My New Curate

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FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: Chimera.]

CHAPTER XII

CHURCH IMPROVEMENTS

I am afraid Father Letheby is getting irritable. Perhaps he is studying
too hard, and I don't spare him there, for he has the makings of a
bishop in him; or perhaps it is that wretched coffee,--but he is losing
that beautiful equanimity and enthusiasm which made him so attractive.

"I cannot understand these people," he said to me, soon after his
adventure with the "boys." "Such a compound of devotion and irreverence,
meanness and generosity, cunning and child-like openness, was never
seen. When I give Holy Communion with you, sir, on Sunday morning, my
heart melts at the seraphic tenderness with which they approach the
altar. That striking of the breast, that eager look on their faces, and
that 'Cead mile failte, O Thierna!'[3] make me bless God for such a
people; but then they appear to be waiting for the last words of the _De
Profundis_, to jump up and run from the church as if in a panic. I can
understand now how _extemplo_ came to mean _in a hurry_, for if the roof
were falling they could not rush from the building more promptly. Then
an old woman will haggle over sixpence in buying a pair of chickens, and
then come to you the following day and offer you in a stocking all she
had saved in this world. I give them up. They are unintelligible."

From which I perceive that our good schoolmaster, experience, is trying
the rod on this most hopeful and promising pupil.

"I hope you did not perceive any such abrupt and sudden contrasts in
your protege, Jem Deady," I said. "He has realized your ideas of a
nineteenth century _Goban Saor_."[4]

He laughed loudly.

"There's no use in talking," he said. I notice he is coming down
gradually from his polished periods to our village colloquialisms.

"Thou shalt lower to their level." God forbid! 'Twas bad enough with
myself; but with this bright, accomplished fellow, 't would be too bad.
He then told me with delight and chagrin, rage and laughter, his
experiences with Jem.

It would appear that he made a solemn contract with this architect to
stop the leak and restore the wall in St. Joseph's Chapel for
twenty-five shillings. "'Twas too little," said Jem, "but what can you
do with a gintleman that doesn't know a trowel from a spade." All
materials were to be found by the contractor.

On Monday afternoon there was a knock at Father Letheby's door, and Jem
was announced.

"Well, Jem," said Father Letheby, cheerfully, "getting on with the job?"

"Yes, your reverence, getting on grand," said Jem. "But I come to you
about the laddher."

"The-e ladder?" echoed Father Letheby.

"Yes, your reverence," echoed Jem confidentially, "the laddher to get up
on the roof, you know."

"But I understood you to say that you were getting through with this
little job."

"Oh, of course, your reverence, we're getting through the preliminaries;
but I must get on the roof, you know."

"I presume so," said Father Letheby, a little nettled, "and why don't
you go there?"

"Does your reverence take me for an aigle, and want me to fly?"

"Well, not exactly," said Father Letheby, with a slight touch of
flattery and sarcasm, "I am more disposed to take you for a
nightingale!"

"Well, then, your reverence," said Jem, melting under the happy
allusion, "a gintleman of your grate expayrince in building should know
that, of all things else, a laddher is the wan thing necessary."

"Then you expect me to construct a ladder for your convenience?"

"Oh, not at all, your reverence; but if you gave me a little note up to
the 'Great House,' I'd have it down while you'd be saying
'trapsticks.'"

There were some reasons why it was not at all desirable that he should
ask favors from the "Great House"; but there was no help, and Jem got
the letter.

"Now, this is all you require," said Father Letheby, with determination.

"That is all," said Jem. "Do you think I'd be throubling your reverence
every minit. Long life to your reverence. May you be spared long in the
parish."

About four o'clock that afternoon, Father Letheby was startled by a
sudden commotion in the village. All the dogs were barking, and there
are as many dogs in Kilronan as in Constantinople, and they are just as
vicious; all the women were at the doors, rubbing their hands in their
aprons; and the village loafers were all turned towards where a solemn
procession was moving through the street. First came a gang of
youngsters, singing, "Sure, We're the Boys of Wexford," then a popular
ditty; then came two laborers, dragging along a ladder with as much show
of expended energy as if it were a piece of heavy ordnance; then the
cart on which the ladder was placed; then two more laborers behind,
making desperate efforts to second the arduous endeavors of their mates
in front; then a squadron of bare-legged girls, trying to keep the hair
out of their eyes; and finally, the captain of the expedition, Jem
Deady, leisurely walking along, with his hands in his pockets, a
wheaten straw in his mouth, whilst he looked from cabin to cabin to
receive the admiration of the villagers. It was expressed in various
ways:--

"Wisha, thin, Jem, 't is you're the divil painted."

