"I have a strong objection to avoyage pittoresquethrough the planets; we bear in our own breasts a heaven full of constellations. There is in our hearts an inward, spiritual world, that breaks like a sun upon the clouds of the outward world. I mean that inward universe of goodness, beauty, and truth,—three worlds that are neither part, nor shoot, nor copy of the outward. We are less astonished at the incomprehensible existence of these transcendental heavens because they are always there, and we foolishly imagine that we create, when we merely perceive them. Afterwhat model, with whatplastic power, andfrom what, could we create these same spiritual worlds? The atheist should ask himself how he received the giant idea of God, that he has neither opposed nor embodied. An idea that has not grown up by comparing different degrees of greatness, as it is the opposite of every measure and degree. In fact, the atheist speaks as others ofprototypeandoriginal."
"I have a strong objection to avoyage pittoresquethrough the planets; we bear in our own breasts a heaven full of constellations. There is in our hearts an inward, spiritual world, that breaks like a sun upon the clouds of the outward world. I mean that inward universe of goodness, beauty, and truth,—three worlds that are neither part, nor shoot, nor copy of the outward. We are less astonished at the incomprehensible existence of these transcendental heavens because they are always there, and we foolishly imagine that we create, when we merely perceive them. Afterwhat model, with whatplastic power, andfrom what, could we create these same spiritual worlds? The atheist should ask himself how he received the giant idea of God, that he has neither opposed nor embodied. An idea that has not grown up by comparing different degrees of greatness, as it is the opposite of every measure and degree. In fact, the atheist speaks as others ofprototypeandoriginal."
"Stop there," I cried; "why that is the ontological argument of St. Anselm, adopted afterwards by a soldier philosopher like yourself, called Descartes. There's nothing new under the sun. It is wonderful how modern artists can refurbish our old Masters and make wonderful pictures from them!"
"Quite so," he replied, "in lieu of yourselves. There, now, I am always too precipitate; pardon me, sir, if I am too bold; but you Catholics havea wonderful talent for burying your treasures in napkins. Have you any treatise on the immortality of the soul in English, and in such a style as this?"
"I am afraid," I replied, as I looked askance at the volume, "that just now I cannot mention one. But go on, if it does not tire you. Time is the cheapest thing we have in Ireland."
He continued:—
"'The inward world, that is indeed more splendid and admirable than the outward, needs another heaven than the one above us, and a higher world than that the sun warms; therefore, we say justly, not a secondearth, or globe, but a second world beyond this universe.'"Gione interrupted me: 'And every virtuous and wise man is a proof of another world.'"'And,' continued Nadine quickly, 'every one who undeservedly suffers.'"'Yes,' I answered; 'that is what draws our thread of life through a long eternity. The threefold echo of virtue, truth, and beauty, created by the music of the spheres, calls us from this hollow earth to the neighborhood of the music. Why and wherefore were these desires given us? Merely that, like a swallowed diamond, they should slowly cut through our earthly covering. Wherefore were we placed upon this ball of earth, creatures with light wings, if instead of soaring with our wings of ether, we are to fall back into the earth-clods of our birth?... Is an angel to be imprisoned in the body to be its dumb servant, its stove-warmer and butler, itscuisinierand porter at the door of the stomach? Shall the ethereal flame merely serve to fillthe circular stove with life's warmth, obediently burn and warm, then become cold and extinguished?'"
"'The inward world, that is indeed more splendid and admirable than the outward, needs another heaven than the one above us, and a higher world than that the sun warms; therefore, we say justly, not a secondearth, or globe, but a second world beyond this universe.'
"Gione interrupted me: 'And every virtuous and wise man is a proof of another world.'
"'And,' continued Nadine quickly, 'every one who undeservedly suffers.'
"'Yes,' I answered; 'that is what draws our thread of life through a long eternity. The threefold echo of virtue, truth, and beauty, created by the music of the spheres, calls us from this hollow earth to the neighborhood of the music. Why and wherefore were these desires given us? Merely that, like a swallowed diamond, they should slowly cut through our earthly covering. Wherefore were we placed upon this ball of earth, creatures with light wings, if instead of soaring with our wings of ether, we are to fall back into the earth-clods of our birth?... Is an angel to be imprisoned in the body to be its dumb servant, its stove-warmer and butler, itscuisinierand porter at the door of the stomach? Shall the ethereal flame merely serve to fillthe circular stove with life's warmth, obediently burn and warm, then become cold and extinguished?'"
"Very good, indeed," I interrupted. "He knows how to put things in a virile way.'
"'The discrepancy between our wishes and our relations, between thesouland theearth, remains ariddleif we continue; and if we cease to live, ablasphemy. Strangers, born upon mountains, we consume in lowly places, with unhealthyheimweh(home-sickness). We belong to higher regions, and an eternal longing grows in our hearts at music, which is theKuhreigenof our native Alps....'"'From hence what follows?' asked the chaplain (a Kantian)."'Not that we are unhappy, but that we are immortal; and this worldwithinus demands and manifests asecondwithout us.... I cannot tell how painful, how monstrous and horrible the thought of an annihilating death, of an eternal grave, now appeared to me. Men often bear their errors, as their truths, about in words, and not in feeling; but let the believer in annihilation place before him, instead of a life of sixty years, one of sixty minutes; then let him look on the face of a beloved being, or upon a noble or wise man, as upon an aimless hour-long appearance; as a thin shadow that melts into light and leaves no trace; can he bear the thought? No! the supposition of imperishableness is always with him; else there would hang always before his soul, as before Mahomet's in the fairest sky, a dark cloud; and, as Cain upon the earth, an eternal fear would pursue him. Yes, if all the woods upon this earth were groves of pleasure; if all the valleys were Kampanervalleys; if all the islands were blessed, and all the fields Elysian; if all eyes were cheerful and all the hearts joyful,—yes, then—no! even then, had God, through this very blessedness, made to our spirits thepromise, theoathof eternal duration! But, now, O God! when so many houses are houses of mourning, so many fields battlefields, so many cheeks pale, when we pass before so many eyes red with weeping or closed in death: Oh! can the grave, that haven of salvation, be the last swallowing, unyielding whirlpool? No, the trampled worm dares raise itself towards its Creator, and say, "Thou durst not create me only to suffer!"'"
"'The discrepancy between our wishes and our relations, between thesouland theearth, remains ariddleif we continue; and if we cease to live, ablasphemy. Strangers, born upon mountains, we consume in lowly places, with unhealthyheimweh(home-sickness). We belong to higher regions, and an eternal longing grows in our hearts at music, which is theKuhreigenof our native Alps....'
"'From hence what follows?' asked the chaplain (a Kantian).
"'Not that we are unhappy, but that we are immortal; and this worldwithinus demands and manifests asecondwithout us.... I cannot tell how painful, how monstrous and horrible the thought of an annihilating death, of an eternal grave, now appeared to me. Men often bear their errors, as their truths, about in words, and not in feeling; but let the believer in annihilation place before him, instead of a life of sixty years, one of sixty minutes; then let him look on the face of a beloved being, or upon a noble or wise man, as upon an aimless hour-long appearance; as a thin shadow that melts into light and leaves no trace; can he bear the thought? No! the supposition of imperishableness is always with him; else there would hang always before his soul, as before Mahomet's in the fairest sky, a dark cloud; and, as Cain upon the earth, an eternal fear would pursue him. Yes, if all the woods upon this earth were groves of pleasure; if all the valleys were Kampanervalleys; if all the islands were blessed, and all the fields Elysian; if all eyes were cheerful and all the hearts joyful,—yes, then—no! even then, had God, through this very blessedness, made to our spirits thepromise, theoathof eternal duration! But, now, O God! when so many houses are houses of mourning, so many fields battlefields, so many cheeks pale, when we pass before so many eyes red with weeping or closed in death: Oh! can the grave, that haven of salvation, be the last swallowing, unyielding whirlpool? No, the trampled worm dares raise itself towards its Creator, and say, "Thou durst not create me only to suffer!"'"
