My New Curate

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"Quite true," he said; "and yet I should like to see these new-fangled
theories about Scriptural inspiration, plenary or otherwise, lifted from
the shaking quagmires of conjecture onto the solid ground of
demonstration."

"You cannot deny whatever," I replied, just before giving in, "that
Crolly's 'Contracts' is solid and well-reasoned and coherent argument;
and look at its vast importance. It touches every question of social and
civil life--"

"It is an excellent heliograph in sunny weather," he said; "but what
about a muggy and misty day?"

"Well, God bless the bishop, whatever," I replied, throwing up the
sponge; "if we haven't the ablest theologians, the smartest Master of
Ceremonies, and the best Orientalists in Ireland, it won't be his fault.
Dear me, how far-seeing and practical he is!"

"But about his ring and his mitre, sir?" said my curate. "You were
pleased to make some observations a few minutes ago--"

"That'll do now," I replied. "My mare will be ready the morning of the
Conference. You'll drive, and we must be in time."

That was a pleasant drive. May in Ireland! What does it mean? It means
coming out of a dark tunnel into blinding sunshine; it means casting off
the slough of winter, and gliding with crest erect and fresh habiliments
under leafy trees and by the borders of shining seas, the crab-apple
blossoms, pink and white, scenting the air over your head, and primroses
and violets dappling the turf beneath your feet; it means lambs frisking
around their tranquil mothers in the meadows, and children returning at
evening with hands and pinafores full of the scented cowslip and the
voluptuous woodbine; it means the pouring of wine-blood into empty
veins, and the awakening of torpid faculties, and the deeper, stronger
pulsations of the heart, and the fresh buoyancy of drooping and
submerged spirits, and white clouds full of bird-music, as the larks
call to their young and shake out the raptures of their full hearts, and
the cheery salutations of the ploughmen, as the coulter turns over the
rich, brown soil, and the rooks follow each furrow for food.

"A grand day, Mick!"

"Grand, your reverence, glory be to God!"

"Good weather for the spring work."

"Couldn't be better, your reverence."

We're out of hearing in a flash, for the little mare feels the
springtime in her veins, and she covers the road at a spanking pace.

"You've thrown off twenty years of age, to-day, Father Dan," said Father
Letheby, as he looked admiringly at his old pastor, then turned swiftly
to his duty, and shook out the ribbons, and then drew them together
firmly, and the little animal knew that a firm hand held her, and there
was no fear.

"No wonder, my boy," I cried; "look at that!" And I pointed to the
[Greek: anerithmon gelasma] of old AEschylus; but what was his AEgean or
even his Mare Magnum to the free and unfettered Atlantic? Oh! it was
grand, grand! What do I care about your Riviera, and your feeble,
languid Mediterranean? Give me our lofty cliffs, sun-scorched,
storm-beaten, scarred and seamed by a thousand years of gloom and
battle; and at their feet, firm-planted, the boundless infinity of the
Atlantic!

We were in time, and I was snugly ensconced in my old corner up near the
bishop's chair before the priests began to throng in. Now, I'd like to
know this. If an old gentleman, not hitherto very remarkable for
dandyism, chooses to brush his white, silvered hair over his
coat-collar, and has put on a spotless suit of black cloth, and sports
his gold chain and seals conspicuously, and wears his spectacles easily,
and drops them in a genteel manner on the silk ribbon that is suspended
around his neck; and if he is altogether neat and spruce, as becomes an
ecclesiastic of some standing in his diocese, is that a reason why he
should be stared at, and why men should put their hands in their pockets
and whistle, and why rather perky young fellows should cry "Hallo!" and
whisper, "Who's the stranger?" And even why the bishop, when he came in,
and we all stood up, should smile with a lot of meaning when I kissed
his sapphire ring and told him how well he looked?

"And I can reciprocate the compliment, Father Dan," his Lordship said;
"I never saw you look better. All these vast changes and improvements
that you are making at Kilronan seem to have quite rejuvenated you."

Father Letheby, at the end of the table, looked as demure as a nun.

"I must congratulate your Lordship also," I said, "on these radical
changes your Lordship has made in the constitution of our Conference. It
is quite clear that your Lordship means to give full scope to the
budding talent of the diocese."

A groan of dissent ran round the table.

"I'm afraid you must give up your Greek studies, Father Dan," said the
bishop; "you'll have barely time now to master the subject-matter of the
Conference."

