THE MAY CONFERENCE
My mail is not generally a heavy one, thank God! and when I do see a
sheaf of letters on my table, I feel pretty certain that there is
something unpleasant amongst them. I make it a rule, therefore, never to
read a letter until breakfast is over; for I think we ought take our
food, as the Lord intended, with a calm mind. And I am not one of those
ascetics whom every mouthful they swallow seems to choke. I take what
God sends with a thankful heart, and bless Him for it. And sure it was
well I followed this wholesome practice the following morning; for I do
not think I ever lost my equanimity so thoroughly as when, on opening a
circular, I saw a formal and extended and appalling syllabus of our
Conferences for that year. Up to this, our Conferences had been
conferences--informal conventions, where we met, talked over our little
troubles, discussed a rubrical or theological question in an academic
fashion, and listened with patience and edification to some young man,
who nervously read for an hour or so some carefully prepared paper on a
given subject. Then, if the Master of Conferences wanted to show how
well read he was, he put a few questions here and there around the
table. But if he was very persistent, and the chase became too hot, it
was easy to draw a red herring across the track, the aforesaid red
herring generally taking the shape of one of those venerable questions,
which, like the trisection of an angle, or the quadrature of a circle,
or the secret of perpetual motion, shall never be finally solved. The
red herring that did us most service, and was now, after the lapse of
forty years' discussion, a battered skeleton, was "whether invincible
ignorance on the part of the penitent as to the reservation of a
particular sin excused from the reservation, or whether faculties in
every case were withdrawn from the confessor." I believe the question
has been warmly debated in the schools; but there it remains, suspended,
like the Prophet's coffin (I am afraid my metaphors are getting mixed),
between heaven and earth.
But altogether these conferences were nice, pleasant occasions for
meeting the brethren and exchanging ideas. What was my consternation
this morning to read a series of new rules, as dogmatic as an Act of
Parliament, which put an end forever to the old order of things, and
reduced our delightful meetings to a number of monthly examinations on
Rubrics, Sacred Hermeneutics, Theology, and Ecclesiastical History. Our
names were all to go into a hat, and the unfortunate prizeman was to be
heckled and cross-examined by the chairman for ten minutes, like any
ordinary Maynooth student at the Christmas and Easter examinations. Then
came _the_ Conference, after three or four poor fellows had been turned
inside out. This was a paper to be read for three-quarters of an hour.
Then came another cross-examination of that unhappy man; then a series
of cross-questions, after we had all gone into the hat again. "And
then," I said to myself with chagrin and disgust, "they will gather up
all that remains of us from the floor and send us home for decent
interment." Here is one little trifle, that would easily fill up a
half-year's study in a theological seminary:--
PRO MENSE AUGUSTO.
(_Die I^ma Mensis._)
1. Excerpta ex Statutis Dioecesanis et Nationalibus.
2. De Inspiratione Canonicorum Librorum.
3. Tractatus de Contractibus (Crolly).
"Good heavens," I exclaimed, as Father Letheby came in and read down the
awful list in the second copy which I handed him, "imagine that! What in
the world do bishops think? It is easy for them to be twirling their
rings around their little fingers and studying the stones in their
mitres. They have nothing else to do, as we all know, except the
occasional day's amusement of knocking curates around, as you would pot
balls on a billiard-table. But what consideration have they for us, poor
hard-working missionary priests? What do they know about our heavy
confessionals, our sick-calls, our catechising in the schools, our
preparing for our sermons, our correspondence for our people, with
Europe, Asia, Africa, America, and Oceanica, our--our--our--look at
this! 'Excerpta ex Statutis!' That means reading over every blessed
diocesan and national statute, that is, two ponderous volumes. Again,
'De Inspiratione'--the whole question of the Higher Criticism, volume
after volume, Bull after Bull, articles in all the magazines, and the
whole course of German exegetics. That's not enough! But here, as
dessert, after junks of Rubrics, and indigestible slabs of controverted
hermeneutics, come the light truffles and _pâté de foie gras_ of
Crolly's 'Contracts.' Begor, the next thing will be they'll want us to
preach our sermons before them; and then this Master of
Conferences,--he's a good fellow and an old classmate of my own; but of
course he must exhibit his learning, and bring in all his Christy
minstrel conundrums, as if any fool couldn't ask questions that twenty
wise men couldn't answer;--and then he'll cock his head, like a duck
under a shower, and look out of the window, and leave me stuck dead--"
There was a quiet smile around Father Letheby's mouth during this
philippic. Then he said, smoothing out the paper:--
"There is a little clause here at the end, which I think, Father Dan,
just affects you."
