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 æternitatis_, 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 Sèvres.
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 _Pensées_ 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.
As I knelt down, and turned to leave the church, I felt my cloak gently
pulled. I looked down and faintly discerned in the feeble light some one
huddled at my feet. I thought at first it was one of the little
children, for they used sometimes to wait for the coveted privilege of
holding the hand of their old pastor, and conducting him homeward in
the darkness. This was no child, however, but some one fully grown, as I
conjectured, though I saw nothing but the outline of wet and draggled
garments. I waited. Not a word came forth, but something like the echo
of a sob. Then I said:--
"Whom have I here, and what do you want?"
"Father, Father, have pity!"
"I do not know who you are," I replied, "and wherefore I should have
pity. If you stand up and speak, I'll know what to say or do."
"You know me well," said the woman's voice, "too well. Am I to be cast
out forever?"
Then I recognized Nance, who had followed and blessed Father Tom the
evening he left us. She did not bless me nor address me. I had to speak
publicly of poor Nance; perhaps, indeed, I spoke too sharply and
strongly,--it is so hard to draw the line between zeal and discretion,
it is so easy to degenerate into weakness or into excess. And Nance
feared me. Probably she was the only one of the villagers who never
dared address me.
"What do you want here?" I gently said.
"What do I want here? 'T is a quare question for a priest to be afther
asking. What did the poor crature want when she wint to a bigger man dan
you, and she wasn't turned away aither?"
"Yes, Nance; but she repented and loved Christ, and was prepared to die
rather than sin again."
"And how do you know but I'm the same? Do you know more than the God
above you?--and He is my witness here to-night before His Blessed and
Holy Son that all hell-fire won't make me fall again. Hell-fire, did I
say?" Her voice here sunk into a low whisper. "It isn't hell-fire I
dread, but His face and yours."
I stooped down and lifted her gently. The simple kindness touched the
broken vase of her heart, and she burst into an agony of passionate
tears.
"Oh, wirra! wirra! if you had only said that much to me three months
ago, what you'd have saved me. But you'd the hard word, Father, and it
drove me wild to think that, as you said, I wasn't fit to come and mix
with the people at Mass. And many and many a night in the cowld and
hunger, I slept there at the door of the chapel; and only woke up to
bate the chapel door, and ask God to let me in. But sure His hand was
agin me, like yours, and I daren't go in. And sometimes I looked
through the kayhole, to where His heart was burnin', and I thought He
would come out, when no one could see Him, and spake to me; but no! no!
Him and you were agin me; and then the chapel woman 'ud come in the
cowld of the mornin', and I would shlink away to my hole agin?"
"Speak low, Nance," I whispered, as her voice hissed through the
darkness. "The men will hear you!"
"They often heard worse from me than what I am saying to-night, God help
me! 'T isn't the men I care about, nor their doings. But whin the young
girls would crass the street, les' they should come near me, and the
dacent mothers 'ud throw their aprons over their childres' heads, les'
they should see me, ah! that was the bitter pill. And many and many a
night, whin you wor in your bed, I stood down on dem rocks below, with
the say calling for me, and the hungry waves around me and there was
nothin' betune me and hell but that--"
She fumbled in her bosom and drew out a ragged, well-worn scapular with
a tiny medal attached, and kissed it.
"And sure I know if I wint with 'em, I should have to curse the face of
the Blessed and Holy Mary forever, and I said then, 'Never! Never!' and
I faced the hard world agin."
I detected the faintest odor of spirits as she spoke.
"'T is hardly a good beginning, Nance, to come here straight from the
public house."
"'Twas only a thimbleful Mrs. Haley gave me, to give me courage to face
you."
"And what is it to be now? Are you going to change your life?"
"Yerra, what else would bring me here to-night?"
"And you are going to make up your mind to go to confession as soon as
you can?"
"As soon as I can? This very moment, wid God's blessing."
"Well, then, I'll ask Father Letheby to step out for a moment and hear
you."
"If you do, then I'll lave the chapel on the spot, and maybe you won't
see me agin." She pulled up her shawl, as if to depart.
