a corner examining, in their catechism, those who intended to confess;
and, if they were able to stand the test, he gave them a bit of twisted
brown paper as a ticket, and they were received at the tribunal.

The first question the priest uniformly puts to the penitent is, "Can
you repeat the Confiteor?" If the latter answers in the affirmative, he
goes on until he comes to the words, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima
culpa, when he stops, it being improper to repeat the remainder until
after he has confessed; but, if he is ignorant of the "Confiteor,"
the priest repeats it for him! and he commences the rehearsal of his
offences, specifically as they occurred; and not only does he reveal
his individual crimes, but his very thoughts and intentions. By this
regulation our readers may easily perceive, that the penitent is
completely at the mercy of the priest--that all family feuds, quarrels,
and secrets are laid open to his eye--that the ruling; passions of
men's lives are held up before him, the weaknesses and propensities of
nature--all the unguarded avenues of the human heart and character are
brought within his positive knowledge, and that, too, as they exist
in the young and the old, the married and the single, the male and the
female.

It was curious to remark the ludicrous expression of temporary sanctity
which was apparent on the countenances of many young men and maidens who
were remarkable in the neighborhood for attending dances and wakes, but
who, on the present occasion, were sobered down to a gravity which sat
very awkwardly upon them; particularly in I the eyes of those who knew
the lightness and drollery of their characters. This, however, was
observable only before confession; for, as soon as, "the priest's
blessed hand had been over them," their gloom and anxiety passed away,
and the thoughtless buoyancy of their natural disposition resumed its