"That's true, my Lord, indeed," I replied, "it would take twenty hours
out of the twenty-four, and seven days out of every week to meet all
these demands, at least for a valetudinarian ('Oh! Oh!' from the table).
But your Lordship, with your usual consideration, has taken into account
the nimble intellects of these clever young men, and exempted the
slow-moving, incomprehensive minds of poor old parish priests like
myself." ("No! No!! No!!!" from the table.)

"Now, now," said the Master of Conferences, a thin, tall, high
cheek-boned, deep-browed, eagle-eyed priest, whom I have already
introduced as "a great theologian," "this won't do at all. We're
drifting into the old ways again. I mustn't have any desultory
conversation, but proceed at once to business. Now, my Lord, would you
kindly draw a name?"

"Put in Father Dan! Put in Father Dan!" came from the table.

The bishop smilingly drew up number four; and the chairman called upon
Father Michael Delany.

Father Michael squirmed and twisted in his seat. He was a very holy man,
but a little peppery.

"Now, Father Michael," said the chairman blandly, "we'll take the
Rubrics first. Let me see. Well, what do you do with your hands during
the celebration of the Holy Sacrifice?"

"What do I do with my hands?" said Father Michael sullenly.

"Yes; what do you--do--with your hands?"

"That's a queer question," said Father Michael. "I suppose I keep them
on me."

"Of course. But I mean what motions--or shall we call them gestures?--do
you use?"

"What motions?"

"Yes. Well, I'll put it this way. There's an admirable book by an
American priest, Father Wapelhorst, on the Ceremonies. Now, he wisely
tells us in the end of the book what things to avoid. Could you tell me
what to avoid--what _not_ to do in this matter?"

"Don't you know, Father Michael?" said a sympathetic friend; "go on.
_Elevans et extendens_--"

"Young man," said Father Michael, "thank you for your information, but I
can manage my own business. What's this you were saying?" he cried,
turning to the Master of Conferences.

"What mistakes might a priest make with his hands during celebration?"

"What mistakes? Well, he might put them in his pocket or behind his
back, or--"

"Never mind, never mind. One question more. If you wore a pileolus,
zucchetto, you know, at what part of the Mass would you remove it?"

"I wouldn't wear anything of the kind," said Father Michael; "the five
vestments are enough for me, without any new-fangled things from
Valladolid or Salamanca."

The chairman had graduated at Salamanca.

"My Lord," I interposed charitably, "I don't want to interfere with this
interesting examination, but my sense of classical perfection and
propriety is offended by this word in the syllabus of to-day's
Conference. There is no such word in the Latin language as
'Primigeniis,'--'De Primigeniis textibus Sacrae Scripturae--'"

"Now, Father Dan, this won't do," shouted the chairman. "I see what
you're up to. There must be no interruptions here. Very good, Father
Michael, very good indeed! Now, we'll take another. Father Dan, if you
interrupt again, I'll put you into the hat. Well, number eighteen! Let
me see. Ah, yes. Father Irwin!"

Poor Father Michael looked unhappy and discomfited. It is a funny
paradox that that good and holy priest, who, his parishioners declared,
"said Mass like an angel," so that not one of his congregation could
read a line of their prayer-books, so absorbed were they in watching
him, couldn't explain _in totidem verbis_ the Rubrics he was daily and
accurately practising.

Which, perhaps, exemplifies a maxim of the Chinese philosopher:--

"One who talks does not know.
One who knows does not talk.

Therefore the sage keeps his mouth shut,
And his sense-gates closed."

Before Father Irwin was questioned, however, there was a delightful
interlude.

Some one asked whether it was lawful for any one, not a bishop, to wear
a zucchetto during the celebration of Mass. As usual, there was a
pleasant diversity of opinion, some contending that the privilege was
reserved to the episcopate, inasmuch as the great rubricists only
contemplated bishops in laying down the rules for the removal and
assumption of the zucchetto; others again maintained that any priest
might wear one; and others limited the honor to regulars, who habitually
wore the tonsure. The chairman, however, stopped the discussion
peremptorily, and again asked (this time a very aged priest) the
question he had put to Father Delany. The old man answered promptly:--

"The zucchetto, or pileolus, is removed at the end of the last secret
prayer, and resumed after the ablutions."

"Quite right," said the chairman.

"By the way," said the old man, "you pronounce that word pileolus.
The word is pileolus."

"The word is pileolus," said the chairman, whose throne wasn't
exactly lined with velvet this day.

"Pardon me. The word is pileolus. You find it as such in the
scansions of Horace."