"Affects me? If there is, it didn't catch my eye. Show it to me."
I took the paper, and there, sure enough, was a little paragraph:--
"6° The privilege, in virtue of which parish priests of a certain
standing on the mission are exempted from the obligations of the
Conference, will be continued."
I read that over three times to make quite sure of it, my curate looking
down smilingly at me.
"If _you_ are not of a certain standing, Father Dan, I'd like to know
who is."
"True for you," I replied musingly. "I believe I am called the Patriarch
of the Conference."
Visions of an old man, leaning back in his chair, whilst he was
proof-protected against theological bullets, swam before me; and I began
to feel like a man on a safe eminence, overlooking the battlefield, or a
Spanish lady at a bullfight.
"'Pon my word," I said, at length, "I'm beginning to think there is
something in it, after all. The Holy Ghost has something to say to our
good and holy prelates. There is no doubt there was a great waste of
time at these Conferences, and young men got into idle habits and
neglected their theology; and, you know, that's a serious matter. In
fact, it reaches sometimes to a mortal sin. We must _all_ study now. And
you see how practical the bishop is. There's Rubrics. Now, there's no
doubt at all that a good many of us don't respect the ceremonies of the
Mass. Go to Lisdoonvarna, and every fellow appears to have his own idea
of--"
[Illustration: "I read that over three times to make quite sure of it."]
"Pardon me, sir," said Father Letheby, "I cannot quite follow you
there. I must say I never saw the Rubrics half so well carried out in
England as here at home. In fact, this complaint appears to be one of
these satires on racial characteristics that are only half true, and
take all their force from traditional misrepresentations."
Isn't that fine language? You see, he's taking a leaf or two out of my
book.
"Well, but you can't deny that this question of Scriptural exegesis is
one of these dominant questions that must arrest the attention of all
who are interested in ecclesiastical or hieratical studies," said I,
trying to keep pace with him.
"Quite true," he said; "and yet I should like to see these new-fangled
theories about Scriptural inspiration, plenary or otherwise, lifted from
the shaking quagmires of conjecture onto the solid ground of
demonstration."
"You cannot deny whatever," I replied, just before giving in, "that
Crolly's 'Contracts' is solid and well-reasoned and coherent argument;
and look at its vast importance. It touches every question of social and
civil life--"
"It is an excellent heliograph in sunny weather," he said; "but what
about a muggy and misty day?"
"Well, God bless the bishop, whatever," I replied, throwing up the
sponge; "if we haven't the ablest theologians, the smartest Master of
Ceremonies, and the best Orientalists in Ireland, it won't be his fault.
Dear me, how far-seeing and practical he is!"
"But about his ring and his mitre, sir?" said my curate. "You were
pleased to make some observations a few minutes ago--"
"That'll do now," I replied. "My mare will be ready the morning of the
Conference. You'll drive, and we must be in time."
That was a pleasant drive. May in Ireland! What does it mean? It means
coming out of a dark tunnel into blinding sunshine; it means casting off
the slough of winter, and gliding with crest erect and fresh habiliments
under leafy trees and by the borders of shining seas, the crab-apple
blossoms, pink and white, scenting the air over your head, and primroses
and violets dappling the turf beneath your feet; it means lambs frisking
around their tranquil mothers in the meadows, and children returning at
evening with hands and pinafores full of the scented cowslip and the
voluptuous woodbine; it means the pouring of wine-blood into empty
veins, and the awakening of torpid faculties, and the deeper, stronger
pulsations of the heart, and the fresh buoyancy of drooping and
submerged spirits, and white clouds full of bird-music, as the larks
call to their young and shake out the raptures of their full hearts, and
the cheery salutations of the ploughmen, as the coulter turns over the
rich, brown soil, and the rooks follow each furrow for food.
"A grand day, Mick!"
"Grand, your reverence, glory be to God!"
"Good weather for the spring work."
"Couldn't be better, your reverence."
