The Station; The Party Fight And Funeral; The Lough Derg Pilgrim. William Carleton

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