"O Vergine bella!Del ciel Regina,A cui s'inchinaLa terra ed el mar."O Tu che sei stellaDel mare si bella,Ci guido nal portaCol tuo splendor."
"O Vergine bella!Del ciel Regina,A cui s'inchinaLa terra ed el mar.
"O Tu che sei stellaDel mare si bella,Ci guido nal portaCol tuo splendor."
And then when Bethlehem was repeated, with all its lowliness and humility, there in that humble chapel; and the Divine Babe lay white and spotless on the corporal, the gloriousAdestebroke forth. Ah me! what a new experience for myself and people. Ah me! what a sting of compunction in all the honeyed delights of that glorious morning, to think that for all these years I had been pastor there. Well, never mind;meâ maximâ culpâ! Ignosce, Domine!
I placed the Sacred Host on Captain Campion's tongue, and most heartily forgave him his unflattering epithets. Tears of joy streamed down Bittra's face as she knelt beside him at the altar rails. I was wearied and tired from the large number of Communions I administered that morning. The last communicant was poor Nance. She was hidden away in the deep gloom; but I am not at all sure that the Child Jesus did not nestle as comfortably in the arms of the poor penitent as in those of His virgins and spotless ones. And there were many such, thank God, amongst my Christmas congregation that morning.
But the great surprise of all was in store. For, after Mass was over, there was a great rush to St. Joseph's Chapel; and I am afraid I cut my own thanksgiving short, to move with silent dignity in the same direction. I heard gasps of surprise and delight, exclamations of wonder, suppressed hallelujahs of joy; I saw adoration and tenderness, aweand love on the dimly lighted faces of the people. No wonder! For there, under a rough, rustic roof of pines and shingles, was the Bethlehem of our imaginations in miniature. Rough rocks lined the interior, wet green mosses and lichens covering them here and there; in front of the cave a light hoar-frost lay on the ground, and straw and stubble littered the palace floor of Him who walks on the jasper and chalcedony parquetting of the floors of heaven. And there was the gentle Joseph, with a reverent, wondering look on his worn features; and there the conscious, self-possessed, but adoring expression on the sweet face of the Child-Mother; and there the helpless form and pleading hands of Him whose omnipotence stretches through infinity, and in whose fingers colossal suns and their systems are but the playthings of this moment in His eternal existence, which we call Time. Three shepherds stood around, dazed at some sudden light that shone from the face of the Infant; one, a boy, leaned forward as if to raise in his arms that sweet, helpless Babe; his hands were stretched towards the manger, and a string held the broad hat that fell between his shoulders. And aloft an angel held in his hand a starry scroll, on which was inscribedGloria in excelsis Deo. I stood amongst my awestruck congregation for a few minutes. Some were kneeling, and uttering half-frantic ejaculations of adoration, pity, and love; some leanedagainst a pillar, silent, but with tearful eyes; little children pointed out to each other the different features of this new wonder-world; but all around, the fervid Celtic imagination translated these terracotta figures into living and breathing personalities. It was as if God had carried them back over the gulf of nineteen centuries, and brought them to the stable door of Bethlehem that ever memorable night. I think it is this realization of the Incarnation that constitutes the distinguishing feature of Catholicity. It is the Sacred Humanity of our Lord that brings Him so nigh to us, and makes us so familiar with Him; that makes the Blessed Eucharist a necessity, and makes the hierarchy of Bethlehem, Jerusalem, and Calvary so beloved,—beloved above all by the poor, and the humble, and the lowly. Listen to this!
"Oh, dear, dear, and to think of our Lord with the straw under Him, and His feet covered with the frost of that cowld night—"
"And the poor child! Look at her; why, she's only a little girl, like Norah; and not a woman near to help her in her throuble."
"Look at His little hands stretched out, like any ordinary child. Glory be to His Holy Name. Sure, only for Him where 'ud we be?"
"And poor St. Joseph! No wondher he's fretting. To think of thim two cratures in his hands, and he not having house or home to shelter thim!"
"Wisha, Mary, 't was a pity we worn't there that blessed night. Sure, 't is we'd give 'em the best we had in the world, an' our hearts' blood."
I shared to the full this feeling about St. Joseph. And when, after Father Letheby's Mass, I came down, and brought over my old arm-chair, and placed it in front of the crib, and put down my snuff-box, and my breviary, and my spectacles, and gave myself up to the contemplation of that wonderful and pathetic drama, St. Joseph would insist on claiming the largest share of my pity and sympathy. Somehow I felt that mother and child understood each other perfectly,—that she saw everything through the eyes of God, and that therefore there was not much room for wonderment; but that to St. Joseph the whole thing was an unspeakable mystery of humiliation and love, infinite abasement and infinite dignity; and I thought I saw him looking from the child-face of his spouse to the child-face of the Infant, and somehow asking himself, "What is it all?" even though he explicitly understood the meaning and magnitude of the mighty mystery.