We're out of hearing in a flash, for the little mare feels the
springtime in her veins, and she covers the road at a spanking pace.
"You've thrown off twenty years of age, to-day, Father Dan," said Father
Letheby, as he looked admiringly at his old pastor, then turned swiftly
to his duty, and shook out the ribbons, and then drew them together
firmly, and the little animal knew that a firm hand held her, and there
was no fear.
"No wonder, my boy," I cried; "look at that!" And I pointed to the
[Greek: anêrithmon gelasma] of old Æschylus; but what was his Ægean or
even his Mare Magnum to the free and unfettered Atlantic? Oh! it was
grand, grand! What do I care about your Riviera, and your feeble,
languid Mediterranean? Give me our lofty cliffs, sun-scorched,
storm-beaten, scarred and seamed by a thousand years of gloom and
battle; and at their feet, firm-planted, the boundless infinity of the
Atlantic!
We were in time, and I was snugly ensconced in my old corner up near the
bishop's chair before the priests began to throng in. Now, I'd like to
know this. If an old gentleman, not hitherto very remarkable for
dandyism, chooses to brush his white, silvered hair over his
coat-collar, and has put on a spotless suit of black cloth, and sports
his gold chain and seals conspicuously, and wears his spectacles easily,
and drops them in a genteel manner on the silk ribbon that is suspended
around his neck; and if he is altogether neat and spruce, as becomes an
ecclesiastic of some standing in his diocese, is that a reason why he
should be stared at, and why men should put their hands in their pockets
and whistle, and why rather perky young fellows should cry "Hallo!" and
whisper, "Who's the stranger?" And even why the bishop, when he came in,
and we all stood up, should smile with a lot of meaning when I kissed
his sapphire ring and told him how well he looked?
"And I can reciprocate the compliment, Father Dan," his Lordship said;
"I never saw you look better. All these vast changes and improvements
that you are making at Kilronan seem to have quite rejuvenated you."
Father Letheby, at the end of the table, looked as demure as a nun.
"I must congratulate your Lordship also," I said, "on these radical
changes your Lordship has made in the constitution of our Conference. It
is quite clear that your Lordship means to give full scope to the
budding talent of the diocese."
A groan of dissent ran round the table.
"I'm afraid you must give up your Greek studies, Father Dan," said the
bishop; "you'll have barely time now to master the subject-matter of the
Conference."
"That's true, my Lord, indeed," I replied, "it would take twenty hours
out of the twenty-four, and seven days out of every week to meet all
these demands, at least for a valetudinarian ('Oh! Oh!' from the table).
But your Lordship, with your usual consideration, has taken into account
the nimble intellects of these clever young men, and exempted the
slow-moving, incomprehensive minds of poor old parish priests like
myself." ("No! No!! No!!!" from the table.)
"Now, now," said the Master of Conferences, a thin, tall, high
cheek-boned, deep-browed, eagle-eyed priest, whom I have already
introduced as "a great theologian," "this won't do at all. We're
drifting into the old ways again. I mustn't have any desultory
conversation, but proceed at once to business. Now, my Lord, would you
kindly draw a name?"
"Put in Father Dan! Put in Father Dan!" came from the table.
The bishop smilingly drew up number four; and the chairman called upon
Father Michael Delany.
Father Michael squirmed and twisted in his seat. He was a very holy man,
but a little peppery.
"Now, Father Michael," said the chairman blandly, "we'll take the
Rubrics first. Let me see. Well, what do you do with your hands during
the celebration of the Holy Sacrifice?"
"What do I do with my hands?" said Father Michael sullenly.
"Yes; what do you--do--with your hands?"
"That's a queer question," said Father Michael. "I suppose I keep them
on me."
"Of course. But I mean what motions--or shall we call them gestures?--do
you use?"
"What motions?"
"Yes. Well, I'll put it this way. There's an admirable book by an
American priest, Father Wapelhorst, on the Ceremonies. Now, he wisely
tells us in the end of the book what things to avoid. Could you tell me
what to avoid--what _not_ to do in this matter?"
"Don't you know, Father Michael?" said a sympathetic friend; "go on.
_Elevans et extendens_--"
"Young man," said Father Michael, "thank you for your information, but I
can manage my own business. What's this you were saying?" he cried,
turning to the Master of Conferences.
