"'E dal martirio venni a questa pace.'"
"'E dal martirio venni a questa pace.'"
MAY DEVOTIONS
I often wonder if the May devotions in other countries are as sweet and memory-haunting and redolent of peace as here in holy Ireland. Indeed, I suppose they are; for there are good, holy Catholics everywhere. But somehow the fragrance and beauty of these May evenings hang around us in Ireland as incense hangs around a dimly lighted church, and often cling around a soul where faith and holiness have been banished. I cannot boast too much of the picturesqueness and harmony of our evening prayers at Kilronan, at least until Father Letheby came. We had, indeed, the Rosary and a little weak homily. Nevertheless, the people loved to come and gather around the beautiful statue of our Mother. But when Father Letheby came, he threw music and sunshine around everything; but I believe he exhausted all his art in making the May devotions attractive and edifying. He said, indeed, that they were imperfect, and would always remain imperfect, until we could close them with Benediction of the Most Blessed Sacrament; and he urged me again and again to apply for permission, but, to tell the truth,I was afraid. And my dear old maxim, which had done me good service during life—my little pill of all philosophy—lente! lente!came again to my aid. But I'll tell you what we had. The Lady altar had all its pretentious ugliness hid under a mass of flowers—great flaunting peonies burning in the background, beautiful white Nile lilies in the front, bunches of yellow primroses between the candles, great tulips stained in flame colors, like the fires of Purgatory around the holy souls in our hamlet pictures. And hidden here and there, symbolical of the Lily of Israel, and filling the whole church with their delicate perfumes, were nestled lilies of the valley, sweetest and humblest of all those "most beautiful things that God has made and forgot to put a soul in." Then such hymns and litanies! I do not know, I am sure, what people feel in grand city churches, when the organ stops are loosed and the tide of music wells forth, and great voices are lifted up; but I think, if the Lord would allow me, I would be satisfied to have my heaven one long May devotion, with the children singing around me and the incense of flowers in the air, and our dear Mother looking down on us; only I should like that there were life in those wondrous eyes of Mother and Child, and I should like that that Divine Child, who holds us all in the palms of His little hands, would get a little tired sometimes of contemplating His Mother's beauty and turn in pity towards us.
Our order of service was: Rosary, Hymn, Lecture, Hymn, Litany of Loretto. Did you ever hear:
"Oh, my Mother, still rememberWhat the sainted Bernard hath said,—None hath ever, ever found thee wantingWho hath called upon thine aid."
"Oh, my Mother, still rememberWhat the sainted Bernard hath said,—None hath ever, ever found thee wantingWho hath called upon thine aid."
or:
"Rose of the Cross! thou mystic flower!"
"Rose of the Cross! thou mystic flower!"
or Father Faber's splendid hymn:
"Hark, hark, O my soul! angelic songs are swelling."
"Hark, hark, O my soul! angelic songs are swelling."
Well, if you didn't, God help you!
I used to read a book sometimes—sometimes Father Gratry's "Month of May," sometimes that good little book by the Abbé Berlioux. But when the people began to yawn I flung the book aside, and said a few simple words to the congregation. And I spoke out of a full heart, a very full heart, and the waters flowed over, and flooded all the valleys.
The 31st of May fell on Sunday; and it was on this Sunday evening Father Letheby was to preach in the cathedral. I told the people all about it; and we offered the evening devotions for his success. Somehow I thought there was a note of emphasis in the "Holy Marys" that evening; and a little additional pathos in the children's voices. Miss Campion presided at the harmonium that evening in place of Father Letheby. I think,indeed, that the people considered that prayers for their young curate were a little superfluous; because, as we came out, I was able to hear a few comments and predictions:—
"Faith, you may make your mind aisy about him. They never heard anything like it before, I promise you."
"I heard they used to say over there in England that Father Burke himself couldn't hould a candle to him."
"If he'd spake a little aisier," said a village critic, who had a great opinion of himself, since he was called upon to propose a resolution at a Land-League meeting, "and rise his wice, he'd bate thim all."
"Did you ever hear Father Mac?" said an old laborer, dressed in the ancient Irish fashion, but old Father Time had been snipping at his garments as he couldn't touch himself. "That was the pracher! He hadn't his aiqual in Ireland. I rimimber wance a Good Friday sermon he prached in Loughboro'. Begor, you couldn't stick a pin between the people, they were so packed together. He kem out on the althar, and you could hear a pin dhrop. He had a crucifix in his hand, and he looked sorrowful like. 'In the Name av the Father,' sez he; thin he shtopped and looked round; 'and av the Holy Ghost,' sez he, and he shtopped ag'in; 'but where's the Son?' sez he, rising his wice; and begor, 't was like the day ofgineral jedgment. Thin he tore off a black veil that was on the crucifix, and he threw it on the althar, and he held up the crucifix in the air, and he let a screech out of him that you could hear at Moydore; and—"
"Was that all the sarmon?" said a woman who was an interested listener.
"Was that all?" cried the narrator indignantly. "It wasn't all. He prached that night two mortial hours, and"—he looked around to command attention and admiration—"he never fetched a sup of wather the whole time, though it was tender his hands."
"Glory be to God," said the listeners; "sure 't was wandherful. And is he dead, Jer?"
"Dead?" cried Jer, rather contemptuously, for he was on the lofty heights of success; "did ye never hear it?"
"Wisha, how could we, and 't is so far back?"
"Some other time," said Jer, with a little pitying contempt.
"Ye may as well tell it now," said an old woman; "I hard the people shpake av him long ago; but sure we forget everything, even God sometimes."
"Well," said Jer, sitting on a long, level tombstone, "maybe ye don't know how the divil watches priests when they are on a sick-call. He does, thin. Fram the time they laves the house till they returns he is on their thrack, thrying to circumwent them, ontil he gets the poor sowl into his own dirty claws. Sometimes he makes the mare stumble and fall; sometimes he pulls down a big branch of a three, and hits the priest across the face; sometimes he hangs out a lanthern to lade him into a bog. All he wants is to keep him away, and WHAT he has wid him, and thin he gobbles up that poor sowl, as a fox would sling a chicken over his showlder, and takes him off to his din. Well, this night Father Mac was called out late. It was as dark as the caves down there by the say av a winter's night. As he wint along the road, he began praying softly to himself, for he knew the divil was watching him. All of a suddint he was taken out av his saddle and pitched head foremost in a brake of briars. When he recovered himself he looked around him and saw at a distance—"
"I thought it was dark, Jer," said a young mason, who knew that Jer was drawing the long bow.