I was listening with closed eyes to the reading, the quiet rhythm of the sentences, and the calm, deep music of his voice, sounding ineffably soothing, when a quaver, then a break in his voice, just as he repeated the last words, made me look toward him. The calm, strong man was weeping silently; and just then he broke into a paroxysm of sobs that shook his strong frame as by a palsy. Dear Lord! what hidden grief there is in the world! Who would ever dream that the calm exterior of this reasoning, cultivated atheist concealed such hidden fires? It was no time to talk; I let the poor fellow alone. After a few moments he dried his eyes, and said:—
"I am quite ashamed of this snivelling, Father. I shouldn't have attempted to read this. It always upsets me."
"Never mind, my poor boy," I said. "It is good for men sometimes to weep." I thoughtin my own mind, My little child will be in safe hands.
"Now, put it aside," I said gently, "and let us talk."
"One sentence more, Father, just to get over this weakness."
"'Ah, Carlson (Carlson stands for myself), upon what a beautiful world do you throw your immeasurable gravestone, that no time can lift. Your difficulties, which are founded on thenecessaryuncertainties of men, if solved, would only have the effect to destroy ourfaith; which is the solution of a thousand other difficulties; without which our existence is without aim, our pains without solution, and the Godlike Trinity within our breasts three avenging angels. From the formless earthworm up to the beaming human countenance; from the chaos of the first day up to the present age of the world; from the first faint motion of the heart to its full, bold throbbing in the breast of manhood, the invisible hand of God leads, protects, and nourishes the inward being; thenursling of the outwardeducates and polishes and makes it beautiful—and wherefore? That when it stands as a demigod in the midst of the ruins of the temple of the body, the blow of death may prostrate it forever, that nothing shall remain from the corpse-veiled, the mourning and mantled immeasurable universe, but the eternally sowing, never harvesting, solitary spirit of the world! One eternity looking despairingly at the other; and in the whole spiritual universe no end, no aim! And all these contradictions and riddles, whereby not merely the harmony, but the verystringsof creation are tangled, must we take, merely on account of thedifficulties, that, indeed, our annihilation cannot solve? Beloved Carlson! into this harmony of the spheres, that is notover, but everaroundus, will you bring your shrieking discord? See how gently and touchingly the day departs, and how holily the night comes! Oh, can you not believe that even thus our spirits shall arise from the dust, as you once saw the full moon arise over the crater of Vesuvius?'"Gione took his hand and said:—"'Amongst us all, will you alone be tormented with this despairing faith?'"Two hot drops fell from his blinded eyes; he looked at the mountains, and said:—"'I can bear no annihilation but my own. Myheartis of your opinion; myheadwill slowly follow.'"
"'Ah, Carlson (Carlson stands for myself), upon what a beautiful world do you throw your immeasurable gravestone, that no time can lift. Your difficulties, which are founded on thenecessaryuncertainties of men, if solved, would only have the effect to destroy ourfaith; which is the solution of a thousand other difficulties; without which our existence is without aim, our pains without solution, and the Godlike Trinity within our breasts three avenging angels. From the formless earthworm up to the beaming human countenance; from the chaos of the first day up to the present age of the world; from the first faint motion of the heart to its full, bold throbbing in the breast of manhood, the invisible hand of God leads, protects, and nourishes the inward being; thenursling of the outwardeducates and polishes and makes it beautiful—and wherefore? That when it stands as a demigod in the midst of the ruins of the temple of the body, the blow of death may prostrate it forever, that nothing shall remain from the corpse-veiled, the mourning and mantled immeasurable universe, but the eternally sowing, never harvesting, solitary spirit of the world! One eternity looking despairingly at the other; and in the whole spiritual universe no end, no aim! And all these contradictions and riddles, whereby not merely the harmony, but the verystringsof creation are tangled, must we take, merely on account of thedifficulties, that, indeed, our annihilation cannot solve? Beloved Carlson! into this harmony of the spheres, that is notover, but everaroundus, will you bring your shrieking discord? See how gently and touchingly the day departs, and how holily the night comes! Oh, can you not believe that even thus our spirits shall arise from the dust, as you once saw the full moon arise over the crater of Vesuvius?'
"Gione took his hand and said:—
"'Amongst us all, will you alone be tormented with this despairing faith?'
"Two hot drops fell from his blinded eyes; he looked at the mountains, and said:—
"'I can bear no annihilation but my own. Myheartis of your opinion; myheadwill slowly follow.'"
"And that, sir," said Ormsby, closing the book and putting it into his side pocket, "is just where I am. My heart is with you; if only my head would follow. Put Bittra for Gione, and you will understand my emotion."
"Even that won't do," I said; "the head might follow, and you might be as far from us as ever."
"I don't understand," he said in a bewildered way. "Surely all that's wanting now is a conviction of the truth of your teaching?"
"There's your grave mistake," I replied; "conviction is not faith. There are thousands of your countrymen filled with conviction of the truths of Catholicity; but they are as far outside the Church as a Confucian or a Buddhist. Faith is not a matter to be acquired by reading or knowledge.It is a gift, like the natural talent of a great painter or musician—a sixth sense, and the pure gratuity of the All-Wise and the All-Good."
This appeared to him to be a revelation which he could not comprehend; it seemed to be such an inevitable logical sequence—conviction and profession.
"I am attracted by everything," he said, "in your Church. The whole thing appears to be such a well-connected scheme, so unlike the religion in which I was born and educated, where you had to be forever searching after a missing link. And then your Church seems to be founded on love—love of a supernal kind, of course, and almost unintelligible; but it is the golden chain in the string of pearls. You will have noticed how rapidly sometimes the mind makes comparisons. Well, often, at our station over there, I have thought, as I searched the sea, that we Protestants look at God through the large end of a telescope and throw Him afar off, and make Him very small and insignificant; whilst you look at Him through the narrower end, and magnify Him and bring Him near. Our God—that is, the God in whom I was taught to believe—is the God of Sinai, and our Christ is the historic Christ; but that won't do for a humanity that is ever querulous for God, and you have found the secret."
I was quite astonished at the solemn, thoughtful manner in which this young fellow spoke, and hiswords were so full of feeling and self-sympathy for his great privation. He was silent for a long time, smoking freely, whilst I was pondering many things, mostly in humility for our slow appreciation of the great gift of divine faith. At last, he said:—
"I do not quite follow you, sir, in your remark about a sixth sense; for this is not a question of sense, but of the soul."
We were now getting into deep water, and when an old gentleman hasn't opened a book of philosophy for nearly thirty years, he may be well excused for a certain timidity in approaching these deep questions. But, "keep to the metaphorical" has always been a great rule of mine, which never failed me.
"Let me explain," I said. "Have you ever been to an ophthalmic hospital or a blind asylum?"
"Yes," he replied, "principally abroad."