Father Letheby has a new series of pictures of the Life of our Lord, painted by a French artist, whose name I can never recall except when I sneeze,—Tissot. I do not like them at all. They are too realistic,—and, after all, the ideal is the real. I have a special, undiluted dislike of one picture,—theMagnificat. I'd have torn itup, and put the fragments in the fire, but that it was not mine. But how in the world any Catholic could paint my beautiful child-prophetess of Hebron as Tissot has done baffles comprehension. But he has one lovely picture, "Because there was no Room." The narrow lane of the Jewish city,—the steep stairs to the rooms,—the blank walls perforated by a solitary, narrow window,—the rough stones, and the gentle animal that bore Mary, treading carefully over them,—the Jewish women, regretfully refusing admission,—the sweet, gentle face of the maiden mother,—and the pathetic, anxious, despairing look on the features of St. Joseph,—make this a touching and beautiful picture. Poor St. Joseph! "Come, take the reins of the patient animal, and lead him and his sacred burden out into the night! There is no room in the City of David for the children of David. Out under the stars, shining brilliantly through the frosty atmosphere, over the white, rugged road, into an unknown country, and 'Whither, O my God?' on thy lips, as the child at thy side shuddered, and no finger from heaven nor voice from earth directed thee; unless, indeed, that faint flashes of light athwart the net of stars told thee that the angels were cutting their way down through the darkness, and into the spheres of men, and that all heaven was in a tumult of expectation, whilst in yonder city men slept, as they always sleep unconscious when God is near.And then, when the feeble plaint broke from Mary's lips, I cannot go further, and the gentle beast turned aside into the rocks and whins, and called to his companions of the stable, and the meek-eyed ox looked calmly at the intruders, and there—there—dear God! to think of it all—In mundo erat, et mundus eum non cognovit."
I sat quietly there until Benediction at three o'clock, and then I remained rolling my beads through my fingers, and singing in my heart the grand majestic O's of the preceding day's offices, at the end of every decade, until five o'clock struck. From time to time my little children would come, and leaning on my knee, would gaze with wonder and affection at the Child of Bethlehem; and then, looking up into my face, put wonderful questions about deep mysteries to their old Father. For all day long, a stream of visitors passed before the crib; and the next day, and the next, crowds trooped over from Moydore and the neighboring parishes, for the fame of it had gone abroad over the land; and men and women came, jealous of their own pastors, and wondering at the sudden uprise of Kilronan. Then the climax was reached on the twelfth day, when the Kings appeared, and the group in the stable was complete. The "black man" from Nubia came in for more than his share of honors; and it was admitted all round that Kilronan was immortalized and the other parishes were forever in the background.
"May God bless the man that gave us such a sight," said an old woman fervently, as I left the wondering crowd and went home to dinner.
"May God bless all our priests," said another, fearing that I might be offended.
"Wisha, thin, Father Dan," said a third, "what a wondher you never tould us what you had in store for us. Wisha, thin, it wasn't worth while keeping it such a grate sacret."
There is no end to the ingenious charity of these people. On my plate at the dinner table, amidst a pile of Christmas cards, was a dainty little duodecimo. I took it up. It was from Father Letheby. And what was it? TheImitationin Greek, by a certain George Mayr, S. J. Wasn't this nice? My pet book done into my favorite language! It was the happiest Christmas I ever spent.Quam bonus Israel Deus!So too said Father Letheby. But I had some dim presentiment that all his well-merited pleasure would not be quite unalloyed,—that some secret hand, perhaps a merciful one, would pluck a laurel leaf or two from his crown. We had a pleasant academic discussion after dinner about the honorable retention of ancient Irish customs,—he quite enthusiastic about them, I rather disposed to think that the abuses which invariably accompanied them made their final extinction altogether advisable. We put our respective theories in practice next morning with the most perfect consistency; for Hannah droveindignantly from the door the wren-boys, just as they were commencing:
"A thrate, a thrate, if of the best,We hope in heaven your sowl will rest;But if you give it of the smallIt won't agree with our boys at all."
"A thrate, a thrate, if of the best,We hope in heaven your sowl will rest;But if you give it of the smallIt won't agree with our boys at all."
And, on his part, Father Letheby listened with intense delight to this dithyrambic, which ushers in St. Stephen's day all over Ireland; and he dispensed sundry sixpences to the boys with the injunction to be always good Irishmen and to buy sweets.
That night, just as I was thinking of retiring, for I am an early riser, I heard a gentle tap at the hall door, then a hurried colloguing in the hall; and Hannah put in her head and whispered:—
"Lizzie is afraid, sir, that the priest is sick. Would you mind coming down to see him?"
"God bless me! no," I said, quite alarmed. I followed the servant rapidly and was ushered into Father Letheby's parlor, unexpected and almost unannounced.
"What's the matter, sir?" he cried; "what's the matter?"
"Nothing particular," I replied. "'T is a rather fine night, is it not?"
"Lizzie must have sent for you?" he answered.
"Yes," I said, "she did. She thought you were unwell. Are you?"
