My New Curate
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P.A. Sheehan >> My New Curate
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"Stay and have a glass of wine!" I said.
"No, no, many thanks; the mare is young and rather restive. _Au
revoir!_"
"_Au revoir!_" I replied, as I took up my hat and gold-headed cane and
set out to interview and reprimand my curate. Clearly, something should
be done, and done quickly. There was a good deal of talk abroad, and I
was supposed to be sinking into a condition of senile incompetence. It
is quite true that I could not challenge my curate's conduct in a single
particular. He was in all things a perfect exemplar of a Christian
priest, and everything he had done in the parish since his arrival
contributed to the elevation of the people and the advancement of
religion. But it wouldn't do. Every one said so; and, of course, every
one in these cases is right. And yet there was some secret misgiving in
my mind that I should do violence to my own conscience were I to check
or forbid Father Letheby's splendid work; and there came a voice from my
own dead past to warn me: "See that you are not opposing the work of
the right hand of the Most High."
These were my doubts and apprehensions as I moved slowly along the road
that led in a circuitous manner around the village and skirted the path
up to the school-house. I woke from my unpleasant reverie to hear the
gentle murmur of voices, moving rhythmically as in prayer; and in a
short bend of the road I came face to face with the children leaving
school. I had been accustomed to seeing these wild, bare-legged
mountaineers breaking loose from school in a state of subdued frenzy,
leaping up and down the side ditches, screaming, yelling, panting, with
their elf-locks blinding their eyes, and their bare feet flashing amid
the green of grasses or the brown of the ditch-mould. They might
condescend to drop me a courtesy, and then--anarchy, as before. Today
they moved slowly, with eyes bent modestly on the ground, three by
three, and all chanting in a sweet, low tone--the Rosary. The centre
girl was the coryphaeus with the "Our Fathers" and "Hail Marys"; the
others, the chorus. I stood still in amazement and challenged them:--
"I am happy to see my little children so well employed. How long since
you commenced to say the Rosary thus in common?"
In a twinkling the solemnity vanished and I was surrounded by a
chattering group.
"Just a week, Fader; and Fader Letheby, Fader, he tould us of a place
where they do be going to work in the morning, Fader, and dey all saying
de Rosary togeder, Fader; and den, Fader, we do be saying to ourselves,
why shouldn't we, Fader, say de Rosary coming to school, de same as
dese Germans, Fader?"
"That's excellent," I said, running my eyes over the excited group; "and
have you all got beads?"
"I have, Fader," said one of the coryphaei, "and de oders do be saying it
on their fingers."
"I must get beads for every one of you," I said; "and to commence, here,
Anstie, is my own."
I gave a little brown-eyed child my own mother-of-pearl beads, mounted
in silver, and was glad I had it to give. The children moved away,
murmuring the Rosary as before.
Now, here clearly was an innovation. Wasn't this intolerable? Who ever
heard the like? Where would all this stop? Why, the parish is already
going to the dogs! He has played right into my hands. Yes? Stop the
Rosary? Prevent the little children from singing the praises of their
Mother and Queen? I thought I saw the face of the Queen Mother looking
at me from the skies; and I heard a voice saying, prophetically: "Ex ore
infantium et lactantium perfecisti laudem propter inimicos tuos, ut
destruas inimicum et ultorem." Clearly, the fates are against me.
"Father Letheby was not at home, but would be back presently. Would I
take a chair and wait for a few moments?"
I sat down in a comfortable arm-chair lined with the soft rug that first
elicited my housekeeper's admiration. I looked around. Books were strewn
here and there, but there was no slovenliness or untidiness; and, ha!
there were the first signs of work on the white sheets of manuscript
paper. I wonder what is he writing about. It is not quite honorable, but
as I am on the war path, perhaps I could get here a pretext for scalping
him. Notes!
"November 1. Dipped into several numbers of _Cornhill Magazine_.
Specially pleased with an article on 'Wordsworth's Ethics,' in the
August number, 1876.
"November 2. Read over Sir J. Taylor's poems, principally 'Philip
van Artevelde,' 'Isaac Comnenus,' 'Edwin the Fair,' the 'Eve of the
Conquest.'
"Comnenus.--Not much the doubt
Comnenus would stand well with times to come,
Were there the hand to write his threnody,
Yet is he in sad truth a faulty man.
