My New Curate

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He looked around, and saw the cottages of the peasants and the laborers
gleaming against the dark background of the moor and the mountain; and
the thought smote him: Perhaps there some little children went to bed
hungry to-night. He went home sadly, and, sitting down, he said:--

"Let me see! Soup, entrees, joints, sweets, fruits, wine, coffee. Let me
see! White roses, azaleas, chrysanthemums. Let me see! Waldteufel,
Strauss, Wagner! Let me see!"

He went over, and opened what appeared to be a rather highly decorated
cupboard. He drew back three shutters, and revealed a triptych, sunk
deep in the wall of his little parlor. It was the only thing of real
value he held. It was given to him by a Roman lady, who, for one reason
or another, chose to reside in England. It nearly filled the entire
space on the low wall. As he drew back the shutters, the lamplight fell
on the figure that occupied the whole of the central panel. It was the
Christ. The tall shape was closely wrapped around in the Jewish
kethoneth,--the first of the _vestes albae_ of the priest, as St. John
represents in the Apocalypse. The capouche fell loosely over His head,
and was embroidered in many colors, as was also the hem of His long
white robe, which fell in folds over His sandalled feet. The hood of the
capouche shaded His eyes and threw a dark shadow on the face as far as
the lips. But the sacred figure also held its right hand to shelter the
eyes more deeply from a strong glare of sunset. The left hand fell
loosely by His side, and the first of a large flock of sheep had nestled
its head comfortably in the open palm. The large, gray eyes of Christ
were filled with an anxious light, as they gazed over the silent desert,
questing for some lost object; and the mouth, lightly fringed with
beard, was querulous with pain and solicitude. It was a beautiful
picture,--one worthy to be screened from indevout eyes, or revealed only
to those who loved and worshipped.

The young priest gazed long and lovingly at this presentment of his
Divine Master, whom he loved with the strongest personal affection.
Then he knelt down and pressed his forehead against the dust-stained
feet of Christ, and moaned:--

"Master, if I have done wrong in aught this night, let me know it! If I
have betrayed Thy interests, or brought Thy Name to shame, teach me in
the sharpest tones and flames of Thy anger, for I need a monitor; and
where shall I find so loving or so truthful a monitor as Thou? Alas! how
weak and pitiful I am, and how this poor unsubdued nature of mine craves
for things beyond Thee! I know there is no truth but in Thee,--no
sincerity, no constancy. I know what men are; how deceitful in their
words; how unkind in their judgments. Yet this lower being within my
being forever stretches out its longings to sensible things that
deceive, and will not rest in Thee, who art all Truth. But I must be
brought back to Thee through the sharp pangs of trial and tears. Spare
me not, O Master! only do not punish with the deprivation of Thy Love!"

He rose up strengthened, yet with a premonition in his heart of great
trials awaiting him. Who would dream of such tragic things under the
heavy skies and the dull environments of life in Ireland?

CHAPTER VIII

OUR CONCERT

The winter stole in quietly, heralded by the white frosts of late
October; and nothing occurred to disturb the quiet of the village,
except that Father Letheby's horse, a beautiful bay, ran suddenly lame
one evening, as he topped a hill, and a long reach of mountain lay
before him on his way to a sick-call. There were, of course, a hundred
explanations from as many amateurs as to the cause of the accident. Then
a quiet farmer, who suspected something, found a long needle driven deep
into the hoof. It had gone deeper and deeper as the action of the horse
forced it, until it touched the quick, and the horse ran dead lame. The
wound festered, and the animal had to be strung up with leather bands to
the roof of his stable for three months. Father Letheby felt the matter
acutely; but it was only to myself he murmured the one significant word,
Ahriman.