He looked ill enough, poor fellow, and at these words he sank wearily into a chair.
"I am afraid you're unwell," I repeated.
"I'm not unwell," he said, blubbering like a child, "but—but—my heart is broken."
"Oh," I cried, "if that's all, it's easily mended. Come now, let's hear all, and see if we can't put the pieces together."
"I wouldn't mind," he cried, standing up and striding along the little room, his hands tightly clasped behind his back, "but the poor little altar boys—the poor little beggars—they looked so nice yesterday, and oh to think of it! Good God!"
"Very dramatic, very dramatic," I said, "but not the quiet narrative and consecutive style that I affect. Now, supposing you told me the story. There's balm in Gilead yet."
And this was the story, told with much impressiveness, a fair amount of gesticulation, and one or two little profane expressions, which made the Recording Angel cough and look away to see how was the weather.
It appears that about seven o'clock Father Letheby had a sick-call outside the village. There are generally a fair share of sick-calls on the day succeeding the great festivity, for obvious reasons. He was returning home through the village, when the sound of singing arrested his steps just outside Mrs. Haley's public house. His heart gave abound of delight as he heard the familiar lines and notes of theAdeste. "Thank God!" he said, "at last, the people are beginning to bring our Catholic hymns into their own homes." As he listened intently there was a slight reaction as he recognized the sweet liquid notes, with all the curls and quavers that are the copyright and strictly legal and exclusive possession of Jem Deady.
"Good heavens!" said the young priest, in a frenzy of indignation, "has that ruffian dared to introduce into the taproom our Christmas melodies, and to degrade them into a public-house chorus?"
He stepped into the shop. There was no one there. He turned softly the handle of the door, and was in the taproom for several minutes before he was recognized. What he witnessed was this. Leaning in a tipsy, maudlin way against the wall were the holly bushes, which, decorated with pink ribbons, and supposed to conceal in their dim recesses the "wren, the wren, the king of all birds," had been the great attraction of the morning. Leaning on the deal table, with glasses and pints of porter before them, as they sat and lounged or fell in various stages of intoxication, were the wren-boys; and near the fire, with his back turned to the door, and his fingers beating time to the music in pools of dirty porter, was Jem Deady. As Father Letheby entered he was singing:—
"Deum de Deo, Lumen de Lumine,Gestant puellæ viscera—"
"Deum de Deo, Lumen de Lumine,Gestant puellæ viscera—"
the most awful and tender lines of the glorious hymn.
He was unconscious of the priest's presence, and quite unconscious of his horrible sacrilege. Father Letheby continued gazing on the sad scene for a few minutes, with mingled feelings of anger, horror, and disgust. Then, closing the door softly after him, he strode through the street, and knocking peremptorily at all the doors, he soon had a procession of the fathers and mothers of the children following him to the public house. What occurred then has passed into the historical annals of Kilronan. It is enough to say here that its good people heard that night certain things which made their ears tingle for many a day. Mrs. Haley came up to my house the following morning to give up her license; and there was a general feeling abroad that every man, woman, and child in Kilronan should become total abstainers for life.
"But that's all," said Father Letheby; "and now I am really sick of the entire business; and to-morrow I shall write to the Bishop for myexeat, and return to England or go to Australia, where I have been promised a mission."
It was rather late, and I should have been long ago in my comfortable bed; but the text was too good to miss.
"My dear Father Letheby," I said, "it is clear to me that you are working not for God's honor, but for your ownkudos."
He started at these strong words, and stared at me.
"Because," I continued calmly, "if it was the honor of God you had at heart, this calamity, the intensity of which I have no idea of minimizing, would have stimulated you to fresh efforts instead of plunging you into despair. But your pride is touched and your honor is tarnished, and you dread the criticism of men. Tell me honestly, are you grieved because God has been offended, or because all your fine plans haveganged aglee?There! Dear St. Bonaventure, what a burden you laid on the shoulders of poor humanity when you said,Ama nesciri, et pro nihilo reputari. You did not know, in the depths of your humility, that each of us has a pretty little gilded idol which is labelledSelf!And that each of us is a fanatic in seeking to make conversions to our own little god. And I am not at all sure but that education only helps us to put on a little more gilding and a little more tawdry finery on our hidden deity; and that even when we sit in judgment upon him, as we do when preparing for Confession, it is often as a gentle and doting mother, not as an inflexible and impartial judge. Here are you now (turning to Father Letheby), a good, estimable, zealous, and successful priest; and because you have been touched in a sore point, lo! the voice from the inner shrine demanding compensation and future immunity. Everything has prospered with you.Religion has progressed, with leaps and bounds, since you came to the parish; the people adore you, and you have the satisfaction of knowing that you are that most difficult of heroic successes, a conqueror because a reformer; and because you have met one reverse, you are going to turn your back on your work, and seek the curse of those who put pillows under their armpits and garlands of roses in their hair. Did you imagine that Satan, a living, personal, and highly intelligent force, was going to allow you to have everything your own way here,—to fold his arms while you were driving back his forces in utter rout and confusion? If you did, you were greatly mistaken. You have met a slight reverse, and it has become a panic.Sauve qui peut!And the commander—the successful general—is the first to turn his back, throw down his sword, and flee."
