My New Curate
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P.A. Sheehan >> My New Curate
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"Go on. I am a poor hand at conundrums."
"You don't know Mrs. C----, a constable's widow at Moydore?"
"I can't say I have that pleasure. Stop! Did she come about a license?"
"She did."
"And you helped her?--No! God forbid! That would be too great a
somersault!"
"I did."
"What?"
He looked embarrassed, and said, apologetically: "Well, pardon me, sir,
and I'll tell you all. She came in here this morning, wet and
bedraggled. Her poor widow's weeds were dripping with the rain. She sat
there. You see where her boots have left their mark. She said her
husband had just died, and left her, of course, penniless, with four
young children. There was nothing before her but the workhouse, unless I
would help her,--and she heard that I was good to the poor; sure every
one was talking about me,--you understand?"
I nodded.
"Well, there was but one possible way in which she could be helped, and
that was to get her a license to sell porter and spirits. I stopped her
abruptly, and said: 'My dear woman, you might as well ask me to get you
appointed lady in waiting to the Queen. But in any case I'd rather cut
off my right hand than help any one to get a license. Nay, I am fully
determined to cut down every license in this parish until but one is
left.' She looked at me in amazement. Then her Celtic temper rose.
'Wisha, 't is aisy for you to lecture poor people who have not a bite or
a sup, nor a roof over their heads, wid your carpets, and your pictures,
and your pianney, and your brass fire-irons; but if you had four little
_garlachs_ to feed, as I have, you'd have a different story.' Here she
arose to go; and, as a parting shot: 'God help the poor, however; sure
they have no one to go to when their priests desart them.' I don't know
what it was," continued Father Letheby, "but I softened a little here,
and said: 'Now, I have told you that I cannot do anything towards
getting you a license--it's against all my principles; but I'll tell you
what I'll do. I'll go up to Captain Campion's with you, and introduce
you on the strength of these letters from your parish priest; but
remember, not one word shall I say in favor of your demand. Do you
understand?' 'I do, your reverence,' she said; 'may God bless you!' The
hot fires were ashes again. We both went up in the awful rain. It was
rather early even for a morning call, and Captain Campion was not yet
down stairs. So I left the widow in the hall, and went out to a
sheltered spot, where I could watch the action of the storm on the
waves. In half an hour I returned. There was no necessity for an
introduction. The good woman had introduced herself, and secured Captain
Campion's vote and influence for the next licensing sessions. I was
never so sorry--nor so glad."
"'T is a bad business," I said mournfully. "Imagine eight public houses
in this wretched village of three hundred souls!"
"'Tis, sir!" he said, as if his conscience stung him; "but I did some
good by my visit; I think I have brought Captain Campion around."
"To what?" I exclaimed.
"To recognize his duty to the Church, and the people, and God, by going
to his duty."
"You don't say so?" I said, and I _was_ surprised. I could not help
thinking of what a glorious triumph it would be to that gentle saint,
whose brow was never troubled but with the thought of her father's
perversity. How often, how ardently, she had prayed for that day; how
many Masses, how many Communions, she had offered to obtain that grace!
Many a time I have seen her, after Holy Communion, straining her eyes on
the Tabernacle, and I knew she was knocking vigorously at the Heart of
Christ; and many a time have I seen her, a Lady of Sorrows, imploring
the Queen of Sorrows to take that one trouble from her life. Oh! if men
could only know what clouds of anguish and despair their indifference to
the practices of their holy religion brings down upon gentle hearts,
that dare not speak their sorrow, the Church would not have to mourn so
many and such faithless and rebellious children.
I said to Father Letheby: "God bless you; but how did you work the
miracle?"
"Well," he said bashfully, "it was not the work of one day or of one
visit. I have been laying my train to the citadel; to-day I fired it,
and he capitulated. Tell me, sir, did you ever hear of the _Halcyone_?"
Did I ever hear of the _Halcyone_? Who didn't? Was there a man, woman,
or child, from the Cliffs of Moher to Achill Island, that did not know
the dainty five-ton yacht, which, as a contrast to his own turbulent
spirit, he had so named? Was it not everywhere said that Campion loved
that yacht more than his child,--that he spoke to her and caressed her
as a living thing,--and how they slept on the calm deep on summer
nights, whilst phosphor-laden waves lapped around them, and only the dim
dawn, with her cold, red finger woke them to life? And was it not told
with pride and terror in every coracle along the coast with what fierce
exultation he took her out on stormy days, and headed her straight
against the billows, that broke into courtesies on every side, and how
she leaped up the walls of water which lay down meekly beneath her, and
shook out her white sail to the blast, until its curved face brushed the
breakers, and her leaden keel showed through the valleys of the sea? and
men leaned on their spades to see her engulfed in the deep, and the
coast-guards levelled their long glasses, and cried: "There goes mad
Campion and the witch again!"
