave him payment for it?'”

“Did he say that, Phaddhy?”

“I'm giving you his very words, yer Reverence.”

“Phaddhy, I deny it; it's a big lie—he could not make much use of such words, and he going to face death. I say you could not listen to them; the hair would stand on your head if he did; but God forgive him—that's the worst I wish him. Didn't the hair stand on your head, Phaddhy, to hear him?”

“Why, then, to tell yer Reverence God's truth, I can't say it did.”

“You can't say it did! and if I was in your coat, I would be ashamed to say it did not. I was always troubled about the way the fellow died, but I hadn't the slightest notion: that he went off such a reprobate. I fought his battle and yours hard enough yesterday; but I knew less about him than I do now.”

“And what, wid submission, did you fight our battles about, yer Reverence?” inquired Phaddhy.

“Yesterday evening, in Parrah More Slevin's, they had him a miser, and yourself they set down as very little better.”

“Then I don't think I desarved that from Parrah More, anyhow, Father Philemy; I think I can show myself as dacent as Parrah More or any of his faction.”

“It was not Parrah More himself, nor his family, that said anything about you, Phaddhy,” said the priest, “but others that were present. You must know that we were all to be starved here to-day.”

“Oh! ho!” exclaimed Phaddhy, who was hit most palpably upon the weakest side—the very sorest spot about him, “they think bekase this is the first station that ever was held in my house, that you won't be thrated as you ought; but they'll be disappointed; and I hope, for so far, that yer Reverence and yer friends had no rason to complain.”

“Not in the least, Phaddhy, considering that it was a first station; and if the dinner goes as well off as the breakfast, they'll be biting their nails: but I should not wish myself that they would have it in their power to sneer or throw any slur over you about it.—Go along, Dolan,” exclaimed his Reverence to a countryman who came in from the street, where those stood who were for confession, to see if he had gone to his room—“Go along, you vagrant, don't you see I'm not gone to the tribunal yet?—But it's no matter about that, Phaddhy, it's of other things you ought to think: when were you at your duty?”

“This morning, sir,” replied the other—“but I'd have them to understand, that had the presumption to use my name in any such manner, that I know when and where to be dacent with any mother's son of Parrah More's faction; and that I'll be afther whispering to them some of these fine mornings, plase goodness.”

“Well, well, Phaddhy, don't put yourself in a passion about it, particularly so soon after having been at confession—it's not right—I told them myself, that we'd have a leg of mutton and a bottle of wine at all events for it was what they had; but that's not worth talking about—when were you with the priest before Phaddhy?”

“If I wasn't able, it would be another thing, but as long as I'm able, I'll let them know that I've the spirit”—said Phaddhy, smarting under the implication of niggardliness—“when was I at confession before, Father Philemy? Why, then, dear forgive me, not these five years;—and I'd surely be the first of the family that would show a mane spirit, or a want of hospitality.”

“A leg of mutton is a good dish, and a bottle of wine is fit for the first man in the land!” observed his Reverence; “five years!—why, is it possible you stayed away so long, Phaddhy! how could you expect to prosper with five years' burden of sin upon your conscience—what would it cost you—?”

“Indeed, myselfs no judge, your Reverence, as to that; but, cost what it will, I'll get both.”

“I say, Phaddhy, what trouble would it cost you to come to your duty twice a year at the very least; and, indeed, I would advise you to become a monthly communicant. Parrah More was speaking of it as to himself, and you ought to go—”

“And I will go and bring Parrah More here to his dinner, this very day, if it was only to let him see with his own eyes—”

“You ought to go once a month, if it was only to set an example to your children, and to show the neighbors how a man of substance and respectability, and the head of a family, ought to carry himself.”

“Where is the best wine got, your Reverence?”

“Alick M'Loughlin, my nephew, I believe, keeps the best wine and spirits in Ballyslantha.—You ought also, Phaddy, to get a scapular, and become a scapularian; I wish your brother had thought of that, and he wouldn't have died in so hardened a state, nor neglected to make a provision for the benefit of his soul, as he did.”