"Say no more, Father Dan, for God's sake. I am heartily ashamed of myself."
A good scolding is almost equal to a cold bath as a tonic for disordered nerves.
I went home with a satisfied conscience, murmuring,Per la impacciata via, retro al suo duce. I think I know whither he is tending.
A demoralized, woe-begone, wilted, helpless figure was before me in the hall. If he had been under Niagara for the last few hours he could not be more hopelessly washed out. It was Jem Deady in the custody of his wife, who was now in the ascendant.
"Here he is, your reverence,—a misfortunate angashore! For the love of God make him now a patthern to the parish! Cling him to the ground, or turn him into somethin'; make him an example forever, for my heart is broke with him."
Whilst I was turning over in my mind into which of the lower animals it would be advisable to cause the immortal soul of Jem to transmigrate and take up a temporary residence, I thought I saw a glance upwards from his eye, visibly pleading for mercy.
"It is quite clear, Jem," I said, "that your Christmas dinner disagreed with you."
"Begor, thin, your reverence," broke in Mrs. Deady, setting herself in a rather defiant attitude, "he had as good a dinner as any poor man in your parish. He had a roast goose, stuffed by thim two hands with praties and inguns, until the tears ran down my face; and he had a pig's cheek, and lashins of cabbage."
"And why don't you tell his reverence about the rice puddin'?" said Jem, in a tone of honest indignation. "'T is a shame for you, Bess! She made a rice puddin', your reverence, that was fit for the Grate House; and begor, your reverence might sit down to worse yourself. Sich raisons and currans!"
"Begor, I'm thinking you're thrying to put the comedher on me, you blagard, with your blarney,"said Mrs. Deady with angry suspicion, drawing back and scrutinizing his face.
"And why don't you tell his reverence about the rice puddin'?""And why don't you tell his reverence about the rice puddin'?"
"Thrying to put the comedher onyou, Bess? Begor, I'd like to see the man that could do it. But I'll say this, in the presence of his reverence, and wid yerself to the fore, that there isn't in this parish, nor in the nex', nor in the nex' again, nor widin the four walls of Ireland, a betther wife nor a betther housekeeper den you, Bess Clancy." And to emphasize this panegyric, Jem threw his battered hat on the floor and brushed away a tear.
It was a pity not to come to the aid of such a superb diplomatist. No wonder the British diplomatic service is manned by Irishmen from Singapore to Halifax. What would Melikoff, and Von Schaffterhausen, and De Laborie be in the hands of Jem Deady? He'd twist them around his little finger. I saw the angry wrinkles smoothing themselves on the brow of Mrs. Deady, as she melted under the gentle rain of flattery.
"I'd forgive you a good deal, Deady," I said; "your repeated violations of solemn pledges, your sacrilege in bringing down to a public house the most sacred melodies of the Church—"
"They wereatme," said Jem. "They said as how I couldn't get my tongue around the Latin, and that Father Letheby—"
"I understand," I interrupted; "but even that I'd forgive. But to take the innocent lambs of my flock, my choir boys and altar boys, the children of sober and religious parents, whose hearts are broken by your misconduct—"
"Childre' of sober and religious parents,—whose hearts are broken," chimed in Mrs. Deady. "Wisha, thin, without manin' any disrespect to your riverence, would you be plazed to mintion these dacent people? An' if these religious parents wor mindin' their childre', insted of colloguing and placin' their nabors, their religious childre' wouldn't be lying drunk in Mrs. Haley's public house. But of coorse 't is Jim Deady here andJim Deady there; and if the thruth wos towld, he's as good as any of 'em, though I shouldn't say it to his face. Come along, you poor fool."
"I must do what I came for," said Jem, solemnly. Then, with an air of awful determination, as if he were binding iron bars and padlocks on his thirsty lips, Jem took the pledge. Mrs. Deady, in high dudgeon, had gone down the street. Jem and I were alone.
"Tell me, yer reverence," he whispered, "did that mane scut of a tailor insult ye the other night?"
"Oh, not at all, Jem," I cried, fearing the consequences to the tailor.
"I have an eye on him this long time," said Jem, "and faith, he'll come to grief soon."
"Now, Jem," I warned emphatically, "no violence, mind. The unfortunate fellow is sorry."
"All right, your reverence; we are not going to waste violence on the likes of him. But—"
Here Jem fell into a profound reverie.
"Begor, your reverence, ye did that little job nately," he cried, waking up. "That woman's tongue didn't lave me worth tuppence. God bless yer reverence, and spare ye long to us."
He took my hand, and kissed it till it was blistered by the sharp bristles of his unshaven lips. Poor fellows! how they warm to us! and how, with all their faults, we fling around them something more than maternal love!