"Av coorse it was, but couldn't ye see a light shining even on a dark night, my fine young man?" said Jer, in a temper.
"Oh, was it a light?" said the mason.
"Ye ought to think twice before intherrupting yer elders," said Jer. "Well, as I was saying, when he come to himself, he looked around, and he asked, in a loud wice, 'Is there anny wan there who could sarve Mass for a priest?' There wasno answer. Thin he said a second time, 'For the love av God, is there anny wan there who could sarve Mass for a priest?'"
"Begor, I always thought that was the shtory about the priest that forgot to say the Masses for the dead, and kem out av of his grave on Christmas night," said an old woman.
"Thrue for ye, so it is," said another. "Many and many's the time we heard it."
"Begor, Jer," said a young man, "ye 're getting mixed."
"There's a hole in the ballad and the song fell out," said another.
"Jer could tell that story betther, if he had a couple of glasses in, I'm thinking," said the young mason, as they strolled away and left Jer sitting on the monument.
"Yes; or if he had the clay in his mouth, and the pint on the dresser," said his companion.
So was this great actor hissed off the stage. It was a bad breakdown, and there was no mercy. It turned the women's conversation back to their curate.
"May the Lord stringthen and help him in his endeavor, our darlin' man," said one.
"Amin, thin, and may the Blessed Vargin put the words into his mouth that he has to shpake," cried another. The children listened gravely. All that they could conjecture was that Father Letheby was engaged on a great and dangerous enterprise.
I never had a moment's doubt but that their prayers were heard and their predictions verified, although when Father Letheby called the next day he looked depressed and gloomy enough.
"Well," I said, "a great success, of course?"
"I'm afraid not," he said moodily.
"You broke down badly just in the middle?"
"Well, no, indeed; there was certainly no breakdown, but the whole thing was evidently a failure."
"Let me see," I cried. "There are certain infallible indications of the success or failure of a sermon. Were there any priests present?"
"About twenty, I think," he replied. "That was the worst of it. You don't mind the people at all."
"And weren't they very enthusiastic," I asked, "when you returned to the sacristy?"
"No, indeed. Rather the contrary, which makes me think that I said something either perilous or ill-advised."
"Humph! Didn't any fellow come up to you and knock the breath out of your body by slapping you on the back?"
"No!" he replied sadly.
"Didn't any fellow say:Prospere procede, et regna?"
"No!" he said. "It was just the other way."
"Didn't any fellow shake you by the hand even, and say:Prosit! prosit!! prosit!!!"
"I'm afraid not," he said gloomily.
"That's bad. Nor even,macte virtute esto, Titus Manlius?"
"No," he said. "There was no indication of sympathy whatsoever."
"Didn't any fellow drop into the vernacular, and say: 'Put the hand there. Sure I never doubted you,' and wring your hand as if he wanted to dislocate it?"
"No, no, no! There was simply dead silence."
"And perhaps they looked at you over their shoulders, and whispered together, as they put their surplices into their bags, and stared at you as if you were a sea-monster?"
"Something that way, indeed," said my poor curate.
"Did the bishop make any remark?"
"Yes. The bishop came over and said he was very grateful, indeed, for that beautiful sermon. But that, of course, was purely conventional."
"And the people? How did they take it?"
"They were very quiet and attentive, indeed: apparently an intelligent congregation."
"You don't think you were talking over their heads?"
"No, indeed. Even the poor women who were gathered under the pulpit stared at me unmercifully; and I think a few persons in front were much affected."
I waited for a few minutes to draw my deductions. But they were logical enough.
"My dear boy," I said at length, "from a long and profound experience of that wilful thing called human nature, allow me to tell you that every indication you have mentioned points to the fact that you have preached not only an edifying and useful, but a remarkable sermon—"
"Oh, that's only your usual goodness, Father Dan," he broke in. "I'm quite certain it was a failure. Look at the attitude of the priests!"
"That is just my strongest foundation," I replied. "If their enthusiasm had taken the other shapes I suggested, I should have despaired."
"Well, 't is over, for better, for worse," said he; "I did my best for our Lady, and she won't blame me if I failed."
"That is sound Christian philosophy," I replied; "leave it there. But don't be too flushed if my predictions come true."
"I suppose we may have a procession of the children on Corpus Christi?" he said abruptly.
"Hallo! another innovation! Where are you going to stop, I wonder?"
"Why not have it?" he said. "It will be a sermon to the people!"
"Around the church, you mean," I conjectured, "and back again to the High Altar?"
"No! but through the village, and out there along the path that cuts the turf over the cliffs, and then back to the mill, where we can have Benediction (I'll extemporize an altar), and down the main road, and to the church."
"Go on! go on!" I said in a resigned manner; "perhaps you'll invite our pious friend, Campion, down to Benediction—"
"He'll be carrying the canopy."
I looked at this young prestidigitateur in a bewildered manner. He was not noticing me.
"You know," he said, "I'll put Campion and Ormsby and the doctor, and the old Tertiary, Clohessy, under the canopy. It's time that these men should be made to understand that they are Catholics in reality as well as in name."
I was dumfounded at his audacity.
"I have got faculties from the bishop," he continued, "to receive Ormsby, and to use the short form. He'll be a noble Catholic. He is intelligent, and deeply in earnest."
"And who is this great man he is bringing from Dublin?" I asked.
"Oh! the doctor? An old chum. They have seen some rough and smooth weather together. This fellow is gone mad about his profession, and he studies eighteen hours out of the twenty-four—"
"He ought to be a Master of Conference," I interrupted. "But won't our own man be jealous?"
"Not at all. He says he has done his best for Alice; and if any one else can help her on, he'll be delighted. But he is not sanguine, nor am I."
"Nor I. It appears a deep-rooted affair. But what a visitation—God's angel, cloaked from head to foot in blackness, and with a flaming sword."
We were both silent, thinking of many things.
"Then the procession will be all right, sir?" he said at last, waking up.