* * * * *
But be it said he had this honesty,
That, undesirous of a false renown,
He ever wished to pass for what he was,
One that swerved much, and oft, but being still
Deliberately bent upon the right,
Had kept it in the main; one that much loved
Whate'er in man is worthy high respect,
And in his soul devoutly did aspire
To be it all: yet felt from time to time
The littleness that clings to what is human,
And suffered from the shame of having felt it."
"Humph! This is advanced," I thought. "I wonder does he feel like
Comnenus? It is a noble portrait, and well worthy imitation."
Just then he came in. After the usual greetings he exclaimed, in a tone
of high delight:--
"Look here, Father, here's a delicious tit-bit. Confess you never read
such a piece of sublime self-conceit before."
He took up a review that was lying open on the desk, and read this:--
"As for claims, these are my opinions. If Lord Liverpool takes
simply the claims of the scholar, Copleston's are fully equal to
mine. So, too, in general knowledge the world would give it in
favor of him. If Lord Liverpool looks to professional merits, mine
are to Copleston's as _the Andes to a molehill_. There is no
comparison between us; Copleston is no theologue; I am. If, again,
Lord Liverpool looks to weight and influence in the University, I
will give Copleston a month's start and beat him easily in any
question that comes before us. As to popularity in the appointment,
mine will be popular through the whole profession; Copleston's the
contrary.... I thought, as I tell you, honestly, I should be able
to make myself a bishop in due time.... I will conclude by telling
you my own real wishes about myself. My anxious desire is to make
myself a great divine, and to be accounted the best in England. My
second wish is to become the founder of a school of theology at
Oxford. Now, no bishopric will enable me to do this but the See of
Oxford. I have now told you my most secret thoughts. What I desire
is, after a few years, to be sure of a retirement, with good
provision in some easy bishopric, or Van Mildert deanery. I want
neither London nor Canterbury: they will never suit me. But I want
money, because I am poor and have children; and I desire character,
because I cannot live without it."
"Isn't that simply delicious?" said Father Letheby, laying down the
review, and challenging my admiration.
"Poor fellow," I could not help saying; "the last little bit of pathos
about his children gilds the wretched picture. Who was he?"
"No less a person than Dr. Lloyd, Regius Professor of Divinity in
Oxford, and _the_ originator of the Tractarian Movement. But can you
conceive a Catholic priest writing such a letter?"
"No," I replied slowly, "I cannot. But I can conceive a Catholic priest
thinking it. I am not so much unlike the rest of mankind; and I remember
when I came out on the mission, and had time to look around me, like a
chicken just out of its shell, two things gave me a shock of intense
surprise. First, I could not conceive how the Catholic Church had got on
for eighteen hundred years without my cooperation and ability; and,
secondly, I could not understand what fatuity possessed the Bishop to
appoint as his vicar-general a feeble old man of seventy, who preached
with hesitation, and, it was whispered, believed the world was flat, and
that people were only joking when they spoke of it as a globe; and pass
over such a paragon of perfection, an epitome of all the talents, like
myself. It took me many years to recover from that surprise; and, alas!
a little trace of it lingers yet. Believe me, my dear young friend, a
good many of us are as alien in spirit to the _Imitation_ as Dr. Lloyd,
but we must not say it."
"By Jove!" he said, "I thought there was but one other Dr. Lloyd in the
world, and that was Father James----," mentioning the name of my morning
visitor.
It was the first chink I had seen in the armor of my young Goliath, and
I put in my rapier.
"You are not very busy?" I said.
"No, Father," he replied, surprised.
"Would you have time to listen to a little story?"
"Certainly," he said, settling back in his chair, his head on his hands.
"Well," I said slowly, "in the first years of my mission I had a fellow
curate, a good many years younger than myself. I consequently looked
down on him, especially as he was slightly pompous in his manner and too
much addicted to Latin and French quotations. In fact, he looked quite a
hollow fellow, and apparently a selfish and self-contented one. I
changed my opinion later on. He was particularly fond of horses, though
he never rode. He was a kind of specialist in horseflesh. His opinion
was regarded as infallible. He never kept any but the highest breed of
animal. He had a particularly handsome little mare, which he called
'Winnie,' because he thought he saw in her some intelligence, like what
he read of in the famous mare of a famous Robin Hood. She knew him, and
followed him like a dog. He allowed no one to feed her, or even to groom
her, but himself. He never touched her with a whip. He simply spoke to
her, or whistled, and she did all he desired. He had refused one hundred
and fifty pounds for her at a southern fair a few days before the
occurrence which I am about to relate. One day he had been at
conference, or rather we were both there, for he drove me to the
conference and back. It was thirteen miles going and the same returning.