"Well," I continued, "you might have noticed various forms of the dread disease of blindness. Some are cases of cataract; in some the entire ball is removed; some have partial sight behind the ugly film. But the most pathetic case to my mind is that of the young boy or girl who comes toward you, looking steadily at you with large, luminous eyes, the iris perfectly clear, the pupil normally distended, and even the white of the eye tinged with that delicate blue that denotesperfect health in the organ; but in one moment the truth flashes upon you—that poor patient is stone-blind. Now, where's the disease?"
"The optic nerve is destroyed," he answered promptly.
"Precisely. And now, if you were to pour in through the dark canal of the pupil the strongest sunlight, or even the flash of your electric searchlight, would it make any difference, do you think?"
"None," he said, "so far as sight was concerned; but it might possibly paralyze the brain."
"Precisely. And if you, my dear young friend, were pouring, till the crack of doom, every kind of human light—philosophical, dogmatic, controversial—upon the retina of the soul without the optic nerve of faith, you will be blind, and go blind to your grave."
Somehow this appeared to be a relief, though it looked like discouragement.
"It is something to know," he said, "that the fault is not altogether my own. But," after a pause, "this demands a miracle."
"Quite so. A pure light from God. And that is the reason that my excellent curate is storming the citadels of heaven for you by that terrible artillery—the prayers of little children. And if you want to capture this grace of God by one tremendouscoup, search out the most stricken and afflicted of my flock (Bittra has a pretty good catalogue of them), and get him or her to pray foryou, and very soon the sense of faith will awaken within you, and you will wonder that you were ever blind."
"Ten thousand thanks," he said, rising; "I had no anticipations of so pleasant and instructive an evening."
"You were told to expect to meet a funny old fellow," I said, "with as many quips, and cranks, and jests, as old Jack Falstaff?"
"Well," he said, pulling his mustache nervously, "I should not like to put it so brusquely."
"Of course not. But there lies a big mistake, my dear boy. Democritus was as much a philosopher as Heraclitus, and he lived fifty years longer. There is a good deal of philosophy behind a laugh, and we put our gargoyles on the outside of our churches."
"Indeed, I must say, from a long experience," he replied, "and a grateful experience, that your men are the most cheerful class I have met,—if I except our own sailors,—although the comparison sounds grotesque. And," he said hesitatingly, "that just reminds me; if I may take the freedom of showing my gratitude in a small way, permit me to say to you as pastor, what I have already hinted to himself, that your most excellent curate will involve himself in a great deal of trouble and possible expense if he perseveres in that matter of the fishing-boat. Indeed, I have been working the matter for him, because his heart is set on it; butI have misgivings. I'm not sure that I am quite right in mentioning the matter to you, sir; but I am really anxious, and I speak from long experience."
He lighted another cigar at the door, and I returned to think somewhat anxiously whether I had done credit to Catholic philosophy. But my thoughts would revert to these last words of Ormsby's. What if Father Letheby should get into a bad mess, and everything so promising? How little these young men reflect what a trouble they are to their old pastors!
LITERARY ATTEMPTS
I broke Captain Ormsby's advice to Father Letheby as gently as I could; and I flatter myself I have the talent of putting things in as roundabout a way as any professional diplomat. He took it badly. He is clearly overworking himself, for he now becomes irritable on the slightest provocation.
"Blocked everywhere!" he said, walking up and down his little room. "Father Dan, you are right; and I am a fool. There is no use attempting to do any good in Ireland."
Now, this was not exactly the conclusion I wanted him to come to; but we have a national failing of generalizing from rather minute particulars.
"I'm not so sure of that," I said. "I think you have a fair share of work to do here, and that you have done it and are doing it remarkably well."
Absurd! There was not half enough to do to satisfy his Napoleonic ambition. Nothing but the Vicariate of the whole of the Dark Continent for this young man.
"Look here, Father Dan. My parochial work is over every day at four o'clock; and you have taught me to finish the Office, even by anticipation, before dinner. Now, what on earth is a young fellow to do between four o'clock of a winter's evening and ten o'clock, when he retires? Once in a month I dine at Campion's; but the rest of the time, except when I run up to you—"
"And you don't come half enough, you, sir," I said. "I never saw anything like the—pride of young fellows nowadays."
"That's all right, Father Dan," he replied, somewhat more calmly; "but even with all your kindness, what in the world am I to do with my leisure time?"
"Read, and read, and read," I said. "Have you not the whole ocean of human knowledge to dip into?"
"Ah!cui bono?" he replied.
"Cui bono?from you! I never thought I'd hear that fatal word again.Cui bono?from you!Cui bono?from you!"
I was never so startled in my life. It was a dread revelation of dissatisfaction and ennui, that might lead no one knew whither.
"Cui bono?" I said. "Is there any pleasure on this earth comparable to the pleasure of acquiring knowledge? Is there any satisfaction equal to the continuous pursuit of ideas—always coming up to them, and passing them in the insatiable thirst and pursuit? Now, I see clearly that my tastes are not your tastes, and I was wrong in forcing the studies of the classics upon you. But take up philosophy, arrange ahorariumfor the evenings—so much time for reading, so much for thinking, so much for writing—"
"Ah! there you've struck it," he broke in. "If I could only write, I should always have an incentive, and a strong incentive for reading and studying what I read."
"And why don't you write?" I repeated. "Paper is cheap; pens and ink don't cost much—"
"Write for what, and for whom?" he cried.
"Write for the magazines," I said. "Write brisk, crisp, lively articles for our reviews and periodicals; get paid for them; and then the ineffable pleasure of seeing your own work in print!"
"And what if they were rejected contumeliously?"
"Impossible," I replied; "there is room and to spare for good writers. Why, we are always crying out about the barrenness of our literature!"
He had gone over to a portfolio, and had taken out a few rolls of manuscript, to each of which a letter was tagged. He handed them to me without a word. It needed only a glance to see that if the editors had used up all the polite words of the language, nevertheless, "Rejected!" was written in capital letters on every page. I knew well what it meant to a proud, sensitive spirit; and although it was only the usual probation for literary novices, it might have a different effect from successful training in the case of a thoughtful if irritable mind. I pretended to read carefully the two essays, the three short stories, and the half-dozen poems that had come back to the author's hands without proofs, whilst I was rapidly turning over in my mind what I should say or do; for the recollection of my own experience at his age led me to believe that this was a critical moment for him. Happy the stupid souls that can gaze, without the constant fretting of thought, into the fire for hours together! Happy we, who, going down the decline of life, have the brake put on by a merciful Providence, and the wheels move slowly, and day blends with night, and night dawns to day, almost imperceptibly! But thrice unhappy they in whose souls the mills of thought whirl round and round without ceasing the wheelstones that grind together, if the grist is not between! How often to dreaming poet and idealist has the eternal fretting of the wheels become intolerable, and then—
"I shouldn't mind," he interjected on my reverie, "but these papers issue such lamentable stuff! Such vapid essays, such aimless stories, such bread-and-butter school-girl poetry,—'sing' and 'spring,' 'bird' and 'heard,'—not an elevating idea or thought through the whole thing from beginning to end; and then look at these: 'We consider your story too long;' 'We regret that the style of your article is unsuited to our pages;' 'We see some promise in your poem, but it is not quite up to the level of our requirements;' 'Try blank verse.... We shall be glad to hear from you again.' Did you ever hear such mockery, and these very men printing such intolerable rubbish!"