"What do you know about the _Halcyone_?" said I.
"A good deal by hearsay; not a little by personal experience," he
replied.
"Why, you don't mean to say that you have seen the famous yacht?" I
asked, in amazement.
"Seen her, steered her, laughed at her, feared her, like Campion
himself."
"Why, I thought Campion never allowed any one but himself and his
daughter to cross her gunwale?"
"Well, all that I tell you is, I have been out several evenings with the
Captain; and if you want to examine me in jibs, and mainsails, and
top-gallants, now is your time."
Look here! This curate of mine is becoming quite humorous, and picking
up all our Celtic ways. I don't at all like it, because I would much
rather he would keep up all his graceful dignity. But there again--the
eternal environments. How far will he go?
"Don't mind your lessons in navigation now," I said, "but come to the
point. How--did--you--catch--Campion?"
"Well, 't is a long story, but I shall try to abridge it. I knew there
was but one way to this man's heart, and I was determined to try it. Has
not some one said, 'All things to all men?' Very well. Talk to a farmer
about his crops, to a huntsman about his horses, to a fisherman about
his nets, you have him in the palm of your hands. It is a kind of
Christian diplomacy; but I would much rather it were not necessary."
He was silent, leaning his head on his hands.
"Never mind," I said, "the question of honor. Human nature is a very
crooked thing, and you can't run a level road over a hill."
"I never like even the shadow of deception," he said; "I hate
concealment; and yet I should not like Campion to know that I practised
even so innocent a stratagem."
"Oh, shade of Pascal!" I cried, "even you could detect no casuistry
here. And have you no scruple, young man, in keeping an old gentleman on
the tenter-hooks of expectation whilst you are splitting hairs? Go on,
like a good fellow, I was never so interested in my life. The idea of
landing Campion!"
"Well, 't was this way. I knew a little about boats, and made the
Captain cognizant of the fact. I expected an invitation. He did not rise
to the bait. Then I tried another plan. I asked him why he never entered
the _Halcyone_ for the Galway regatta. He muttered something of contempt
for all the coast boats. I said quietly that I heard she tacked badly in
a strong gale, and that it was only in a light breeze she did well. He
got furious, which was just what I wanted. We argued and reasoned; and
the debate ended in his asking me out the first fresh day that came last
September. I don't know if you remember that equinoctial gale that blew
about the 18th or 19th. It was strong, much stronger than I cared for;
but I was pinned to my engagement. I met him down at the creek. The wind
blew off the land. It was calm enough in the sheltered water; but when
we got out, by Jove, I wished a hundred times that I was here. I lay
down in the gangway of the yacht whilst Campion steered. From time to
time great waves broke over the bow of the yacht, and in a little while
I was drenched to the skin. Campion had his yellow oil-skins, and
laughed at me. Occasionally he asked, Does she tack well? I answered
coolly. I knew he was trying my nerve, as we mounted breaker after
breaker and plunged down into awful valleys of the sea. Then, as one
great squall broke round and the yacht keeled over, he turned the helm,
until she lay flat on a high wave, and her great sail swept the crest of
its foam, and her pennon dipped in the deep. I thought it was all over,
as I clutched the gunwale to prevent my falling into the sea. He watched
me narrowly, and in a moment righted the yacht.
"'We were near Davy Jones's locker there?' he said coolly.
"'We wouldn't remain long together,' I replied.
"'How?'
"'Well, you know, you'd go a little deeper, and I should hope I would
get a little higher.'
"'You mean I'd have gone to Hell?'
"'Certainly,' I replied.
"'I'm not a bad man,' he said, taken aback.
"'You are,' I replied; 'you persecute the poor and drag their faces
through the dust. You're an irreligious man, because you never kneel to
God; you're a dishonest man, because you profess to belong to a faith
whose doctrines you do not accept, and whose commands you disobey.'
"'Hallo, there!' said he, 'I'm not used to this kind of language.'
"'Perhaps not,' I said; for with the thorough drenching and the fright I
was now thoroughly angry. 'But you'll have to listen to it. You cannot
put your fingers in your ears and steer the _Halcyone_. It will take us
an hour to reach land, and you must hear what you never heard before.'