"I hope so," I said resignedly. "Everything else that you have touched you have adorned. This will follow suit."
"Thank you, sir," he said. "It will be a glorious day for the children."
"By the way," I said, as he was going, "was Duff at the sermon?"
"He was, poor fellow; and I am afraid he got a wigging from the bishop. At least they were walking up and down there near the sacristy for at least half an hour before dinner. You know Duff is an awfully clever fellow. He has written some articles in the leading English magazines, in which, curiously enough, he quite agrees with Professor Sayce, the eminent Assyriologist, who has tried to disprove the theories about the Pentateuch originated by Graf and Wellhausen—"
"My dear fellow, this is not a conference. Spare my old nerves all that nonsense. The Bible is God's own Word—that is enough for me. But what about Duff?"
"Well, at table, the bishop was specially and expressly kind to him, and drew him out about allthese matters, and made him shine; and you know how well Duff can talk—"
"I wouldn't doubt the bishop," I said; "he always does the kind and the right thing."
"By the way, I forgot a moment ago to say that Duff met me this morning at the station, and said, I am sure with perfect sincerity: 'Letheby, I must congratulate you. You taught me a sharp lesson the other day; you taught me a gentler lesson last evening. Pray for me that I may keep farther away from human will-o'-the-wisps, and nearer the Eternal Light than I have been.' I shook his hand warmly.Sedes sapientiæ, ora pro nobis."
"Amen!" I said humbly.
"I've asked him over to dine on the day our fishing-boat will be launched," said Father Letheby, after a pause. "Some of the brethren are coming; and you'll come, sir? Duff is very anxious to meet you."
"Of course," I replied. "I never refuse so delightful an invitation. But why should Duff be anxious to meet me?"
"I really don't know, except that you are, as you know yourself, sir, a celebrity. He thinks a great deal of you."
"Probably a great deal more than I am disposed to think of myself. Did he say so?"
"Oh, dear, yes! He said: 'I must make the acquaintance of that pastor of yours, Letheby, he's animmortal genius!'"
"An immortal genius! Well, you must know, my innocent young man, that that expression is susceptible of a double interpretation—it may mean an immortal fame like William Shakespeare's, or an immortal fame like Jack Falstaff's; it may mean a Cervantes, or a Don Quixote, a fool who has eclipsed the name of his Creator. But, as I am charitably inclined, I shall give your learned friend the benefit of the doubt, and meet him as one of my many admirers, rather than as one of my few critics. Perhaps he may change his opinion of me, for better, for worse, on a closer acquaintance."
"I'm quite sure, sir, that there will be a mutual appreciation. That's arranged, then—the procession on Corpus Christi, and dinner the day of our launch."
AT THE ZENITH
For one reason or another, the great events to which our little history is tending were deferred again and again, until at last the Monday within the Octave of Corpus Christi was chosen for the marriage of Bittra Campion and the launch of the great fishing-boat, that was to bring untold wealth to Kilronan. Meanwhile our faculties were not permitted to rust, for we had a glorious procession on the greatFête-Dieu, organized, of course, and carried on to complete success by the zeal and inventive piety of my young curate. My own timidity, and dread of offending Protestant susceptibilities—a timidity, I suppose, inherited from the penal days—would have limited that procession to the narrow confines of the chapel yard; but the larger and more trusting faith of Father Letheby leaped over such restrictions, and the procession wound through the little village, down to the sheer cliffs that overhang the sea, along the narrow footpath that cuts the turf on the summit of the rocks, around the old mill, now the new factory, and back by the main road skirting the bog and meadowland, to the village church again. It would be quite useless to inquire how or whereFather Letheby managed to get those silken banners, and that glittering processional cross, or the gorgeous canopy. I, who share with the majority of my countrymen the national contempt for minutiæ and mere details, would have at once dogmatically declared the impossibility of securing such beautiful things in such a pre-Adamite, out-of-the-way village as Kilronan. But Father Letheby, who knows no such word as impossibility, in some quiet way—the legerdemain of a strong character—contrives to bring these unimaginable things out of the region of conjecture into the realms of fact; and I can only stare and wonder. But the whole thing was a great and unexampled success; and, whilst my own heart was swelling under the influence of the sweet hymns of the children, and the golden radiance of June sunlight, and the sparkling of the sea, and the thought that I held the Lord and Master of all between my hands, my fancy would go back to that wondrous lake on whose waters the Lord did walk, and from whose shores He selected the future teachers of the world. The lake calm in the sunlight, the fish gleaming in the nets, the half-naked Apostles bending over the gunwales of their boats to drag in the nets, the stately, grave figure of our Lord, the wondering women who gazed on Him afar off with fear and love—all came up before my fancy, that only came back to reality when I touched the shoulders of Reginald Ormsby and the doctor, who, with tworough fishermen, belonging to the Third Order of St. Francis, held the gilded poles of the canopy. They manifested great piety and love and reverence all the way. Ormsby had brought over all his coast-guards except the two that were on duty at the station, and they formed a noble guard of honor around the canopy; and it was difficult to say which was the more beautiful and picturesque—the demonstrative love of the peasant women, who flung up their hands in a paroxysm of devotion, whilst they murmured in the soft Gaelic: "Ten thousand, thousand thanks to you,O white and ruddy Saviour!" or the calm, deep, silent tenderness of these rough men, whose faces were red and tanned and bronzed from the action of sun and sea. And the little children, who were not in the procession, peeped out shyly from beneath their mothers' cloaks, and their round, wondering eyes rested on the white Host, who in His undying words had once said: "Suffer little children to come unto me!" Let no one say that our poor Irish do not grasp the meaning of this central mystery of our faith! It is true that their senses are touched by more visible things; but whoever understands our people will agree with me that no great theologian in his study, no philosopher in his rostrum, no sacred nun in her choir, realizes more distinctly the awful meaning of that continued miracle of love and mercy that is enshrined on our altars, and namedEmmanuel.
