My New Curate

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"All the world am sad and dreary
Eberywhere I roam;
Oh! darkies, how my heart grows weary,
Far from the old folks at home."

Then commenced a fresh cross-fire of chaff.

"The gintlemin in the orchaystra will now favor the company wit' a
song."

Suddenly one young rascal shouted out:--

"Begor, perhaps it's badin' ye were goin'. Don't ye know the rigulations
of the coast? If ye were caught takin' off even yere hats here without
puttin' on a badin' dress, ye'd be dragged before the Mayor and Lord
Lieutenant of Kilronan, and get six weeks' paynal servitude."

Then suddenly a bright idea seemed to dawn on these scamps. There was a
good deal of whispering, and nodding, and pointing; and at last Jem
Deady stepped forward, and in a voice full of awe and sorrow he said:--

"Wan of the byes is thinkin' that maybe ye're the same strange gintlemin
that are on a visit with the priest for the last three days, and who
were dacent enough to shtand 'dhrinks all round' last night at Mrs.
Haley's. 'Pon the vartue of yere oath, are ye?"

"We are. Und dom fools we made of ourselves."

"Now, aisy, aisy," said Jem. "Ye don't know us as yet; but sure wan good
turn desarves another."

"Ye appear to be a dacent sort of fellow," said one of the bailiffs.
"Now, look here. If ye get us 'ut of thus, we'll gev ye a pun' note, and
as much dhrink as ye can bear."

Here there was a cheer.

"The tide goes down at four o'clock," said Jem, "and thin for eight
minits there is a dhry passage across the rocks. Thin ye must run for
yere lives, and we'll be here to help ye. But how the divil did ye get
there? We never saw but a goat there afore."

"That's a matter for the Queen's Bench, my fine fellow. God help those
who brought us here!"

"Amen!" cried all devoutly, lifting their ragged hats. Then they
departed to make the needful preparation. After they had half mounted
the declivity, one was sent back.

"The gintlemin who are going to resky ye," he said, "wants to know if ye
have any conscientious objection to be brought over on the Sabbath; or
wud ye rather remain where ye are till Monday?"

He was answered with an oath, and went away sadly. He was scandalized by
such profanity. "Sich language on a Sunday mornin', glory be to God!
What is the world comin' to?"

Four o'clock came, and the entire village of Kilronan turned out to the
rescue. There were at least one thousand spectators of the interesting
proceedings, and each individual of the thousand had a remark to make, a
suggestion to offer, or a joke to deliver at the unhappy prisoners. And
all was done under an affectation of sympathy that was deeply touching.
Two constables kept order, but appeared to enjoy the fun. Now, in any
other country but Ireland, and perhaps, indeed, we may also except Spain
and France and Italy, a simple thing is done in a simple, unostentatious
manner. That does not suit the genius of our people, which tries to
throw around the simplest matter all the pomp and circumstance of a
great event, and in the evolution thereof every man, woman, and child is
supposed to have a personal interest, and a special and direct calling
to order and arrange and bring the whole proceeding to perfection. Now,
you would say, what could be simpler than to fling a rope to the
prisoners and let them walk across on the dry rocks? That's your
ignorance and your contempt for details; for no Alpine guides, about to
cross the crevasses of a dangerous glacier, with a nervous and timid
following of tourists, ever made half the preparations that Jem Deady
and his followers made on this occasion. Two stout fishermen, carrying a
strong cable, clambered down the cliff, and crossed the narrow ledge of
rock, now wet with seaweed and slippery. They might have gone down, with
perfect ease, the goat-path, sanded and gravelled, by which the bailiffs
were carried the night before; but this would not be value for a pound
and the copious libations that were to follow. They then tied the cable
around the bailiffs and around themselves, and proceeded on their
perilous journey. With infinite care they stepped on rock and seaweed,
shouting hoarse warnings to their mates; but all their warnings were not
sufficient to prevent the bailiffs from slipping and floundering in the
deep sea-water pools left by the receding tide. Somehow the rope would
jerk, or a fisherman would slip, and down all would come together.
Meanwhile hoarse shouts echoed from the gallery of spectators above.

"Pull aft there, Bill."

"Let her head stand steady to the cliff."

"Port your helm, you lubber; don't you see where you're standing for?"

"Ease her, ease her, Tim! Now let her for'ard." And so, with shouts, and
orders, and a fair sprinkling of profane adjurations, the rescuers and
the rescued were hauled up the roughest side of the cliff, until the
black visages of the bailiffs were visible. Then there was a pause, and
many a sympathetic word for the "poor min."

"Where did they come from, at all?"

"No one knows. They're poor shipwrecked furriners."

"Have they any talk?"

"Very little, except to curse."

"Poor min! and I suppose they're all drowned wet."