"'I've a strong inclination,' he said, 'to pitch you overboard.'
"'I'm quite sure you're perfectly capable of murder,' I said. 'But
again, you cannot let go the ropes in this gale. Besides, there are two
sides to that question.'
"Then and there I pitched into him, told him how he was breaking his
child's heart, how he was hated all along the coast, etc., etc.; but I
insisted especially on his dishonesty in professing a creed which he
denied in daily practice. I was thoroughly angry, and gave my passion
full swing. He listened without a word as we went shoreward. At last he
said:
"'By Jove! I never thought that a priest could speak to a gentleman so
boldly. Now, that damned old landlubber'--I beg your pardon, sir," broke
in my curate, "the words escaped me involuntarily."
"Never mind," I said, "go on."
"But it was very disrespectful--"
"Now, I insist on hearing every word he said. Why, that's the cream of
the story."
"Well, he said: 'That damned old landlubber and bookworm never addressed
me in that manner,'--but perhaps he meant some one else."
"Never fear! He meant his respected old pastor. The 'landlubber' might
apply to other natives; but I fear they could hardly be called
'bookworm' with any degree of consistency. But go on."
"Well, you know, he spoke rather jerkily, and as if in soliloquy. 'Well,
I never!' 'Who'd have thought it from this sleek fellow?' 'Why, I
thought butter would not melt in his mouth!' 'What will Bittra say when
I tell her?' At last we pulled into the creek; I jumped ashore from the
dingey, as well as my dripping clothes would let me, and lifting my hat,
without a word, I walked towards home. He called after me:--
"'One word, Father Letheby! You must come up to the house and dry
yourself. You'll catch your death of cold.'
"'Oh! 't will be nothing,' I said. He had come up with me, and looked
humbled and crestfallen.
"'You must pardon all my rudeness,' he said, in a shamefaced manner.
'But, to be very candid with you, I was never met so boldly before, and
I like it. We men of the world hate nothing so much as a coward. If some
of your brethren had the courage of their convictions and challenged us
poor devils boldly, things might be different. We like men to show that
they believe in Hell by trying to keep us from it.' But now I am
sounding my own praises. It is enough to say that he promised to think
the matter over; and I clinched the whole business by getting his
promise that he would be at the altar on Christmas morning."
I thought a good deal, and said: "It is a wholesome lesson. We have no
scruple in cuffing Jem Deady or Bill Shanahan; but we don't like to
tackle the big-wigs. And they despise us for our cowardice. Isn't that
it? Well, my dear fellow, you are a [Greek: tetragonos aner], as old
Aristotle would say,--an idea, by the way, stolen by Dante in his 'sta
come torre ferma.' In plainer language, you're a _brick_! Poor little
Bittra! how pleased she'll be!"
CHAPTER XIV
FIRST FRIDAYS
I notice, as I proceed with these mnemonic scraps from my diary, and try
to cast them into shape, a curious change come over me. I feel as one
waking from a trance, and all the numbed faculties revive and assert
their power; and all the thoughts and desires, yea, even the
capabilities of thirty years ago, come back and seem to claim their
rightful places, as a deposed king would like to sit on his throne, and
hold his sceptre once more before he dies. And so all my ideas are
awakening; and the cells of memory, as if at some magic _Sesame_, yield
up their contents; and even the mechanical trick of writing, which they
say is never fully lost, appears to creep back into my rheumatized
fingers as the ink flows freely from my pen. I know, indeed, that some
say I am passing into my second childhood. I do not resent it; nor would
I murmur even at such a blessed dispensation. For I thank God I have
kept through all the vicissitudes of life, and all the turbulence of
thought, the heart of a little child.
There is nothing human that does not interest me. All the waywardness of
humanity provokes a smile; there is no wickedness so great that I
cannot pity; no folly that I cannot condone; patient to wait for the
unravelling of the skein of life till the great Creator willeth,
meanwhile looking at all things _sub specie aeternitatis_, and ever
finding new food for humility in the barrenness of my own life. But it
has been a singular intellectual revival for me to feel all my old
principles and thoughts shadowing themselves clearer and clearer on the
negatives of memory where the sunflames of youth imprinted them, and
from which, perhaps, they will be transferred to the tablets that last
for eternity. But here God has been very good unto me in sending me this
young priest to revive the past. We like to keep our consciousness till
we die. I am glad to have been aroused by so sympathetic a spirit from
the coma of thirty years.
