“Silence, silence, till I complate my rural ideas—­in some gentleman’s rookery at all events; the thrush here, the blackbird there, the corn-craik chanting its varied note in another place, and so on.  In the meantime we reverend sentimentalists advance, gazing with odoriferous admiration upon the prospect about us, and expatiating in the purest of Latin upon the beauties of unsophisticated nature.  When we meet the peasants going out to their work, they put their hands to their hats for us; but as I am known to be the parochial priest, it is to me the salutation is directed, which I return with the air of a man who thinks nothing of such things; but, I on the contrary, knows them to be his due.  The poor creatures of curates you must know, don’t presume to speak of themselves, but simply answer whenever I condescend to propose conversation, for I’ll keep them down, never fear.  In this edifying style we proceed—­I a few steps in advance, and they at a respectful distance behind me, the heads of their horses just to my saddle skirts—­my clerical boots as brilliant as the countenance of Phoebus, when decked with rosy smiles, theirs more subordinately polished, for there should be gradations in all things, and humility is the first of virtues in a Christian curate.  My bunch of gold sales stands out proudly from my anterior rotundity, for by this time, plase God, I’ll be getting frolicsome and corpulent:  they with only a poor bit of ribbon, and a single two-penny kay, stained with verdigrace.  In the meantime, we come within sight of the wealthy farmer’s house, wherein we are to hold the edifying solemnity of a station.  There is a joyful appearance of study and bustle about the premises:  the peasantry are flocking towards it, dressed in their best clothes; the proprietors of the mansion itself are running out to try if we are in appearance, and the very smoke disports itself hilariously in the air, and bounds up as if it was striving to catch the first glimpse of the clargy.  When we approach, the good man—­pater-familias—­comes out to meet us, and the good woman—­mater-farmilias—­comes curtseying from the door to give the head milliafailtha.  No sooner do we parsave ourselves noticed, then out comes the Breviary, and in a moment we are at our morning devotions.  I being the rector, am particularly grave and dignified.  I do not speak much, but am rather sharp, and order the curates, whom I treat, however, with great respect before the people, instantly to work.  This impresses those who are present with awe and reverence for us all, especially for Father O’Shaughnessy himself—­(that’s me).—­I then take a short turn or two across the floor, silently perusing my office, after which I lay it aside, and relax into a little conversation with the people of the house, to show that I can conciliate by love as readily as I can impress them with fear; for, you see divide et impera is as aptly applied to the passions as to maxims of state policy—­ehem.  I then go to my tribunal, and first hear the man and woman and family of the house, and afther them the other penitents according as they can come to me.