Late one evening in November a deputation waited on me. It consisted of
the doctor, the schoolmaster, and one or two young fellows, generally
distinguished by their vocal powers at the public house, when they were
asked for "their fisht and their song." The doctor opened negotiations.
I have a great regard for the doctor, and he knows it. He is a fine
young fellow, a great student, and good and kind to the poor. I often
spent a pleasant hour in his surgery over his microscope, where I saw
wonderful things; but what has haunted me most is the recollection of a
human brain, which the doctor had preserved in spirits, and on which he
has given me several lectures. I remember well my sensations when I
first held the soft, dark, pulpy mass in my hand. All that I had ever
read in psychology and metaphysics came back to me. This is the
instrument of God's masterpiece,--the human soul. Over these nodes and
fissures it floated, like the spirit of God over the face of the deep.
Here, as on a beautiful instrument, the spirit touched the keys, and
thought, like music, came forth; and here were impressed indelibly ideas
of the vast universe without, of time and eternity; yea, even of the
Infinite and Transcendent,--of God. Hushed in the silence of prayer,
here the soul brooded as a dove above its nest; and here in moments of
temptation and repentance, it argued, reasoned, prayed, implored the
inferior powers that rebelled or recanted beneath. With what sublime
majesty it ruled and swayed the subjects that owned its imperial
dominion; and how it touched heaven on the one hand for pity, and earth
on the other in power! And when the turbulent passions raged and
stormed, it soothed and quelled their rebellion; and then, in recompense
to itself, it went out and up towards the celestials, and joined its
emancipated sisters before the great white throne, and drank in peace
and the blessedness of calm from the silences and worship of Heaven.
Where is that soul now? Whither has it gone? Silent is the instrument,
just crumbling to inevitable decay. But where in the boundless ocean of
space is the deathless spirit that once ruled it in majesty, and drew
from it music whose echoes roll through eternity? And how has science
mapped and parcelled it, like a dead planet. Here is the "island of
Reil," here the "pons Varolii"; here is the "arbor vitae"; and here is
the "subarachnoid space"; and here that wonderful contrivance of the
great Designer that regulates the arterial supplies. I lift my hat
reverentially and whisper, _Laudate_!

Well, the doctor knew how much I appreciated him. He was not nervous,
therefore, in broaching the subject.

"We have come to see you, sir, about a concert."

"A what?" I said.

"A concert," he replied, in a little huff. "They have concerts every
winter over at Labbawally, and at Balreddown, and even at Moydore; and
why shouldn't we?"

I thought a little.

"I always was under the impression," I said, "that a concert meant
singers."

"Of course," they replied.

"Well, and where are you to get singers here? Are you going to import
again those delectable harridans that illustrated the genius of Verdi
with rather raucous voices a few weeks ago?"

"Certainly not, sir," they replied in much indignation. "The boys here
can do a little in that way; and we can get up a chorus amongst the
school-children; and--and--"

"And the doctor himself will do his share," said one of the deputation,
coming to the aid of the modest doctor.

"And then," I said, "you must have a piano to accompany you, unless it
is to be all in the style of 'come-all-yeen's.'"

"Oh, 't will be something beyond that," said the doctor. "I think you'll
be surprised, sir."

"And what might the object of the concert be?" I asked.

"Of course, the poor," they all shouted in chorus. "Wait, your
reverence," said one diplomatist, "till you see all we'll give you for
the poor at Christmas."

Visions of warm blankets for Nelly Purcell, and Mag Grady; visions of
warm socks for my little children; visions of tons of coal and cartloads
of timber; visions of vast chests of tea and mountains of currant-cake
swam before my imagination; and I could only say:--

"Boys, ye have my blessing."

"Thank your reverence," said the doctor. "But what about a
subscription?"

"For what?" I said. "If we all have to subscribe, what is the meaning of
the concert?"

"Ah, but you know, sir, there are preliminary expenses,--getting music,
etc.,--and we must ask the respectable people to help us there."

This meant the usual guinea. Of course, they got it.

The evening of the concert came, and I was very reluctant to leave my
arm-chair and the fire and the slippers. And now that my curate and I
had set to work steadily at our Greek authors, to show the Bishop we
could do something, I put aside my Homer with regret, and faced the
frost of November. The concert was held in the old store down by the
creek; and I shivered at the thought of two hours in that dreary room,
with the windows open and a sea draught sweeping through. To my intense
surprise, I gave up my ticket to a well-dressed young man with a basket
of flowers in his button-hole; and I passed into a hall where the light
blinded me, and I was dazed at the multitude of faces turned towards me.
And there was a great shout of cheering; and I took off my great-coat,
and was glad I had come.

There was a stage in front, covered with plants and carpeted; and a
grand piano peeped out from a forest of shrubs and palms; and lamps
twinkled everywhere; and I began to think it was all a dream, when Miss
Campion came over, and said she was _so_ glad I had come, etc., and I
whispered:--

"I understand all now, when I see the little witch that has made the
transformation."

Father Letheby sat by me, quiet and demure, as usual. He looked as if he
had known nothing of all this wonder-working; and when I charged him
solemnly with being chief organizer, builder, framer, and designer in
all this magic, he put me off gently:--

"You know we must educate the people, sir. And you know our people are
capable of anything."

I believed him.