Whilst the rescuing party halted, and wiped the perspiration from their
brows, one said, half apologetically:--

"I am axed by these gintlemin to tell ye--ahem! that there's a rule in
this village that no credit is given, from the price of an ounce of tay
to a pound of tobakky. An' if ye'd be so plasin' as to remimber that
poun' note ye promised, an' if it is convanient and contagious to ye,
perhaps--"

One of the bailiffs fumbled at his pockets in his critical condition,
and making a round ball of the note, he flung it up the cliff side with
a gesture of disgust. Jem Deady took up the missive, opened it calmly,
studied the numbers, and put it in his pocket.

"Now, byes, a long pull, a sthrong pull, and a pull thegither!"

And in an instant the bailiffs were sprawling on the green turf. Such
cheers, such congratulations, such slapping on the back, such hip! hip!
hurrahs! were never heard before. Then the procession formed and passed
on to the village; and to the melodious strains of "God save Ireland!"
the bailiffs were conducted to Father Letheby's house. Lizzie, half
crying, half laughing with delight for having escaped arrest and capital
punishment, prepared dinner with alacrity; and then a great hush fell on
the village--the hush of conjecture and surmise. Would the bailiffs
remain or depart? Would they recognize the deep hatred of the villagers
under all the chaff and fun, or would they take it as a huge joke? The
same questioning agitated their own minds; but they decided to go for
two reasons, viz., (1) that, fresh from the conflict, they could give a
more lurid description of their adventure, and obtain larger
compensation; and (2) that whilst Jem Deady was scraping, with no gentle
hand, the oil and lampblack from their faces, that he had placed there
the evening before, he told them, confidentially, to put a hundred miles
between themselves and the villagers that night, if they did not care to
leave their measures for a coffin. And so, at six o'clock a car was
hired, and amidst a farewell volley of sarcastic cheers and
uncomplimentary epithets, they drove to catch the night-mail to Dublin.
Father Letheby promptly took possession, and found nothing wrong, except
the odor of some stale tobacco smoke.

* * * * *

Next day was All Souls', and it was with whitened lips, and with
disappointment writ in every one of his fine features, that he came up
after Mass to ask had I received any letter. Alas, no! He had pinned
his faith, in his own generous, child-like way, to Alice's prophecy, and
the Holy Souls had failed him. I went down to see Alice. She looked at
me inquiringly.

"No letter, and no reprieve," I said. "You false prophetess, you child
of Mahomet, what did you mean by deceiving us?"

She was crying softly.

"Nevertheless," she said at length, "it will come true. The Holy Souls
will never fail him. The day is not past, nor the morrow."

Oh, woman, great is thy faith!

Yet it was a melancholy day, a day of conjecture and fear, a day of sad
misgivings and sadder forebodings; and all through the weary hours the
poor priest wore more than ever the aspect of a hunted fugitive.

Next morning the cloud lifted at last. He rushed up to my house, before
he had touched his breakfast, and, fluttering one letter in the air, he
proffered the other.

"There's the bishop's seal," he cried. "I was afraid to open it. Will
you do it for me?"

I did, cutting the edges open with all reverence, as became the purple
seal, and then I read:--

Bishop's House, All Souls' Day, 187--.

I nodded my head. Alice was right.

My dear Father Letheby:--

"What?" he cried, jumping up, and coming behind my chair to read over my
shoulder.

I have just appointed Father Feely to the pastoral charge of
Athlacca, vacated by the death of Canon Jones; and I hereby appoint
you to the administratorship of my cathedral and mensal priest
here. In doing so, I am departing somewhat from the usual custom,
seeing that you have been but one year in the diocese; but in
making this appointment, I desire to mark my recognition of the
zeal and energy you have manifested since your advent to Kilronan.
I have no doubt whatever but that you will bring increased zeal to
the discharge of your larger duties here. Come over, if possible,
for the Saturday confessions here, and you will remain with me
until you make your own arrangements about your room at the
presbytery.

I am, my dear Father Letheby,
Yours in Christ,
----

"I never doubted the bishop," I said, when I had read that splendid
letter a second time. "His Lordship knows how to distinguish between the
accidents of a priestly life and the essentials of the priestly
character. You have another letter, I believe?"

"Yes," he replied, as if he were moonstruck; "a clear receipt from the
Loughboro' Factory Co. for the entire amount."

"Then Alice was right. God bless the Holy Souls!--though I'm not sure
if that's the right expression."

There never was such uproar in Kilronan before. The news sped like
wildfire. The village turned out _en masse_. Father Letheby had to stand
such a cross-fire of blessings and questions and prayers, that we
decided he had better clear out on Thursday. Besides, there was an
invitation from Father Duff to meet a lot of the brethren at an _agape_
at his house on Thursday night, when Father Letheby would be _en route_.
God bless me! I thought that evening we'd never get the little mare
under way. The people thronged round the little trap, kissed the young
curate's hand, kissed the lapels of his coat, demanded his blessing a
hundred times, fondled the mare and patted her head, until at last,
slowly, as a glacier pushing its moraine before it, we wedged our way
through a struggling mass of humanity.