A CLERICAL SYMPOSIUM
There is no law, supernatural or natural, forbidding us (who, if we have not many of the crosses, neither have we many of the pleasures of this life) from meeting sometimes, and carrying out St. Paul's prescriptions in the matter of hospitality. I believe, indeed, his words—and he was a wise, kind saint—apply principally to bishops; but why should not we imitate our superiors afar off, and practise the kindly virtue? It is good to meet sometimes and exchange opinions; it softens the asperities of daily life, makes the young think reverently of the old, and the old charitably of the young. At least, these are my views, and acting upon them there is always an open door and aCead Milé Failtéfor a brother; and a few times in the year I try to gather around me my dear friends, and thus to cement those bonds of friendship that make life a little more pleasant, and, perhaps, may keep our memories green. Sometimes, indeed, my dear old friends object to face a drive of eight or ten miles on a cold night in winter; but the young fellows always come. Nothing but extreme urgency would keep them awayfrom an evening with Daddy Dan. Now, we have no nonsense,—no soups, nor entrées, which some of my more fashionable confrères are at present affecting, if you please; but a plain turkey and ham, and a roast leg of mutton, and a few little trimmings to fill up vacant spaces. There is an old tradition, too, in Ireland, which I keep to pretty closely,—never to invite more than the Muses, nor less than the Graces; but on this occasion—it was during the Octave of the Epiphany—I departed from the custom, and, owing to a few disappointments, the ominous number of thirteen sat down to dinner. I must say, however, it had not a paralyzing effect on the appetites of my guests, nor did they appear to have any apprehensions of a sudden call to the places where turkeys and good mutton are not appreciated. There were a few jokes about the intolerable longevity of certain parish priests; and when my curate, who occupied the vice-chair with infinite grace and dignity, remarked in his own grand style that "really Da Vinci's 'Last Supper' was responsible for that unhallowed superstition, and there really was nothing in it," some few wags professed themselves greatly relieved, and showed it by new-born zeal in the avocations of the evening. My duties as host engrossed all my attention, until the table was cleared for action; and the call for coffee from eight out of thirteen guests recalled me to my favorite meditation on themighty yet silent revolution that is progressing in the Irish Church.
I have been now in touch with three generations of Irish priests, each as distinct from the other, and marked by as distinctive characteristics, as those which differentiate an Anglican parson from a mediæval monk. My early education was colored by contact with the polished, studious, timid priests, who, educated in Continental seminaries, introduced into Ireland all the grace and dignity and holiness, and all the dread of secular authority with the slight tendency to compromise, that seemed to have marked the French clergy, at least in the years immediately succeeding the revolutions and the Napoleonic wars. These were the good men who fraternized with landlords, and lent their congregations to a neighboring parson on the occasion of some governmental visitation; who were slightly tinged with Gallican ideas, and hated progress and the troubles that always accompany it. They were holy, good, kindly men, but they could hardly be called officers of the Church Militant. Then came Maynooth, which, founded on governmental subsidies, poured from its gates the strongest, fiercest, most fearless army of priests that ever fought for the spiritual and temporal interests of the people,—men of large physique and iron constitutions, who spent ten hours a day on horseback, despised French claret, loved their people and chastised them like fathers,but were prepared to defend them with their lives and the outpouring of their blood against their hereditary enemies. Intense in their faith, of stainless lives and spotless reputations, their words cut like razors, and their hands smote like lightning; but they had the hearts of mothers for the little ones of their flocks. They had the classics at their fingers' ends, could roll out lines from Virgil or Horace at an after-dinner speech, and had a profound contempt for English literature. In theology they were rigorists, too much disposed to defer absolution and to give long penances. They had a cordial dislike for new devotions, believing that Christmas and Easter Communion was quite enough for ordinary sancity. Later on they became more generous, but they clung with tenacity to the Brown Scapular and the First Sunday of the month. I am quite sure they have turned somersaults in their graves since the introduction of the myriad devotions that are now distracting and edifying the faithful. But they could make, and, alas! too often perhaps for Christian modesty, they did make, the proud boast that they kept alive the people's faith, imbued them with a sense of the loftiest morality, and instilled a sense of intense horror for such violations of Church precepts as acommunicatio cum hereticis in divinis, or the touching of flesh meat on a day of abstinence. I believe I belong to that school, though my sympathies are wide enough for all. Andas in theology, I am quite prepared to embrace Thomists, and Scotists, and Molinists, Nominalists and Realists in fraternal charity, so, too, am I prepared to recognize and appreciate the traits and characteristics of the different generations of clerics in the Irish Church. Sometimes, perhaps, through the vanity that clings to us all to the end, I play the part of "laudator temporis acti," and then the young fellows shout:—
"Ah, but, Father Dan, they were giants in those days."
And the tags and shreds of poor human nature wave in the wind of flattery; and I feel grateful for the modest appreciation of a generation that has no sympathy with our own.