"This is your province, Father Dan," said the bishop. "There's no one in
the diocese so well qualified to adjudicate here--"

"'Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
Multi--'

my Lord!" said I. I was drawing the bishop out. "There were ironical
cheers at 'Agamemnona.'"

"'Mutato nomine, de te
Fabula narratur,'"

said the bishop, smiling. "Of course, we have many a rich depositary of
classical lore here,

"'At suave est ex magno tollere acervo.'"

"My Lord," said I, pointing around the table,

"'Omnes hi metuunt versus, odere poetas,'"--

("Oh! Oh! Oh!" from the Conference.)

"'Nec recito cuiquam nisi amicis, idque coactus
Non ubivis coramve quibuslibet.'"

Here the Master of Conference, seeing that the bishop was getting the
worst of it, though his Lordship is a profound scholar, broke in:--

"'Ohe!
Jam satis est! Dum aes exigitur, dum mula ligatur,
Tota abit hora.'"

He looked at me significantly when he said, "dum mula ligatur," but I
had the victory, and I didn't mind.

"Now, look here, Father Dan, you're simply intolerable. The Conference
can't get along so long as you are here. You are forever intruding your
classics when we want theology."

"I call his Lordship and the Conference to witness," I said, "that I did
not originate this discussion. In fact, I passed over in charitable
silence the chairman's gross mispronunciation of an ordinary classical
word, although I suffered the tortures of Nessus by my forbearance--"

"There will be no end to this, my Lord," said the chairman. "That'll do,
Father Dan. Now, Father Irwin."

I was silent, but I winked softly at myself.

CHAPTER XXIII

A BATTLE OF GIANTS

"Now, Father Irwin," said the chairman, addressing a smart, keen-looking
young priest who sat at the end of the table, "you have just come back
to us from Australia; of course, everything is perfect there. What do
you think--are the particles in a ciborium, left by inadvertence,
outside the corporal during consecration consecrated? Now, just reflect
for a moment, for it is an important matter."

"Unquestionably they are," said the young priest confidently.

"They are _not_," replied the chairman. "The whole consensus of
theologians is against you."

"For example?" said Father Irwin coolly.

"Wha-at?" said the chairman, taken quite aback.

"I doubt if all theologians are on your side," said Father Irwin. "Would
you be pleased to name a few?"

"Certainly," said the chairman, with a pitying smile at this young man's
presumption. "What do you think of Benedict XIV., Suarez, and St.
Alphonsus?"

The young man didn't seem to be much crushed under the avalanche.

"They held that there should be reconsecration?"

"Certainly."

"Let me see. Do I understand you aright? The celebrant intends from the
beginning to consecrate those particles?"

"Yes."

"The intention perseveres to the moment of consecration?"

"Yes!"

"And, the _materia_ being quite right, he intends to consecrate that
objective, that just lies inadvertently outside the corporal?"

"Quite so."

"And you say that Benedict XIV., Suarez, and St. Alphonsus maintain the
necessity of reconsecration?"

"Yes."

"Then I pity Benedict XIV., Suarez, and St. Alphonsus."

There was consternation. The bishop looked grave. The old men gaped in
surprise and horror. The young men held down their heads and smiled.

"I consider that a highly improper remark, as applied to the very
leading lights of theological science," said the chairman, with a frown.
And when the chairman frowned it was not pleasant. The bishop's face,
too, was growing tight and stern.

"Perhaps I should modify it," said the young priest airily. "Perhaps I
should have rather said that modern theologians and right reason are
dead against such an opinion."

"Quote one modern theologian that is opposed to the common and universal
teaching of theologians on the matter!"

"Well, Ballerini, for example, and the Salmanticenses--"

"Psha! Ballerini. Ballerini is to upset everything, I suppose?"

"Ballerini has the Missal and common sense on his side."

"The Missal?"

"Yes. Read this--or shall I read it?

"'Quidquid horum deficit, scilicet materia debita, forma cum
intentione, et ordo sacerdotalis, non conficitur Sacramentum; et
his existentibus, quibuscunque aliis deficientibus, veritas adest
Sacramenti.'"

"Quite so. The whole point turns on the words _cum intentione_. The
Church forbids, under pain of mortal sin, to consecrate outside the
corporal; consequently, the priest cannot be presumed to have the
intention of committing a _grave_ just at the moment of consecration;
and, therefore, he cannot be supposed to have the intention of
consecrating."

