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

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!”