VIOLENT CONTRASTS
Christmas Day was a day of undiluted triumph for Father Letheby. There
were great surprises in store for me. That is one of my curate's few
faults--is it a fault?--that he is inclined to be dramatic. As he says,
he hates to speak of a thing until it is beyond the reach of failure. Of
all criticisms, the one he most dreads is, "I told you so." And so, on
this Christmas morning, I had a series of mild, pleasant shocks, that
made the bright, crisp, frosty, sunny morning all the more pleasant. It
was a slight, because expected, surprise to see Captain Campion at the
altar rails. He appeared at eight o'clock Mass. Thanks be to God! I
manage still to use the sublime privilege given by the Church that
morning, of being allowed to celebrate three times. I have not omitted
it for fifty years. When I shall fail to say my three Christmas Masses,
then you may take up your _Exequiæ_, and practise the _Requiem æternam_
for poor Daddy Dan.
Well, I had said the first two Masses, commencing at seven o'clock. It
is a curious experience, that of seven o'clock Mass on Christmas
morning. The groping through the dark, with just the faintest aurora on
the horizon, the smell of the frost in the air, the crunching of icicles
under one's feet, the shadowy figures, making their way with some
difficulty to the church, the salutations of the people: "Is that you,
Mick?" "'Tis, Mrs. Grady; a happy Christmas to you, ma'am." "The same to
you, Mick, and manny of them." "Good morning, Mrs. Mulcahy; 't is a fine
Christmas morning, glory be to God." "'T is indeed, ma'am, glory be to
His Holy Name." "Hurry up, Bess, you'll never catch the priest at the
altar." "Yerra, sure, haven't we three Masses to-day." The more polite
people said: "The compliments of the saison to you, ma'am." "The same to
you, sir; may we be all alive and happy this time twelvemonth."
Well, just as I commenced the hymn of the angels at my first Mass, there
was a crash of music and singing from the gallery over the door, that
made my old heart leap with joy and pride. I never expected it; and the
soft tones of the harmonium, and the blending of the children's voices,
floating out there in the dark of the little chapel, made tears of
delight stream down the wrinkles of my cheeks. And what was the
_Gloria_, do you think? From Mozart's "Twelfth Mass," if you please.
Nothing else would do. The pride of Kilronan is gone so high since that
famous concert, that I am almost sure they would challenge the seraphim
to a fair contest, that is, if the latter would put aside their golden
viols and sambucæ, and compete only with their voices against the "new
choir of Kilronan." I violated egregiously one strict rubric at the
_Dominus vobiscum_. I raised my eyes and took a good long look at choir
and people. I couldn't help it. If Martinucci and Baruffaldi, Gavantus
and Merati, Gardellini and Bauldry, and the whole Congregation of Sacred
Rites were there in the front bench, I couldn't help myself. I kept my
hands open for at least a quarter of a minute, whilst I surveyed my
little congregation. It was a pathetic sight. The lights from the altar
shone on the faces of Captain Campion and Bittra, and one or two of the
better-class parishioners on the front bench; but all behind were buried
in a deep well of darkness. I could barely distinguish the pale faces of
the confused mass that stretched in the deep gloom towards the door; but
overhead, about a dozen dark figures were outlined against the light of
the two wax candles on the harmonium, over which, on this eventful
morning, Father Letheby presided. And this was the object of the concert
at last. I should have known that there was some supernatural object
behind it. This young man does not care much to develop or elicit the
dormant energies of the people, unless he can turn therewith the mills
of God. But what trouble it must have given him! How many a cold night
did he leave his room, and there, on that gallery, contend with the
rough and irregular voices, until he brought them into that stream of
perfect unison. I can imagine what patience he exercised, what subtle
flatteries he administered, what gentle sarcasm he applied, before he
succeeded in modulating the hoarse thunders of Dave Olden's voice, that
rose like a fog-horn over the winds and waves whenever he ventured upon
the high seas; and how he cut off remorselessly the grace-notes of Abby
Lyden, who has begun to think herself an Albani; and how he overcame the
shyness of the fisher lads, and brought clear to the front the sweet
tenors of the schoolboys, on whom, he said, all his hopes depended. And
how his own rich baritone ascended strongly and softly over all,
blending into perfect harmony all discordance, and gently smothering the
vagrant and rebellious tones that would sometimes break ambitiously
through discipline, and try to assert their own individuality. He sang
an Offertory solo, accompanying himself on the harmonium. Who will say
it was not sweet? Who will say it was not appropriate?