"Pardon me, if I say, sir," replied the young priest, "that that is the
weakest and most fallacious argument I ever heard advanced. That
reasoning supposes the totally inadmissible principle that there never
is a valid consecration when, inadvertently, the priest forgets some
Rubric that is binding under pain of mortal sin. If, for example, the
priest used fermented bread, if the corporal weren't blessed, in which
case the chalice and paten would be outside the corporal, as well as the
ciborium; if the chalice itself weren't consecrated, there would be no
sacrifice and no consecration. Besides, if you once commence
interpreting intention in this manner, you should hold that if the
ciborium were covered on the corporal, there would be no consecration--"

"That's only a venial sin," said the chairman.

"A priest, when celebrating," said Father Irwin sweetly, "is no more
supposed to commit a venial than a mortal sin. Besides--"

"I'm afraid our time is running short," said the bishop; "I'll remember
your arguments, which are very ingenious, Father Irwin. But, as the
chairman says, the _consensus_ is against you. Now, for the main
Conference, _de textibus Sacrae Scripturae_."

"Father Duff will read his paper, my Lord, and then we'll discuss it."

"Very good. Now, Father Duff!"

Father Duff was another representation of the new dispensation, with a
clear-cut, smooth-shaven face, large blue-black eyes, which, however,
were not able to fulfil their duties, for, as he took out a large roll
of manuscript from his pocket, he placed a gold-rimmed _pince-nez_ to
his eyes, and looking calmly around, he began to read in a slow,
rhythmic voice. It was a wonderful voice, too, for its soft, purring,
murmurous intonation began to have a curious effect on the brethren. One
by one they began to be seized by its hypnotic influence, and to yield
to its soft, soporific magic, until, to my horror and disgust, they
bowed their heads on their breasts, and calmly slept. Even the Master of
Conference, and the bishop himself, gently yielded, after a severe
struggle. "I shall have it all to myself," I said, "and if I don't
profit much by its historical aspects, I shall at least get a few big
rocks of words, unusual or obsolete, to fling at my curate." And so I
did. Codex Alexandrinus, and Codex Sinaiticus, and Codex Bezae, and Codex
Vaticanus rang through my bewildered brain. Then I have a vague
recollection that he actually laughed at the idea of six literal days of
creation, which made an old priest, out of his dreams, turn over to me
and whisper: "He's an infidel"; then, again, he ridiculed the idea of
the recognized authorship of the Pentateuch; spoke of Chaldean and
Babylonian interpolations; knocked on the head the Davidical origin of
the Psalms; made the Book of Daniel half-apocryphal; introduced the
Book of Job, as a piece of Arabian poetry, like the songs of some man
called Hafiz; talked about Johannine Gospels and Pauline Epistles; and,
altogether, left us to think that, by something called Ritschlian
interpretations, the whole Bible was knocked into a cocked hat. Then he
began to build up what he had thrown down; and on he went, in his
rhythmical, musical way, when just as he declared that "the basal
document on which everything is founded is the ur-evangelium, which is
the underlying cryptic element of the Synoptic Gospels,"--just as he
reached that point, and was going on about Tatian's "Diatessaron," a
deep stertorous sound, like the trumpeting of an elephant, reverberated
through the conference room. They all woke up, smiling at me, and as
they did not seem inclined to apologize to Father Duff for their
misbehavior, I said gravely and most angrily:--

"My Lord, I think the Conference should be a little less unconscious of
the grave discourtesy done to one of the most able and erudite papers
that I have ever heard here--"

There was a shout of irreverent laughter, in which, I am sorry to say,
the bishop joined. At least, I saw his Lordship taking out a silk
handkerchief and wiping his eyes.

"I propose now, my Lord, as an _amende_ to the most cultured and
distinguished young priest, that that valuable paper be sent, with your
Lordship's approbation, to some ecclesiastical journal in Ireland or
America. Its appearance in permanent print may give these young men some
idea of the contents of the document, the main features of which they
have lost by yielding, I think too easily, to the seductions of
ill-timed sleep--"

Here there was another yell of laughter, that sounded to my ears
ill-placed and discourteous; but the chairman again interposed:--

"Now, Father Duff, if you are not too highly flattered by the encomiums
of Father Dan, who was your most attentive and admiring listener, I
should like to ask you a few questions on the subject-matter of your
paper."

"Surely," I declared, "you are not going to attack such a stronghold?
Besides, the time is up."

"There is a full hour yet, Father Dan," said the bishop, consulting his
watch; "but you won't mind it, you are able to pass your time so
agreeably."

I did not grasp his Lordship's meaning; but I never do try to penetrate
into mysteries. What's that the Scripture says? "The searcher after
majesty will be overwhelmed with glory."