"God be wid you, a hundred times!"

"And may His Blessed Mother purtect you!"

"And may your journey thry wid you!"

"Yerra, the bishop, 'oman, could not get on widout him. That's the
raison!"

"Will we iver see ye agin, yer reverence?"

Then a deputation of the "Holy Terrors" came forward to ask him let his
name remain as their honorary president.

"We'll never see a man again to lift a ball like yer reverence."

"No, nor ye'll niver see the man agin that cud rise a song like him!"
said Jem Deady.

Father Letheby had gone down in the afternoon to see Alice. Alice had
heard, and Alice was crying with lonely grief. He took up her small
white hand.

"Alice," he said, "I came to thank you, my child, for all that you have
done for me. Your prayers, your tears, but, above all, your noble
example of endurance under suffering, have been an ineffable source of
strength to me. I have wavered where you stood firm under the cross--"

"Oh! Father, don't, don't!" sobbed the poor girl.

"I must," he said; "I must tell you that your courage and constancy have
shamed and strengthened me a hundredfold. And now you must pray for me.
I dare say I have yet further trials before me; for I seem to be one of
those who shall have no peace without the cross. But I need strength,
and that you will procure for me."

"Father, Father!" said the poor girl, "it is you that have helped me.
Where would I be to-day if you had not shown me the Crucified behind the
cross?"

He laid in her outstretched hand a beautiful prayer-book; and thus they
parted, as two souls should part, knowing that an invisible link in the
Heart of Christ held them still together.

The parting with Bittra was less painful. He promised often to run over
and remain at the "Great House," where he had seen some strange things.
Nor did he forget his would-be benefactress, Nell Cassidy. He found time
to be kind to all.

What a dinner was that at Father Duff's! Was there ever before such a
tumult of gladness, such Alleluias of resurrection, such hip! hip!
hurrahs! such grand and noble speeches? The brave fellows had joined
hands, and dragged the beaten hero from the battlefield, and set the
laurels on his head. Then they all wanted to become my curates, for
"Kilronan spells promotion now, you know." But I was too wise to make
promises. As we were parting for the night, I heard Father Letheby say
to Duff:--

"I am under everlasting obligations to you. But you shall have that boat
money the moment it comes from the Insurance Office. And those
sewing-machines are lying idle over there; they may be of use to you
here."

"All right! Send them over, and we'll give you a clear receipt. Look
here, Letheby, it's I who am under obligations to you. I had a lot of
these dirty shekels accumulated since I was in Australia; and I'm
ashamed to say it, I had three figures to my credit down there at the
National Bank. If I died in that state, 't would be awful. Now I have a
fairly easy conscience, thanks again to you!"

When I reached my room that ev--morning, I was shocked and startled to
find the hour hand of my watch pointing steadily to two A.M. I rubbed
my eyes. Impossible! I held the watch to my ear. It beat rhythmically. I
shook my head. Then, as I sat down in a comfortable arm-chair, I held a
long debate with myself as to whether it was my night prayers or my
morning prayers I should say. I compromised with my conscience, and said
them both together under one formula. But when I lay down to rest, but
not to sleep, the wheels began to revolve rapidly. I thought of a
hundred brilliant things which I could have said at the dinner table,
but didn't. Such coruscations of wit, such splendid periods, were never
heard before. Then my conscience began to trouble me. Two A.M.!
two A.M.! two A.M.! I tried back through all my philosophers for an
apology. Horace, my old friend, came back from the shades of Orcus.

"Dulce est desipere in loco,"

said he. Thank you, Flaccus! You were always ready:--

"Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus,"

he cried, as he vanished into the shades. Then came Ovid,
laurel-crowned, and began to sing:--

"Somne, quies rerum, placidissime somne deorum!"

But I dismissed him promptly. Then Seneca hobbled in, old usurer as he
was, and said:--

"Commodis omnium laeteris, movearis incommodis."

"Good man!" I cried; "that's just me!"

Then came dear, gentle St. Paul, with the look on his face as when he
pleaded for the slave:--

"Rejoice with them that rejoice, and weep with them that weep!"

Lastly, came my own Kempensis, who shook his head gravely at me, and
said:--

"A merry evening makes a sad morning!"

I like A Kempis; but indeed, and indeed, and indeed again, Thomas, you
are sometimes a little too personal in your remarks.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 9: A half-idiot.]