"O Vergine bella!
Del ciel Regina,
A cui s'inchina
La terra ed el mar.
"O Tu che sei stella
Del mare si bella,
Ci guido nal porta
Col tuo splendor."
And then when Bethlehem was repeated, with all its lowliness and
humility, there in that humble chapel; and the Divine Babe lay white and
spotless on the corporal, the glorious _Adeste_ broke forth. Ah me! what
a new experience for myself and people. Ah me! what a sting of
compunction in all the honeyed delights of that glorious morning, to
think that for all these years I had been pastor there. Well, never
mind; _meâ maximâ culpâ! Ignosce, Domine!_
I placed the Sacred Host on Captain Campion's tongue, and most heartily
forgave him his unflattering epithets. Tears of joy streamed down
Bittra's face as she knelt beside him at the altar rails. I was wearied
and tired from the large number of Communions I administered that
morning. The last communicant was poor Nance. She was hidden away in the
deep gloom; but I am not at all sure that the Child Jesus did not nestle
as comfortably in the arms of the poor penitent as in those of His
virgins and spotless ones. And there were many such, thank God, amongst
my Christmas congregation that morning.
But the great surprise of all was in store. For, after Mass was over,
there was a great rush to St. Joseph's Chapel; and I am afraid I cut my
own thanksgiving short, to move with silent dignity in the same
direction. I heard gasps of surprise and delight, exclamations of
wonder, suppressed hallelujahs of joy; I saw adoration and tenderness,
awe and love on the dimly lighted faces of the people. No wonder! For
there, under a rough, rustic roof of pines and shingles, was the
Bethlehem of our imaginations in miniature. Rough rocks lined the
interior, wet green mosses and lichens covering them here and there; in
front of the cave a light hoar-frost lay on the ground, and straw and
stubble littered the palace floor of Him who walks on the jasper and
chalcedony parquetting of the floors of heaven. And there was the gentle
Joseph, with a reverent, wondering look on his worn features; and there
the conscious, self-possessed, but adoring expression on the sweet face
of the Child-Mother; and there the helpless form and pleading hands of
Him whose omnipotence stretches through infinity, and in whose fingers
colossal suns and their systems are but the playthings of this moment in
His eternal existence, which we call Time. Three shepherds stood around,
dazed at some sudden light that shone from the face of the Infant; one,
a boy, leaned forward as if to raise in his arms that sweet, helpless
Babe; his hands were stretched towards the manger, and a string held the
broad hat that fell between his shoulders. And aloft an angel held in
his hand a starry scroll, on which was inscribed _Gloria in excelsis
Deo_. I stood amongst my awestruck congregation for a few minutes. Some
were kneeling, and uttering half-frantic ejaculations of adoration,
pity, and love; some leaned against a pillar, silent, but with tearful
eyes; little children pointed out to each other the different features
of this new wonder-world; but all around, the fervid Celtic imagination
translated these terracotta figures into living and breathing
personalities. It was as if God had carried them back over the gulf of
nineteen centuries, and brought them to the stable door of Bethlehem
that ever memorable night. I think it is this realization of the
Incarnation that constitutes the distinguishing feature of Catholicity.
It is the Sacred Humanity of our Lord that brings Him so nigh to us, and
makes us so familiar with Him; that makes the Blessed Eucharist a
necessity, and makes the hierarchy of Bethlehem, Jerusalem, and Calvary
so beloved,--beloved above all by the poor, and the humble, and the
lowly. Listen to this!
"Oh, dear, dear, and to think of our Lord with the straw under Him, and
His feet covered with the frost of that cowld night--"
"And the poor child! Look at her; why, she's only a little girl, like
Norah; and not a woman near to help her in her throuble."