“Lave the rest to me, yer Reverence, I'll get it; Mr. M'Loughlin will give me the right sort, if he has it betune him and death.”

“M'Laughlin! what are you talking about?”

“Why, what is your Reverence talking about?”

“The scapular,” said the priest.

“But I mane the wine and the mutton,” says Phaddhy.

“And is that the way you treat me, you reprobate you?” replied his Reverence in a passion: “is that the kind of attention you're paying me, and I, advising you, all this time, for the good of your soul? Phaddhy, I tell you, you're enough to vex me to the core—five years!—only once at confession in five years! What do I care about your mutton and your wine!—you may get dozens of them if you wish; or, may be, it would be more like a Christian to never mind getting them, and let the neighbors laugh away. It would teach you humility, you hardened creature, and God knows you want it; for my part, I'm speaking to you about other things; but that's the way with the most of you—mention any spiritual subject that concerns your soul, and you turn a deaf ear to it—here, Dolan, come in to your duty. In the meantime, you may as well tell Katty not to boil the mutton too much; it's on your knees you ought to be at your rosary, or the seven penitential psalms, any way.”

“Thrue for you, sir,” says Phaddhy; “but as to going wanst a month, I'm afeard, your Rev'rence, if it would shorten my timper as it does Katty's, that we'd be bad company for one another; she comes home from confession, newly set, like a razor, every bit as sharp; and I'm sure that I'm within the truth when I say there's no bearing her.”

“That's because you've no relish for anything spiritual yourself, you nager you,” replied his Reverence, “or you wouldn't see her temper in that light—but, now that I think of it, where did you get that stuff we had at breakfast?”

“Ay, that's the sacret; but I knew your Rev'rence would like it; did Parrah More aiquil it? No, nor one of his faction couldn't lay his finger on such a dhrop.”

“I wish you could get me a few gallons of it,” said the priest; “but let us drop that; I say, Phaddhy, you're too worldly and too careless about your duty.”

“Well, Father Philemy, there's a good time coming; I'll mend yet.”

“You want it, Phaddhy.”

“Would three gallons do, sir?”

“I would rather you would make it five, Phaddhy; but go to your rosary.”

“It's the penitential psalms, first, sir,” said Phaddhy, “and the rosary at night. I'll try, anyhow; and if I can make off five for you, I will.”

“Thank you, Phaddhy; but I would recommend you to say the rosary before night.”

“I believe yer Reverence is right,” replied Phaddhy, looking somewhat slyly in the priest's face; “I think it's best to make sure of it now, in regard that in the evening, your Reverence—do you persave?”

“Yes,” said his Reverence, “you're in a better frame of mind at present, Phaddhy, being fresh from confession.”

So saying, his Reverence—for whom Phaddhy, with all his shrewdness in general, was not a match—went into his room, that he might send home about four dozen of honest, good-humored, thoughtless, jovial, swearing, drinking, fighting Hibernians, free from every possible stain of sin and wickedness!

“Are you all ready now?” said the priest to a crowd of country people who were standing about the kitchen door, pressing to get the “first turn” at the tribunal, which on this occasion consisted of a good oaken chair, with his Reverence upon it.

“Why do you crush forward in that manner, you ill-bred spalpeens? Can't you stand back, and behave yourselves like common Christians?—back with you! or, if you make me get my whip, I'll soon clear you from about the dacent man's door. Hagarty, why do you crush them two girls there, you great Turk, you? Look at the vagabonds! Where's my whip,” said he, running in, and coming out in a fury, when he commenced cutting about him, until they dispersed in all directions. He then returned into the house; and, after calling in about two dozen, began to catechize them as follows, still holding the whip in his hand, whilst many of those individuals, who at a party quarrel or faction fight, in fair or market, were incapable of the slightest terror, now stood trembling before him, absolutely pale and breathless with fear.