But all things come around, sooner or later, in their destined courses, and Monday dawned, fair and sunny and beautiful, as befitted the events that were to take place. There was a light summer haze on sea and land; and just a ripple of a breeze blown down as a message from the inhospitable hills. Father Letheby said early Mass at eight o'clock; and at half-past nine, the hour for the nuptial Mass, there was no standing or sitting-room in the little chapel. Of course, the front seats were reserved for the gentry, who, in spite of an academical dislike to Ormsby's conversion, gathered to witness this Catholic marriage, as a rare thing in Ireland, at least amongst their own class. But behind them, and I should say in unpleasant proximity (for the peasantry do not carry handkerchiefs scented with White Rose or Jockey Club,—only the odor of the peat and the bogwood), surged a vast crowd of men and women, on whose lips and in whose hearts was a prayer for her who was entering on the momentous change in her sweet and tranquil life. And young Patsies and Willies and Jameses were locked by their legs around their brothers' necks, and trying to keep down and economize for further use that Irish cheer or yell, that from Dargai to Mandalay is well known as the war-whoop of the race invincible. I presume that I was an object of curiosity myself, as I awaited in alb and stole the coming of the bridal party. Then the curiosity passed on toOrmsby, who, accompanied by Dr. Armstrong, stood erect and stately before the altar-rails; then, of course, to the bride, who, accompanied by her father, and followed by a bevy of fair children, drew down a rose-shower of benedictions from the enthusiastic congregation. Did it rest there? Alas, no! Bridegroom and bride, parish priest and curate, were blotted out of the interested vision of the spectators; and, concentrated with absorbing fascination, the hundreds of eyes rested on the snowy cap and the spotless streamers of Mrs. Darcy. It was the great event of the day—the culmination of civilization in Kilronan! Wagers had been won and lost over it; one or two pitched battles had been fought with pewter weapons at Mrs. Haley's; ballads had been written on it in the style, but not quite in the polished lines, of "Henry of Navarre"; and now, there it was, the "white plume" of victory, the cynosure of hundreds of wondering eyes. I dare say the "upper ten" did not mind it; they were used to such things; but everything else paled into insignificance to the critical and censorious audience behind them.
"Didn't I tell you she'd do it?"
"Begor, you did. I suppose I must stand the thrate."
"Father Letheby cud do anything whin he cud do that."
"Begor, I suppose she'll be thinkin' of marryin' herself now, and Jem hardly cowld in the clay."
"Yerra, look at her! She thinks she's wan of the gintry. Oh my! she's blushin'. 'T wasn't so long ago that you could sow praties in her face."
"I suppose thim cost a lot of money. But, shure, it was the priests give 'em to her."
"Wisha, thin, there's many a poor creature that would want the money more."
Now, all this was not only sarcastic, but calumnious. The cap and streamers were Mrs. Darcy's own, bought out of her hard earnings, and donned to-day to honor the nuptials of her idol and benefactress. She knew the mighty ordeal that was in store for her; but she faced it, and thanked God she was "not behoulden to wan of thim for what she put into her mout' and upon her back." And she stood there at the altar-rails, erect and defiant, and there was not a tremor in the hand that held the holy-water vase, nor in the hand that held the aspergill.
But it was very embarrassing to myself. I am not disposed to be nervous, for I have always conscientiously avoided tea and too much study, and I have lived in the open air, and always managed to secure eight hours of dreamless, honest sleep; but I was "discomposed," as some one charitably explained it that morning; and Mrs. Darcy's cap was the cause. I couldn't take my eyes away from it. There it was, dancing like a will-o'-the-wisp before my dazzled vision. I turned my backdeliberately upon it, and lo! there it was in miniature in the convex arc of my spectacles; and if I looked up, there was my grinning congregation, and their half-audible remarks upon this dread and unwonted apparition. At last I commenced:
"Reginald Darcy, wilt thou take Bittra Ormsby here present—"
A forcible reminder from Father Letheby brought me to my senses; but away they scattered again, as I heard Campion muttering something uncomplimentary under his black mustache.
"Ahem!—Reginald Ormsby, wilt thou take Mrs. Darcy—"
Here Father Letheby nudged me again, and looked at me suspiciously. I got a sudden and violent paroxysm of coughing, a remnant of an old bronchial attack to which I am very subject. But I managed to say:—
"For the love of God, send that woman into the sacristy."
She covered her retreat nobly, made a curtsey to the priests, genuflected calmly, laid down the aspergill, and, under pretence of having been sent for something which these careless priests had forgotten, retired with honors; and then I suppose had a good long cry. But poor Bittra was blushing furiously; Ormsby was calm as on the quarterdeck; but Dr. Armstrong was pulling at his mustache, as if determined to show the world that there was no use any more for razors or depilatories; and Miss Leslie had bitten right through her under lip, and was threatened with apoplexy. We got through the rest of the ceremony with flying colors: and the moment I said,In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, the hush of death fell on the congregation. Then the nuptial blessing was given, the choir threw all their vocal strength into the grandfinale; the registers were signed; Campion kissed his beloved child, and shook hands with Ormsby; and then commenced the triumphal march. I forgot to say that for the glorious procession on the Thursday before the village wasen fête. Great arcades of laurel were stretched from chimney to chimney, because there were no upper rooms in the cabins; the posts and lintels of the humble doors were covered with foliage and flowers; and the windows were decorated with all the pious images that had been accumulating in the cabins for generations. Littleëikonsof the Sacred Heart, gorgeous statues of our Lady of Lourdes, colored prints of Leo XIII., and crucifixes without number dappled the dark background of the windows,—and all the splendor was allowed to remain untouched during the octave. And glad they were, poor people, to show their love for their young idol and mistress, even with the decorations of their Lord and King. But what a shout tore open the heavens as Bittra appeared, leaning on her husband's arm; and what prayers echoed round and round them, asOrmsby handed Bittra into the victoria that was waiting! No genteel showers of rice, no casting of slippers nor waving of jealous handkerchiefs here, but—
"Come down out o' dat, you grinning monkey," and the gorgeous coachman was hauled down ignominiously, and a score of strong arms replaced the panting horses under the bridal carriage. And so it moved on, this bridal procession, amidst a strangeepithalamiumof cheering and blessings, whilst rough hands from time to time grasped the strong fingers of the smiling bridegroom or the tiny gloved hand of the bride. Ay, move down the valley of life together, you two, linked hand-in-hand, having said your farewells to the world, for you are entering on a new and altogether consecrated life. No wonder that the Church insists on the sacramental nature of this stupendous compact between two human souls; no wonder that the world, anxious to break its indissolubility, denies its awful sacredness; no wonder that the Catholic girl enters beneath the archway of the priest's stole[6]with the fear of great joy, and that the Catholic bridegroom is unnerved with dread at undertaking the responsibilities of a little universe.