Of course, he never thought of the poor editor, leaning over his chair in a brown study, biting the pen-handle, and wondering how he can please "A Constant Subscriber," who objects to the rather light nature of the articles he is now giving to the public; or, "Sacerdos," who does not like poetry; or, "Senex," who asks sarcastically: Is he putting himself in rivalry with the "Edinburgh" or "Quarterly," or who the mischief cares one brass pin about "Aristotle's Constitution of Athens;" and wouldn't he give them something light and agreeable to help to digest their dinners? Oh no! he only thought then and there that there should be anauto da fe,—a summary crematory process of all the editors under the sun.
"Look here, young man," said I, at last, "there is only one thing for you to do. You must write a book."
"Look here, Father Dan," said he, "I'm not in much humor for joking. Any priest that wouldattempt to write a book nowadays should have the spirit of the martyrs, who stepped onto the sands in the Coliseum and saw the brutal Romans in theauditoriumand wild beasts in the cages beneath!"
"Well, my dear boy," I replied, "youwillwrite the book; but for goodness' sake write it in your present humor, before the fires die down."
He laughed.
"Write a book? What in the world should I write about? The world is deluged and drowned by books. And if I wrote it, who could or would publish it? Imagine me hawking around a wretched manuscript from publisher to publisher, until it was tattered, yellow, and undecipherable. Why, the big London fellows accept only ten MSS. out of five hundred on the average, and you know I cannot publish at my own risk."
"Who the mischief spoke about publishing?" I replied, trying to keep up the flame; "I only asked you to write. Write, write, write, and leave the publishing to God."
"And what am I to write about? Every subject under the sun is threshed out and threadbare, from the origin of ideas down to the microbe of typhoid fever. Not at all; the world is grown too wise for books; we must devise something else."
"It is not many days ago," I replied, "since I heard you lament the awful and culpable defectsin our popular Catholic literature. Hadn't you to fall back upon that barbarous book to enlighten Ormsby on the existence of his immortal soul?"
"Barbarous? I wish to heaven that I could write anything half as good. But, as you see, there are whole fields of literature yet untrodden by us, but where heretics and others are reaping rich harvests. Yet, who would dare make the attempt? Don't you know that the ablest professors in your own time in Maynooth never ventured into print? They dreaded the chance shots from behind the hedge from the barrels of those masked banditti, called 'critics.'"
"Dear me, how you do run on! One would think you had the MS. cut and dry in your pocket, you talk so glibly about publishers and critics. Can't you write the book first and then take circumstances as they occur?"
"Well, go on, suggest a subject, sir."
"Now, this is rather sudden, young man. Give me one day, and I'll give you a list of subjects that would bewilder you! Only promise me you'll take one up."
"All right!" said he; "I promise. Hallo! where are you taking those papers?"
"I'm taking them home for the present. They are confiscated to the Crown."
He looked at them wistfully, as if they were going to the holocaust, as we might imagine the great mother of the Maccabees watched half withpain, half with pride, wholly with resignation, her sons mount the funeral pyre.
"It broke in my fingers and revealed the little dreams and ambitions of nearly forty years ago.""It broke in my fingers and revealed the little dreams and ambitions of nearly forty years ago."
"Never fear," I replied, "they won't go up the chimney. At least, I'll answer for the prose. I'm not so sure about the poetry. Now, good day! I'll keep you to your promise."
And I did, but with what cost to myself. I had to search in the cemeteries of the past for the skeletons of designs, once gladly adopted, then as gladly laid to rest. At last, I found, hiddenaway amongst episcopal documents, dispensations, etc., a yellow, frayed paper, tied up in string that once was red, but now was white and fragile. It broke in my fingers and revealed the little dreams and ambitions of nearly forty years ago. Need I say they never ripened, or came within even measurable distance of perfection. They were three large quarto sheets, and they were darkened thus:—
A. M. D. G.
Subjects for Articles and Papers to be written, wholly or partially, during the Coming Years.
I.Mental Philosophy.I. The Influence of Plato on the Early Christian Church.II. The Influence of Aristotle on the Mediæval Church.III. The Neo-Platonists.IV. The Argument in St. Augustine on the Immortality of the Soul. (Is it Tenable?)V. The Atomic Theory of Democritus, and the Modern Discoveries in Astronomy.VI. The Influence of the Inductive Philosophy on Modern Disbelief.VII. Was Spinoza an Atheist?VIII. Is Descartes the Father of Modern Rationalism?IX. St. Anselm's Proof of the Existence of God.X. The Cosmological Argument of St. John Damascene.XI. The Argument from Intuition.XII. Aspects of Modern Pantheism.XIII. Christian Idealism.XIV. Malebranche and Fénelon.XV. Boëthius.XVI. Catholic Philosophers of the Nineteenth Century.XVII. The Connection between Soul and Body (Tertullian).XVIII. The Chaldæan Doctrine of the Soul (εσσαμενοσ πυÏιÏÏ…Ï).XIX. The Idea of Personality.XX. The Identification of Life and Motion.XXI. Maine de Biran.XXII. The Popularization of Catholic Philosophy.II.Ecclesiastical History.I. The Alexandrian School.II. The Writings of Clement.III. Origen, and his Works.IV. Ephrem the Syrian, and his Works.V. The Apologists.VI. The Three Cappadocians.VII. Julian and his Contemporaries.VIII. The Council of Nicæa.IX. St. Augustine and the Donatists.X. The Saints of the Catacombs.XI. The Discipline of the Secret.XII. The Libyan and Nitrean AnchoritesXIII. The Stylites.XIV. Communion in the Early Church.XV. Mediævalism.XVI. The Case of Honorius.XVII. Hildebrand.XVIII. Alexander VI. and Savonarola.XIX. Origin and Spread of Monasticism.XX. The Influence of the Irish Monks on the Continent of Europe.XXI. Schools of Philosophy.XXII. Port-Royal, Pascal, Nicole, Arnauld.XXIII. The Rise and Progress of Jansenism.XXIV. Gallicanism and National Churches.
Rather a large order, I thought, as I looked with pitying eyes on the far vision of a curly-headed young priest of forty years ago, and thought of the day-dreams of youth; and what a very slender precipitate of work fell from the vast effervescence of the idealism of inexperience. There remained another page of projected inspiration on the scope and meaning of Holy Scripture; but this I put aside. I found my knowledge, little as it was, was derived from such obsolete and antique commentators as á Lapide, Maldonatus, Estius, and theTriplex; and I was ashamed to produce such fossilized literature to the advanced thinkers of the present day. I did not like to face this ordeal:—
"Then you haven't heard of the new schools of interpretation? You know that the great thinkers of Germany, Bahrdt, and Semler, and Eichhorn, have upset all our preconceived ideas about the Bible. The Wolfian ideas have been expanded and developed; and advanced Catholic apologists have set themselves to the task ofreconciling our ancient traditions with the discoveries of modern science. The tremendous advances made by philological scientists and experts during these last years—"
I don't say, indeed, that my curate would indulge in this affectation, for he is rather disposed to take the old, unlearned modes of saving souls and going with them to Heaven, than the new, brilliant mimetism of a world that knows not God. But still I know he would think it waste of time to pursue such studies, until the modernLuciferitell us exactly what they have placed beyond the borderland of conjecture, and into the certain and unshaken fields of mathematical demonstration. So I left my Scriptural syllabus at home.
He looked slightly appalled at the large schedule of science I showed him. I reassured him by telling him I insisted positively on his taking only one subject in each department.
