Daily evening star. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1852-1854, 1853-04-09
AURICULAR CONFESSION:

du04CULAh CUNEESSlON;
OR, HOW THE FRESHMAN PAID FOR HIS POTATOES
A hundred years have not yet been de-
voured by time since gentleman lived in
the ''clear air'' of Tipperary, in Ireland,
proverbially noted for his utter dislike Of
the late Mr.. O'Connell, and a most holy
hatred of auricular confession. Many
bitter pang it cost him to see his tenantry,
as he used to remark, ''the dupes of that
Kerry agitator." Yet while times were
good and the potatoes sound, they paid him
his rent, sent their tribute to the Repeal
Association, and with light hearts but
blistered feet, followed OConnell from
Cashel to Mallow, and from Mallow to
Lismore, shouting out for ssrepale," and
swapping their fingers at the mustachioed
dragons and bloody Peelers.
Well, it happened to be on a fine clear
morning in the month of October, 1874, the
very season of digging the potatoes, that
our Tipperary gentleman had number of
men employed for that purpose. "Lump-
ers'' were leaping from the earth without
blight or speck at every probe of the spade,
and "Pink-eyes," "Quarriers," Farmers"
and many other descriptions strewed the
ground. Towards evening he strolled out
to take survey of his workmen, and to
examine if they had worked sufficiently for
the eight pence (sixteen cents) each he was
to give them. He saw they had, or at least
he was satisfied, and his heart was right
glad, for the world was going we'll with
him.
He talked familiarly with those poor
workmen, and in his joy, the aristocrat was
for moment laid aside. He put his hand
in his pocket, and drew forth the Dublin
Evening Mail, and read most violent slea-
der, in which tae gentlemen of Cancellation
Hall were paid their quota of abuse for that
week. Now, this Dublin Evening Mail was
one OF the most scurilous bufooning period
icals that printers devil ever set hands
upon. Still it delighted our gentleman, be-
cause it lashed O'Connell, and the papists-
though the editor used once to make the
sign of the cross himself-and he was lust
emptying lis probocis of cargo of Lundy
Foot's snuff, before reading for them, when
one who acted as spokesman, broke in with
''there'll be a station at Ned Pindler's to-
morrow, yer honor, an the men ses that
they'll be wanting to 60 to confession
There was dead pause. Had whirl-
wind carried away the potatoes of the whole
year, he might have borne it with patience
to make Job ashamed. But who could be
patient at this The tempest was gather
ing-the leader was forgotten-the paper
was replaced in his pocket, and the ssclouds
Ger pres'd'' at length burst, with s.Confes-
sion the devil you rascals When will YOU
have senses? Confess indeed! To tell
your sins to man like yourselves! l have
as much power as he has. Come to confess
to me and I'll prove to you that can for
give you your sins as well as any priest of
them"
There was another pause. Who would
dare contradict the masters As well might
a Russian serf oppose the ukase of the un-
holy autocrat Nicholas. At length, one of
them by the name of Barry, commonly
called paddy Puck" from the belief that
he used to ride, ''Puck," the fairy horse,
stuck his spade in the ground, and resting
his chin on the top Of the handle in the
most philosophic mode possible drawled
out
"Be my own soul, an yer right, sir-sn'
tits jist on the point O. maxim up my mind
I'd bi to 60 to yer honor, an cum back to