We had a little chat over this matter, my curate and I, the evening before Bittra's marriage. Itcame around quite naturally, for we had been debating all kinds of possibilities as to the future; and he had been inveighing, in his own tumultuous manner, against the new and sacrilegious ideas that are just now being preached by the modern apostles of free thought in novel and journal. We agreed in thinking that the Christian ideal of marriage was nowhere so happily realized as in Ireland, where, at least up to recent times, there was no lurid and volcanic company-keeping before marriage, and no bitter ashes of disappointment after; but the good mother quietly said to her child: "Mary, go to confession to-morrow, and get out your Sunday dress. You are to be married on Thursday evening." And Mary said: "Very well, mother," not even asserting a faintest right to know the name of her future spouse. But, then, by virtue of the great sacramental union, she stepped from the position of a child and a dependent into the regal position of queen and mistress on her own hearth. The entire authority of the household passed thereby into her hands, as she slung the keys at her girdle; she became bursar andeconomeof the establishment; and in no instance was her right to rule supreme ever questioned by husband or child, unless drink came in to destroy this paradise, as the serpent fouled with his slime the flowers of the garden of Eden. Married life in Ireland has been, up to now, the most splendid refutation of all that the world andits gospel, the novel, preach about marriage, and the most splendid and complete justification of the supernaturalism of the Church's dogmas and practices. But, reverting to the new phases in the ever-shifting emotionalism of a godless world, with which marriage has become a question of barter—a mere lot-drawing of lambs for the shambles—he compared the happy queenly life of our Irish mother with that of the victim of fashion, or that of uncatholic lands, where a poor girl passes from one state of slavery to another.
"I hope," he said, "that we never shall be able to compare Bittra, like so many other brides, to the sleeping child that Carafola has painted, with an angel holding over it a crown of thorns, and whom marriage, like the angel, would awake by pressing the thorns on her brow."
"God forbid!" I said fervently. How little I dreamed of the troubles that were looming up out of the immediate future to shroud her marriage sunshine in awful gloom!
As the marriage procession passed the door where Alice lived, Bittra gave a little timid, imperious command to her admirers to stop. She and Ormsby alighted and passed into the cottage. The orange blossoms touched the crown of thorns on the head of the sick girl; but, somehow, both felt that there was need of a sisterhood of suffering on the one part to knit their souls together.Ormsby remained in the kitchen, talking to Mrs. Moylan; and from that day forward she was secured, at least, from all dread of dependence or poverty forevermore.
At the breakfast table it was, of course, my privilege to propose the health of the bride and bridegroom, which I most gladly did; and, let me say, so successfully as to bring back unwonted smiles to Campion's face, who now freely forgave me for thegaucheriesat the marriage service. Then the guests strolled around, looking at the marriage presents—the usual filigree and useless things that are flung at the poor bride. Bittra took me into a little boudoir of her own to show me herrealpresents.
"Father," she said, "who is a great artist, wanted me to give back all this rubbish, as he calls it; but I would much rather sacrifice all thatbijouterieoutside." And she exhibited with glistening eyes the bridal offerings of the poor fisherwomen and country folk of Kilronan. They were fearfully and wonderfully made. Here was a magnificent three-decker battleship, complete from pennant to bowsprit, every rope in its place, and the brass muzzles of its gun protruded for action. Here was a pretty portrait of Bittra herself, painted by a Japanese artist from a photograph, surreptitiously obtained, and which had been sent 15,000 miles across the ocean for an enlarged replica. Here were shells of all sizesand fantastic forms, gathered during generations, from the vast museums of the deep. Here was a massive gold ring, with a superb ruby, picked up, the Lord knows how, by a young sailor in the East Indian Islands. Here, screaming like a fury, was a paroquet, gorgeous as a rainbow, but ill-conducted as a monkey; and here was a gauze shawl, so fine that Bittra hid it in her little palm, and whispered that it was of untold price.
"But, of course, I cannot keep all these treasures," she said; "I shall hold them as a loan for a while; and then, under one pretext or another, return them. It is what they indicate that I value."
"And I think, my little child," I said, "that if you had them reduplicated until they would fill one wing of the British Museum, they would hardly be an exponent of all that these poor people think and feel."
"It should make me very happy," said Bittra.
And then we passed into the yard and dairies, where the same benevolent worship had congregated fowl of strange and unheard-of breeds; and there was a little bonham; and above all, staring around, wonder-stricken and frightened, and with a gorgeous blue ribbon about her neck, was the prettiest little fawn in the world, its soft brown fur lifted by the warm wind and its eyes opened up in fear and wonder at its surroundings. Bittra patted its head, and the pretty animal laid its wetnozzle in her open hand. Then she felt a little shiver, and I said:—
"That bridal dress is too light. Go in and change." But she said, looking up at me wistfully:—
"It is not the chill of cold, but of dread, that is haunting me all the morning. I feel as if some one were walking over my grave, as the people say."
"Ahem!—Reginald Ormsby, wilt thou take Mrs. Darcy—" (p. 382.)"Ahem!—Reginald Ormsby, wilt thou take Mrs. Darcy—"
"Nonsense!" I cried. "You are unnerved, child; the events of the morning have been too much for you."
Here we heard her father's voice, shouting: "Bittra! Bittra! where are you?"
"Here, father," she said, as Ormsby came into the yard with Campion, "showing all my treasures to Father Dan."
She linked her arm in her husband's, and Campion looked from one to the other admiringly. And no wonder. They were a noble, handsome pair, as they stood there, and the June sunlight streamed and swam around them.
"Go in," he said at last. "The guests expect you."