But the little skirmishes that had taken place before the paper was read
were nothing to the artillery-duel that was now in progress.

"With regard to the Septuagint," said the chairman, "I think you made a
statement about the history of its compilation that will hardly bear a
test. You are aware, of course, that Justin, Martyr and Apologist,
declares that he saw, with his own eyes, the cells where the Seventy
were interned by order, or at the request, of Ptolemy Philadelphus. How,
then, can the letter of Aristeas be regarded as apocryphal?"

"Well, it does not follow that the whole letter is authentic merely
because a clause is verified. Secondly, that statement imputed to Justin
may be also apocryphal."

"Do you consider the names of the seventy-two elders also unauthentic?"

"Quite so."

"And altogether you would regard the Septuagint as a rather doubtful
version of the Ancient Law?"

"I'd only accept it so far as it agrees with the Vulgate and the
Codices."

"But you're aware it was in common use amongst cultivated Jews years
before the coming of our Lord; in fact, it may be regarded as a
providential means of preparing the way of the Lord for the Jews of
Greece and Alexandria."

"That proves nothing."

"It proves this. It is well known that the Hebrews were scrupulously
exact about every title and letter, and even vowel-point--"

"I beg your pardon, sir; the Hebrews before Christ didn't use
vowel-points."

"That's a strong assertion," said the chairman, reddening.

"It is true. I appeal to his Lordship," said Father Duff.

"Well," said the bishop diplomatically, "that appears to be the received
opinion; but the whole thing is wrapped up in the mists and the twilight
of history."

I thought that admirable.

"To pass away from that subject," said the chairman, now somewhat
nervous and alarmed, "I think you made statements, or rather laid down a
principle, that Catholics can hardly accept."

Father Duff waited.

"It was to the effect that in studying the history of the Bible, as well
as in interpreting its meaning, we must take into account the
discoveries and the deductions of modern science."

"Quite so."

"In other words, we are to adopt the conclusions of German rationalistic
schools, and set aside completely the supernatural elements in the
Bible."

"Pardon me; I hardly think that deduction quite legitimate. There are
two schools of thought in the Church on this question: the one maintains
with Dr. Kaulen, of Bonn, that the conclusions of modern criticism are
so certainly erroneous that young students should not notice them at
all. The other holds that we must read our Bibles by the light of modern
interpretation. The official Encyclical of the present Pope Leo XIII.
('Providentissimus Deus') should have closed the controversy; but men
are tenacious of their opinions, and both schools in Germany utilize the
Encyclical for their own ends. Professor Aurelian Schoepfer, of the
Brixen, at once published his book ('Bible and Science'), in which he
maintained that the teaching of the natural sciences may be used by
Catholics not only to confirm Biblical statements, but to interpret
them. As I have said, he was opposed by Kaulen, of Bonn. There was a
second duel between Schantz of Tuebingen, and Scholz of Wuerzburg. The
former insisted that no new principle of Biblical interpretation has
been introduced by the Encyclical; the latter that the principle of
scientific investigation was recognized, and was to be applied. Now, a
Protestant, Koenig of Rostock, was interested in this Catholic
controversy, and collected seventy reviews of Schoepfer's work by leading
scholars in Germany, Austria, France, Ireland, America; and he found
that five sixths endorse the position of the author--"

"You might add, Father Duff," said my curate, who was an interested
listener to the whole argument, and who had been hitherto silent, "that
these reviewers found fault with Schoepfer for ignoring the _consensus
patrum_, and for decidedly naturalistic tendencies."

The whole Conference woke up at this new interlude. The chairman looked
grateful; the bishop leaned forward.

"But the 'Civilta Cattolica,'" said Father Duff, "which we may regard as
official, says, in its review of the same book: 'Biblical history cannot
be any longer stated except in agreement with the true and correct
teaching of the Bible and the reasonable conclusions of the natural
sciences.'"

"Quite so," said Father Letheby, "that applies to the certain
discoveries of geology and astronomy. But surely you don't maintain that
philology, which only affects us just now, is an exact science."

"Just as exact as the other sciences you have mentioned."

"That is, as exact as a mathematical demonstration?"

"Quite so."

"Come now," said my curate, like a fellow that was sure of himself,
"that's going too far."

"Not at all," said Father Duff; "I maintain that the evidence of history
on the one hand, and the external evidence of monuments on the other,
combined with the internal evidence of Scriptural idiomatisms of time
and place, are equivalent to a mathematical demonstration."

"You'll admit, I suppose," said Father Letheby, "that languages change
their structures and meanings very often?"

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