"The grand mistake," I declared, "made by us, Catholics, is in taking too wide, too bird's-eye a view of human history and philosophy, instead of mapping them into sections, as the astronomical photographers are mapping the skies from the Papal Observatory in Rome to the Lick Observatory in California. What we want most is sectional treatises on single subjects. Now, what you are to give us is not a vast diorama from Thales to Rosmini, and from the persecutions ofJulian to theKulturkampfof Bismarck, but a neat etching of some particular persons and events, and a clear photograph of some practical point of Catholic philosophy. If you throw in a few side-lights from the errors of non-Catholic thinkers, so much the better. Now, look it over carefully; as the strolling player declares—'You pays your money, and you takes your choice.'"
He thought that question of inductive philosophy very nice. He had read something about it in Macaulay. He liked that Platonic question very much. It bordered upon poetry and mysticism Then St. Augustine! That would be charming. He had always such a love for St. Augustine! But Fénelon? The "dove of Cambrai"versusthe "eagle of Meaux!" What a delightful idea! No good housekeeper, at a cheap sale, was ever so puzzled. Finally, we decided that, in philosophy, he was to take up the question of "Modern Aspects of Pantheism;" and in Ecclesiastical History he selected "The Cappadocians."
"But what about books?" he asked in dismay. "I haven't a single book on these blessed subjects."
"Buy them," I said. "Every good workman buys his tools and materials."
"I have a strong suspicion, Father Dan," he said, "that this is all a practical joke. Why, thatmeans a whole library. And if I had money, which I have not, I do not know the name of a single blessed Catholic author on these subjects."
"Why, my dear fellow, there are hundreds. Let me see! On the Fathers, Basil and the two Gregories. Let me see! Haven't you—my memory is failing—haven't you Cardinal Newman's essays on these Fathers?"
"Well? You don't want me to give a verbatim version of Cardinal Newman, surely, do you?"
"Let me see! Why, we have hundreds of English Catholic writers on these subjects. What in the world is becoming of my memory? Why, we have whole libraries in the English language on these subjects! Isn't there Alzog and—and—Darras?—"
"I have Darras," he cried triumphantly.
"Well, look it up, and see all you can get about St. Basil."
"But their writings! Wouldn't it be nice to give Greek extracts from their sermons and homilies?"
"'T would indeed. Well, I'll look up all the old catalogues I have kept, and let you know about books of reference. Meanwhile, commence somewhere by way of preface. Now, what are you going to do about that fishing-boat? Ormsby says it is certainly a troublesome and may be a perilous enterprise!"
"It's gone too far now to draw back," said Father Letheby. "The Board has yielded at last, thanks to Ormsby himself."
"They'll advance all the money?"
"No; two thirds; four hundred pounds."
"That's very kind of them; and no interest, no security. I did not think Boards could be so generous."
"No, indeed. They have full security to be paid back, principal and five per cent interest, in less than five years."
"By Jove! You are a clever fellow. And where have you got all this Midas wealth?"
He asked me to be good enough to move with him to the window. True enough, even under the cold light, the broad sea stretched sparkling before us, with all its magic and glamour, but unruffled and unploughed by even one Nautilus-sail of busy man.
"There," he cried, "there lie the gold mines of Ireland, unworked and neglected. In these depths is wealth enough to make Kilronan a busy emporium of merchandise for half the world!"
"I see. And the other two hundred? Where do they come from?"
"Subscribed by twenty merchants, who have taken shares in the boat."
"And you never asked your old pastor to invest in this patriotic bank. Shame! Shame! AndI wanted a little return as well as the rest of the world."
He laughed.
"The mackerel fishery alone," he continued, in a calculating way, "is worth a hundred pounds each for each boat in the Manx and French fishing-fleets that anchor off our shores every year, and take our wealth back to their thriving villages. I calculate another cool hundred on cod, haak, etc. I think we shall pay back the Board's loan in three years, besides paying handsome dividends to our shareholders. The boat is in the hands of a Belfast firm. She will be ready by the first of May. On that day she will be christened the 'Star of the Sea,' and will make her first run to the fishing-fleet."
"And what about the shirt-factory?"
"That's all right, too," he said, though his face grew a little clouded. "I shall have twenty sewing-machines in full swing by the middle of April. The manager was here and dined with me last Thursday; he's a fine fellow. He assures me that, after the initial expenses are over, the girls can earn from eight to ten shillings a week easily."
"By Jove! That's good. That will be a great help to the poor people."
"Yes; he sends the shirts here, ready and cut for sewing, by the new system of scientific shirt-making. Then all they have to do is to tack them together with the machines."
"God bless you!" I said fervently. "You're a wonderful fellow."
I was sorry that I gave him Ormsby's message of warning.
MADONNA MIA
The winter had nearly rolled by, and the sky was opening out its eyelids wider and wider, and letting in light to man and all his wondrous train of servitors. It was a cold, steely light indeed, particularly on those March evenings; and the sunsetting was a dreary, lonesome thing, as the copper-colored rays rested on hamlet or mountain, or tinged the cold face of the sea. But it was light, and light is something man craves for, be it never so pale. Will not one of heaven's delights be to see the "inaccessible light" in which God—our God—is shrouded, and to behold one another's faces in the light that streams from the Lamb? And so, very tempting as my fire is—and I am as much a fire-worshipper as an Irish Druid or a Peruvian Inca—I always like to go out as the days are lengthening and the sun is stretching out his compasses to measure in wider arcs the sky.
This evening, too, I had a little business with Father Letheby. As I entered his parlor, I carried a tiny slip of printed paper in my hand.
"You'd hardly guess what it is?" I said, holding it from the light.
"A check for a hundred pounds, or my removal!" he exclaimed.
"Neither. Read it!"
I am quite sure it was infinitely more gratifying than the check, to say nothing of the removal; and I am quite sure the kindly editor, who had sent me that proof of Father Letheby's first poem, would have been amply repaid for his charity if he had seen the shades and flushes of delight and half-alarm that swept like clouds across the face of the young priest. And it was not all charity, either. The good editor spoke truly when he declared that the poem was quite original and out of the beaten track, and would probably attract some attention. I think, next to the day of his ordination, this was the supreme day in Father Letheby's life hitherto.
"It was very kind," he said, "very kind indeed. And how am I to thank you, Father Dan?"
"By keeping steadily at the work I pointed out for you," I replied. "Now, let me see what you have done."
"Do you mean about the books?" he asked.
"Yes," I said determinedly, "and about thehorariumI marked out and arranged for you. Have you conscientiously studied during the two hours each evening, and written from 11a.m. to noon every day, as I appointed?"
"To be candid," he said at once, "I have not. First came the lack of books. Except Butler's'Lives of the Saints,' I cannot come across a single indication of what Basil and the Gregories did or wrote; and my edition of Butler is expurgated of all the valuable literary notes which, I understand, were in the first editions. Then the moment I take the pen into my hand, in comes Mrs. Luby to know wouldn't I write to the colonel of the Connaught Rangers to get her little boy discharged and sent home. He enlisted in a fit of drink. Then comes Mrs. Moriarty with the modest request to write to the pastor of Santa Barbara about her little girl who emigrated to America sixteen years ago. Then comes—"
"Never mind," I said, "I have been there. But I won't accept these excuses at all. Youmustwork, whether you like or no. Now, I am going to take away all excuses. I have been searching a lot of old catalogues, and I have discovered that these are the books for you. On the subject of 'Modern Pantheism' we will get:—
"(1) Lewes' 'History of Philosophy,' 4 vols."(2) Brucker's 'Historia Critica Philosophiæ,' 6 vols."(3) Tenneman's 'History of Philosophy' (Cousin)."(4) Émile Saisset's 'Modern Pantheism,' 2 vols."(5) 'History of Pantheism' (Plumtre)."(6) 'An Essay on Pantheism,' by J. Hunt, D.D."(7) 'Spinoza,' by Principal Caird, LL. D."(8) 'Spinoza,' by D. J. Martineau."(9) 'Spinoza, his Ethics and Correspondence,' by R. Willis, M.D."(10) 'Spinoza,' by Nourrisson.
