Produced by David Widger
THE WORKS OF WILLIAM CARLETON
VOLUME III.
TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY
PART II.
[Illustration: Frontispiece]
[Illustration: Titlepage]
CONTENTS:
The Station.
The Party Fight And Funeral.
The Lough Derg Pilgrim.
THE STATION.
Our readers are to suppose the Reverend Philemy M'Guirk, parish priest
of Tir-neer, to be standing upon the altar of the chapel, facing the
congregation, after having gone through the canon of the Mass; and
having nothing more of the service to perform, than the usual prayers
with which he closes the ceremony.
“Take notice, that the Stations for the following week will be held as
follows:--
“_On Monday, in Jack Gallagher's of Corraghnamoddagh_. Are you there,
Jack?”
“To the fore, yer Reverence.”
“Why, then, Jack, there's something ominous--something auspicious--to
happen, or we wouldn't have you here; for it's very seldom that you
make part or parcel of this _present_ congregation; seldom are you here,
Jack, it must be confessed: however, you know the old classical proverb,
or if you don't, I do, which will just answer as well--_Non semper ridet
Apollo_--it's not every day _Manus_ kills a bullock; so, as you are
here, be prepared for us on Monday.”
“Never fear, yer Reverence, never fear; I think you ought to know that
the grazin' at Corraghnamoddagh's not bad.”
“To do you justice, Jack, the mutton was always good with you, only
if you would get it better killed it would be an improvement. Get Tom
McCusker to kill it, and then it'll have the right smack.”
“Very well, yer Rev'rence, I'll do it.”
“_On Tuesday, in Peter Murtagh's of the Crooked Commons_. Are you there,
Peter?”
“Here, yer Reverence.”
“Indeed, Peter, I might know you are here; and I wish that a great many
of my flock would take example by you: if they did, I wouldn't be so
far behind in getting in my _dues_. Well, Peter, I suppose you know that
this is Michaelmas?” *
* Michaelmas is here jocularly alluded to as that period
of the year when geese are fattest.
“So fat, yer Reverence, that they're not able to wag; but, any way,
Katty has them marked for you--two fine young crathurs, only this year's
fowl, and the ducks isn't a taste behind them--she crammin' them this
month past.”
“I believe you, Peter, and I would take your word for more than the
condition of the geese. Remember me to Katty, Peter.”
“_On Wednesday, in Parrah More Slevin's of Mullaghfadh_. Are you there,
Parrah More?”--No answer. “Parrah More Sle-vin?”--Silence. “Parrah More
Slevin, of Mullaghfadh?”--No reply. “Dan Fagan?”
“Present, sir.”
“Do you know what keeps that reprobate from mass?”
“I bleeve he's takin' advantage, sir, of the frost, to get in his
praties to-day, in respect of the bad footin', sir, for the horses in
the bog when there's not a frost. Any how, betune that and a bit of a
sore head that he got, yer Reverence, on Thursday last in takin' part
wid the O'Scallaghans agin the Bradys, I bleeve he had to stay away
to-day.”
“On the Sabbath day, too, without my leave! Well, tell him from me, that
I'll make an example of him to the whole parish, if he doesn't attend
mass better. Will the Bradys and the O'Scallaghans never be done with
their quarrelling? I protest, if they don't live like Christians, I'll
read them out from the altar. Will you tell Parrah More that I'll hold a
station in his house on next Wednesday?”
“I will, sir; I will, yer Reverence.”
“_On Thursday, in Phaddhy Sheemus Phaddhy's of the Esker_. Are you
there, Phaddhy?”'
“Wid the help of God, I'm here, sir.”
“Well, Phaddhy, how is yer son Briney, that's at the Latin? I hope he's
coming on well at it.”
“Why, sir, he's not more nor a year and a half at it yet, and he's got
more books amost nor he can carry; he'll break me buying books for him.”
“Well, that's a good sign, Phaddhy; but why don't you bring him to me
till I examine him?”
“Why, never a one of me can get him to come, sir, he's so much afeard of
yer Reverence.”
“Well, Phaddhy, we were once modest and bashful ourselves, and I'm glad
to hear that he's afraid of his clargy; but let him be prepared for
me on Thursday, and maybe I'll let him know something he never heard
before; I'll open his eyes for him.”