He and I walked around the farmyard, noting, observing, admiring. He called my attention to this animal and to that, marked out all his projected improvements, and what he would do to make this a model country residence for his child; but I could see that he had something else to say.At last he turned to me, and there was a soft haze in his gleaming black eyes as he tried to steady his voice:—
"I have been a hard man," he said, "but the events of this morning have quite upset me. I didn't know that my child was so worshipped by the people, and it has touched me deeply. You know, brought up in the school where I graduated, I have never been able to shake off a feeling of contempt for these poor, uneducated serfs; and their little cunning ways and want of manliness have always disgusted me. I am beginning to see that I have been wrong. And then I have been a bad Catholic. Ormsby, lately an unbeliever, has shown me this, not by his words, for he is a thorough gentleman, but by his quiet example. You know I did not care one brass pin whether he was Turk, Jew, or atheist, so long as he married Bittra. Now I see that the Church is right, and that her espousal would have been incomplete if she had not married a Catholic, and a true one. All this has disturbed me, and I intend to turn over a new leaf. I am running into years; and although I have, probably, thirty years of life before me, I must brush up as if the end were near. I am awfully sorry I was not at the rails with Bittra and Ormsby this morning; but we shall all be together at Holy Communion the Sunday after they return from the Continent. By Jove! there goes the Angelus; and twelve is the hour to start the boat!"
He took off his hat, and we said theAngelusin silence together. I noticed the silver gathering over his ears, and the black hair was visibly thinning on the top. I watched him keenly for those few seconds. I did not know that those musical strains of the midday Angelus were his death-knell—the ringing up of the great stage-manager, Death, for hisvolté subito—his leap through the ring to eternity.
FOOTNOTES:[6]In many places in Ireland the priest places the broad ends of the stole on the heads of the newly married couple.
[6]In many places in Ireland the priest places the broad ends of the stole on the heads of the newly married couple.
[6]In many places in Ireland the priest places the broad ends of the stole on the heads of the newly married couple.
THE "STAR OF THE SEA"
There was a vast crowd assembled down where the extemporized pier jutted into the creek, and where the new fishing-boat, perfect in all her equipments, lolled and rolled on the heaving of the tide. Her high mast made an arc of a circle in the warm June air, as the soft, round wavelets lifted her; and many was the comment made on her by those whose eyes had never rested but on the tarred canvas of the coracle.
"She has a list to port!" said an old mariner, critically.
"Where's yer eyes, Jur?" cried another. "Don't ye see she lanes to stabbord?"
"I'll bet dhrinks all round she's level as the althar," said a third.
"'Twill take six min to navigate her," cried an old salt, who had been around the world.
"'T is aisy to get 'em for the big wages the priest is offering."
"How much?" cried a mariner from Moydore.
"Fifteen shillings a week, an' a share in the profits."
"Here's the capt'n and the priests. Now, boys, for a cheer."
And there was a cheer that made the ocean shiver, and fluttered the flags over the tents, and made even the trick-o'-the-loop men pause in their honest avocation, and the orange-sellers hold their wares suspended in midair.
"Is that him?" was the cry, as Father Letheby, his face aglow with excitement and pride, came down the by-path to the pier.
"That's him, God bless him!" said the Kilronan men. "'Twas a lucky day brought him among us. What are yere priests doing?"
"Divil a bit!" said the strangers, who felt themselves humiliated.
There was a ring of merchants around Father Letheby, the shopkeepers over from Kilkeel and Loughboro' who had subscribed to the balance of local aid required by the Board of Works. They scanned the boat critically, and shuffled, in imagination, the boundless profits that were to accrue.
A light breeze blew off the land, which was another favorable omen; and it was reported that the coast-guards had seen that morning the Manx fishing-fleet about twelve miles to the south'ard.
There had been a slight dispute between Father Letheby and Campion about the naming of the craft, the latter demanding that she should be called the "Bittra Campion of Kilronan," and Father Letheby being equally determined that she should be called the "Star of the Sea." Bittra herself settled the dispute, as, standing in theprow of the boat, she flung a bottle of champagne on the deck, and said tremulously: "I name her the 'Star of the Sea.'"
But she grew pale, and almost fainted, as the heavy bottle, without a break, pirouetted down between sails and cordage, and seeking an opening in the gunwale of the boat flopped into six fathoms of sea-water.
It was a dread omen, and all felt it. Nothing could have been more inauspicious or unlucky. But the Celtic wit and kindness came to her aid.
"Never mind, Miss; 't isn't you, but the d——d old hulk that's unlucky."
"Thim bottles are made of sheet-iron; they're so tick they don't hould a glassful."
"One big cheer, byes, for the 'Star of the Say.'"
It was a big cheer; but somehow there was a faltering note somewhere; and when Father Letheby handed Bittra ashore and the decks were cleared, and the crew summoned to make her ready to clear off, the men held back, cowed and afraid.
"You miserable cowards," said Father Letheby; "afraid of every little accident! I'll not let one of you now aboard; I'll get a crew of men from Moydore!"
This stung them to the quick; and when a few Moydore boys stood forward and volunteered, they were rudely flung aside by the four stalwartfishermen, and we went near having a good free fight to crown the morning's proceedings. Yet it was easy to see that their hearts were heavy with superstition and fear; and it was just at this crisis that Campion stepped forward and offered himself as captain and helmsman. There was a genuine ringing cheer when he walked down her deck; for every one knew what a splendid seaman he was, and it is exhilarating to see a strong man, self-reliant and confident, assume an authority and premiership by natural right, where weaklings are timid and irresolute. The clouds moved off from Father Letheby's face only to gather more deeply upon poor Bittra's. Campion saw it and came over to where she stood, leaning on Ormsby's arm.
"I would be miserable up at that old castle, mignonne," he said fondly, "when you and Ormsby depart. It is only a few hours at sea, and it will give nerve to these poor fellows."
"Father! father!" was all that she could say through her tears. What dreadful forebodings filled that gentle heart!
"Tell her it's all right, Ormsby!" Campion said, turning away from the tearful face. "You know all about the sea, and that there's no danger. What a noble craft she is! Good by, little woman! You have no time to lose if you want to catch the mail. Good by, Ormsby! Take care of her!"
He choked down his emotion as he kissed his child, and then sprang on deck.
"All right, lads! Ease off her head first! There, cast away aft!"
And the pretty craft was caught up by the flowing tide; and with the strong hand at the helm, floated calmly down the deep creek until she reached a wider space, where the wind could catch her. Then they raised a white sail, half-mast high, and she leaned over to the pressure until she shot out amongst the breakers, and her mainsail and topsail shook out to the breeze, and she cut the calm sea like a plough in the furrow, and the waters curled and whitened and closed in her wake. Then, at a signal, her pennant was hauled to the masthead; and every eye could read in blue letters on a white ground "Star of the Sea." There was a tremendous cheer, and the fishing-boat went forward to her fate.