The little mare came back somewhat fagged. He was no light-weight, nor
was I.
"'I shall not drive her there again,' he said; 'I'll get an old hack for
these journeys.'
"Before he sat down to dinner he fed and groomed her, and threw her rug
over her for the night. She whinnied with pleasure at reaching her own
stable. Just as he sat down to dinner a sick-call was announced. It was
declared 'urgent.' After a while you won't be too much alarmed at these
'urgent' calls, for they generally mean but little; but on this occasion
a short note was put into the priest's hand. It was from the doctor. It
ran: 'Come as quickly as possible. It is a most critical case.'
"There was no choice there.
"'Have you brought a horse?' the priest cried.
"'No, your reverence,' said the messenger. 'I crossed down the mountain
by the goat-path. There was no time.'
"The priest went straight to the stable and unlocked it. The mare
whinnied, for she knew his footstep. He flashed the light upon her as
she turned her big eyes towards him.
"'Come, little woman,' he said, 'we must be on the road again.'
"She understood him, and moaned.
"He led her out and put her to his trap. Then, without a word, he gave
her the rein, and they pushed on in the darkness. The road for five
miles was as level as that table, and she went rapidly forward. Then a
steep hill rose before them for about two miles, and he relaxed a
little, not wishing to drive her against the hill. Just then, on the
brow he saw lights flashing and waving to and fro in the night. He knew
the significance of it, and shook out the reins. The poor little animal
was so tired she could not breast the hill. He urged her forward. She
refused. Then, for the first time in his life, he took out his whip. He
did not strike her, and to this day he thanks God for it. But he merely
shook it over her head. Stung by the indignity, she drew herself
together and sprang against the hill. She went up and up, like a deer,
whilst the trap jolted and swung from side to side. Just as they
reached the crest of the hill and heard the shouts, 'Hurry, your
reverence, you'll never overtake her,' the little mare plunged forward
and fell heavily. The priest was flung against a boulder and struck
insensible. When he came to, the first word he heard was, 'She's dead, I
fear, your reverence.' 'Who?' said the priest; 'the woman?' 'No, your
reverence, but the mare!' 'Thank God!' said the priest; and he meant it.
Dazed, stupefied, bleeding, he stumbled across rocks of red sandstone,
heather, gorse; he slipped over some rude stepping-stones that crossed a
mountain torrent; and, at last, made his way to the rude cabin in the
rough gorges of the mountain. The doctor was washing his instruments as
the priest entered.
"'It's all right, Father James,' he said cheerily. 'The neatest case I
ever had. But it was touch and go. Hello! you're bleeding on the temple.
What's up?'
"'Oh, nothing,' said the priest. 'The mare stumbled and threw me. I may
go in?'
"'Certainly,' said the doctor; 'but just allow me to wash that ugly
wound.'
"'Wound? 't is only a scratch.'
"The priest went in and went through his ordinary ministrations. Then he
came out, and still dazed and not knowing what to think, he stumbled
back to the crest of the mountain road. There were men grouped around
the fallen animal and the broken trap. They made way for him. He knelt
down by the poor beast and rubbed her ears, as he was in the habit of
doing, and whispered, 'Winnie!' The poor animal opened her eyes full
upon him, then trembled convulsively, and died.
"'You will bury her, boys,' said the priest, 'over there under that
cairn of stones, and bring me down the trap and harness in the morning.'
"What his feelings were, as he walked home, I leave you to realize. We
did not hear of it for some days; but that 'Thank God!' changed all my
opinions of him. I looked up to him ever since, and see under all his
pomposity and dignity a good deal of the grit that makes a man a hero or
a saint."
"I retract my remark unreservedly," said my curate; "it was unjust and
unfair. It is curious that I have never yet made an unkind remark but I
met with prompt punishment."
"You may not be a great theologian nor a deep thinker," said I, "but no
man ever uttered a more profound saying. God may ignore our petty
rebellions against Himself; but when we, little mites, sit in
contemptuous judgment on one another, He cannot keep His hands from us!
And so, _festina lente! festina lente!_ It is wholesome advice, given in
many languages."
"Is the accent on the _festina_ or the _lente_, Father?" he said
demurely.