“Come, Kelly,” said he to one of them, “are you fully prepared for the two blessed sacraments of Penance and the Eucharist, that you are about to receive? Can you read, sir?”

“Can I read, is id?—my brother Barney can, yor Rev'rence,” replied Kelly, sensible, amid all the disadvantages around him, of the degradation of his ignorance.

“What's that to me, sir?” said the priest, “what your brother Barney can do—can you not read yourself?”

“I can not, your Reverence,” said Kelly, in a tone of regret.

“I hope you have your Christian Doctrine, at all events,” said the priest. “Go on with the Confiteor.”

Kelly went on—“Confeetur Dimnipotenmti batchy Mary semplar virginy, batchy Mickletoe Archy Angelo, batchy Johnny Bartisty, sanctris postlis—Petrum hit Paulum omnium sanctris, et tabby pasture, quay a pixavit minus coglety ashy hony verbum et offer him smaxy quilia smaxy quilta—sniaxy maxin in quilia.” *

* Let not our readers suppose that the above version in

the mouth of a totally illiterate peasant is

overcharged; for we have the advantage of remembering

how we ourselves used to hear it pronounced in our

early days. We will back the version in the text

against Edward Irving's new language—for any money.—

Original note.

“Very well, Kelly, right enough, all except the pronouncing, which wouldn't pass muster in Maynooth, however. How many kinds of commandments are there?”

“Two, sir.”

“What are they?”

“God's and the Church's.”

“Repeat God's share of them.”

He then repeated the first commandment according to his catechism.

“Very good, Kelly, very good. Well now, repeat the commandments of the Church.”

“First—Sundays and holidays, Mass thou shalt sartinly hear;

“Second—All holidays sanctificate throughout all the whole year.

“Third—Lent, Ember days, and Virgins, thou shalt be sartain to fast;

“Fourth—Fridays and Saturdays flesh thou shalt not, good, bad or indifferent, taste.

“Fifth—In Lent and Advent, nuptial fastes gallantly forbear.

“Sixth—Confess your sins, at laste once dacently and soberly every year.

“Seventh—Resave your God at confission about great Easter-day;

“Eighth—And to his Church and his own frolicsome clargy neglect not tides (tithes) to pay.”

“Well,” said his Eeverence, “now, to great point is, do you understand them?”

“Wid the help of God, I hope so, your Rev'rence; and I have also the three thriptological vartues.”

“Theological, sirrah!”

“Theojollyological vartues; the four sins that cry to heaven for vingeance; the five carnal vartues—prudence, justice, timptation, and solitude; (* Temperance and fortitude) the seven deadly sins; the eight grey attitudes—”

“Grey attitudes! Oh, the Boeotian!” exclaimed his Eeverence, “listen to the way in which he's playing havoc among them. Stop, sir,” for Kelly was going on at full speed—“Stop, sir. I tell you it's not gray attitudes, but bay attitudes—doesn't every one know the eight beatitudes?”

“The eight bay attitudes; the nine ways of being guilty of another's sins; the ten commandments; the twelve fruits of a Christian; the fourteen stations of the cross; the fifteen mystheries of the passion—”

“Kelly,” said his Eeverence, interrupting him, and heralding, the joke, for so it was intended, with a hearty chuckle, “you're getting fast out of your teens, ma bouchal?” and this was of course, honored with a merry peal; extorted as much by an effort of softening the rigor of examination, as by the traditionary duty which entails upon the Irish laity the necessity of laughing at a priest's jokes, without any reference at all to their quality. Nor was his Reverence's own voice the first to subside into that gravity which became the solemnity of the occasion; or even whilst he continued the interrogatories, his eye was laughing at the conceit with which it was evident the inner man was not competent to grapple. “Well, Kelly, I can't say but you've answered very well, as far as the repealing of them goes; but do you perfectly understand all the commandments of the church?”