"Where is he taking it?"

"To the chapel."

"Wisha, thin, I thought the priests had some sinse."

"Whisht, 'uman, he's come around the new cojutor and got a job."

"Th' ould job?"

"Th' ould job!"

"Wisha, God help his poor wife now. 'T is she'll suffer," etc.

The men made desperate efforts as they passed Father Letheby's windows.
He looked on hopelessly, as you look at a charade of which you have not
got the key.

At six o'clock there was a deputation at the door, consisting of four
laborers and the owner of the cart.

"We come for our day's hire, your reverence," said the foreman,
unabashed.

"Oh, indeed," said Father Letheby, "I am not aware that you are in my
employment."

"We dhrew the laddher down from the Great House to the chapel; and I may
tell your reverence 't was a tough job. I wouldn't do it again for five
shillings."

"Nor I, ayther."

"Nor I, ayther."

"Nor I, ayther, begor."

"Well, look here," said Father Letheby, "I'm not going to submit to this
infamous extortion. I didn't employ you, and I acknowledge no
responsibility whatsoever."

"That manes you won't pay us, your reverence?" said the foreman, in a
free translation.

"Precisely," said Father Letheby, closing the door abruptly.

He heard them murmuring and threatening outside, but took no notice of
them. Later in the evening he took his usual stroll. He found these
fellows loafing around the public house. They had been denouncing him
vigorously, and occasionally a Parthian shaft came after him:--

"Begor, 't is quare, sure enough."

"Begor, we thought the priests couldn't do any wrong."

But when he turned the corner he met a good deal of sympathy:--

"Wisha, begor, 't is your reverence was wanted to tache these
blackguards a lesson."

"Wisha, 't was God sent you," etc., etc.

Now, one shilling would have given these fellows lashings of porter, and
secured their everlasting fealty and an unlimited amount of popularity.
I told him so.

"Never," he said, drawing back his head, and with flashing eyes, "I
shall never lend myself to so demoralizing a practice. We must get these
people out of the mire."

The next day, he thought he was bound to see how Jem was progressing
with his contract. He went down to the little church and passed into the
sacristy, whence he had a clear view of the roof of St. Joseph's Chapel.
Jem was there, leisurely doing nothing, and on the graveyard wall were
eight men, young and old, surveying the work and offering sundry
valuable suggestions. They took this shape:--

"Wisha, Jem, take the world aisy. You're killing yerself, man."

"What a pity he's lost his wice (voice); sure 't was he was able to rise
a song."

"Dey say," interjected a young ragamuffin, "dat Fader Letheby is going
to take Simon Barry into his new choir. Simon is a tinner, and Jem is
only a bannitone."

"Hould your tongue, you spalpeen," said a grown man, "Jem can sing as
well as twinty Simons, dat is if he could only wet his whistle."

"Thry dat grand song, Jem, ''T is Years Since Last We Met.'"

"No, no," said the chorus, "give us 'Larry McGee.'"

"Wisha, byes, wouldn't wan of ye run over to Mrs. Haley's for a pint.
'T is mighty dhry up here."

"Here ye are," said the chorus, chipping in and making up the requisite
"tuppence." "Don't be long about it, ye young ruffian."

"But what about the pledge, Jem?" asked a conscientious spectator.
"Shure your time isn't up yet."

"'T is up long ago," cried another. "'Twas three months yesterday since
he took the pledge."

"Byes," said Jem, who was troubled at the possible scandal he was about
to give, "I promised not to dhrink in a public house; and shure this
isn't a public house, glory be to God!"

They took off their hats reverently; and then the pint came, was taken
up the ladder with great care and solemnity, and a few minutes after,
Father Letheby heard:--

"What is it going to be, byes? I've left me music on the pianney!"

"'Larry McGee!' 'Larry McGee!' No. No. 'T is Yares Since Last----.' No.
No. 'The Byes of Wexford.'"

"Byes, I think the majority is in favor of 'Larry McGee.'--Here's to yer
health!"

And then came floating from the roof in various quavers and semiquavers
and grace-notes the following, which is all Father Letheby can remember.

"I--in the town of Kilkinny lived Larry McGee,
Oh--oh the divil's own boy at divarshion was he;
He--he had a donkey, a pig, but he hadn't a wife,
His cabin was dreary, and wretched his life."