"Look at His little hands stretched out, like any ordinary child. Glory
be to His Holy Name. Sure, only for Him where 'ud we be?"
"And poor St. Joseph! No wondher he's fretting. To think of thim two
cratures in his hands, and he not having house or home to shelter
thim!"
"Wisha, Mary, 't was a pity we worn't there that blessed night. Sure,
't is we'd give 'em the best we had in the world, an' our hearts'
blood."
I shared to the full this feeling about St. Joseph. And when, after
Father Letheby's Mass, I came down, and brought over my old arm-chair,
and placed it in front of the crib, and put down my snuff-box, and my
breviary, and my spectacles, and gave myself up to the contemplation of
that wonderful and pathetic drama, St. Joseph would insist on claiming
the largest share of my pity and sympathy. Somehow I felt that mother
and child understood each other perfectly,--that she saw everything
through the eyes of God, and that therefore there was not much room for
wonderment; but that to St. Joseph the whole thing was an unspeakable
mystery of humiliation and love, infinite abasement and infinite
dignity; and I thought I saw him looking from the child-face of his
spouse to the child-face of the Infant, and somehow asking himself,
"What is it all?" even though he explicitly understood the meaning and
magnitude of the mighty mystery.
Father Letheby has a new series of pictures of the Life of our Lord,
painted by a French artist, whose name I can never recall except when I
sneeze,--Tissot. I do not like them at all. They are too
realistic,--and, after all, the ideal is the real. I have a special,
undiluted dislike of one picture,--the _Magnificat_. I'd have torn it
up, and put the fragments in the fire, but that it was not mine. But how
in the world any Catholic could paint my beautiful child-prophetess of
Hebron as Tissot has done baffles comprehension. But he has one lovely
picture, "Because there was no Room." The narrow lane of the Jewish
city,--the steep stairs to the rooms,--the blank walls perforated by a
solitary, narrow window,--the rough stones, and the gentle animal that
bore Mary, treading carefully over them,--the Jewish women, regretfully
refusing admission,--the sweet, gentle face of the maiden mother,--and
the pathetic, anxious, despairing look on the features of St.
Joseph,--make this a touching and beautiful picture. Poor St. Joseph!
"Come, take the reins of the patient animal, and lead him and his sacred
burden out into the night! There is no room in the City of David for the
children of David. Out under the stars, shining brilliantly through the
frosty atmosphere, over the white, rugged road, into an unknown country,
and 'Whither, O my God?' on thy lips, as the child at thy side
shuddered, and no finger from heaven nor voice from earth directed thee;
unless, indeed, that faint flashes of light athwart the net of stars
told thee that the angels were cutting their way down through the
darkness, and into the spheres of men, and that all heaven was in a
tumult of expectation, whilst in yonder city men slept, as they always
sleep unconscious when God is near. And then, when the feeble plaint
broke from Mary's lips, I cannot go further, and the gentle beast turned
aside into the rocks and whins, and called to his companions of the
stable, and the meek-eyed ox looked calmly at the intruders, and
there--there--dear God! to think of it all--_In mundo erat, et mundus
eum non cognovit_."
I sat quietly there until Benediction at three o'clock, and then I
remained rolling my beads through my fingers, and singing in my heart
the grand majestic O's of the preceding day's offices, at the end of
every decade, until five o'clock struck. From time to time my little
children would come, and leaning on my knee, would gaze with wonder and
affection at the Child of Bethlehem; and then, looking up into my face,
put wonderful questions about deep mysteries to their old Father. For
all day long, a stream of visitors passed before the crib; and the next
day, and the next, crowds trooped over from Moydore and the neighboring
parishes, for the fame of it had gone abroad over the land; and men and
women came, jealous of their own pastors, and wondering at the sudden
uprise of Kilronan. Then the climax was reached on the twelfth day, when
the Kings appeared, and the group in the stable was complete. The "black
man" from Nubia came in for more than his share of honors; and it was
admitted all round that Kilronan was immortalized and the other parishes
were forever in the background.
"May God bless the man that gave us such a sight," said an old woman
fervently, as I left the wondering crowd and went home to dinner.
"May God bless all our priests," said another, fearing that I might be
offended.