“Do you hear that, Briney?” said the father, aside to the son, who knelt
at his knee; “you must give up yer hurling and idling now, you see.
Thank yer Reverence; thank you, docthor.”
“_On Friday, in Barny O'Darby's, alias Barny Butters_. Are you there,
Barny?”
“All that's left of me is here, sir.”
“Well, Barny, how is the butter trade this season?”
“It's a little on the rise, now, sir: in a, month or so I'm expecting it
will be brisk enough. Boney, sir, is doing that much for us anyway.”
“Ay, and, Barny, he'll do more than that for us: God prosper him at all
events; I only hope the time's coming, Barny, when every one will be
able to eat his own butter, and his own beef, too.”
“God send it, sir.”
“Well, Barny, I didn't hear from your brother Ned these two or three
months; what has become of him?”
“Ah, yer Reverence, Pentland done him up.”
“What! the gauger?”
“He did, the thief; but maybe he'll sup sorrow for it, afore he's much
oulder.”
“And who do you think informed, Barny?”
“Oh, I only wish we knew that, sir.”
“I wish I knew it, and if I thought any miscreant here would become an
informer, I'd make an example of him. Well, Barny, on Friday next: but I
suppose Ned has a drop still--eh, Barny?”
“Why, sir, we'll be apt to have something stronger nor wather, anyhow.”
“Very well, Barny; your family was always a dacent and spirited family,
I'll say that for them; but, tell me, Barny, did you begin to dam the
river yet? * I think the trouts and eels are running by this time.”
* It is usual among the peasantry to form, about
Michaelmas, small artificial cascades, called dams,
under which they place long, deep, wicker creels,
shaped like inverted cones, for the purpose of securing
the fish that are now on their return to the large
rivers, after having deposited their spawn in the
higher and remoter streams. It is surprising what a
number of fish, particularly of eels, are caught in
this manner--sometimes from one barrel to three in the
course of a single night!
“The creels are made, yer Reverence, though we did not set them yet; but
on Tuesday night, sir, wid the help o' God, we'll be ready.”
“You can corn the trouts, Barny, and the eels too; but should you catch
nothing, go to Pat Hartigan, Captain Sloethorn's gamekeeper, and, if you
tell him it's for me, he'll drag you a batch out of the fish-pond.”
“Ah! then, you're Reverence, it's himself that'll do that wid a heart
an' a half.”
Such was the conversation which took place between the Reverend Philemy
M'Guirk, and those of his parishioners in whose houses he had appointed
to hold a series of Stations, for the week ensuing the Sunday laid in
this our account of that hitherto undescribed portion of the Romish
discipline.
Now, the reader is to understand, that a station in this sense differs
from a station made to any peculiar spot remarkable for local sanctity.
There, a station means the performance of a pilgrimage to a certain
place, under peculiar circumstances, and the going through a stated
number of prayers and other penitential ceremonies, for the purpose of
wiping out sin in this life, or of relieving the soul of some relation
from the pains of purgatory in the other; here, it simply means
the coming of the parish priest and his curate to some house in the
town-land, on a day publicly announced from the altar for that purpose,
on the preceding Sabbath.
This is done to give those who live within the district in which the
station is held an opportunity of coming to their duty, as frequenting
the ordinance of confession is emphatically called. Those who attend
confession in this manner once a year, are considered merely to have
done their duty; it is expected, however, that they should approach the
tribunal,* as it is termed, at least twice during that period, that is,
at the two great festivals of Christmas and Easter. The observance or
omission of this rite among Roman Catholics, establishes, in a great
degeee, the nature of individual character. The man who,frequents his
duty will seldom be pronounced a bad man, let his conduct and principles
be what they may in other respects; and he who neglects it, is looked
upon, by those who attend it, as in a state little short of reprobation.
* That is, of confession--so going to confession is
termed by the priests.
When the “giving out” of the stations was over, and a few more jests
were broken by his Reverence, to which the congregation paid the tribute
of a general and uproarious laugh, he turned round, and resumed the
performance of the mass, whilst his “flock” began to finger their beads
with faces as grave as if nothing of the kind had occurred. When mass
was finished, and the holy water sprinkled upon the people, out of a
tub carried by the mass-server through the chapel for that purpose, the
priest gave them a Latin benediction, and they dispersed.