"What mistakes might a priest make with his hands during celebration?"
"What mistakes? Well, he might put them in his pocket or behind his
back, or--"
"Never mind, never mind. One question more. If you wore a pileolus,
zucchetto, you know, at what part of the Mass would you remove it?"
"I wouldn't wear anything of the kind," said Father Michael; "the five
vestments are enough for me, without any new-fangled things from
Valladolid or Salamanca."
The chairman had graduated at Salamanca.
"My Lord," I interposed charitably, "I don't want to interfere with this
interesting examination, but my sense of classical perfection and
propriety is offended by this word in the syllabus of to-day's
Conference. There is no such word in the Latin language as
'Primigeniis,'--'De Primigeniis textibus Sacræ Scripturæ--'"
"Now, Father Dan, this won't do," shouted the chairman. "I see what
you're up to. There must be no interruptions here. Very good, Father
Michael, very good indeed! Now, we'll take another. Father Dan, if you
interrupt again, I'll put you into the hat. Well, number eighteen! Let
me see. Ah, yes. Father Irwin!"
Poor Father Michael looked unhappy and discomfited. It is a funny
paradox that that good and holy priest, who, his parishioners declared,
"said Mass like an angel," so that not one of his congregation could
read a line of their prayer-books, so absorbed were they in watching
him, couldn't explain _in totidem verbis_ the Rubrics he was daily and
accurately practising.
Which, perhaps, exemplifies a maxim of the Chinese philosopher:--
"One who talks does not know.
One who knows does not talk.
Therefore the sage keeps his mouth shut,
And his sense-gates closed."
Before Father Irwin was questioned, however, there was a delightful
interlude.
Some one asked whether it was lawful for any one, not a bishop, to wear
a zucchetto during the celebration of Mass. As usual, there was a
pleasant diversity of opinion, some contending that the privilege was
reserved to the episcopate, inasmuch as the great rubricists only
contemplated bishops in laying down the rules for the removal and
assumption of the zucchetto; others again maintained that any priest
might wear one; and others limited the honor to regulars, who habitually
wore the tonsure. The chairman, however, stopped the discussion
peremptorily, and again asked (this time a very aged priest) the
question he had put to Father Delany. The old man answered promptly:--
"The zucchetto, or pileolus, is removed at the end of the last secret
prayer, and resumed after the ablutions."
"Quite right," said the chairman.
"By the way," said the old man, "you pronounce that word pileōlus.
The word is pileŏlus."
"The word is pileōlus," said the chairman, whose throne wasn't
exactly lined with velvet this day.
"Pardon me. The word is pileŏlus. You find it as such in the
scansions of Horace."
"This is your province, Father Dan," said the bishop. "There's no one in
the diocese so well qualified to adjudicate here--"
"'Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
Multi--'
my Lord!" said I. I was drawing the bishop out. "There were ironical
cheers at 'Agamemnona.'"
"'Mutato nomine, de te
Fabula narratur,'"
said the bishop, smiling. "Of course, we have many a rich depositary of
classical lore here,
"'At suave est ex magno tollere acervo.'"
"My Lord," said I, pointing around the table,
"'Omnes hi metuunt versus, odere poetas,'"--
("Oh! Oh! Oh!" from the Conference.)
"'Nec recito cuiquam nisi amicis, idque coactus
Non ubivis coramve quibuslibet.'"
Here the Master of Conference, seeing that the bishop was getting the
worst of it, though his Lordship is a profound scholar, broke in:--
"'Ohe!
Jam satis est! Dum æs exigitur, dum mula ligatur,
Tota abit hora.'"
He looked at me significantly when he said, "dum mula ligatur," but I
had the victory, and I didn't mind.
"Now, look here, Father Dan, you're simply intolerable. The Conference
can't get along so long as you are here. You are forever intruding your
classics when we want theology."
"I call his Lordship and the Conference to witness," I said, "that I did
not originate this discussion. In fact, I passed over in charitable
silence the chairman's gross mispronunciation of an ordinary classical
word, although I suffered the tortures of Nessus by my forbearance--"
"There will be no end to this, my Lord," said the chairman. "That'll do,
Father Dan. Now, Father Irwin."
I was silent, but I winked softly at myself.