"Now, on the subject of Ecclesiastical History we will get, read, and consult:—
"(1) 'Historia Literaria Ecclesiæ,' by Cave."(2) Farrar's 'Lives of the Fathers,' 2 vols."(3) Cave's 'Lives of the Fathers,' 3 vols."(4) 'Lives of the Fathers,' by the S. P. C. K."(5) The Bishop of Lincoln (Kaye) on 'The Fathers and Early Councils.'"(6) 'Lives of the Fathers,' by the author of 'A Dominican Artist,' 3 vols."(7) Neander's 'Church History,' 8 vols."(8) Neale's 'Oriental Church.'"
Here Father Letheby stopped me, as he broke from a suppressed chuckle into uncontrollable laughter.
"Why, Father Dan, what in the world are you reading? Don't you know that you are calling out a list of the most rampant heretics and disbelievers, every one of whom is probably on the Index? Is it possible that you cannot discover any English Catholic authorities on these subjects?"
"I have not seen them," I said mournfully. "And do you mean to say that all these Protestants, and many of them, you say, infidels, have not been interested in these subjects?"
"Well, I presume they would not have gone to the vast trouble of accumulating material, and writing ponderous volumes otherwise."
"And what are we doing? And if ever these grave subjects become of importance or interest to our youth, say in the higher systems of education, what books can we put into their hands?"
We were both in a brown study. These things make men thoughtful. At last Father Letheby said:—
"How do they manage in the German and French universities, I wonder?"
"Depend upon it," I replied, "there is no lack of Catholic authors on every subject there. And I'm told the Italian priests take an extraordinary interest in these higher studies. And in France every French priest thinks he is bound to write at least one book."
"I never understood the importance of this matter till I met Ormsby," said Father Letheby. "He opened my eyes. By the way, Father Dan, I must congratulate you on the impression you have made there. Some things you said have made a vivid impression on him. He keeps on saying: 'A sixth sense! A sixth sense. Perhaps he is right, after all.' And that dependence on the prayers of little children and the afflictedtouched him deeply. Do you know, I think he'll come 'round."
"God grant it," I said, rising. "But I suppose this little project of ours is knocked on the head."
"You mean the books?"
"Yes."
"I fear so. The fact is, Father Dan, I find I have no time. Between my two hours with the choir on Tuesdays and Fridays, the Saturday and Sunday evenings in the church, the occasional evening out, and my correspondence, I don't know where to get time to fit in everything. And now that you have been so good as to secure the sympathy of the editor of the——for me, I think I may do something for him at intervals."
"I have regretted a few things during my life, young man," I said; "but I never regretted anything so much as to have sent on that poem of yours instead of sending it up the chimney."
"My dear Father Dan," said he, "what are you saying? Don't you know that the Pope himself writes poetry, and writes it well?"
"May God forgive him!" I said fervently. Then I got sorry, as this was not reverent, and a bright thought struck me.
"What kind of poetry does His Holiness write?"
"Why, the most beautiful Latin elegiacs and hexameters."
"I thought so," I said triumphantly. "I knew that the Holy Father would write nothing but in the style of the divine Mantuan. If you do anything that way, my boy, I'll forgive you. Keep to your classics, keep to your classics, and you're all right."
It was delightful to find us, the last remnant of the great generation of the classical priests of Ireland, backed up by the first authority in the world.
It was twilight when I left, and I made my usual detour around our hamlet. Outside the village and just beyond the school-house, in a little cottage whose diamond windows are almost hidden under green creepers, lived Alice Moylan, the head monitress in our little school. I rather liked Alice, for when she was a little child of seven years, she gave me an idea of something for which I had been long seeking. It was a few years back, when I had not laid up my pen finally, but still retained the belief, with a certain author, that "there is no greater mental excitement, and scarcely a sweeter one, than when a young man strides up and down his room, and boldly resolves to take a quire of writing paper and turn it into a manuscript." And in these latter days of life I still sought for a vision of our Lady, which I could keep before my imagination when writing certain things in herhonor. Now (perhaps I have already said it), I had a peculiar devotion to the Child-Virgin of the Temple and of the House of Nazareth, where in the noontide the Archangel entered and spoke his solemn words. And I never said theMagnificatbut on my knees and with a full heart, as I thought on the Child-Prophetess of Hebron and the wondering aged saints. But I sought her face everywhere in vain—in pictures, in the faces of my little children; but not one came up to my ideal of what the little maiden of the Temple and Nazareth was like. At last, one day, little Alice came, and in her sweet oval face, and calm, entreating eyes and raven hair, subdued beneath such a dainty frilled headdress, I saw our Blessed Lady and wondered and was glad. And in those days of her simple childhood, before the awful dawn of self-consciousness, I used dream and dream, and put into form my dreams; and the face that haunted all my sacred and poetic conceptions of our dear Queen was the face of little Alice. But the child grew, and waxed in strength, but waned in beauty,—at least the beauty I regarded when the white soul looked out of the beautiful childish face. But Alice grew to be the village beauty, and she knew it. Every one told her of it; but her chief admirer was the little milliner, who lived down near the post-office, and whose simple life was a mixture of very plain, prosaic poverty, and veryhigh and lofty romance. From this Miss Levis, who was a confirmed novel-reader, Alice learned that "she had the face and form of an angel"; that "her eyes had a velvety softness that drew you like an enchanted lake"; that these same eyes were "starry in their lustrous beauty"; that she had "the complexion of a creole, or rather the healthy pallor of the high-born aristocracy of England"; that "her figure was willowy and swayed like a reed in the wind"; and all the other curious jargon of the novelette—the deadly enemy of simplicity and innocence. Then Alice grew proud and vain, and her vanity culminated on the night of our concert in November, when she drew up for the first time her luxuriant black hair and tied it in a knot and bound it in a fillet, which was said to be themode à la Grecque. But she was a very pure, innocent girl withal, and exceedingly clever in her work at school.
I had missed her recently, but had been occupied with other thoughts until the time came for the quarterly salaries of the teachers; and I noticed in the returns from the principal teacher that Alice had been absent the greater part of the time. This evening, after leaving Father Letheby, I determined to call, unprepared to witness the little tragedy that was before me—one of those little side-scenes in the great drama of existence, which God turns suddenly to the front lest we should ever mistake the fact thatour little world is a stage, and that we have all the denizens of the veiled eternities for our audience. Mrs. Moylan was one of those beautiful Irish mothers, who, having passed through the stress and storm of life, was moving calmly into the great sea of Death and Eternity. She had one of those Irish faces that were so typical of our race some years ago, and the intense resignation and patience of which rivalled the sweet innocence of our little Irish children for the admiration of such a keen and sympathetic observer as Dr. Newman. There were a few wrinkles in the pallid cheeks, and one or two lines across the white forehead, crowned with the clean white cap which our Irish mothers wear. She looked, I thought, a little reproachfully at me as I entered, but only welcomed me with that courteous reverence which makes us priests so often humbled and ashamed. After a few words I inquired for Alice.