Now, of the five individuals in whose houses the “stations” were
appointed to be held, we will select _Phaddhy Sheemus Phaddhy_ for
our purpose; and this we do, because it was the first time in which a
station was ever kept in his house, and consequently Phaddhy and his
wife had to undergo the initiatory ceremony of entertaining Father
_Philemy_ and his curate, the Reverend _Con M'Coul_, at dinner.
_Phaddhy Sheemus Phaddhy_ had been, until a short time before the period
in question, a very poor man; but a little previous to that event, a
brother of his, who had no children, died very rich--that is, for a
farmer--and left him his property, or, at least, the greater part of it.
While Phaddhy was poor, it was surprising what little notice he excited
from his Reverence; in fact, I have heard him acknowledge, that during
all the days of his poverty, he never got a nod of recognition or
kindness from Father Philemy, although he sometimes did, he said, from
Father Con, his curate, who honored him on two occasions so far as to
challenge him to a bout at throwing the shoulder-stone, and once to
a leaping match, at both of which exercises Father Con, but for the
superior power of Phaddhy, had been unrivalled.
“It was an unlucky day to him,” says Phaddy, “that he went to challenge
me, at all at all; for I was the only man that ever bate him, and he
wasn't able to hould up his head in the parish for many a day afther.”
As soon, however, as Phaddhy became a man of substance, one would almost
think that there had been a secret relationship between his good
fortune and Father Philemy's memory; for, on their first meeting, after
Phaddhy's getting the property, the latter shook him most cordially by
the hand--a proof that, had not his recollection been as much improved
as Phaddhy's circumstances, he could by no means have remembered him;
but this is a failing in the memory of many, as well as in that of
Father Philemy. Phaddhy, however, _was no Donnell_, to use his own
expression, and saw as far into a deal board as another man.
“And so, Phaddy,” said the priest, “how are all your family?--six you
have, I think?”
“Four, your Rev'rence, only four,” said Phaddy, winking at Tim Dillon,
his neighbor, who happened to be present--“three boys an' one girl.”
“Bless my soul, and so it is indeed, Phaddy, and I ought to know it; an
how is your wife Sarah?--I mean, I hope Mrs. Sheemus Phaddhy is well: by
the by, is that old complaint of hers gone yet?--a pain in the stomach,
I think it was, that used to trouble her; I hope in God, Phaddhy,
she's getting over it, poor thing. Indeed, I remember telling her, last
Easter, when she came to her duty, to eat oaten bread and butter
with water-grass every morning fasting, it cured myself of the same
complaint.”
“Why, thin, I'm very much obliged to your Rev'rence for purscribin' for
her,” replied Phaddhy; “for, sure enough, she has neither pain nor ache,
at the present time, for the best rason in the world, docthor, that
she'll be dead jist seven years, if God spares your Rev'rence an' myself
till to-morrow fortnight, about five o'clock in the mornin'.”
This was more than Father Philemy could stand with a good conscience, so
after getting himself out of the dilemma as well as he could, he shook
Phaddhy again very cordially by the hand, saying, “Well, good-bye,
Phaddliy, and God be good to poor Sarah's soul--I now remember her
funeral, sure enough, and a dacent one it was, for indeed she was a
woman that had everybody's good word--and, between you and me, she made
a happy death, that's as far as we can judge here; for, after all, there
may be danger, Phaddy, there may be danger, you understand--however,
it's your own business, and your duty, too, to think of that; but I
believe you're not the man that would be apt to forget her.”
“Phaddhy, ye thief o' the world,” said Jim Dillon, when Father Philemy
was gone, there's no comin' up to ye; how could you make sich a fool of
his Rev'rence, as to tell im that Katty was dead, and that you had
only four childher, an' you has eleven o' them, an' the wife in good
health?”
“Why, jist, Tim,” replied Phaddhy, with his usual shrewdness, “to tache
his Reverence himself to practise truth a little; if he didn't know
that I got the stockin' of guineas and the Linaskey farm by my brother
Barney's death, do ye think that he'd notish me at all at all?--not
himself, avick; an' maybe he won't be afther comin' round to me for a
sack of my best oats,* instead of the bushel I used to give him, and
houldin' a couple of stations wid me every year.”
