“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?”