revious 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,