I looked at him.
"Because," he said, "I have been doing things lately that sometimes seem
inopportune,--that concert for example, and--"
"They are all right," I said, "but _lente! lente!!_"
"And that little interview with the chapel woman,--I felt I could have
done better--?"
"It is all right," I repeated, "but _lente! lente!!_"
"And I think we must stop those little children from saying the
Rosary--"
This time I looked at him quite steadily. He was imperturbable and
sphinx-like.
"Good evening," I said. "Come up after dinner and let us have a chat
about that line in the 'Odes' we were speaking about."
I went homewards slowly, and, as I went, the thought would obtrude
itself, how far I had recovered my lost authority, and succeeded in
satisfying that insatiable monster called Public Opinion. For my curate
had been reading for me a story by some American author, in which the
narrative ended in a problem whether a lady or a tiger would emerge from
a cage under certain circumstances; and hence, a conundrum was puzzling
the world,--the tiger or the lady, which? And my conundrum was, Had I
lectured my curate, or had my curate lectured me? I am trying to solve
the problem to this day.
CHAPTER X
OVER THE WALNUTS, AND THE ----
Father Letheby did come up, and we had one of those pleasant meetings on
which my memory dwells with gratitude. I hope he thinks of them
tenderly, too; for I believe he gave more pleasure and edification than
he received. We old men are garrulous, and rather laudatory of the past
than enthusiastic about the present. And this must needs chafe the
nerves of those whose eyes are always turned toward the sanguine future.
Well, this evening we had the famous epilogue of the Third Book of the
Odes of Horace for discussion, and our thoughts turned on the poet's
certainty of immortality,--the immortality of fame, in which alone he
believed. I remarked what a curious thing it was that men are forever
craving for that which, when attained, they fling aside and despise.
"I remember a good old priest," I said, "who was very angry because he
did not receive the ecclesiastical honors that sometimes accompany old
age. And when I asked, rather foolishly indeed, of what possible use
could they be to him, the answer was, he would like to die with his full
meed of honors. Well, he got them at last; and after a few months his
regret was that he had spent nine pounds on the rochet and mozetta."
"Do you think he would be satisfied to go back to the condition of a
'simplex sacerdos' again, and to be called 'Father'?" said my curate.
"I do. He had received recognition and was satisfied," I replied.
"There must be something in it. I remember now that bitter letter about
Fame, which Tennyson wrote when he had attained a world-wide reputation.
He found Fame to be hostility from his peers, indifference from his
superiors, worship from those he despised. He would barter all his Fame
for L5,000 a year; and was sorry he ever wrote a line."
"What then is it all? Of what consequence was it to Horace that a poor
old priest, in the Ultima Thule of the earth, should find a little
pleasure in his lines, some eighteen hundred years after his death?" I
said, half musingly.
"None whatever. But these passions are the minor wheels of human action,
and therefore of human progress, when the great motor, religion, is set
aside."
"And you think God permits them for that reason?"
"Possibly. By the way, Father Dan, allow me to congratulate you on your
excellent taste. Why, you have made this little parlor a nest of luxury
and refinement."
"Alas! yes. But all my comfort is gone. I blame you for it all, you
rascal. Why did you come introducing your civilization here? We were
happy enough without it. And like Fame, luxury brings its trials. Hannah
wasn't easy until she rivalled your splendid establishment; and when
taste came in, comfort went out by the window. God bless me! All I have
suffered for the last fortnight! I must wipe my boots at the door, and
hang up my hat in the hall, and walk on tiptoe on these waxed floors. I
am afraid to sit down, lest I should break these doll's chairs. I am
afraid to get up lest I should slip and break my old bones. I am afraid
to eat lest I should soil those new napkins. I am afraid to drink lest I
should break one of these new gilt cups. I have no comfort but in bed.
What in the world did I do that you should have been sent here?"
"There's something in it," he said, laughing. "It is the universal law
of compensation. But, honestly, it is all very tasteful and neat, and
you'll get used to it. You know it is one of the new and laughable
arguments against the eternity of punishment, that you can get used to
anything."
"I can't get that poor fellow, Lloyd, out of my head," I said, changing
the subject. "That was a pitiful letter. And the pity is that a strictly
private document, such as that was, should see the light and be
discussed fifty years after it was written, by two priests on the west
coast of Ireland To whom did he write it?"