Long after the crowd had dispersed, two figures leaned on the battlements of the bridge that spanned the fiord higher up near the great house. Bittra fluttered her little handkerchief as long as the dark speck at the helm could be discerned. Then the boat, now but a tiny white feather in the distance, was lost in the haze; and Bittra and her husband set out on their wedding journey.
As we went home, Father Letheby showed me a letter received that morning from the managerof the great firm at Loughboro', complaining that the work lately sent from the Kilronan factory was very imperfect, and, indeed, unsalable, and calling for the first instalment payable on the machines.
"I called the girls' attention to this," he said, "some weeks ago, when the first complaints were made; and some pouted, and some said they were doing too much for the wages I gave them, although, to encourage them, I gave them nearly double what I had stipulated for, and have left myself without a penny to meet this first instalment."
"Come," I said, "this won't do. Let us go in and see all about this!"
We went upstairs to the great room, to find it empty of workers. The girl who was placed in the position of superintendent was knitting in a corner, and rose as we entered.
"Where are the girls, Kate?" he said, not unkindly.
"I don't know, your reverence. They were saying yesterday that this should be a holiday."
"They knew all this work was waiting, and that the manager was complaining."
"They did, indeed, your reverence. I told them so, and one said: 'Let them wait.' They're grumbling about the wages, though they were never better off in their lives before."
"Are they all of the same mind in that matter?"
"Oh, no, your reverence. Nine of the girlsare anxious, and are really grateful for the work; but there are three doxies, who have bachelors, if you please, and they think themselves quite above the work."
"I see. I think I know them. They won't come here again. Can you supply their places?"
"Easy enough, your reverence, but—"
"Never mind. I'll do that myself."
He did. He dismissed the recalcitrants promptly; but when it became a question of obtaining substitutes, it was not so easy.
The rest of the girls went to work the following day; but as they passed through the village in the evening on the way home, they were hooted unmercifully, called "staggeens," "thraitors," "informers," and, as a result, remained at home, and sent in their resignation to Father Letheby. Not that the entire body of villagers sympathized with this disgraceful conduct; but the powers of evil are more aggressive than the agents of goodness; and the children of darkness are wiser in their generation than the children of light. I suppose it is the same the wide world over; but, of a surety, in Ireland one rebel makes a thousand. No one thinks himself called upon to be a martyr or witness to the right. Of course, Father Letheby had sympathizers; but they limited their sympathy to kindly criticism:—
"He was well in his way, making ladies of thim that ought to be diggin' praties in the fields."
"He's young, Maurya; when he gets oulder, he'll know betther."
"Shure, they were bad enough to say he was puttin' the money in his own pocket, and dem goin' to their juty every month."
"I hard my lady with the fringes and the curls and the cuffs say that the poor priest was turning a good pinny by it; and that he larned the thrade from his father."
"The dirty whipster; an' I saw the chops and the steaks goin' in her door, where a fryin'-pan was never known to sing before."
"An' her kid gloves an' her bonnet on Sunday. Begor, the Lady G—— is nothin' to her."
"Well, the poor priest is well rid av thim, however. I suppose 't will be shut up now."
Nevertheless, the girls never came back. The terror of some nameless, undefined apprehension hung over them.
But I am anticipating. We dined with Father Letheby the evening of this eventful day. We had a pretty large party of priests; for a good many had come over to witness the launch of the fishing-boat. And, Father Letheby's star being in the ascendant, he had a few worshippers, unenvious, except with the noble emulation of imitating him. This is the rarest, but most glorious success that life holds forth to the young and the brave. Fame is but a breath; Honor but the paint and tinsel of thestage; Wealth an intolerable burden; but the fire of noble rivalry struck from the souls of the young in the glow of enthusiasm—here is the only guerdon that the world can give to noble endeavor, and the kingly promises of success. And my brave curate, notwithstanding the reverses of the morning, rose to the occasion, kindled by the sincere applause that rang around him for noble efforts that had passed into completeness and fruition; and I, an old man, just about to make my bow and exit, felt almost young again, as the contagion of youth touched me, and I saw their eyes straining afar after the magnificent possibilities of the future. God bless them! for they need every square inch of energy and enthusiasm to meet the disappointments and defeats, the lack of sympathy and appreciation, and the superabundance of criticism that await them. Dear me! if only the young had fair play and the tonic of a kindly word—- but no, kind words appear to be weighed out like gold; and then comes deadly depression and heart-searching, and all brave courage is extinguished, and all noble aspirations checked, until in middle age we find only the dried-up, cauterized, wizened soul, taught by dread experience to be reticent and cautious, and to allow splendid opportunities to pass unutilized rather than risk the chances of one defeat. And the epitaph on these dead souls is:Foris pugnæ, intus timores.
This evening we let ourselves out bravely. Itwas a great occasion; we were all proud of the success of my brave young confrère; and when Father Duff rose to propose his health, the table rang and rocked with our applause. The westering sun threw a soft glory over the beautiful flowers and plants that decorated the table, and lingered long in the ruby flames of the glasses; the room was filled with a hundred odors from plant and shrub, and the blood of grapes that were crushed in the wine-presses of Languedoc and Dauphiny; and from afar through the open window came the scented June air and the murmurs of the ever restless sea. Father Duff spoke well, and feelingly, and generously, and wound up a fine, eloquent speech with the words:—
"And whilst we heartily wish him many years of increased utility in wider and loftier spheres of action, and, with successful work, the laurels and the prizes that should follow it, may we be tempted to follow his noble initiative, and to learn that the very war against difficulties, and their conquest, is one of the richest prizes of labor and effort, and that toil and battle, even of themselves, have the faculty of ennobling and refining."
Then we all stood up, with our glasses poised, and sang: "For he's a right good fellow." There were greetings of "Ad multos annos," etc.; and just then there came across the fields from the direction of the pier a low, wailing sound, so thin and faint that we almost doubted the testimony ofour ears. Presently it was renewed, in increased volume, then died away again as the land breeze caught it and carried it out to sea. We looked at one another in surprise, and Father Letheby, somewhat disturbed, said:—
"I did not know that any of our people was dead."