Then the notes came wavering and fitful, as the wind took them up, and
carried them struggling over the moorland; and all that Father Letheby
could hear was about a certain Miss Brady, who was reared up a lady, and
who was requested to accept the name of Mrs. McGee. This suit must have
been successful, because, as the wind lulled down, the words came
clearly:--

"Sure the chickens were roasted,--the praties was biled,
They were all in their jackets, for fear they'd be spiled;
And the neighbors came flockin', for to fling up the stockin',
And dance at the weddin' of Larry McGee."

It was interesting; but Father Letheby's temper was rising with the
undulations of the song. He came out into the graveyard, and there was a
stampede of the spectators. Jem was lifting the porter to his lips, and
looked down calmly and philosophically at the young priest.

"Mr. Deady," said the latter, putting on his strongest accent, "I do not
think I engaged you to entertain the village with your vocal powers,
much as I esteem them. I engaged you to work,--to do honest work for
honest wages."

"Begor," said the unabashed Jem, "if I was a Turk, or a Armaynian, I'd
be allowed to ate my dinner."

"But this is not your dinner hour!"

"Twelve to wan is the dinner hour, except when I dines at the Grate
House, whin, for my convaynience, they puts it off till aight."

It was a sly cut at Father Letheby, and he felt it.

"And your dinner, I presume, is the usual quantity of filthy porter,
such as I see represented in your hand."

"It is, your reverence, excep' whin I dines with the Captain. Den we
haves roast beef and champagne."

All this Father Letheby told me, with a look of puzzled anger, and with
many exclamations.

"I never saw such a people; I'll never understand them," etc. His
magnificent impetuosity again.

"Tell me," I said, for he had given me most cordially the privilege of
speaking freely, "do you make your meditation regularly?"

"Well, I do," he replied, "in a kind of way."

"Because," I went on to say, "apart from the spiritual advantages it
affords, that closing of our eyes daily and looking steadily into
ourselves is a wonderfully soothing process. It is solitude--and
solitude is the mother country of the strong. It is astonishing what an
amount of irritation is poured from external objects through the windows
of the soul,--on the retina, where they appear to be focused, and then
turned like a burning-glass on the naked nerves of the soul. To shut
one's eyes and turn the thoughts inward is like sleep, and, like sleep,
gives strength and peace. Now, would you accept from me a subject of
meditation?"

"Willingly, sir," he said, like a child.

"All that you want to be perfect is to curb your impetuosity. I notice
it everywhere. Probably it is natural; probably it is accentuated by
your residence in feverish cities. Now, I have a right to give an advice
on this matter, for I got it and took it myself. When I was as young as
you I said Mass in twenty minutes, and said the Office in forty minutes.
How? Because I slurred over words, spoke to the Almighty as a
ballad-singer, and for a few years went through these awful and sacred
duties without ever resting or dwelling on their sublime signification.
One day a holy old priest said to me:--

"'Father, would you kindly give me an easy translation of the first
stanza of the hymn for Terce?'

"I was completely at sea. He saw it.

"'Ah, never mind. But what means _factus sum, sicut uter in pruina?_ You
say it every day nearly.'

"I couldn't tell him.

"'_Herodii domus dux est eorum._' What is that?"

"I made a feeble attempt here, and translated boldly, 'The house of
Herod is their leader.'

"The venerable man looked smilingly at me; and then asked me to look up
my Bible. I did, and found that I had been speaking an unknown language
to Almighty God for years, and I called it prayer."

Father Letheby looked humbled. He said: "True, Father, I fear; and if
you had to say the entire Office, commencing Matins at eleven o'clock at
night; or if you had to crush Vespers and Compline, under the light of a
street lamp, into the ten minutes before twelve o'clock, you'd see the
absurdity of the whole thing more clearly. A strictly conscientious
confrere of mine in England used always commence Prime about ten o'clock
at night; but then he always lighted a candle, for consistency, before
he uttered _Jam lucis orto sidere_. It is a wonder we were never taught
the very translation of the psalms in college."

"Well, we're wandering. But set apart, _hic et nunc_, a half-hour for
Matins and Lauds; twenty minutes for the Small Hours; a quarter of an
hour for Vespers and Compline; and take up no other duty until that time
has expired. Then never say your Office from memory, even the parts you
know best. Read every line from your Breviary. It is not my advice, but
that of St. Charles Borromeo. Take half an hour for the celebration of
Mass. It will be difficult at first, but it will come all right. Lastly,
train yourself to walk slowly and speak slowly and deliberately--"

"You are clipping my wings, Father," said he, "and putting soles of lead
on my feet."