“I do, sir,” replied Kelly, whose confidence kept pace with his Reverence's good-humor.

“Well, what is meant by the fifth?”

“The fifth, sir?” said the other, rather confounded—“I must begin agin, sir, and go on till I come to it.”

“Well,” said the priest, “never mind that; but tell us what the eighth means?”

Kelly stared at him a second time, but was not able to advance “First—Sundays and holidays, mass thou shalt hear;” but before he had proceeded to the second, a person who stood at his elbow began to whisper to him the proper reply, and in the act of so doing received a lash of the whip across the ear for his pains.

“You blackguard, you!” exclaimed Father Philemy, “take that—how dare you attempt to prompt any person that I'm examining?”

Those who stood around Kelly now fell back to a safe distance, and all was silence, terror, and trepidation once more.

“Come, Kelly, go on—the eighth?”

Kelly was still silent.

“Why, you ninny you, didn't you repeat it just now. 'Eighth—And to his church neglect not tithes to pay.' Now that I have put the words in your mouth, what does it mean?”

Kelly having thus got the cue, replied, in the words of the Catechism, “To pay tides to the lawful pasterns of the church, sir.”

“Pasterns!—oh, you ass you! Pasterns! you poor; base, contemptible, crawling reptile, as if we trampled you under our hooves—oh, you scruff of the earth! Stop, I say—it's pastors.”

“Pastures of the church.”

“And, tell me, do you fulfil that commandment?”

“I do, sir.”

“It's a lie, sir,” replied the priest, brandishing the whip over his head, whilst Kelly instinctively threw up his guard to protect himself from the blow. “It's a lie, sir,” repeated his Eeverence; “you don't fulfil it. What is the church?”

“The church is the congregation of the faithful that purfiss the true faith, and are obadient to the Pope.”

“And who do you pay tithes to?”

“To the parson, sir.”

“And, you poor varmint you, is he obadient to the Pope?”

Kelly only smiled at the want of comprehension which prevented him from seeing the thing according to the view which his Reverence took of it.

“Well, now,” continued Father Philemy, “who are the lawful pastors of God's church?”

“You are, sir: and all our own priests.”

“And who ought you to pay your tithes to?”

“To you, sir, in coorse; sure I always knew that, your Rev'rence.”

“And what's the reason, then, you don't pay them to me, instead of the parson?”

This was a puzzler to Kelly, who only knew his own side of the question. “You have me there, sir,” he replied, with a grin.

“Because,” said his Reverence, “the Protestants, for the present, have, the law of the land on their side, and power over you to compel the payment of tithes to themselves; but we have right, justice, and the law of God on ours; and, if every thing was in its proper place, it is not to the parsons, but to us, that you would pay them.”

“Well, well, sir,” replied Kelly, who now experienced a community of feeling upon the subject with his Reverence, that instantly threw him into a familiarity of manner which he thought the point between them justified—“who knows, sir?” said he with a knowing smile, “there's a good time coming, yer Rev'rence.”

“Ay,” said Father Philemy, “wait till we get once into the Big* House, and if we don't turn the scales—if the Established Church doesn't go down, why, it won't be our fault. Now, Kelly, all's right but the money—have you brought your dues?”

* Parliament. This was written before the passing of

the Emancipation Bill.

“Here it is, sir,” said Kelly, handing him his dues for the last year.

It is to be observed here, that, according as the penitents went to be examined, or to kneel down to confess, a certain sum was exacted from each, which varied according to the arrears that might have been due to the priest. Indeed, it is not unusual for the host and hostess, on these occasions, to be refused a participation in the sacrament, until they pay this money, notwithstanding the considerable expense they are put to in entertaining not only the clergy, but a certain number of their own friends and relations.

“Well, stand aside, I'll hear you first; and now, come up here, you young gentleman, that laughed so heartily a while ago at my joke—ha, ha, ha!—come up here, child.”