Then, down there, below the water-line of gray heads is the coming generation of Irish priests, who, like theλαμπαδηφοροιof old in the Athenian games, will take the torch of faith from our hands and carry it to the Acropolis of Heaven,—clean-cut, small of stature, keen-faced, bicycle-riding, coffee-drinking, encyclopædic young fellows, who will give a good account of themselves, I think, in the battles of the near future. It is highly amusing to a disinterested spectator, like myself, to watch the tolerant contempt with which the older generation regards the younger. They have as much contempt for coffee as for ceremonies, and I think their mistakes in the latter would form a handsome volume oferrata, or add another appendix to our valuable compendiums. To ask one of these old men to pass a cup of coffee is equivalent to asking a Hebrew of the strict observance to carve a ham, or a Hindoo to eat from the same dish with a Christian. And many other objects that the passing generation held in high esteem are "gods of the Gentiles" to the younger. They laugh profanely at that aureole of distinction that used hang around the heads of successful students, declaring that a man's education only commences when he leaves college, and that his academical training was but the sword exercise of the gymnasium; and they speak dreadful things about evolution and modern interpretation, and the new methods of hermeneutics, and polychrome Bibles; and they laugh at the idea of the world's creation in six days; and altogether, they disturb and disquiet the dreams of the staid and stately veterans of the Famine years, and make them forecast a dismal future for Ireland when German metaphysics and coffee will first impair, and then destroy, the sacred traditions of Irish faith. And yet, these young priests inherit the best elements of the grand inheritance that has come down to them. Their passionate devotion to their faith is only rivalled by their passionate devotion to the Motherland. Every one of them belongs to that great world-wide organization of Priests Adorers, which, cradled in the dying years of our century, will grow to a gigantic stature in the next; forat last it has dawned upon the world that around this sacred doctrine and devotion, as around an oriflamme, the great battles of the twentieth century will rage. And they have as tender and passionate a love for the solitary isle in the wintry western seas as ever brought a film to the eyes of exile, or lighted the battle fires in the hearts of her heroes and kings. And with all my ancient prejudices in favor of my own caste, I see clearly that the equipments of the new generation are best suited to modern needs. The bugle-call of the future will sound the retreat for the ancient cavalry and the Old Guard, and sing out, Forward the Light Brigade!
This evening, as usual, the conversation was discursive. It ranged over the whole area of human knowledge and experience, from the price of a horse to Lehmkuhl's Latinity, and from the last political speech to the everlasting question, ever discussed and never decided, What is meant by the month's residence as a condition for the acquisition of a domicile? That horrible drug was irritating the nerves of the younger men, until I heard, as in a dream, a Babel of voices:—"The two Ballerini,"—"They'll never arrest him,"—"He'll certainly fire on the people,"—"Daniel never wrote that book, I tell you,"—"'T is only a ringbone,"—"Fifty times worse than a sprain,"—"He got it in the Gregorian University,"—"Paddy Murray, George Crolly,"—"I admireBalfour for his profound knowledge of metaphysics,"—"Did you see the article in theRecordabout the Spanish dispensation?"—"He's got a first-class mission in Ballarat,"—"No, the lessons were from the Scripture occurring,"—"I don't think we're bound to these Masses,"—"'Twas a fine sermon, but too flowery for my tastes,"—"Yes, we expect a good Shrove this year,"—"HisData of Ethicswon't stand examination,"—"Our fellows will lick yours well next time,"—"Picking the grapes and lemons at Tivoli,"—"Poor old Kirby, what an age he is,"—"'Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark, And may there be no sadness of farewell, when I embark,' that's the way it runs,"—"He cut in his physic year, and is running a paper in Boston,"—"It is up now to thirty-five shillings a ton, and will go higher," etc., etc. The older men, under the more kindly influence, were calm as sophomores. Amidst the whirlpool of words, they clung to two sheet-anchors,—O'Connell in politics, and St. Alphonsus in theology.
At last, the conversation simmered down into an academic debate, whether the centripetal system, which concentrates all Irish students in Maynooth, or the centrifugal, which sends them scampering over the Continent to the ancient universities, was the better. This was a calm, judicious tournament, except now and again, when I had to touch the gong, and say:—
"Gentlemen, only three at a time, if you please."
It was a curious thing to notice that those who had studied in Maynooth were very much in favor of a Continental education; and those who had been in foreign universities were rather inclined to give the verdict for Maynooth.
"You see," said one, "it is an education in itself to go abroad. It means expansion, and expansion is education. Then you have the immense advantage of being able to learn and master the foreign languages and literature, and nowadays a man that can't speak French at least is a very helpless creature."
"You take it for granted," replied another, "that residence abroad insures a knowledge of French. I spent six years in the seminary at N——, and exceptcela va sans dire, tant pis, and a few other colloquialisms, which you will find on the last page of an English dictionary, I might as well have been in Timbuctoo."