CHAPTER XXXI

FAREWELL

Thomas A Kempis was right in saying that next morning would be a sad
one--not on account of previous merriment; but, as I drove home alone,
the separation from Father Letheby affected me keenly. He had, to use a
homely phrase, grown into my heart. Analyzing my own feelings, as I
jogged along the country road, I found that it was not his attractive
and polished manners, nor his splendid abilities, nor his sociability
that had impressed me, but his open, manly character, forever bending to
the weak, and scorning everything dishonorable. It was quite true that
he "wore the white flower of a blameless life"; but that is expected and
found in every priest; it was something else,--his manliness, his truth,
that made him

"--my own ideal knight,
Who reverenced his conscience as his king,
Whose glory was redressing human wrongs;
Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it.

* * * * *

... We have lost him; he is gone;
We know him now; all narrow jealousies
Are silent; and we see him as he moved,
How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise,
With what sublime repression of himself,
And in what limits, and how tenderly!"

My poor boy! my poor boy! I thought he would be over me in my last hour
to hear my last confession, and place the sacred oils on my old limbs,
and compose me decently for my grave; but it was not to be. _Vale, vale,
longum vale!_

There was a letter from the bishop, and a large brown parcel before me
when I reached my home. I opened the letter first. It ran thus:--

My dear Father Dan:--The prebendary stall, vacated by the death of
the late Canon Jones, I now have much pleasure in offering for your
acceptance. I suppose, if the [Greek: to prepon] always had force
in this world, you would have been canon for the last twenty or
thirty years; but at least it is my privilege now to make
compensation; and I sincerely hope I may have the benefit of your
wise counsel in the meetings of the Cathedral Chapter. It will also
give you a chance of seeing sometimes your young friend, whom I
have so suddenly removed; and this will weigh with you in accepting
an honor which, if it has come tardily, may it be your privilege to
wear for many years

I am, my dear Father Dan,
Yours in Christ,
----

"Kind, my Lord, always kind and thoughtful," I murmured.

Then I cut the strings of the parcel. It contained the rochet, mozzetta,
and biretta of a canon, and was a present from some excellent Franciscan
nuns, to whom I had been formerly chaplain, and who were charitable
enough not to have forgotten me. So there they were at last, the dream
of half a lifetime. God help us! what children we are! Old and young,
it's all the same. I suppose that is why God so loves us.

I took up the dainty purpled and ermined mozzetta. It was soft, and
beautiful, and fluffy. I could fold the entire rochet in the palms of my
hands, the lace work was so fine and exquisite. I put them down with a
sigh. My mind was fully made up.

Hannah came in, and took in the situation at a glance.

"Did he give 'em to ye at last?"

"He did, Hannah. How do you like them?"

"'Twas time for him! Lor', they're beautiful!"

"Hannah," I said, "have you any camphor or lavender in the house?"

She looked at me suspiciously.

"I have," she said. "What for? Aren't you going to wear them?"

"They are not intended to form the every-day walking-suit of a country
parish priest," I replied. "They must be carefully put by for the
present."

I took my hat and strolled down to see Alice. After telling her all the
news, and Father Letheby's triumphs, I said:--

"The bishop wants me to change my name, too!"

"_You_ are not going?" she said in alarm.

"No; but his Lordship thinks I have been called Father Dan long enough;
he wants me now to be known as the Very Rev. Canon Hanrahan."

"It's like as if you were going away to a strange country," she said.

"Do you think the people will take kindly to it?" I said.

"No! no! no!" she cried, shaking her head; "you will be Father Dan and
Daddy Dan to the end."

"So be it!" I replied.

I returned home, and just before dinner I penned two letters--one to my
good nuns, thanking them for their kindness and generosity; the other to
the bishop, thanking his Lordship _ex imo corde_ also, but declining the
honor. I was too old, _et detur digniori_. Then I got my camphor and
lavender, and laid the fragrant powder between the folds of the
mozzetta. And then I took a sheet of paper and wrote:--

To the
Very Reverend Edward Canon Letheby, B.A., P.P.,
a gift from the grave
of his old friend and pastor,
the Rev. Daniel Hanrahan, P.P.,
more affectionately and familiarly known as
"Daddy Dan."

Then the old temptation came back to wind up with a lecture or
quotation. I ransacked all my classics, and met with many a wise and
pithy saying, but not one pleased me. I was about to give up the search
in despair, when, taking up a certain book, my eye caught a familiar red
pencil-mark. "Eureka!" I cried, and I wrote in large letters, beneath
the above:--

"Amico, Io vivendo cercava conforto
Nel Monte Parnasso;
Tu, meglio consigliato, cercalo
Nel Calvario."

[Illustration: Waiting for my New Curate.]

I placed this last testament in the folds of the lace, tied the parcel
carefully, carefully put it away, and, after the untasted dinner had
been removed, I lowered the lamp-flame, and sat, God only knows how
lonely! as I had sat twelve months before, in my arm-chair, listening
for the patter of the horse's hoofs, and the knock at the door, and the
sounds of alighting, that were to mark the advent of

MY NEW CURATE.

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