"Wisha, thin, Father Dan," said a third, "what a wondher you never tould
us what you had in store for us. Wisha, thin, it wasn't worth while
keeping it such a grate sacret."
There is no end to the ingenious charity of these people. On my plate at
the dinner table, amidst a pile of Christmas cards, was a dainty little
duodecimo. I took it up. It was from Father Letheby. And what was it?
The _Imitation_ in Greek, by a certain George Mayr, S. J. Wasn't this
nice? My pet book done into my favorite language! It was the happiest
Christmas I ever spent. _Quam bonus Israel Deus!_ So too said Father
Letheby. But I had some dim presentiment that all his well-merited
pleasure would not be quite unalloyed,--that some secret hand, perhaps a
merciful one, would pluck a laurel leaf or two from his crown. We had a
pleasant academic discussion after dinner about the honorable retention
of ancient Irish customs,--he quite enthusiastic about them, I rather
disposed to think that the abuses which invariably accompanied them made
their final extinction altogether advisable. We put our respective
theories in practice next morning with the most perfect consistency; for
Hannah drove indignantly from the door the wren-boys, just as they were
commencing:
"A thrate, a thrate, if of the best,
We hope in heaven your sowl will rest;
But if you give it of the small
It won't agree with our boys at all."
And, on his part, Father Letheby listened with intense delight to this
dithyrambic, which ushers in St. Stephen's day all over Ireland; and he
dispensed sundry sixpences to the boys with the injunction to be always
good Irishmen and to buy sweets.
That night, just as I was thinking of retiring, for I am an early riser,
I heard a gentle tap at the hall door, then a hurried colloguing in the
hall; and Hannah put in her head and whispered:--
"Lizzie is afraid, sir, that the priest is sick. Would you mind coming
down to see him?"
"God bless me! no," I said, quite alarmed. I followed the servant
rapidly and was ushered into Father Letheby's parlor, unexpected and
almost unannounced.
"What's the matter, sir?" he cried; "what's the matter?"
"Nothing particular," I replied. "'T is a rather fine night, is it not?"
"Lizzie must have sent for you?" he answered.
"Yes," I said, "she did. She thought you were unwell. Are you?"
He looked ill enough, poor fellow, and at these words he sank wearily
into a chair.
"I am afraid you're unwell," I repeated.
"I'm not unwell," he said, blubbering like a child, "but--but--my heart
is broken."
"Oh," I cried, "if that's all, it's easily mended. Come now, let's hear
all, and see if we can't put the pieces together."
"I wouldn't mind," he cried, standing up and striding along the little
room, his hands tightly clasped behind his back, "but the poor little
altar boys--the poor little beggars--they looked so nice yesterday, and
oh to think of it! Good God!"
"Very dramatic, very dramatic," I said, "but not the quiet narrative and
consecutive style that I affect. Now, supposing you told me the story.
There's balm in Gilead yet."
And this was the story, told with much impressiveness, a fair amount of
gesticulation, and one or two little profane expressions, which made the
Recording Angel cough and look away to see how was the weather.
It appears that about seven o'clock Father Letheby had a sick-call
outside the village. There are generally a fair share of sick-calls on
the day succeeding the great festivity, for obvious reasons. He was
returning home through the village, when the sound of singing arrested
his steps just outside Mrs. Haley's public house. His heart gave a
bound of delight as he heard the familiar lines and notes of the
_Adeste_. "Thank God!" he said, "at last, the people are beginning to
bring our Catholic hymns into their own homes." As he listened intently
there was a slight reaction as he recognized the sweet liquid notes,
with all the curls and quavers that are the copyright and strictly legal
and exclusive possession of Jem Deady.
"Good heavens!" said the young priest, in a frenzy of indignation, "has
that ruffian dared to introduce into the taproom our Christmas melodies,
and to degrade them into a public-house chorus?"