"To Sir Robert Peel, then Prime Minister."
"There was a dear old friend of my youth," I said, "who was fond of
giving advice. I suppose I picked up the evil habit from him. But his
summary of all wisdom was this:--
"Never consult a doctor!
"Never go security!
"Never write a letter that may not be read in the market square!"
"I hope you have followed this sapient, but rather preternatural
advice," said Father Letheby.
"No," I replied. "It would have been well for me if I had done so."
We both lapsed into a brown study.
"It is not easy for us priests to take advice," he said at last; "I
suppose our functions are so magisterial that we cannot understand even
the suggestion of inferiority in reproof. Was it not Dean Stanley who
said that the Anglican clergy are polished into natural perfection by
domestic interchanges of those silent corrections that are so necessary,
and that it is the absence of these correctives that accounts for the so
many nodes and excrescences of our social characteristics?"
"True. But we won't take correction. Or rather, no one dare give it. The
Bishop can and will; but then a word from a bishop smites like a Nasmyth
hammer, and he is necessarily slow of reproof. A Parish priest nowadays
dare not correct a curate--"
"I beg pardon, sir," Father Letheby said; "I am sure you'll do me an
infinite favor if you kindly point out my many imprudences and
inconsistencies."
"And you'll take it well?"
"Well," he said dubiously, "I won't promise that I shall not be nettled.
But I'll take it respectfully."
"All right. We'll commence this moment. Give up that coffee-drinking,
and take an honest glass of punch."
He laughed in his own musical way. He knew the anguish that coffee had
cost Hannah. She had taken to Father Letheby wonderfully. He had found
for her a new brand of snuff, and had praised her cooking. And lo! a
miracle. Hannah, the Parish priest's housekeeper, had actually gone down
and visited his servant. It was a tremendous condescension, involving a
great deal of thought. But there was a new alliance,--dual again; it is
almost like the kaleidoscopic changes of European politicians. Then for
several days there were conferences and colloguings, the result being
that, as a reward of humility, which indeed always brings its reward
even in this world, Hannah has her house furnished _a la mode_, and has
learned the science of coffee-making,--a science little known as yet in
Ireland. Of course, there have been crosses. It is not pleasant, when a
brother priest comes in, to see him stand in amazement and appear quite
distracted whilst his politeness will not allow him to demand
explanations. And when a more demonstrative character shouts Hallo! when
he comes into your parlor, and vents his surprise in a prolonged
whistle, and looks at you curiously when your attention is engaged, it
is slightly embarrassing. Then, again, I'm told that the villagers are
making sarcastic remarks about my little _menage_: "Begor, Hannah won't
be left a pinny"; or, "Begor, Kilronan is looking up"; or, "Begor, he'll
be expecting an incrase of the jues"; and one old woman, who gets an
occasional letter from America with an enclosure, is quite sure I have
embezzled her money, and she comes to the door three times a week
with--"that little letther, your reverence? Sure, I don't begredge it to
you. You're welcome to it over and over again; but whin 't is
convanient, sure you won't see me wantin'? But sure, Mary will think it
quare that I never wrote to thank her." I have given up protesting that
I have received no letter lately from Mary; but the "purty boys" down at
the forge have set the poor woman crazy. "Yerra, where 'ud he get de
money for all them grand tings he has?" "Yerra, Kate, you'll never see
dat post-office order." "Write to the Bishop, 'oman, and he'll see you
rightified." And then, to crown all, comes the bill, just double what I
expected. But it is wonderful how many extras there were, and how wages
and the price of material went up. Alas! my little deposit of fifty
pounds, which was to secure a few masses after my death, where is it?
And poor old Hannah? Well, she'll have it all after my death, and that
will make her doubly careful, and me--doubly miserable.
"Now," I said to Father Letheby, as he daintily balanced his spoon over
his cup, and I leisurely stirred the sugar in,--well, no matter, "I
don't like that coffee. It is not sociable. It makes you too cautious,
while we, under the potent and expanding influence of native
manufacture, are inclined to develop. Now, if you want to succeed in
life, give up that Turkish drug and do what all your predecessors did."
"I'm too Irish for that," he said, rather paradoxically, I thought. "I'm
afraid I should be talking about my ancestors, and asking some one to be
good enough to tread on the tail of my coat."
He knew well that I did not wish to interfere with his tastes.
"Well, however, think kindly of us who cling to old traditions. We too
had our day."
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