A lad now approached him, whose face, on a first view, had something simple and thoughtless in it, but in which, on a closer inspection, might be traced a lurking, sarcastic humor, of which his Reverence never dreamt.

“You're for confession, of course?” said the priest.

“Of coorse,” said the lad, echoing him, and laying a stress upon the word, which did not much elevate the meaning of the compliance in general with the rite in question.

“Oh!” exclaimed the priest, recognizing him when he approached—“you are Dan Fagan's son, and designed for the church yourself; you are a good Latinist, for I remember examining you in Erasmus about two years ago—Quomodo sehabet corpus tuum, charum lignum sacredotis”

“Valde, Domine,” replied the lad, “Quomodo se habet anima tua, charum exemplar sacerdotage, et fulcrum robustissium Ecclesiae sacrosancte?”

“Very good, Harry,” replied his Reverence, laughing—“stand aside; I'll hear you after Kelly.”

He then called up a man with a long melancholy face, which he noticed before to have been proof against his joke, and after making two or three additional and fruitless experiments upon his gravity, he commenced a cross fire of peevish interrogatories, which would have excluded him from the “tribunal” on that occasion, were it not that the man was remarkably well prepared, and answered the priest's questions very pertinently.

This over, he repaired to his room, where the work of absolution commenced; and, as there was a considerable number to be rendered sinless before the hour of dinner, he contrived to unsin them with an alacrity that was really surprising.

Immediately after the conversation already detailed between his Reverence and Phaddhy, the latter sought Katty, that he might communicate to her the unlucky oversight which they had committed, in neglecting to provide fresh meat and wine. “We'll be disgraced forever,” said Phaddhy, “without either a bit of mutton or a bottle of wine for the gintlemen, and that big thief Parrah More Slevin had both.”

“And I hope,” replied Katty, “that you're not so mane as to let any of that faction outdo you in dacency, the nagerly set? It was enough for them to bate us in the law-shoot about the horse, and not to have the laugh agin at us about this.”

“Well, that same law-shoot is not over with them yet,” said Phaddhy; “wait till the spring fair comes, and if I don't have a faction gathered that'll sweep them out of the town, why my name's not Phaddhy! But where is Matt till we sind him off?”

“Arrah, Phaddhy,” said Katty, “wasn't it friendly of Father Philemy to give us the hard word about the wine and mutton?”

“Very friendly,” retorted Phaddhy, who, after all, appeared to have suspected the priest—“very friendly, indeed, when it's to put a good joint before himself, and a bottle of wine in his jacket. No, no, Katty! it's not altogether for the sake of Father Philemy, but I wouldn't have the neighbors say that I was near and undacent; and above all tilings, I wouldn't be worse nor the Slevins—for the same set would keep it up agin us long enough.”

Our readers will admire the tact with which Father Philemy worked upon the rival feeling between the factions; but, independently of this, there is a generous hospitality in an Irish peasant which would urge him to any stratagem, were it even the disposal of his only cow, sooner than incur the imputation of a narrow, or, as he himself terms it, “undacent” or “nagerly” spirit.

In the course of a short time, Phaddhy dispatched two messengers, one for the wine, and another for the mutton; and, that they might not have cause for any unnecessary delay, he gave them the two reverend gentlemen's horses, ordering them to spare neither whip nor spur until they returned. This was an agreeable command to the messengers, who, as soon as they found themselves mounted, made a bet of a “trate,” to be paid on arriving in the town to which they were sent, to him who should first reach a little stream that crossed the road at the entrance of it, called the “Pound burn.” But I must not forget to state, that they not only were mounted on the priest's horses, but took their great-coats, as the day had changed, and threatened to rain. Accordingly, on getting out upon the main road, they set off, whip and spur, at full speed, jostling one another, and cutting each other's horses as if they had been intoxicated; and the fact is, that, owing to the liberal distribution of the bottle that morning, they were not far from it.