"Well," said my curate,—and though he is not very popular, somehow or other his words appear to carry great weight,—"I must confess that the regret of my life is that I had not an opportunity of studying in Rome, just as the hope of my life is that I shall see Rome before I die. I consider that the greatest Irish college in the world, in numbers and in the influence that arises from intellectual superiority, should be somewhere within the shadows of the Seven Hills."
"Why not transfer the Dunboyne, with all its endowments and emoluments, to Rome?" asked a young, eager fellow, who says he can read the Office, going ten miles an hour on the bicycle.
"'T wouldn't ever do," said a Roman student; "you must be brought up in Rome to understand its spirit. Transplanted shoots never thrive there."
"Psha!" said an old Maynooth man, who had been listening impatiently to these suggestions; "we forgot more theology in Maynooth than you ever learned."
"I don't want to disparage your knowledge of theology, Father," said my curate, sweetly, "but you know there are other elements in priestly education besides the mere propositions, and thesolvuntur objectaof theology. And it is in Rome these subtle and almost intangible accomplishments are acquired."
Now, this was getting a little warm; so I winked at a young fellow down along the table, and he took the hint promptly, and cried out: "Look here, Father Dan, this is tiresome. Tell us how you managed the Irish Brigade in France in the fifties. Weren't they going to throw Marseilles into the sea?"
"Now, now," said I, "that won't do. I'm not going to be trotting out that old chestnut at every dinner party. Let us have a song!"
And we had, and a good many of them,—dear,old Irish melodies that would melt an icicle and put blood into a marble statue. No nonsense at my table, I assure you. No operatic rubbish, but genuine Irish music, with the right lilt and the right sentiment. I did let a young fellow once sing, "I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls"; but I told him never to repeat it. But it was worth while going miles to hear my curate singing, in his own fine voice, that superb ballad of that true and gentle patriot, Thomas Davis, "The Mess-tent is Full, and the Glasses are Set."
Dear me! what a mercurial race we are; and how the mercury runs up and down in the barometer of our human hearts! I could see the young priests' faces whitening at the words:
"God prosper old Ireland! You'd think them afraid,So pale grew the chiefs of the Irish Brigade!"
"God prosper old Ireland! You'd think them afraid,So pale grew the chiefs of the Irish Brigade!"
and softening out in lines of tenderness when the end came:
"For, on far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Belgrade,Lie the soldiers and chiefs of the Irish Brigade."
"For, on far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Belgrade,Lie the soldiers and chiefs of the Irish Brigade."
Then we had "The West's Awake," and "Dear Land," and then we all arose and sang together, "God bless the Pope, the great, the good." I was going to say "sang in unison," but I am afraid I should be trespassing on the sacred precincts of truth; yet if that grand old man in Rome, that electric spark in the vase of alabaster, sitting in that lonely chamber, behind the long,empty, gas-lit state apartments, could hear those voices there above the western seas, he would surely realize more keenly what he understands already, that he can always call upon his Irish reserves to ring, as with a fence of steel, the chair and the prerogatives of Peter.
Then came the "Good nights." I pulled aside an old friend, a great theologian, who has all kinds of musty, dusty, leather-bound, water-stained volumes on his shelves.
"Did you ever hear," I whispered, "of a mysterious thing, called theKampaner Thal?"
"Never," he said, emphatically.
"You couldn't conjecture what it is?"
"No," he said, with deliberation; "but I can aver it is neither Greek, Latin, nor Irish."
"Would you mind looking up your cyclopædias," I pleaded, "and letting me know immediately that you find it?"
"Of course," he replied. Then, jerking his thumb over his shoulder: "I suppose it is this chap?"
"It is," I said. "He reads a good deal—"
"Look here, Father Dan, I don't know what we're coming to. Did you ever see such a sight as that table to-night?"
"Never," I replied, resignedly.
"Would any one believe, when we came on the mission, that we'd live to see such things? Why, these fellows talk up to us as if we were theirequals. Don't you remember when a curate daren't open his mouth at table?"
"Of course," I replied, demurely.
"And it is only now I am beginning to discover the vagaries of this chap of mine. Do you know what he wants? A shrine, if you please,—some kind of picture, with candles lighting before it all day. 'Can't you say your Rosary,' I said, 'like your betters?' No, he should have the shrine. And now he wants to force on Benediction every Sunday,—not every first Sunday of the month, but every Sunday, if you please. And he has a big red lamp, burning in what he calls his oratory. You can see it miles away. I say to the boys, 'Don't be afraid to put to sea at night now, boys. Begor, ye 've got a lighthouse at last.' Well, good by! What's this thing you want?"
And he jotted down the name, I presume phonetically, in his note-book. Now, mind, that man has not had a scandal in his parish for fourteen years; and he is up to his neck in securities for half the farmers of the district.
All this time, shrinking into an obscure corner of the hall, was my Curé d'Ars, as I call him. He now came forward to say good night, his thin face wreathed in smiles, and his two hands stretched out in thankfulness.