Presently, there was a great stir at the end of the long room, and I
looked around cautiously; for we were all so grand, I felt I should be
dignified indeed.

"Who are these gentry, coming up the centre of the hall?" I whispered;
for a grand procession was streaming in.

"Gentry?" he said. "Why, these are the performers." They were just
passing,--dainty little maidens, in satin from the bows in their wavy
and crisp locks down to their white shoes; and they carried bouquets,
and a subtle essence of a thousand odors filled the air.

"Visitors at the Great House?" I whispered.

"Not at all," he cried impatiently. "They are our own children. There's
Mollie Lennon, the smith's daughter; and there's Annie Logan, whose
father sells you the mackerel; and there's Tessie Navin, and Maudie
Kennedy, and--"

"Who's that grand young lady, with her hair done up like the Greek girls
of Tanagra?" I gasped.

"Why, that's Alice Moylan, the monitress."

"Good heavens," was all I could say. And the doctor sailed in with his
cohort, all in swallow-tails and white fronts, their hair plastered down
or curled, like the fiddlers in an orchestra; and the doctor stooped
down and saw my amazement, and whispered:--

"Didn't I tell you we'd surprise you, Father Dan?"

Just then a young lad, dressed like a doll, and with white kid gloves,
handed me a perfumed programme.

"I charge a penny all around, but not to you, Father Dan."

I thanked him politely and with reverence.

"Who's that young gentleman?" I whispered.

"Don't you know him?" said Father Letheby, smothering a laugh.

"I never saw him before," I said.

"You cuffed him last Sunday for ringing the bell at the _Agnus Dei_."

"I cuffed that young ruffian, Carl Daly," I said.

"That's he," said Father Letheby. Then I thought Father Letheby was
making fun of me, and I was getting cross, when I heard, "Hush!" and
Miss Campion rose up and passed on to the stage, and took her place at
the piano, and with one little wave of the hand, she marshalled them
into a crescent, and then there was a pause, and then--a crash of music
that sent every particle of blood in my old body dancing waltzes, and I
began to feel that I was no longer Daddy Dan, the old pastor of
Kilronan, but a young curate that thinks life all roses, for his blood
leaps up in ecstasy, and his eyes are straining afar.

One by one the singers came forward, timid, nervous, but they went
through their parts well. At last, a young lady, with bronze curls cut
short, but running riot over her head and forehead, came forward. She
must have dressed in an awful hurry, for she forgot a lot of things.

"What's the meaning of this?" I whispered angrily.

"Sh', 't is the fashion," said Father Letheby. "She's not from our
parish."

"Thank God," I said fervently. I beckoned to Mrs. Mullins, a fine
motherly woman, who sat right across the aisle. She came over.

"Have you any particular use of that shawl lying on your lap, Mrs.
Mullins?" I said.

"No," she said, "I brought it against the night air."

"Then you'd do a great act of charity," I said, "if you'd just step up
on that stage and give it to that young lady to cover her shoulders and
arms. She'll catch her death of cold."

"For all the money you have in the National Bank, Father Dan," said Mrs.
Mullins, "and they say you have a good little nest there, I wouldn't do
it. See how she's looking at us. She knows we are talking about her. And
her mother is Julia Lonergan, who lives at the Pike, in the parish of
Moydore."

Sure enough, Phoebe Lonergan, for that was her name, was looking at
us; and her eyes were glinting and sparkling blue and green lights, like
the dog-star on a frosty night in January. And I knew her mother well.
When Julia Lonergan put her hands on her hips, and threw back her head,
the air became sulphurous and blue. I determined not to mind the
scantiness of the drapery, though I should not like to see any of my own
little children in such a state. Whilst I was meditating thus, she came
to the end of her song; and then let a yell out of her that would
startle a Red Indian.

"Why did she let that screech out of her?" said I to Father Letheby.
"Was it something stuck in her?"

"Oh, not at all," said he, "that's what they call a _bravura_."

I began to feel very humble. And then a queer thing happened. I thought
I was a young curate, long before the days of Maynooth statutes, and all
these new regulations that bind us as tightly as Mrs. Darcy's new alb.
We were out at the hunt on a glorious November morning, the white frost
on the grass, and the air crisp and sunny. The smell of the fields, the
heather, and the withered bracken, came to us, and the bay coats and the
black coats of the horses shone like silk in the sunlight. There were
the usual courtesies, the morning salutes, and the ladies' smiles; and
then we moved to the cover, the dogs quivering with excitement, and we
not too composed. And then far across the ploughed field we saw the
arch-enemy, Reynard, his brush straight out from his back; and with one
shout, Hoicks! and Harkaway! we broke out into the open, and, with every
nerve and muscle strained, and the joy of the chase in our hearts, we
leaped onward to the contest. All the exhilaration and intense joy of
youth and freedom and the exercise of life were in my veins, and I
shouted Tally-ho! Harkaway, my boys! at the top of my voice.