* The priest accompanied by a couple of servants each
with a horse and sack, collects from such of his
parishioners as can afford it, a quantity of oats,
varying with the circumstances of the donor. This
collection--called _Questing_--is voluntary on the part
of his parishioners who may refuse it it they wish;
very few are found however, hardy enough to risk the
obloquy of declining to contribute, and the consequence
is that the custom operates with as much force as if it
were legal and compulsory.
“But won't he go mad when he hears you tould him nothing but lies?”
“Not now, Tim,” answered Phaddhy--“not now; thank God,--I'm not a poor
man, an' he'll keep his temper. I'll warrant you the horsewhip won't be
up now, although, afore this, I wouldn't say but it might--though the
poorest day I ever was, 'id's myself that wouldn't let priest or friar
lay a horsewhip to my back, an' that you know, Tim.”
Phaddhy's sagacity, however, was correct; for, a short time after this
conversation, Father Philemy, when collecting his oats, gave him a call,
laughed heartily at the sham account of Katty's death, examined young
Briney in his Latin, who was called after his uncle, pronounced him very
cute, and likely to become a great scholar--promised his interest with
the bishop to get him into Maynooth, and left the family, after having
shaken hands with, and stroked down the heads of all the children.
When Phaddhy, on the Sunday in question, heard the public notice given
of the Station about to be held in his house, notwithstanding his
correct knowledge of Father Philemy's character, on which he looked with
a competent portion of contempt, he felt a warmth of pride about
his heart, that arose from the honor of having a station, and of
entertaining the clergy, in their official capacity, under his own
roof, and at his own expense--that gave him, he thought, a personal
consequence, which even the “stockin' of guineas” and the Linaskey farm
were unable, of themselves, to confer upon him. He did enjoy, 'tis
true, a very fair portion of happiness on succeeding to his brother's
property; but this would be a triumph over the envious and ill-natured
remarks which several of his neighbors and distant relations had taken
the liberty of indulging in against him, on the occasion of his good
fortune. He left the chapel, therefore, in good spirits, whilst Briney,
on the contrary, hung a lip of more melancholy pendency than usual, in
dread apprehension of the examination that he expected to be inflicted
on him by his Reverence at the station.
Before I introduce the conversation which took place between Phaddhy
and Briney, as they went home, on the subject of this literary ordeal, I
must observe, that there is a custom, hereditary in some Irish families,
of calling fathers by their Christian names, instead of by the usual
appellation of “father.” This usage was observed, not only by Phaddhy
and his son, but by all the Phaddys of that family, generally. Their
surname was Doran, but in consequence of the great numbers in that part
of the country who bore the same name, it was necessary as of old, to
distinguish the several branches of it by the Christian names of their
fathers and grandfathers, and sometimes this distinction went as far
back as the great-grandfather. For instance--Phaddhy Sheemus Phaddhy,
meant Phaddhy, the son of Sheemus, the son of Phaddhy; and his son,
Briney, was called, Brian Phaddy Sheemus Phaddy, or, _anglice_, Bernard
the son of Patrick, the son of James, the son of Patrick. But the custom
of children calling fathers, in a viva voce manner, by their Christian
names, was independent of the other more general usage of the
patronymic.
“Well, Briney,” said Phaddy, as the father and son returned home, cheek
by jowl from the chapel, “I suppose Father Philemy will go very deep in
the Latin wid ye on Thursday; do ye think ye'll be able to answer him?”
“Why, Phaddhy,” replied Briney, “how could I be able to answer a
clargy?--doesn't he know all the languages, and I'm only in the _Fibulae
AEsiopii_ yet.”
“Is that Latin or Greek, Briney?”
“It's Latin, Phaddhy.”
“And what's the translation of that?”
“It signifies the Fables of AEsiopius.”
“Bliss my sowl! and Briney, did ye consther that out of yer own head?”
“Hogh! that's little of it. If ye war to hear me consther _Gallus
Gallinaceus_, a dunghill cock?”
“And, Briney, are ye in Greek at all yet?”
“No, Phaddhy, I'll not be in Greek till I'm in Virgil and Horace, and
thin I'll be near finished.”
“And how long will it be till that, Briney?”