"Did you ever hear of Michael Montaigne?" I said.

"Yes. But that's all I know about him."

"Quite enough, indeed. He hardly improves on acquaintance. But his
father trained himself to wear leaden shoes in order that he might leap
the higher. That's what I want from you. But where's this we were? Oh,
yes! You must take these poor people more easily. You cannot undo in a
day the operations of three hundred years--"

"Yes, but look how these people spring into the very van of civilization
when they go to England or America. Why, they seem to assume at once all
the graces of the higher life."

"Precisely,--the eternal question of environment. But under our
circumstances we must be infinitely patient."

"What vexes me most," said Father Letheby, "is that we have here the
material of saints; and yet--look now at that wretched Deady! I don't
mind his insolence, but the shifty dishonesty of the fellow."

"Let him alone! By this time he is stung with remorse for what he said.
Then he'll make a general confession to his wife. She'll flay him with
her tongue for having dared to say a disrespectful word to God's
minister. Then he'll go on a desperate spree for a week to stifle
conscience, during which orgies he'll beat his wife black and blue;
finally, he'll come to you, sick, humbled, and repentant, to apologize
and take the pledge for life again. That's the programme."

"'T is pitiful," said the young priest.

But the following Sunday he recovered all his lost prestige and secured
immortal fame at the football match between the "Holy Terrors" of
Kilronan and the "Wolfe Tones" of Moydore. For, being asked to "kick
off" by these athletes, he sent the ball up in a straight line seventy
or eighty feet, and it struck the ground just three feet away from where
he stood. There was a shout of acclamation from the whole field, which
became a roar of unbounded enthusiasm when he sent the ball flying in a
parabola, not six feet from the ground, and right to the hurdles that
marked the opposite goal. The Kilronan men were wild about their young
curate, and under his eye they beat their opponents hollow; and one
admirer, leaning heavily on his _caman_, was heard to say:--

"My God, if he'd only lade us!"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: "A hundred thousand welcomes, Lord."]

[Footnote 4: A famous Irish architect.]

CHAPTER XIII

"ALL THINGS TO ALL MEN"

In pursuing my course of lectures to my young curate--lectures which he
returned with compound interest by his splendid example of zeal and
energy--I put into his hands the following lines, addressed by that
gentle saint, Francis de Sales, to some one in whom he had a similar
interest:--

"Accustom yourself to speak softly and slowly, and to go--I mean
walk--quite composedly; to do all that you do gently and quietly,
and you will see that in three or four years you will have quite
regulated this hasty impetuosity. But carefully remember to act
thus gently and speak softly on occasions when the impetuosity is
not urging you, and when there is no appearance of danger of it,
as, for example, when sitting down, rising up, eating, when you
speak to N. N., etc.; and in fact everywhere and in everything
dispense not yourself from it. Now, I know that you will make a
thousand slips a day over all this, and that your great natural
activity will be always breaking out; but I do not trouble myself
about this provided that it is not your will, your deliberation;
and that, when you perceive these movements, you always try to calm
them. Equableness of mind and of outward demeanor is not a
particular virtue, but the interior and exterior ornament of a
friend of Jesus Christ." (Letter VII.)

Now, here's the difficulty. Undoubtedly he is impetuous, he rushes at
conclusions too rapidly, he judges hastily; and with an imperfect
knowledge of human nature, which is a mass of irregularities, he worries
himself because he cannot bring a whole parish up to his level in a few
weeks. That impetuosity shows itself everywhere. He is an anachronism, a
being from another time and world, set down in sleepy Kilronan. For the
first few weeks that he was here, whenever he slammed his hall door and
strode down the village street with long, rapid, undulating steps, all
the dogs came out and barked at him for disturbing their slumbers, and
all the neighbors came to their doors and asked wildly, "Who's dead?
What happened? Where's the fire?" etc., and the consequence was that the
wildest rumors used to be circulated; and then, when a few days'
experience disproved them, the cumulative wrath of the disappointed
villagers fell on Father Letheby's devoted head.

"Why the mischief doesn't he go aisy? Sure, you'd think he was walking
for a wager. He'll kill himself in no time if he goes on that way."