A gentle hand was laid on mine, and I awoke from my dream. The people
were all smiling gravely, and the chorus was just finishing the last
bars of that best of all finales: Tally-ho! It was the witchery of the
music that called up the glorious past.

Then there was hunting for shawls and wraps, and such a din:--

"Wasn't it grand, Father Dan?"

"Aren't you proud of your people, Father Dan?"

"Where is Moydore now, Father Dan?"

"Didn't we do well, Father Dan?"

And then Miss Campion came over demurely and asked:--

"I hope you were pleased with our first performance, Father?"

And what could I say but that it was all beautiful and grand, and I
hoped to hear it repeated, etc.

But then, when I had exhausted my enthusiasm, a band of these young
fairies, their pretty faces flushed with excitement, and the stars in
their curls bobbing and nodding at me, came around me.

"It's now our turn, Father Dan. We want one little dance before we go."

"What?" I cried, "children like you dancing! I'd be well in my way,
indeed. Come now, sing 'Home, Sweet Home,' and away to Blanketland as
fast as you can."

"Ah, do, Father Dan!"

"Ah, do, Father Dan!"

"One little dance!"

"We'll be home in half an hour!"

"Ah do, _Daddy_ Dan!"

There was consternation. I knew that I was called by that affectionate,
if very undignified title; but this was the first time it was spoken to
my face; and there was horror on the faces of the young ones. But it
carried the day. I looked around, and saw some white waistcoats peeping
shyly behind a glass door.

"The boys are all gone home, I believe?" I said innocently.

"Oh, long and merry ago, Father. The lazy fellows wouldn't wait."

"And all the dancing will be amongst yourselves?"

Chorus: "Of course, Father!"

"And no waltzes or continental abominations?"

Chorus: "Oh dear, no!"

"And you'll all be in your beds at twelve o'clock?"

Chorus: "To the minute, Father."

"Well, God forgive me, but what can I do? Go on, you little heathens,
and--"

"Thank you, Father--"

"Thank you, Father--"

"Thank you, Father--," etc., etc.

I went home with a troubled conscience, and I read that blessed Maynooth
statute about dances. Then I had no sleep that night.

The doctor and the deputation called on me about a fortnight later to
settle accounts. I thought they were not very enthusiastic. They left
the door open, and sat near it.

"We came to settle about the concert, sir," said the doctor; "we thought
you'd would like to see our balance-sheet."

[Illustration: "Good Heavens!" was all I could say. (p. 89.)]

"Yes," I said, demurely, "and, of course, if the balance itself was
convenient--"

"It isn't as much as we thought," said the doctor, laying a small brown
parcel on the table. "The expenses were enormous. Now, look at these,"
he said, softly detaining my hand, as it moved towards the parcel.

I read the list of expenses. It was appalling. I cast a corner of my eye
farther down, and read, without pretending to see anything:--

"Total balance = 4_s_. 11-1/2_d_."

"Boys," said I, as I saw them putting their hands over their mouths with
that unmistakable Hibernian gesture, "you have done yourselves a great
injustice."

"I assure you, sir," said the schoolmaster--

"You mistake my meaning," I interrupted. "What I was about to say was
this,--when young men give their services gratuitously, and undertake
great labor in the cause of religion and charity, it would be most
unfair to expect that they would also make a pecuniary sacrifice."

They looked relieved.

"Now, I have reason to know that you all have undergone great expense in
connection with this concert."

There was a smirk of pharisaical satisfaction on their faces.

"But I cannot allow it. My conscience would not permit me. I see no
record in this balance-sheet of the three dozen of Guinness that was
ordered for the dressing-room. And there is not a word about the box of
Havanas, which William Mescal ordered specially from Dublin; nor any
mention of the soda-water and accompaniments that were hauled up in a
basket through the back window. Really, I cannot allow it, gentlemen,
your generosity is overpowering--"

The deep silence made me look around. They had vanished. I opened the
brown parcel, and counted four shillings and eleven-pence halfpenny in
coppers.