“Why, Phaddhy, you know I'm only a year and a half at the Latin, and in
two years more I'll be in the Greek.”
“Do ye think will ye ever be as larned as! Father Philemy, Briney?”
“Don't ye, know whin I'm a clargy I will but I'm only a _lignum
sacerdotis_ yet, Phaddhy.”
“What's _ligdum saucerdoatis_, Briney?”
“A block of a priest, Phaddhy.”
“Now, Briney, I suppose Father Philemy knows everything.”
“Ay, to be sure he does; all the languages' that's spoken through the
world, Phaddhy.”
“And must all the priests know them, Briney?--how many are they?”
“Seven--sartainly, every priest must know them, or how could they lay
the divil, if he'd, spake to them in a tongue they couldn't understand,
Phaddhy?”
“Ah, I declare, Briney, I see it now; only for that, poor Father Philip,
the heavens be his bed, wouldn't be able to lay ould Warnock, that
haunted Squire Sloethorn's stables.”
“Is that when the two horses was stole, Phaddhy?”
“The very time, Briney; but God be thanked, Father Philip settled him to
the day of judgment.”
“And where did he put him, Phaddhy?”
“Why, he wanted to be put anundher the hearth-stone; but Father Philip
made him walk away with himself into a thumb-bottle, and tied a stone
to it, and then sent him to where he got a cooling, the thief, at the
bottom of the lough behind the house.”
“Well, I'll tell you what I'm thinking I'll be apt to do, Phaddhy, when
I'm a clargy.”
“And what is that, Briney?”
“Why, I'll--but, Phaddhy,don't be talking of this, bekase, if it should
come to be known, I might get my brains knocked out by some of the
heretics.”
“Never fear, Briney, there's no danger of that--but what is it?”
“Why, I'll translate all the Protestants into asses, and then we'll get
our hands red of them altogether.”
“Well, that flogs for cuteness, and it's a wondher the clargy* doesn't
do it, and them has the power; for 'twould give us pace entirely. But,
Briney, will you speak in Latin to Father Philemy on Thursday?”
* I have no hesitation in asserting that the bulk of the uneducated
peasantry really believe that the priests have this power.
“To tell you the thruth, Phaddhy, I would rather he wouldn't examine me
this bout, at all at all.”
“Ay, but you know we couldn't go agin him, Briney, bekase he promised
to get you into the college. Will you speak some Latin, now till I hear
you?”
“Hem!--_Verbum personaley cohairit cum nomnatibo numbera at persona at
numquam sera yeast at bonis moras voia_.”
“Bless my heart!--and, Briney, where's that taken from?”
“From Syntax, Phaddhy.”
“And who was Syntax--do you know, Briney?”
“He was a Roman, Phaddhy, bekase there's a Latin prayer in the beginning
of the book.”
“Ay, was he--a priest, I'll warrant him. Well, Briney, do you mind yer
Latin, and get on wid yer larnin', and when you grow up you'll have
a pair of boots, and a horse of your own (and a good broadcloth black
coat, too) to ride on, every bit as good as Father Philemy's, and may be
betther nor Father Con's.”
From this point, which usually wound up these colloquies between the
father and son, the conversation generally diverged into the more
spacious fields of science; so that by the time they reached home,
Briney had probably given the father a learned dissertation upon the
elevation of the clouds above the earth, and told him within how
many thousand miles they approached it, at their nearest point of
approximation.
“Katty,” said Phaddhy, when he got home, “we're to have a station
here on Thursday next: 'twas given out from the altar to-day by Father
Philemy.”
“Oh, wurrah, wurrah!” exclaimed Katty, overwhelmed at the consciousness
of her own incapacity to get up a dinner in sufficient style for such
guests--“wurrah, wurrah! Phaddhy, ahagur, what on the livin' earth will
we do at all at all! Why, we'll never be able to manage it.”
“Arrah, why, woman; what do they want but their skinful to eat and
dhrink, and I'm sure we're able to allow them that, any way?”
“Arrah, bad manners to me, but you're enough to vex a saint--'their
skinful to eat and dhrink!'--you common crathur you, to speak that way
of the clargy, as if it was ourselves or the laborers you war spaking
of.”
“Ay, and aren't we every bit as good as they are, if you go to
that?--haven't we sowls to be saved as well as themselves?”