He used to laugh airily at all this commotion. And now here was the
puzzle. No doubt whatever he can do more work in one day than I or
Father Tom Laverty could do in a month. And if I clip his wings, and
put lead in his shoes, as he remarked, he may take to slippers and the
gout, and all his glorious work be summarily spoiled. That would never
do. I have no scruple about what I said regarding the Office and Mass;
but if I shall see him creeping past my window in a solemn and dignified
manner, I know I shall have qualms of conscience. And yet--

It was in the beginning of December, and one day I had occasion to go
down through the village. It was not a day to attract any one out of
doors; it was one of those dreadful days which leave an eternal landmark
behind them in the trees that are bent inwards toward the mountains from
the terrible stress of the southwest winds. Land and sea were wiped out
in the cataracts of rain that poured their deluges on sea and moor and
mountain; and the channels of the village ran fiercely with brown muddy
water; and every living thing was housed, except the ducks, which
contemptuously waded through the dirty ruts, and only quacked
melodiously when the storm lifted their feathers and flung them from
pool to pool of the deserted street. I called on Father Letheby.

"This is dismal weather," I said, "enough to give any one a fit of the
blues in this awful place."

He looked at me, as if this were an attempt to draw him. There was a
roar of wind that shook his window-sashes, as if it said, "We will get
in and spoil your pleasure, whether you like it or not"; and there was
a shower of bullets, as from a Maxim, that threatened to smash in and
devastate all the cosey comforts.

"By Jove," said he, turning round, "I never felt happier in my life. And
every roar and splash of the tempest makes me draw closer and closer to
this little nest, which I can call my own home."

It was a cosey nest, indeed. The fire burned merrily,--a little coal, a
good deal of bogwood and turf, which is the cleanest fire in the world;
there was cleanliness, neatness, tidiness, taste everywhere; the
etchings and engravings gave tone to the walls; the piano lay open, as
if saying, "Come, touch me"; the books, shining in gold and red and blue
and purple, winked in the firelight; and, altogether, it was a picture
of delight accentuated by the desolation outside.

"What do I want?" he continued. "Ease? here it is; comfort? here it is;
health? thank God, perfect; society? here are the kings of men on my
shelves. I have only to summon them,--here Plato, Aristotle, AEschylus,
Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare! come here, and they come; speak, and they
open their dead lips; be silent, and back they go to their shelves. I
have not got your Greek Fathers yet; but they'll come. You notice that
my theological library is rather scant. But I can borrow St. Thomas,
Lugo, Suarez; I cannot borrow the others, for you are so jealous about
your books."

"Rather clever economy!" I said. "But now tell me what you do without
the morning paper?"

"Well, now, there you touched a sore point. At least it was; but it is
healing. For the first few weeks it was my daily penance. I used always
breakfast in England with the paper propped against the teapot. They
said it was bad for digestion, but it made me eat slowly; and you may
perhaps have perceived,--indeed, you have perceived,--that I am rather
quick in my habits."

I nodded oracularly.

"Well, the first few weeks I was here that was my only misery. Without
the paper everything looked lonely and miserable. I used to go to the
door every five minutes to see whether there was a newsboy on the
horizon; but you cannot understand the feeling."

"Can't I? I know it well. You remember what the uprooted tree was to the
blinded giant in Virgil:

'Ea sola voluptas,
Solamenque mali.'

Well, that was the newspaper to me. But how do you get on now?"

"I never care to see one. Nay, I should rather have a feeling of
contempt for any one whom I should see wasting valuable time on them."

"But the news of the world, politics, wars, the amenities of Boards of
Guardians, Town Commissioners, etc.; the suicides, the divorces, stocks
and shares, etc.;--don't these things interest you?"

"No. My only regret is, when the boys ask me about the war, I am afraid
I appear awfully ignorant. And they're so learned. Why, every fellow
down at the forge thinks himself a General or an Admiral. 'Ah, if I had
dem troops, wouldn't I settle so and so!' Or, 'Why the d---- didn't
Gineral S---- bring out his cavalry? 'T is the cavalry does it.
Bourbaki--he was the Gineral!' 'Yerra, what was he to Skobeloff?' And
they look at me rather mournfully."

Here an awful blast swept the house, as if to raze it to its
foundations.

"A pleasant day for a sick-call to Slieveogue!" I said.

"I shouldn't mind one bit. 'T would make the fire the merrier when I
returned. I enjoy nothing half so much as walking in the teeth of wind
and rain, along the smooth turf on yonder cliffs, the cool air lapping
you all round, and the salt of the sea on your lips. Then, when you
return, a grand throw-off, and the little home pleasanter by the
contrast. By the way, I was out this morning."

"Out this morning? Where?" I exclaimed.

"Up at Campion's."

"Nonsense!"

"Quite true. And would you guess for what, sir?"

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