CHAPTER IX

SEVERELY REPRIMANDED

It was quite impossible that these changes or innovations could take
place without a certain amount of reclamation, to use the theological
expression, amongst the brethren. We are a conservative race, and our
conservatism has been eminently successful in that matter of supreme
moment,--the preservation of the faith and the purity of our people. It
is difficult, therefore, to see the necessity of change, to meet the
exigencies of the times, and the higher demands of the nation and the
race. Yet we have been forewarned a hundred times that we cannot put new
wine into old bottles, and that a spirit is stirring amongst our people
that must become unbridled and incontinent if not guided by new methods
and new ideas. This is not intuitive wisdom on my part. It is gathered
slowly and painfully amongst the thorns of experience.

But I cannot say I was too surprised when, one morning, an old and most
valued friend called on me, and revealed his anxiety and perturbation of
spirit by some very deep remarks about the weather. We agreed
wonderfully on that most harmonious topic, and then I said:--

"You have something on your mind?"

"To be candid with you, Father Dan," he replied, assuming a sudden
warmth, "I have. But I don't like to be intrusive."

"Oh, never mind," I replied. "I am always open to fraternal correction."

"You know," he continued nervously, "we are old friends, and I have
always had the greatest interest in you--"

"For goodness' sake, Father James," I said, "spare me all that. That is
all _subintellectum_, as the theologians say when they take a good deal
for granted."

"Well, then," said he,--for this interruption rather nettled him,--"to
be very plain with you, your parish is going to the dogs. You are
throwing up the sponge and letting this young man do what he likes. Now,
I can tell you the people don't like it, the priests don't like it, and
when he hears it, as he is sure to hear it, the Bishop won't like it
either."

"Well, Father James," I said slowly, "passing by the mixed metaphors
about the dogs and the sponge, what are exactly the specific charges
made against this young man?"

"Everything," he replied vaguely. "We don't want young English mashers
coming around here to teach old priests their business. We kept the
faith--"

"Spare me that," I said. "And don't say a word about the famine years.
That episode, and the grandeur of the Irish priests, is written in
Heaven. We want a Manzoni to tell it,--that is, if we would not prefer
to leave it unrecorded, except in the great book,--which is God's
memory."

He softened a little at this.

"Now," said I, "you are a wise man. What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to pitch into that young fellow," he said, "to cuff him and
make him keep his place."

"Very good. But be particular. Tell me, what am I to say?"

"Say? Tell him you'll stand no innovations in your parish. _Nil
innovetur, nisi quod prius traditum est._ Tell him that he must go along
with all the other priests of the diocese and conform to the general
regulations,--_Quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus_. Tell him that
young men must know their place; and then take up the _Selva_, or the
Fathers, and prove it to him."

"God bless you!" said I, thankfully and humbly. "You have taken a load
off my heart. Now, let me see would this do."

I took down from the dusty shelves a favorite little volume,--a kind of
Anthology of the early Fathers, and I opened it.

"We'll try the _sortes Virgilianae_" I said, and read slowly and with
emphasis:--

"At nunc, etiam sacerdotes Dei, omissis Evangeliis et Prophetis, vidimus
comoedias legere, amatoria Bucolicorum versuum verba cantare, tenere
Virgilium, et id quod in pueris necessitatis est, crimen in se facere
voluptatis."

"That's not bad," said my hearer, critically, whilst I held the book
open with horror and amazement. "That applies to him, I'm sure. But
what's the matter, Father Dan? You are not ill?"

"No," said I, "I'm not; but I'm slightly disconcerted. That anathema
strikes me between the two eyes. What else have I been doing for fifty
years but thumbing Horace and Virgil?"

"Oh, never mind," he said, airily. "Who wrote that? That's extreme, you
know."

"An altogether wise and holy man, called St. Jerome," I said.

"Ah, well, he was a crank. I don't mean that. That sounds disrespectful.
But he was a reformer, you know."

"A kind of innovator, like this young man of mine?" I said.

"Ah, well, try some sensible saint. Try now St. Bernard. He was a wise,
gentle adviser."

I turned to St. Bernard, and read:--

"Lingua magniloqua--manus otiosa!
Sermo multus--fructus nullus!
Vultus gravis--actus levis!
Ingens auctoritas--nutans stabilitas!"

That hit my friend between the eyes. The auguries were inauspicious. He
took up his hat.

"You are not going?" said I, reaching for the bell. "I am just sending
for Father Letheby to let you see how I can cuff him--"

"I--I--must be going," he said; "I have a sick-call--that is--an
engagement--I--er--expect a visitor--will call again. Good day."

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