“'As good as they are!'--as good as the clargy!! _Manum a yea agus a
wurrah!_*--listen to what he says! Phaddhy, take care of yourself,
you've got rich, now; but for all that, take care of yourself. You had
betther not bring the priest's ill-will, or his bad heart upon us. You
know they never thruv that had it; and maybe it's a short time your
riches might stay wid you, or maybe it's a short time you might stay wid
them: at any rate, God forgive you, and I hope he will, for making use
of sich unsanctified words to your lawful clargy.”
* My soul to God and the Virgin.
“Well, but what do you intind to do?---or, what do you think of getting
for them?” inquired Phaddy.
“Indeed, it's very little matther what I get for them, or what I'll do
either--sorrow one of myself cares almost: for a man in his senses, that
ought to know better, to make use of such low language about the blessed
and holy crathurs, that hasn't a stain of sin about them, no more than
the child unborn!”
“So you think.”
“So I think! aye, and it would be betther for you that you thought
so, too; but ye don't know what's before ye yet, Phaddhy--and now take
warnin' in time, and mend your life.”
“Why what do you see wrong in my life? Am I a drunkard? am I lazy? did
ever I neglect my business? was I ever bad to you or to the childher?
didn't I always give yez yer fill to ate, and kept yez as well clad as
yer neighbors that was richer? Don't I go to my knees, too, every night
and morning?”
“That's true enough, but what signifies it all? When did ye cross
a priest's foot to go to your duty? Not for the last five years,
Phaddhy--not since poor Torly (God be good to him) died of the mazles,
and that'll be five years, a fortnight before Christmas.”
“And what are you the betther of all yer confessions? Did they ever mend
yer temper, avourneen? no, indeed, Katty, but you're ten times worse
tempered coming back from the priest than before you go to him.”
“Oh! Phaddhy! Phaddhy! God look down upon you this day, or any man
that's in yer hardened state--I see there's no use in spaking to you,
for you'll still be the ould cut.”
“Ay, will I; so you may as well give up talking about it Arrah, woman!”
said. Phaddhy, raising his voice, “who does it ever make betther--show
me a man now in all the neighborhood, that's a pin-point the holier of
it? Isn't there Jemmy Shields, that goes to _his duty_ wanst a month,
malivogues his wife and family this minute, and then claps them to a
Rosary the next; but the ould boy's a thrifle to him of a fast day,
afther coming from the priest. Betune ourselves, Katty, you're not much
behind him.”
Katty made no reply to him, but turned up her eyes, and crossed herself,
at the wickedness of her unmanageable husband. “Well, Briney,” said she,
turning abruptly to the son, “don't take patthern by that man, if you
expect to do any good; let him be a warning to you to mind yer duty, and
respect yer clargy--and prepare yerself, now that I think of it, to go
to Father Philemy or Father Con on Thursday: but don't be said or led by
that man, for I'm sure I dunna how he intends to face the Man above
when he laves this world--and to keep from his duty, and to spake of his
clargy as he does!”
There are few men without their weak sides. Phaddhy, although the
priests were never very much his favorites, was determined to give
what he himself called a _let-out_ on this occasion, simply to show his
ill-natured neighbors that, notwithstanding their unfriendly remarks,
he knew “what it was to be dacent,” as well as his betters; and Katty
seconded him in his resolution, from her profound veneration for the
clargy. Every preparation was accordingly entered into, and every plan
adopted that could possibly be twisted into a capability of contributing
to the entertainment of Fathers Philemy and Con.