It is quite true, indeed, that he disturbs, now and again, the comforts
of senile lethargy. And sometimes the old Adam will cry out, and sigh
for the leaden ages, for he is pursuing with invincible determination
his great work of revival in the parish. He has doubled, trebled, the
confessions of the people on Saturday, and the subsequent Sunday
Communions. He has seized the hearts of all the young men. He is forever
preaching to them on the _manliness_ of Christ,--His truthfulness, His
honor, His fearlessness, His tenderness. He insists that Christ had a
particular affection for the young. Witness how He chose His Apostles,
and how He attached them to His Sacred Person. And thus my curate's
confessional is thronged every Saturday night by silent, humble,
thoughtful young fellows, sitting there in the dark, for the two candles
at the altar rails throw but a feeble light into the blackness; and Mrs.
Darcy, under all improvements, has retained her sense of economy.
"Where's the use," she says, "of lighting more than wan candle, for wan
candle is as good as fifty?"
She has compromised with Father Letheby for two, for his slightest wish
is now a command.
And so the young girls and all the men go to Father Letheby's
confessional. The old women and the little children come to me. They
don't mind an occasional growl, which will escape me sometimes. Indeed,
they say they'd rather hear one roar from the "ould man" than if Father
Letheby, "wid his gran' accent," was preaching forever. But young men
are sensitive; and I am not sorry.
Yet, if my Guardian Angel were to ask me, What in the world have you to
grumble about? I couldn't tell him. For I never come away from that
awful and sacred duty of the confessional without a sense of the deepest
humiliation. I never sit in "the box," as the people call the
confessional. A slight deafness in one ear, and the necessity of
stretching occasionally a rheumatized foot, make it more convenient for
me to sit over there, near and under the statue of our Blessed Mother.
There in my arm-chair I sit, with the old cloak wrapped round me that
sheltered me many a night on the mountains. And there the little
children come, not a bit shy or afraid of old "Daddy Dan." They pick
their way across the new carpet with a certain feeling of awkwardness,
as if there were pins and needles hidden somewhere; but when they arrive
at safe anchorage, they put their dirty clasped fingers on my old
cassock, toss the hair from their eyes, and look me straight in the
face, whilst they tell their little story to me and God. They are now
well trained in the exact form of confession. Father Letheby has drilled
them well. But dear me! what white souls they are! Poverty and purity
have worked hand in hand to make them angelic, and their faces are
transfigured by the light that shines within. And their attenuated
bodies show clearly the burning lamp of holiness and faith, as a light
shines soft and clear through the opal shades of porcelain or Sevres.
And the little maidens always say, "Tank you, Fader," when they receive
their penance; and the boys say, "All right." I sometimes expect to hear
"old fellow" added. Then the old women come; and, afraid to touch the
grand carpet with their feet, they leave rather vivid impressions in
brown mud on the waxed floor, which is the very thing that Miss Campion
does not want; and they throw themselves backward whilst they recite in
the soft, liquid Gaelic the _Confiteor_; and then raise themselves
erect, pull up their black cloaks or brown shawls with the airs and
dignity of a young barrister about to address the jury, arrange the coif
of shawl or hood of cloak around their heads, and then tell
you--nothing! God bless them, innocent souls! No need for these
elaborate preparations. Yet what contrition, what sorrow, what love they
pour forth over some simple imperfections, where even a Jansenist cannot
detect the shadow of a venial sin! No wonder that my curate declares
that we have material in Ireland to make it again a wonder to the
world,--an Island of Saints once more! But something is wanting. He does
not know what, nor do I. But he says sometimes that he feels as if he
were working in the dark. He cannot get inside the natures of the
people. There is a puzzle, an enigma somewhere. The people are but half
revealed to us. There is a world of thought and feeling hidden away
somewhere, and unrevealed. Who has the key? He is seeking for it
everywhere, and cannot find it. Now, you know, he is a transcendentalist,
so I don't mind these vagaries; yet he is desperately in earnest.
But he is very kind and tender towards his old pastor. When he "started"
the devotion of the Nine Fridays in honor of the Sacred Heart, of
course he set them all wild. Their eternal salvation depended on their
performing the Nine Fridays successively. And so one Thursday night,
when the wind was howling dismally, and the rain pattering on the
windows, and the fire in my little grate looking all the brighter from
the contrast, a timid knock came to my door. I put down the _Pensees_ of
Pascal,--a book for which I have a strange predilection, though I do
not like the man who wrote it.