"You expected no funeral this evening?"
"No! I got no intimation that any one was to be buried."
Then he rose to respond to the toast of his health. He spoke well, and with a good deal of grateful feeling; and he seemed to appreciate mostly the generous congratulations of the younger clergy, whom he had gathered around him. But ever and anon, that wail for the dead broke over the moorland, and interrupted his glowing periods, until it came quite close to the village, and appeared to be circling round the house in dismal, funereal tones of agony and distress.
"I must bring my remarks to an abrupt conclusion, gentlemen," he said anxiously; "something is seriously wrong in the village, and I must go and see."
He had not far to go. For now a tumultuous throng had burst into the village, as we could feel by the hurried tramp of feet, and the sound of many voices, and the awful accents of hysterical women raising that chant for the dead that is so well known in Ireland. The crowd gathered in thick masses around the door and we went out.
"She's gone, your reverence, and they are all drowned."
"Sunk by a steamer—"
"Struck her foreships—"
"No! abaft—"
"The captain's drowned—"
"Can't you let the min spake for theirselves?" said Jem Deady, who assumed at once the office of Master of Ceremonies. "Bring these fellows for'ard, and let them tell the priest."
They were brought forward, the four fishermen, but were not too well able to sustain conversation, much less to detail a thrilling narrative of events; for the poor fellows had been filled up to the epiglottis with whiskey, and were in momentary peril of asphyxia. By piecing and patching their ejaculations together, however, it was ascertained that the "Star of the Sea" had a glorious run to the fishing-fleet, was welcomed cheerily by the Manx boats, and even more enthusiastically by the Cherbourg fleet; had made all arrangements for the sale of her fish; and then, with renewed vigor, was making for home. The haze that had hung over the sea all the morning had deepened, however, into a thick fog; and one wary old fisherman had ventured to warn Campion that he had too much way on, and to keep a good lookout. He laughed at the notion of their meeting any vessel in those desolate waters, and had freed the helm for a moment whilst he lit a cigar, whenjust then there was a shout, and a large steamer loomed out of the fog, running at right angles with the fishing-craft. Screams of warning came from the steamer, her fog-whistle was sounded, but Campion took it coolly.
"He thought it was the wather-witch, the 'Halcyonia,' he had, your reverence, and she swung to the touch of a baby's finger."
But the heavy craft was not so obedient, and Campion's attempt to show his seamanship was disastrous. He ran right under the steamer's nose, and had just almost cleared her when her prow struck the boat, six or eight feet from the stern, sheared off her helm and steering apparatus as if cut with a knife, and struck Campion as he fell. Then in a moment the boat filled and careened over, throwing her crew into the sea. The four fishermen were saved, two by clinging to the suspended anchors of the steamer, two by ropes flung from the deck. Campion went down.
"The last we saw of him was his black head bobbing in the wather; and, faith, it wasn't his prayers he was sayin'."
Here, indeed, was the dread descent of the sword on Damocles. And all looked to Father Letheby to know what he would say. He received the dread intelligence, which foreboded ruin to himself and others, like a man, and merely turned to the expectant crowd and said:—
"Get these poor fellows home as soon as possible. Their clothes are dripping wet, and they'll catch their death of cold."
True, indeed, there were little pools of water in the hall where the shipwrecked fishermen were standing.
As we turned to go in, whilst the crowd dispersed, Jem Deady took occasion to whisper:—
"Look here, your reverence, 't was all dhrink."
Jem had kept his pledge for six weeks, and by virtue thereof assumed all the privileges of a reformer.
It was a dread ending of the day's business, and it came with crushing effect on the soul of Father Letheby. They were bad omens,—the revolt at the factory and the destruction of the boat. We remained for hours talking the thing over, whilst my thoughts ran away to the happy girl who was just then speeding from Kingstown on her bridal tour. I followed her in imagination through smoky England to sunny France. I saw her, leaning on her husband, as he led her from church to church, from gallery to gallery, in the mediæval cities of the Continent; I saw her cross from the Riviera into Italy, and I realized her enthusiasm as she passed, mute and wonder-stricken, from miracle to miracle of art and faith, in that happy home of Catholicism. I could think of her even kneeling at the feet of the Supreme Pontiff whilst she begged a special blessing on her father, and he, rolling with the tide, a dead mass in ooze and slime, and uncouthmonsters swimming around him in curiosity and fear, and his hands clutching the green and purplealgæof the deep.
Some one asked:—
"Was the boat insured?"
"No," said Father Letheby. "We were but waiting the result of her trial trip to make that all right."
"Then the committee are responsible for the whole thing?"
"I suppose so," said Father Letheby, gloomily.
"I should rather think not," said Father Duff, who was quietly turning over the leaves of an album. "Depend upon it, the Board of Works never allowed her to leave her wharf without having her fully insured, at least for the amount payable by the Board!"
"Do you think so?" said Father Letheby, as the cloud lifted a little at these words.
"I know it," said Father Duff, emphatically.
After a little time, and ever so many expressions of sympathy, the guests departed and left us alone. In a few minutes a knock came to the door, and Lizzie summoned Father Letheby.
"You're wanting just for a minute, sir."
He went out, leaving the door ajar. I heard Father Duff saying with emphasis:—
"I am deputed to tell you, Letheby, that we are all determined to stand by you in this affair, no matter what it costs. As for myself, I want toassure you that if you are good enough to trust me, I can see my way to tide you over the crisis."
"Ten thousand thanks, Duff," Father Letheby replied. "I shall show you my friendship for you by demanding your assistance should I need it."
He came in to tell me.
"Never mind," I said; "I heard it all, God bless them!"
I then regretted, for the first time in my life, that I had not loved money; I would have given a good deal for the luxury of drawing a big check with these brave young fellows.
I remained till twelve o'clock, debating all possibilities, forecasting, projecting all manner of plans. Now and then a stifled wail came up from the village. We agreed that Bittra should be allowed to proceed on her wedding trip, and that when she returned we would break the dreadful news as gently as possible.
"No chance of seeing the dread accident in the London papers?"
"None! It cannot reach London before to-morrow night. They will then be in Paris."