One of those large, round, stercoraceous nosegays that, like many other
wholesome plants, make up by odor what is wanting in floral beauty, and
which lay rather too contagious as Phaddhy expressed it, to the door of
his house, was transplanted by about half a dozen laborers, and as many
barrows, in the course of a day or two, to a bed some yards distant from
the spot of its first growth; because, without any reference whatever to
the nasal sense, it was considered that it might be rather an
eye-sore to their Reverences, on approaching the door. Several concave
inequalities, which constant attrition had worn in the earthen floor of
the kitchen, were filled up with blue clay, brought on a cart from
the bank of a neighboring river, for the purpose. The dresser, chairs,
tables, I pots, and pans, all underwent a rigor of discipline, as if
some remarkable event was about to occur; nothing less, it must be
supposed than a complete, domestic revolution, and a new state of
things. Phaddhy himself cut two or three large furze bushes, and,
sticking them on the end of a pitchfork, attempted to sweep down the
chimney. For this purpose he mounted on the back of a chair, that he
might be able to reach the top with more ease; but, in order that his
footing might be firm, he made one of the servant-men sit upon the
chair, to keep it steady during the operation. Unfortunately, however,
it so happened that this man was needed to assist in removing a
meal-chest to another part of the house; this was under Katty's
superintendence, who, seeing the fellow sit rather more at his ease than
she thought the hurry and importance of the occasion permitted, called
him, with a little of her usual sharpness and energy, to assist in
removing the chest. For some reason or other, which it is not necessary
to mention here, the fellow bounced from his seat, in obedience to the
shrill tones of Katty, and the next moment Phaddhy (who was in a state
of abstraction in the chimney, and totally unconscious of what was going
forward below) made a descent decidedly contrary to the nature of
that which most aspirants would be inclined to relish. A severe stun,
however, was the most serious injury he received on his own part, and
several round oaths, with a good drubbing, fell to the servant; but
unluckily he left the furze bush behind him in the highest and narrowest
part of the chimney; and were it not that an active fellow succeeded
in dragging it up from the outside of the roof, the chimney ran
considerable risk, as Katy said, of being choked.
But along with the lustration which every fixture within the house was
obliged to undergo, it was necessary that all the youngsters should get
new clothes; and for this purpose, Jemmy Lynch, the tailor, with his two
journeymen and three apprentices, were sent for in all haste, that he
might fit Phaddhy and each of his six sons, in suits, from a piece of
home-made frieze, which Katty did not intend to break up till “towards
Christmas.”
A station is no common event, and accordingly the web was cut up, and
the tailor left a wedding-suit, half-made, belonging to Edy Dolan, a
thin old bachelor, who took it into his head to try his hand at becoming
a husband ere he'd die. As soon as Jemmy and his train arrived, a door
was taken off the hinges, and laid on the floor, for himself to sit
upon, and a new drugget quilt was spread beside it, for his journeymen
and apprentices. With nimble fingers they plied the needle and thread,
and when night came, a turf was got, into which was stuck a piece of
rod, pointed at one end and split at the other; the “the white candle,”
slipped into a shaving of the fringe that was placed in the cleft end
of the stick, was then lit, whilst many a pleasant story, told by Jemmy,
who had been once in Dublin for six weeks, delighted the circle of
lookers-on that sat around them.
At length the day previous to the important one arrived. Hitherto, all
hands had contributed to make every thing in and about the house look
“dacent”--scouring, washing, sweeping, pairing, and repairing, had
been all disposed of. The boys got their hair cut to the quick with the
tailor's scissors; and such of the girls as were not full grown, not
only that which grew on the upper part of the head taken off, by a cut
somewhat resembling the clerical tonsure, so that they looked extremely
wild and unsettled with their straight locks projecting over their ears;
every thing, therefore, of the less important arrangements had been gone
through--the weighty and momentous concern was as yet unsettled.
This was the feast; and alas! never was the want of experience more
strongly felt than here. Katty was a bad cook, even to a proverb; and
bore so indifferent a character in the country for cleanliness, that
very few would undertake to eat her butter. Indeed, she was called Katty
Sallagh (* Dirty Katy) on this account: however, this prejudice, whether
ill or weil founded, was wearing fast away, since Phaddhy had succeeded
to the stocking of guineas, and the Lisnaskey farm. It might be, indeed,
that her former poverty helped her neighbors to see this blemish more
clearly: but the world is so seldom in the habit of judging people's
qualities or failings through this uncharitable medium, that the
supposition is rather doubtful. Be this as it may, the arrangements for
the breakfast and dinner must be made. There was plenty of bacon, and
abundance of cabbages--eggs, ad infinitum--oaten and wheaten bread in
piles--turkeys, geese, pullets, as fat as aldermen--cream as rich as
Croesus--and three gallons of poteen, one sparkle of which, as Father
Philemy said in the course of the evening, would lay the hairs on St.