"Some children want to see you, sir," said Hannah. "I hope you're not
going to leave the house in this weather."
"Send them in and let us see," I replied.
They came to the door reluctantly enough, one pushing the other before
her, and there they stood bashfully, their fingers in their mouths,
staring at the lamp, and the pictures, and the books, like Alice in
Wonderland.
"Well, what's up, now?" I said, turning around.
"'T is the way we wants to go to confession, Fader."
"Hallo! are ye going to die to-night that ye are in such a mighty
hurry?"
"No, Fader, but to-morrow is the fust Friday."
"Indeed! so it is. What has that to do with the matter?"
"But we are all making the Nine Fridays, Fader; and if we break wan, we
must commence all over again."
"Well, run down to Father Letheby; he'll hear you."
"Father Letheby is in his box, Fader; and"--here there was a little
smile and a fingering of the pinafores--"we'd rader go to you, Fader."
[Illustration: "'T is the way we wants to go to confession, Fader."]
I took the compliment for what it was worth. The Irish race appear to
have kissed the Blarney stone _in globo_.
"And have you no pity on a poor old man, to take him out this dreadful
night down to that cold church, and keep him there till ten or eleven
o'clock to-night?"
"We won't keep you long, Fader. We were at our juty last month."
"All right, get away, and I'll follow you quickly. Mind your
preparation."
"All right, Fader."
"'T isn't taking leave of your seven sinses you are, going down to that
cowld chapel this awful night," said Hannah, when she had closed the
door on the children. "Wisha, thin, if I knew what them whipsters
wanted, 't is long before they crossed the thrishol of the door. Nine
Fridays, begor! As if the Brown Scaffler and the first Sunday of the
month wasn't enough for them. And here I'll be now for the rest of the
winter, cooking your coughs and cowlds. Sure, you're no more able to
take care of yerself than an unwaned child."
She brought me my boots, and my old cloak, and my muffler, and my
umbrella all the same; and as I passed into the darkness and the rain, I
heard anathemas on "these new fandangos, as if there weren't as good
priests in the parish as ever he was."
I slipped into the church, as I thought, unperceived; but I was hardly
seated, when I heard the door of Father Letheby's confessional flung
open; and with his quick, rapid stride, and his purple stole flying from
his shoulders, he was immediately at my side, and remonstrating
vigorously at my imprudence.
"This is sheer madness, sir, coming out of your warm room on this
dreadful night. Surely, when I got your permission to establish this
devotion, I never intended this."
"Never mind, now," I said, "I'm not going to allow you to make a
somersault into heaven over my head. In any case, these little mites
won't take long."
They looked alarmed enough at his angry face.
"Well, then, I shall ask you to allow me to discontinue this devotion
after to-night."
"Go back to your confessional. Sufficient for the day is the evil
thereof. There's plenty of time to consider the future."
He was much annoyed over my indiscretion; but he resumed his work. Mine
was quickly gone through, and I passed up the dimly lighted aisle,
wondering at myself. Just near the door, I could not forbear looking
around the deep sepulchral gloom. It was lit by the one red lamp that
shone like a star in the sanctuary, and by the two dim waxlights in tin
sconces, that cast a pallid light on the painted pillars, and a brown
shadow farther up, against which were silhouetted the figures of the
men, who sat in even rows around Father Letheby's confessional. Now and
again a solitary penitent darkened the light of the candles, as he moved
up to the altar rails to read his penance or thanksgiving; or the quick
figure of a child darted rapidly past me into the thicker darkness
without. Hardly a sound broke the stillness, only now and then there was
a moan of sorrow, or some expression of emphasis from the penitents; and
the drawing of the slides from time to time made a soft sibilance, as of
shuttles, beneath which were woven tapestries of human souls that were
fit to hang in the halls of heaven. Silently the mighty work went
forward; and I thought, as there and then the stupendous sacrifice of
Calvary was brought down into our midst, and the hands of that young
priest gathered up the Blood of Christ from grass, and stone, and
wood,--from reeking nails and soldier's lance, and the wet weeping hair
of Magdalen, and poured it softly on the souls of these young
villagers,--I thought what madness possesses the world not to see that
this sublime assumption of God's greatest privilege of mercy is in
itself the highest dogmatic proof of the Divine origin of the Church;
for no purely human institution could dare usurp such an exalted
position, nor assume the possession of such tremendous power.
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