“If I wasn't able, it would be another thing, but as long as I'm able, I'll let them know that I've the spirit”--said Phaddhy, smarting under the implication of niggardliness--“when was I at confession before, Father Philemy? Why, then, dear forgive me, not these five years;--and I'd surely be the first of the family that would show a mane spirit, or a want of hospitality.” “A leg of mutton is a good dish, and a bottle of wine is fit for the first man in the land!” observed his Reverence; “five years!--why, is it possible you stayed away so long, Phaddhy! how could you expect to prosper with five years' burden of sin upon your conscience--what would it cost you--?” “Indeed, myselfs no judge, your Reverence, as to that; but, cost what it will, I'll get both.” “I say, Phaddhy, what trouble would it cost you to come to your duty twice a year at the very least; and, indeed, I would advise you to become a monthly communicant. Parrah More was speaking of it as to himself, and you ought to go--” “And I will go and bring Parrah More here to his dinner, this very day, if it was only to let him see with his own eyes--” “You ought to go once a month, if it was only to set an example to your children, and to show the neighbors how a man of substance and respectability, and the head of a family, ought to carry himself.” “Where is the best wine got, your Reverence?” “Alick M'Loughlin, my nephew, I believe, keeps the best wine and spirits in Ballyslantha.--You ought also, Phaddy, to get a scapular, and become a scapularian; I wish your brother had thought of that, and he wouldn't have died in so hardened a state, nor neglected to make a provision for the benefit of his soul, as he did.” “Lave the rest to me, yer Reverence, I'll get it; Mr. M'Loughlin will give me the right sort, if he has it betune him and death.” “M'Laughlin! what are you talking about?” “Why, what is your Reverence talking about?” “The scapular,” said the priest. “But I mane the wine and the mutton,” says Phaddhy. “And is that the way you treat me, you reprobate you?” replied his Reverence in a passion: “is that the kind of attention you're paying me, and I, advising you, all this time, for the good of your soul? Phaddhy, I tell you, you're enough to vex me to the core--five years!--only once at confession in five years! What do I care about your mutton and your wine!--you may get dozens of them if you wish; or, may be, it would be more like a Christian to never mind getting them, and let the neighbors laugh away. It would teach you humility, you hardened creature, and God knows you want it; for my part, I'm speaking to you about other things; but that's the way with the most of you--mention any spiritual subject that concerns your soul, and you turn a deaf ear to it--here, Dolan, come in to your duty. In the meantime, you may as well tell Katty not to boil the mutton too much; it's on your knees you ought to be at your rosary, or the seven penitential psalms, any way.”