He stepped into the shop. There was no one there. He turned softly the
handle of the door, and was in the taproom for several minutes before he
was recognized. What he witnessed was this. Leaning in a tipsy, maudlin
way against the wall were the holly bushes, which, decorated with pink
ribbons, and supposed to conceal in their dim recesses the "wren, the
wren, the king of all birds," had been the great attraction of the
morning. Leaning on the deal table, with glasses and pints of porter
before them, as they sat and lounged or fell in various stages of
intoxication, were the wren-boys; and near the fire, with his back
turned to the door, and his fingers beating time to the music in pools
of dirty porter, was Jem Deady. As Father Letheby entered he was
singing:--
"Deum de Deo, Lumen de Lumine,
Gestant puellæ viscera--"
the most awful and tender lines of the glorious hymn.
He was unconscious of the priest's presence, and quite unconscious of
his horrible sacrilege. Father Letheby continued gazing on the sad scene
for a few minutes, with mingled feelings of anger, horror, and disgust.
Then, closing the door softly after him, he strode through the street,
and knocking peremptorily at all the doors, he soon had a procession of
the fathers and mothers of the children following him to the public
house. What occurred then has passed into the historical annals of
Kilronan. It is enough to say here that its good people heard that night
certain things which made their ears tingle for many a day. Mrs. Haley
came up to my house the following morning to give up her license; and
there was a general feeling abroad that every man, woman, and child in
Kilronan should become total abstainers for life.
"But that's all," said Father Letheby; "and now I am really sick of the
entire business; and to-morrow I shall write to the Bishop for my
_exeat_, and return to England or go to Australia, where I have been
promised a mission."
It was rather late, and I should have been long ago in my comfortable
bed; but the text was too good to miss.
"My dear Father Letheby," I said, "it is clear to me that you are
working not for God's honor, but for your own _kudos_."
He started at these strong words, and stared at me.
"Because," I continued calmly, "if it was the honor of God you had at
heart, this calamity, the intensity of which I have no idea of
minimizing, would have stimulated you to fresh efforts instead of
plunging you into despair. But your pride is touched and your honor is
tarnished, and you dread the criticism of men. Tell me honestly, are you
grieved because God has been offended, or because all your fine plans
have _ganged aglee?_ There! Dear St. Bonaventure, what a burden you laid
on the shoulders of poor humanity when you said, _Ama nesciri, et pro
nihilo reputari_. You did not know, in the depths of your humility, that
each of us has a pretty little gilded idol which is labelled _Self!_ And
that each of us is a fanatic in seeking to make conversions to our own
little god. And I am not at all sure but that education only helps us to
put on a little more gilding and a little more tawdry finery on our
hidden deity; and that even when we sit in judgment upon him, as we do
when preparing for Confession, it is often as a gentle and doting
mother, not as an inflexible and impartial judge. Here are you now
(turning to Father Letheby), a good, estimable, zealous, and successful
priest; and because you have been touched in a sore point, lo! the voice
from the inner shrine demanding compensation and future immunity.
Everything has prospered with you. Religion has progressed, with leaps
and bounds, since you came to the parish; the people adore you, and you
have the satisfaction of knowing that you are that most difficult of
heroic successes, a conqueror because a reformer; and because you have
met one reverse, you are going to turn your back on your work, and seek
the curse of those who put pillows under their armpits and garlands of
roses in their hair. Did you imagine that Satan, a living, personal, and
highly intelligent force, was going to allow you to have everything your
own way here,--to fold his arms while you were driving back his forces
in utter rout and confusion? If you did, you were greatly mistaken. You
have met a slight reverse, and it has become a panic. _Sauve qui peut!_
And the commander--the successful general--is the first to turn his
back, throw down his sword, and flee."
"Say no more, Father Dan, for God's sake. I am heartily ashamed of
myself."
A good scolding is almost equal to a cold bath as a tonic for disordered
nerves.
I went home with a satisfied conscience, murmuring, _Per la impacciata
via, retro al suo duce_. I think I know whither he is tending.
A demoralized, woe-begone, wilted, helpless figure was before me in the
hall. If he had been under Niagara for the last few hours he could not
be more hopelessly washed out. It was Jem Deady in the custody of his
wife, who was now in the ascendant.
"Here he is, your reverence,--a misfortunate angashore! For the love of
God make him now a patthern to the parish! Cling him to the ground, or
turn him into somethin'; make him an example forever, for my heart is
broke with him."