"Good night, Father Dan, and a thousand thanks. I never spent a pleasanter evening. What fineyoung fellows! So clever, so jolly, and so edifying! Won't it be a satisfaction for us when we are going to leave behind us such splendid safeguards of the faith?"
His curate was waiting respectfully. He now got the little man into his great-coat, and buttoned it from collar to boot, the latter murmuring his thanks all the time:—
"Dear me! dear me! what a trouble I am! Many thanks! Many thanks! There, now I am all right!"
Then his muffler was wrapped carefully around his neck by this big grenadier, and his gloves were drawn over his hands.
"Dear me! dear me! how good! how kind! I'm a regular mummy! a real Egyptian mummy, Father Dan! Good night! good night! Dear me, what a pleasant gathering!"
And the stalwart curate lifted him on his car, as if he were an infant.
A few days later we had a long chat over many things, I and my curate.
When he was going he said:—
"That was a real jolly evening, Father Dan! I never enjoyed anything so much!"
"Yes," I said, "and you had a splendid audience for that noble song!"
"Yes, indeed; they were very kind."
"Oh, I don't meanin foro interno," I said, "butin foro externo. There was a good crowd outside the window!"
"My God!" he cried, quite shocked. "What a scandal!"
"Not a bit of it," I said; "you've gone up a hundred per cent in the estimation of the villagers. There was a real fight for the window-sill. But your friend, Jem Deady, captured it."
He looked dreadfully annoyed.
"Jem says that he kept awake all night trying to remember the notes; and if you'd give him the words of the song and whistle it—"
"What!" said Father Letheby, like a pistol-shot.
"And if you'd give him two or three audiences—I suppose he means rehearsals on the piano—he is quite sure—"
Dear me! how some people despise popularity!
THE KAMPANER THAL
Events are thickening around me these winter days; and much oftener than in past years am I compelled to lay aside my pet authors, when my lamp is lighted, and my fire is sparkling merrily, whilst the earth is waking up from its winter's sleep, and stretching out its hands in the feeble lengthening of the evenings towards the approaching spring. This evening I had an unexpected visitor,—no less a person than Reginald Ormsby, the betrothed of Bittra. He came in modestly and apologetically, with all that gentlemanly deference that is so characteristic of the British officer. He made a nice little speech, explaining his reasons for visiting me so late, and mildly deprecating the anger of such a potentate as the parish priest of Kilronan. I had pulled the bell in the mean time, and Hannah had brought in the "materials"; and in reply to his pretty eloquence, I merely pushed the decanter towards him, and said:—
"Go ahead!"
He filled his wine-glass with a firm hand, until the blessed liquor made an arc of a circle on the summit; then tilted it over into the tumbler, without spilling a drop, then filled the tumbler to the top with hot water, and I said in my own mind, "He'll do."
"Of course," I said, after this little ceremony had been proceeded with, "you smoke?"
"I shouldn't venture to think of smoking in your pretty parlor, sir," said he. "You know cigar smoke hangs around the curtains for days, and—"
"Never mind the curtains," I replied. "I don't keep Havanas here, though I suppose we must soon, as that appears to be a constituent in the new education to which we old fossils are being subjected. But if you have a cigar-case about you, light up, like a good fellow. You have to say something of importance, I think, and they say a cigar promotes easy and consecutive thought."
"Very many thanks, sir," he said. "Then, with your permission, I will."
He smoked quietly for a few seconds, and it was a good cigar, I can tell you. The fragrance filled the whole house. Then I broke the ice:—
"Now, my curate has had several conferences with you about religion, and he told me he was going to try theKampaner Thal."
"Oh, yes! so he did, indeed. He has been very kind."
I should say here that my theological friend and neighbor had written me: "I have hunted up all my cyclopædias, and can find no trace whatever of that thing about which you were inquiring. Fromthe wordKampaner, I suspect it has something to do with bells. Perhaps your curate wants a chime for your cathedral at Kilronan. When you get them, select C sharp, or B flat, and put it around his neck, that we may know where to find him. Yours truly—"
"Now," I said to Mr. Ormsby, "I do not know whether thatKampaner Thalis bird, beast, fish, or insect; whether it is a powerful drug or a new system of hypnotism."
"Oh, 't is none of these dreadful things," he said, laughing; "'t is only a little book. Here it is! I always carry it about with me. It is really very beautiful."
I handled the little duodecimo with suspicion; then gave it back.
"It has done you a lot of good, I suppose?" I said, I am afraid, with a certain amount of contempt.
"I can't say it has," he replied sadly; then lapsed into moody reflection.
Now, gloom is the one thing I cannot tolerate; so to rouse him from his reverie, and possibly from a slight, venial prompting of curiosity, I asked him to read some passages for me.
"My old sight cannot bear much of a strain," I said, "and the print is mighty small. Now, like a good fellow, pick out some good things, and read them slowly, for perhaps I may require to punctuate them."
So he read in a calm even monotone, without inflection, but with many pauses, whilst I watched every syllable and measured it.