"My poor child hasn't been well, your reverence. We were jealous that you never asked for her."
I protested my utter ignorance of her illness, and inquired what was the ailment.
"You can see yourself, your reverence," the poor mother said, silently wiping away a tear. "But," she whispered, "don't pretend to see anything. She feels it very much."
I passed into the little chamber and was making my apologies to the poor child, when, in spite of her mother's warning, I started back, shocked and horror-stricken.
"Good God," I could not help crying out, "what has happened to you, my poor child?"
She smiled faintly, and then a tear rolled down the leprous cheek. Ay! indeed! my poor little Madonna, my little child, whose beauty was such a dream of Paradise, was changed. The large, lustrous eyes were untouched; but the fair cheek was one hideous, leprous sore. The black, glossy hair was now a few dirty wisps. The child, whose face and figure every one turned around to look at a second time, was now a revolting mummy, seamed and scarred by some terrible disease. I had presence of mind enough to take up the thin, white hand; she picked the coverlet and said nothing. Her heart was too full of her misery to utter a word. I could only say:—
"My poor child! my poor child!"
I turned to the mother.
"This is too dreadful! What has happened?"
"Dreadful enough, your reverence," she cried; "but welcome be the will of God!"
"But what has happened?" I cried.
Then I thought it would be a relief to the poor child's feelings to tell me her own sad tale, so I said:—
"Never mind! Alice will tell me all herself. Now, my child, tell me all."
She did, with all the humility and such gentle submission to God's decree that I wept freely. It would appear that on the afternoon of that November concert, Alice, like so many other girls, was very much engrossed in her preparations for the evening. She had studied the "Young Lady's Journal" and several other works of interest and usefulness, and all day long was highly excited over her appearance. Once, when she was particularly engaged at the looking-glass, she heard some one fumbling at the half-door, as if anxious to come into the kitchen. Angry at being disturbed, she burst from her room, and saw in the framework of the door an awful sight. It was a poor woman, whose face was completely eaten away by a dread disease called nasal polypus. The nose was completely gone and the upper lip. The eyes stared out as if from a death's-head. The poor creature begged for alms; but Alice, flushed at the thought of her own beauty, and in a rage from being called away from her glass, clapped her hands and shouted:—
"Well, youarea beauty."
"Not so handsome as you, alanna," said the afflicted one. "There was wance when, perhaps, I was. But your time may come. Mockin' is catchin'. Mockin' is catchin'."
And with these words the woman strode away.
"I could not get the thought of my sin out ofmy head all that day," continued Alice; "her face was always coming before me, until at last I gave up looking at the glass. But when the night came and we were all in the concert-room, my vanity came back again, for I heard people whisper as I was passing, and my foolish head was turned. Then, when it was all over, and the girls broke into groups, and the people were all around, I tried to attract more attention. And I had been reading of a trick in the novels for making one's self more interesting by standing on tiptoe and opening the eyes widely; and, God help me! I was practising this foolishness, thinking that some of the young men were admiring me for it, when suddenly Father Letheby saw me, and he gave me a look that struck me like a flash of lightning. I felt dazed and blinded, and asked one of the girls to take me from the room and lead me home. But all that night I never slept, the woman's face and the awful look that Father Letheby gave me were staring at me out of the curtains and out of the dark, until late in the morning I fell into a sleep, only to dream the same dreadful things."
Here the poor girl broke down and sobbed in an agony of remorse.
"Well, then, Father, I got up sick and sorrowful, and before my breakfast I went over there to the Blessed Virgin's altar and said a Rosary, and begged and prayed her not to punish me for whatI had done. Sure, I said, 't was only a girl's foolishness and I was young; and I promised then and there to give up novel-reading and to be good, and to let my hair fall down, and to drop all my foolish notions; but 't was no use. I saw something in the face of the Blessed Virgin that frightened me, and I knew I was in for something. I didn't think my punishment would be so dreadful."
Here the poor child sobbed again, and picked the coverlet mournfully as she tried to choke down her emotion. I looked over at that statue of the Blessed Virgin and shook my head reproachfully.
"Oh! Father, why does God punish us so terribly for such small sins?" the poor girl went on. "And what must purgatory be, and what must hell be when He punishes us so dreadfully here! I thought 't was all over and my fear was vanishing, when one Sunday morning, dressing for Mass, I noticed a tiny pimple here on my cheek. It wasn't as big as the head of a pin; but it gave me great trouble. Not that I suspected anything; but when our poor heads are turned with vanity, you don't know, Father, what a worry these little blemishes are. I just touched it with my finger and it bled. That night 't was an angry spot. I used everything I could think of—lard, and butter, and ointment. No use. Every day it grew and grew and grewinto an ugly sore. Then I wrote, as Miss Levis advised me, to a London doctor, recommended in the journals; he sent me a prescription—"
"For nothing?" I interjected.
"No, indeed, Father. Before I was done with him it cost me a pound. But I applied his cosmetics and became daily worse. Then my mother spoke of making rounds. But I wouldn't leave her. I went to the school every day, but I saw the girls watching me. I heard them whisper to each other, and sometimes I caught their words. They weren't kind. Then I stopped away. One day, while I was sitting at the door knitting, suddenly the sun was darkened, and there was the dreadful face of that woman over me.
"'I'm asking charity for God's sake,' she said.
"I got up humbly and gave her bread and twopence. She looked at me keenly and said: 'God save you, alanna, and purtect you from misfortune. Sure, 't was only a hasty word you said. God save you and purtect you, alanna!'
"Then the frightful anger of God coming down upon me suddenly flashed upon me, and I flung aside my knitting and rushed into this room, and cried and screamed, and bit the counterpane until I tore it in threads, and shrieked:—
"'Don't! don't, O Lord; Oh, don't! don't!'
"And then I turned to the Blessed Virgin and said the little prayer 'Remember' that you taught us, Father; 'Remember;' and then I said:—
"'You won't let Him, Mother! you won't let Him! Didn't you say you wouldn't let Him?'
"But the face stared down at me pitilessly, pitilessly. There was no hope."
The poor child stopped again, and to relieve her from the pain of memory I said:—
"But wasn't the doctor called in all this time? The doctor is very clever, you know."
"Oh, he was, Father! And he was very kind. But he was very angry; and I think, Father, he cursed when I told him about these London cosmetics. And one day he asked mother a lot of queer questions about father and grandfather; and then he said something about 'strumous' and 'hereditary;' and he has done me no good."
"Did Father Letheby call?" I asked.
"Oh, dear, yes, that was my only consolation. He calls twice a week, sometimes three times; and he brought Miss Campion, and she comes every day and reads for hours with me; and look at those violets and lilies of the valley—'t was she brought them; and sometimes a strange gentleman comes with her, and he sits down and talks and puts queer questions to me—all about God, and what I do be doing, and what I do be thinking. But since Father Letheby told me that there is something behind it all that I don't understand, and that some day I will understand it, and see it is all God's love and not His anger, I am quite resigned, Father, and I do be sayingall day: 'Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done.' But I break down when I think of all I've gone through."
"Let me see," I said, as a light began to dawn upon me; "you are now perfectly resigned, my poor child, are you not?"