"What harm has Father Letheby done you? Sure every one likes him."
"Maybe! But he never gave me word or look that wasn't pison since he
came to the parish. I'll go to yourself."
"But," I said, fearing that she had still some dread of me that might
interfere with the integrity of her confession, "you know I have a bad
tongue--"
"Never mind," she said, "if you have. Sure they say your bark is worse
than your bite."
And so, then and there, in the gloom of that winter's night, I heard her
tale of anguish and sorrow; and whilst I thanked God for this, His sheep
that was lost, I went deeper down than ever into the valleys of
humiliation and self-reproach: "Caritas erga homines, sicut caritas Dei
erga nos."[5] Here was my favorite text, here my sum total of
speculative philosophy. I often preached it to others, even to Father
Letheby, when he came complaining of the waywardness of this imaginative
and fickle people. "If God, from on high, tolerates the unspeakable
wickedness of the world,--if He calmly looks down upon the frightful
holocaust of iniquity that steams up before His eyes from the cities and
towns and hamlets of the world,--if He tolerates the abomination of
paganism, and the still worse, because conscious, wickedness of the
Christian world, why should we be fretful and impatient? And if Christ
was so gentle and so tender towards these foul, ill-smelling, leprous,
and ungrateful Jews, why should we not be tolerant of the venial falls
of the holy people,--the kingly nation?" And I was obliged to confess
that it was all pride,--too much sensitiveness, not to God's dishonor,
but to the stigma and reproach to our own ministrations, that made us
forget our patience and our duty. And often, on Sunday mornings in
winter, when the rain poured down in cataracts, and the village street
ran in muddy torrents, and the eaves dripped in steady sheets of water,
when I stood at my own chapel door and saw poor farmers and laborers,
old women and young girls, drenched through and through, having walked
six miles down from the farthest mountains; and when I saw, as I read
the Acts and the Prayer before Mass, a thick fog of steam rising from
their poor clothes and filling the entire church with a strange incense,
I thought how easy it ought to be for us to condone the thoughtlessness
or the inconsiderate weaknesses of such a people, and to bless God that
our lot was cast amongst them. I heard, with deeper contrition than
hers, the sins of that poor outcast; for every reproach she addressed to
me I heard echoed from the recesses of that silent tabernacle. But all
my trouble was increased when I insisted on her approaching the Holy
Table in the morning. The thought of going to Holy Communion appalled
her. "Perhaps in eight or twelve months she'd be fit; but to-morrow--"
Her dread was something intense, almost frightful:--
"Sure He'll kill me, as He killed the man who towld the lie!"
I tried to reassure her:--
"But they say he'll _bleed_ if I touch Him."
I gently reasoned and argued with her. Then her objections took a more
natural turn:--
"Sure the people will all rise up and lave the chapel."
Then it became a question of dress. And it was with the greatest
difficulty, and only by appealing to her humility, and as a penance,
that I at last induced her to consent to come up to the altar rails
after all the people had received Holy Communion. There was a slight
stir next morning when all the people had reverently retired from the
Holy Table. I waited, holding the Sacred Host over the Ciborium. The
people wondered. Then, from the farthest recess of the church, a draped
figure stole slowly up the aisle. All knew it was Nance. So far from
contempt, only pity, deep pity, filled the hearts of old and young; and
one could hear clearly the _tchk! tchk!_ that curious click of sympathy
which I believe is peculiar to our people. The tears streamed down the
face of the poor penitent as I placed the Sacred Host upon her tongue.
Then she rose strengthened, and walked meekly, but firmly, back to her
place. As she did, I noticed that she wore a thick black shawl. It was
the quick eye of my curate that had seen all. It was his gentle, kind
heart that forestalled me.
I got an awful scolding from Hannah when I came home that night in the
rain.
"Never mind, Hannah," I said, when she had exhausted her diatribe, "I
never did a better night's work in my life."
She looked at me keenly; but these poor women have some queer way of
understanding things; and she said humbly:--
"Than' God!"
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 5: Charity towards men, as the charity of God towards us.]