Francis himself in his most self-negative mood, if he saw it. So far so
good: everything excellent and abundant in its way. Still the higher and
more refined items--the _deliciae epidarum_--must be added. White bread,
and tea, and sugar, were yet to be got; and lump-sugar for the punch;
and a tea-pot and cups and saucers to be borrowed; all which was
accordingly done.
Well, suppose everything disposed for tomorrow's feast;--suppose Phaddhy
himself to have butchered the fowl, because Katty, who was not able to
bear the sight of blood, had not the heart to kill “the crathurs” and
imagine to yourself one of the servant men taking his red-hot tongs
out of the fire, and squeezing a large lump of hog's lard, placed in a
grisset, or _Kam_, on the hearth, to grease all their brogues; then see
in your mind's eye those two fine, fresh-looking girls, slyly take
their old rusty fork out of the fire, and going to a bit of three-corned
looking-glass, pasted into a board, or, perhaps, to a pail of water,
there to curl up their rich-flowing locks, that had hitherto never known
a curl but such, as nature gave them.
On one side of the hob sit two striplings, “thryin' wan another in their
catechiz,” that they may be able to answer, with some credit, to-morrow.
On the other hob sits Briney, hard at his syntax, with the _Fibulae
AEsiopii_, as he called it, placed open at a particular passage, on the
seat under him, with a hope that, when Philemy will examine him,
the book may open at his favorite fable of “_Gallus Gallinaceus_--a
dung-hill cock.” Phaddy himself is obliged to fast this day, there being
one day of his penance yet unperformed, since the last time he was at
his duty; which was, as aforesaid, about five years: and Katty, now that
everything is cleaned up and ready, kneels down in a corner to go over
her beads, rocking herself in a placid silence that is only broken by
an occasional malediction against the servants, or the cat, when it
attempts the abduction of one of the dead fowl.
The next morning the family were up before the sun, who rubbed his eyes,
and swore that he must have overslept himself, on seeing such a merry
column of smoke dancing over Phaddhy's chimney. A large wooden dish was
placed upon the threshold of the kitchen door, filled with water, in
which, with a trencher of oatmeal for soap,* they successively scrubbed
their faces and hands to some purpose. In a short time afterwards,
Phaddhy and the sons were cased, stiff and awkward, in their new suits,
with the tops of their fingers just peeping over the sleeve cuffs. The
horses in the stable were turned out to the fields, being obliged to
make room for their betters, that were soon expected under the reverend
bodies of Father Philemy and his curate; whilst about half a bushel of
oats was left in the manger, to regale them on their arrival. Little
Richard Maguire was sent down to the five-acres, with the pigs, on
purpose to keep them from about the house, they not being supposed fit
company at a set-dinner. A roaring turf fire, which blazed two yards up
the chimney, had been put down; on this was placed a large pot, filled
with water for the tea, because they had no kettle.
* Fact--Oatmeal is in general substituted for soap, by
those who cannot afford to buy the latter.
By this time the morning was tolerably advanced, and the neighbors were
beginning to arrive in twos and threes, to wipe out old scores. Katty
had sent several of the gorsoons “to see if they could see any sight of
the clargy,” but hitherto their Reverences were invisible. At length,
after several fruitless embassies of this description, Father Con was
seen jogging along on his easygoing hack, engaged in the perusal of his
Office, previous to his commencing the duties of the day. As soon as his
approach was announced, a chair was immediately placed for him in a room
off the kitchen--the parlor, such as it was, having been reserved for
Father Phileniy himself, as the place of greater honor. This was an
arrangement, however, which went against the grain of Phaddhy, who,
had he got his will, would have established Father Con in the most
comfortable apartment of the house: but that old vagabond, human nature,
is the same under all circumstances--or, as Katty would have (in her
own phraseology) expressed it, “still the ould cut;” for even there the
influence of rank and elevation was sufficient to throw merit into the
shade; and the parlor-seat was allotted to Father Philemy, merely for
being Parish Priest, although it was well known that he could not “tare
off” * mass in half the time that Father Con could, nor throw a
sledge, or shoulder-stone within a perch of him, nor scarcely clear a
street-channel, whilst the latter could jump one-and-twenty feet at a
running leap. But these are rubs which men of merit must occasionally
bear; and, when exposed to them, they must only rest satisfied in the
consciousness of their own deserts.
* 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.”