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

THE STATION.

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      Our readers are to suppose the Reverend Philemy M'Guirk, parish priest of Tir-neer, to be standing upon the altar of the chapel, facing the congregation, after having gone through the canon of the Mass; and having nothing more of the service to perform, than the usual prayers with which he closes the ceremony.

      “Take notice, that the Stations for the following week will be held as follows:—

      “On Monday, in Jack Gallagher's of Corraghnamoddagh. Are you there, Jack?”

      “To the fore, yer Reverence.”

      “Why, then, Jack, there's something ominous—something auspicious—to happen, or we wouldn't have you here; for it's very seldom that you make part or parcel of this present congregation; seldom are you here, Jack, it must be confessed: however, you know the old classical proverb, or if you don't, I do, which will just answer as well—Non semper ridet Apollo—it's not every day Manus kills a bullock; so, as you are here, be prepared for us on Monday.”

      “Never fear, yer Reverence, never fear; I think you ought to know that the grazin' at Corraghnamoddagh's not bad.”

      “To do you justice, Jack, the mutton was always good with you, only if you would get it better killed it would be an improvement. Get Tom McCusker to kill it, and then it'll have the right smack.”

      “Very well, yer Rev'rence, I'll do it.”

      “On Tuesday, in Peter Murtagh's of the Crooked Commons. Are you there, Peter?”

      “Here, yer Reverence.”

      “Indeed, Peter, I might know you are here; and I wish that a great many of my flock would take example by you: if they did, I wouldn't be so far behind in getting in my dues. Well, Peter, I suppose you know that this is Michaelmas?” *

      * Michaelmas is here jocularly alluded to as that period

       of the year when geese are fattest.

      “So fat, yer Reverence, that they're not able to wag; but, any way, Katty has them marked for you—two fine young crathurs, only this year's fowl, and the ducks isn't a taste behind them—she crammin' them this month past.”

      “I believe you, Peter, and I would take your word for more than the condition of the geese. Remember me to Katty, Peter.”

      “On Wednesday, in Parrah More Slevin's of Mullaghfadh. Are you there, Parrah More?”—No answer. “Parrah More Sle-vin?”—Silence. “Parrah More Slevin, of Mullaghfadh?”—No reply. “Dan Fagan?”

      “Present, sir.”

      “Do you know what keeps that reprobate from mass?”

      “I bleeve he's takin' advantage, sir, of the frost, to get in his praties to-day, in respect of the bad footin', sir, for the horses in the bog when there's not a frost. Any how, betune that and a bit of a sore head that he got, yer Reverence, on Thursday last in takin' part wid the O'Scallaghans agin the Bradys, I bleeve he had to stay away to-day.”

      “On the Sabbath day, too, without my leave! Well, tell him from me, that I'll make an example of him to the whole parish, if he doesn't attend mass better. Will the Bradys and the O'Scallaghans never be done with their quarrelling? I protest, if they don't live like Christians, I'll read them out from the altar. Will you tell Parrah More that I'll hold a station in his house on next Wednesday?”

      “I will, sir; I will, yer Reverence.”

      “On Thursday, in Phaddhy Sheemus Phaddhy's of the Esker. Are you there, Phaddhy?”'

      “Wid the help of God, I'm here, sir.”

      “Well, Phaddhy, how is yer son Briney, that's at the Latin? I hope he's coming on well at it.”

      “Why, sir, he's not more nor a year and a half at it yet, and he's got more books amost nor he can carry; he'll break me buying books for him.”

      “Well, that's a good sign, Phaddhy; but why don't you bring him to me till I examine him?”

      “Why, never a one of me can get him to come, sir, he's so much afeard of yer Reverence.”

      “Well, Phaddhy, we were once modest and bashful ourselves, and I'm glad to hear that he's afraid of his clargy; but let him be prepared for me on Thursday, and maybe I'll let him know something he never heard before; I'll open his eyes for him.”

      “Do you hear that, Briney?” said the father, aside to the son, who knelt at his knee; “you must give up yer hurling and idling now, you see. Thank yer Reverence; thank you, docthor.”

      “On Friday, in Barny O'Darby's, alias Barny Butters. Are you there, Barny?”

      “All that's left of me is here, sir.”

      “Well, Barny, how is the butter trade this season?”

      “It's a little on the rise, now, sir: in a, month or so I'm expecting it will be brisk enough. Boney, sir, is doing that much for us anyway.”

      “Ay, and, Barny, he'll do more than that for us: God prosper him at all events; I only hope the time's coming, Barny, when every one will be able to eat his own butter, and his own beef, too.”

      “God send it, sir.”

      “Well, Barny, I didn't hear from your brother Ned these two or three months; what has become of him?”

      “Ah, yer Reverence, Pentland done him up.”

      “What! the gauger?”

      “He did, the thief; but maybe he'll sup sorrow for it, afore he's much oulder.”

      “And who do you think informed, Barny?”

      “Oh, I only wish we knew that, sir.”

      “I wish I knew it, and if I thought any miscreant here would become an informer, I'd make an example of him. Well, Barny, on Friday next: but I suppose Ned has a drop still—eh, Barny?”

      “Why, sir, we'll be apt to have something stronger nor wather, anyhow.”

      “Very well, Barny; your family was always a dacent and spirited family, I'll say that for them; but, tell me, Barny, did you begin to dam the river yet? * I think the trouts and eels are running by this time.”

      * It is usual among the peasantry to form, about

       Michaelmas, small artificial cascades, called dams,

       under which they place long, deep, wicker creels,

       shaped like inverted