"Oh! yes, Father; and really happy. Only for mother, who frets about me so much, I wouldn't care to be well again. Sure, as Father Letheby says, I don't know but that something dreadful was in store for me; and that God, in His mercy, has just saved me."
"Quite right! quite right! my child. And tell me now,—this strange gentleman,—has he ever asked you to pray for him?"
"He did, Father. And I didn't like it at first; but Father Letheby said I should. And I have been saying a Rosary for him every day since. And the last day he was here he asked me: 'Now, Alice, tell me the plain truth. Are you glad this has happened you?' I hesitated for a moment, then I looked at the Wounds of our Lord, and I said firmly: 'I am.' And he said: 'Do you believe God will give you back your beauty, and make it a hundred times greater in heaven for all you have suffered here?' And I said confidently: 'I do.' 'Alice, my child, will you pray and pray strongly for me?' I said: 'I will, sir.' And he went away looking happy. But, you know, Father, these are my good times,when I feel resigned and think God is using me for His own wise purposes; welcome be His Holy Will! But I am sometimes bad, and I get unhappy and miserable, and I ask myself: 'Why did God do it? Why did God do it?' And once I said to our Blessed Lady, when she looked so cold and stern,—I said—"
"What did you say, dear?"
"I said: 'If Daddy Dan was here, he wouldn't let you do it.'"
And the poor child smiled at her own childishness and simplicity.
"But that's not all, Father. I have told no one but mother and you; but I'm all one running sore down to my feet, and the doctor said something about an operation the other day. Sure, you won't allow that, Daddy Dan, will you?"
She was rolling one of the buttons in my sleeve round and round in her thin fingers, and looking wistfully at me.
"No, my child, no operation! You have gone through too much for that. But now cheer up, Alice, it will all come right. Some of these days you will see how our dear Lord and His Holy Mother love you. Why, don't you know, you little goose, that these are signs of your predestination? Don't you remember all that you have learned about the saints, and how they prayed to be afflicted?"
"I do, Daddy Dan."
"And don't you remember all about those holy women that were marked with the wounds of our Divine Lord?"
"I do, Daddy Dan."
"Very well! Now you're one of them. The Lord has made you His own. Now, good by. I'll come to see you every day in future. But pray! pray! pray! won't you?"
"I will, Daddy Dan! Will you come to-morrow?"
This was all very well; but I was as cross as a bear with a sore head, notwithstanding.
"Wisha, then, Mrs. Moylan," I said, as I was leaving the house, "aren't you the mighty proud woman entirely, never to call in your parish priest, nor send him word about your poor child! What are we coming to, I wonder, when poor people are getting so much above themselves?"
"Well, then, I didn't like to be troubling your reverence. And sure, I thought you knew all about it, and that Father Letheby told you."
"He didn't, then. You and he have kept it a great secret,—a great secret entirely. Never mind. But tell me, is the poor child really resigned?"
"Well, indeed she is, your reverence, excep' now and then, when the whole thing comes back to her. In fact, she's less trouble than when she was well. Then nothing could please her. Shewas always grumblin' about her clothes, an' her food; and she was short and peevish. Now she is pleased with everythin'. 'T is 'whatever you like, mother;' or ''t is too good for me, mother;' or 'thank you kindly, mother,' until sometimes I do be wishing that she had some of the old sperrit, and take me short in her answers. But, sure, 't is all God's Blessed and Holy Will. Glory be to His Holy Name!"
I went back through the village again and called upon Father Letheby. He was just sitting down to dinner.
"I don't want to take away your appetite," I said, refusing the chair which he proffered; "but I am for the first time genuinely angry with you. I suppose you had your reasons for it; but you ought to know that a parish priest has, by every law, natural and canonical, the right to know about his sick or distressed poor people, and that a curate has no right to be keeping these things a secret from him. Reticence and secretiveness are excellent things in their way; but this too may be overdone. I have just been down to Mrs. Moylan's to learn for the first time that her child has been sick for nearly two months. You knew it and you never told me. Now, I'll insist for the future that a sick-call book shall be kept in the sacristy, and that the name of every patient, in the parish shall be entered there. Good evening."
He flushed up, but said nothing.
I passed the chapel door and went in straight up to the altar of the Blessed Virgin.
"Now," I said, "you've carried this entirely too far. Is this the return I've got for all I've done for you for the past fifty years? Think of all the Rosaries I said for you, all the Masses I offered for you, all the May devotions I established for you, all the Brown Scapulars I gave for you—all—all—and this is your return; and she your own child, that I thought was so like you. 'Pon my word, I think I'll blow out that lamp and never light it again."
The mild, brown eyes looked down on me calmly, and then that queer thing called Conscience, that jumps up like a jack-in-the-box when you least expect it, started at me and began:—
"What folly is this, Father Dan? Do you think you know more than God and His Blessed Mother? Do you? Your head is so turned with heathen vanity that you think you ought to get the reins of the universe into your hands. Here's your classics, and your Spinoza, and your Cappadocians, and your book-writing, and all your castles in the air, and your little children lying on their sick-beds and you knowing nothing about it. Look sharp, old man, your time is at hand, and think what the Judge may do with you when His hand presses so tightly on His little children."
I sat down to my dinner, but couldn't touch a bit. It was a nice little dinner, too,—a little roast chicken and a scrap of bacon and some nice floury potatoes. No use. The thought of that child would come before me, and her piteous cry: "Oh, don't, dear Lord, don't!" and, "Sure you won't let Him, Mother; you said you wouldn't;" and with a great big lump in my throat I pushed aside the plate and went over to the darkening window.
After a time Hannah came in, looked at the dishes, and looked at me.
"Was there anything wrong with the chicken?" she said, thinking I was reflecting on her cookery.
"No, Hannah, 't was all right; but I'm not in a humor for eating."
She was surprised. So was I. It was the first time for many years that I bolted. Thank God, a good appetite and His Divine Grace have never deserted me.
"I'm thinkin' you're in for somethin'," she said. "And no wondher! I niver knew a man to timpt Providence like you. Will you have the hot wather, as you ate nothin'?"
"Don't mind, Hannah. I'll have a cup of tea by and by."
I sat down to the fire, looking into all its glowing crevices and crannies, thinking, thinking of many things. By and by, in came FatherLetheby. He was subdued and deferential, but evidently very much hurt at my unaccustomed rudeness. He stood with his back to the fire, looking down on me, and he said, in his best Sunday accent, smoothed and ironed:—
"I confess, sir, I am still quite at a loss to understand your rather—well—forcible remarks this evening. I can see, certainly, a great deal of reason in your irritation; and I am not at all disposed to contravene the principle that you have an indefeasible right to be acquainted with the sorrows and trials of your parishioners; but pardon me for saying it, I was only carrying out, perhaps too logically, your own reiterated teaching."
"Look here," said I, "have you had your dinner?"
"Yes, sir," said he.
"Well, then, sit down, and have your coffee here. Touch that bell."
He sat down, and somehow this took a lot of the starch out of him.
"You were saying something," said I, "about my teaching. When did I ever teach you to keep the most vital interests of these poor people a secret from me?"
"Well," said he, balancing the sugar in his spoon over the cup, "if there was one lesson more than another that was continually dinned into my ears, it was: 'When a young man comesinto a strange parish, he must be all eyes and ears, but no tongue,' and I think you quoted some grave authorities for that aphorism."