Whilst I was turning over in my mind into which of the lower animals it
would be advisable to cause the immortal soul of Jem to transmigrate and
take up a temporary residence, I thought I saw a glance upwards from his
eye, visibly pleading for mercy.
"It is quite clear, Jem," I said, "that your Christmas dinner disagreed
with you."
"Begor, thin, your reverence," broke in Mrs. Deady, setting herself in a
rather defiant attitude, "he had as good a dinner as any poor man in
your parish. He had a roast goose, stuffed by thim two hands with
praties and inguns, until the tears ran down my face; and he had a pig's
cheek, and lashins of cabbage."
"And why don't you tell his reverence about the rice puddin'?" said Jem,
in a tone of honest indignation. "'T is a shame for you, Bess! She made
a rice puddin', your reverence, that was fit for the Grate House; and
begor, your reverence might sit down to worse yourself. Sich raisons and
currans!"
"Begor, I'm thinking you're thrying to put the comedher on me, you
blagard, with your blarney," said Mrs. Deady with angry suspicion,
drawing back and scrutinizing his face.
[Illustration: "And why don't you tell his reverence about the rice
puddin'?"]
"Thrying to put the comedher on _you_, Bess? Begor, I'd like to see the
man that could do it. But I'll say this, in the presence of his
reverence, and wid yerself to the fore, that there isn't in this
parish, nor in the nex', nor in the nex' again, nor widin the four walls
of Ireland, a betther wife nor a betther housekeeper den you, Bess
Clancy." And to emphasize this panegyric, Jem threw his battered hat on
the floor and brushed away a tear.
It was a pity not to come to the aid of such a superb diplomatist. No
wonder the British diplomatic service is manned by Irishmen from
Singapore to Halifax. What would Melikoff, and Von Schaffterhausen, and
De Laborie be in the hands of Jem Deady? He'd twist them around his
little finger. I saw the angry wrinkles smoothing themselves on the brow
of Mrs. Deady, as she melted under the gentle rain of flattery.
"I'd forgive you a good deal, Deady," I said; "your repeated violations
of solemn pledges, your sacrilege in bringing down to a public house the
most sacred melodies of the Church--"
"They were _at_ me," said Jem. "They said as how I couldn't get my
tongue around the Latin, and that Father Letheby--"
"I understand," I interrupted; "but even that I'd forgive. But to take
the innocent lambs of my flock, my choir boys and altar boys, the
children of sober and religious parents, whose hearts are broken by your
misconduct--"
"Childre' of sober and religious parents,--whose hearts are broken,"
chimed in Mrs. Deady. "Wisha, thin, without manin' any disrespect to
your riverence, would you be plazed to mintion these dacent people? An'
if these religious parents wor mindin' their childre', insted of
colloguing and placin' their nabors, their religious childre' wouldn't
be lying drunk in Mrs. Haley's public house. But of coorse 't is Jim
Deady here and Jim Deady there; and if the thruth wos towld, he's as
good as any of 'em, though I shouldn't say it to his face. Come along,
you poor fool."
"I must do what I came for," said Jem, solemnly. Then, with an air of
awful determination, as if he were binding iron bars and padlocks on his
thirsty lips, Jem took the pledge. Mrs. Deady, in high dudgeon, had gone
down the street. Jem and I were alone.
"Tell me, yer reverence," he whispered, "did that mane scut of a tailor
insult ye the other night?"
"Oh, not at all, Jem," I cried, fearing the consequences to the tailor.
"I have an eye on him this long time," said Jem, "and faith, he'll come
to grief soon."
"Now, Jem," I warned emphatically, "no violence, mind. The unfortunate
fellow is sorry."
"All right, your reverence; we are not going to waste violence on the
likes of him. But--"
Here Jem fell into a profound reverie.
"Begor, your reverence, ye did that little job nately," he cried, waking
up. "That woman's tongue didn't lave me worth tuppence. God bless yer
reverence, and spare ye long to us."
He took my hand, and kissed it till it was blistered by the sharp
bristles of his unshaven lips. Poor fellows! how they warm to us! and
how, with all their faults, we fling around them something more than
maternal love!