The Father Blake, of whom Andy spoke, was more familiarly known by the
name of Father Phil, by which title Andy himself would have named
him, had he been telling how Father Phil cleared a fair, or equally
“leathered” both the belligerent parties in a faction-fight, or turned
out the contents (or malcontents) of a public-house at an improper
hour; but when he spoke of his Reverence respecting ghostly matters, the
importance of the subject begot higher consideration for the man, and
the familiar “Father Phil” was dropped for the more respectful title
of Father Blake. By either title, or in whatever capacity, the
worthy Father had great influence over his parish, and there was a
free-and-easy way with him, even in doing the most solemn duties, which
agreed wonderfully with the devil-may-care spirit of Paddy. Stiff
and starched formality in any way is repugnant to the very nature of
Irishmen; and I believe one of the surest ways of converting all Ireland
from the Romish faith would be found, if we could only manage to have
her mass celebrated with the dry coldness of the Reformation. This may
seem ridiculous at first sight, and I grant it is a grotesque way of
viewing the subject, but yet there may be truth in it; and to consider
it for a moment seriously, look at the fact, that the north of Ireland
is the stronghold of Protestantism, and that the north is the _least_
Irish portion of the island. There is a strong admixture of Scotch
there, and all who know the country will admit that there is nearly as
much difference between men from the north and south of Ireland as from
different countries. The Northerns retain much of the cold formality
and unbending hardness of the stranger-settlers from whom they are
descended, while the Southerns exhibit that warm-hearted, lively, and
poetical temperament for which the country is celebrated. The prevailing
national characteristics of Ireland are not to be found in the north,
where Protestantism flourishes; they are to be found in the south and
west, where it has never taken root. And though it has never seemed
to strike theologians, that in their very natures some people are more
adapted to receive one faith than another, yet I believe it to be true,
and perhaps not quite unworthy of consideration. There are forms, it is
true, and many in the Romish church, but they are not _cold_ forms, but
_attractive_ rather, to a sensitive people; besides, I believe those
very forms, when observed the least formally, are the most influential
on the Irish; and perhaps the splendours of a High Mass in the gorgeous
temple of the Holy City would appeal less to the affections of an Irish
peasant than the service he witnesses in some half-thatched ruin by a
lone hillside, familiarly hurried through by a priest who has sharpened
his appetite by a mountain ride of some fifteen miles, and is
saying mass (for the third time most likely) before breakfast, which
consummation of his morning's exercise he is anxious to arrive at.
It was just in such a chapel, and under such circumstances, that Father
Blake was celebrating the mass at which Andy was present, and after
which he hoped to obtain a word of advice from the worthy Father,
who was much more sought after on such occasions than his more sedate
superior who presided over the spiritual welfare of the parish--and
whose solemn celebration of the mass was by no means so agreeable as the
lighter service of Father Phil. The Rev. Dominick Dowling was
austere and long-winded; _his_ mass had an oppressive effect on his
congregation, and from the kneeling multitude might be seen eyes
fearfully looking up from under bent brows, and low breathings and
subdued groans often rose above the silence of his congregation, who
felt like sinners, and whose imaginations were filled with the thoughts
of Heaven's anger; while the good-humoured face of the light-hearted
Father Phil produced a corresponding brightness on the looks of his
hearers, who turned up their whole faces in trustfulness to the mercy of
that Heaven whose propitiatory offering their pastor was making for them
in cheerful tones, which associated well with thoughts of pardon and
salvation.
Father Dominick poured forth his spiritual influence like a strong dark
stream that swept down the hearer--hopelessly struggling to keep his
head above the torrent, and dreading to be overwhelmed at the next
word. Father Phil's religion bubbled out like a mountain rill--bright,
musical, and refreshing. Father Dominick's people had decidedly need of
cork jackets; Father Phil's might drink and be refreshed.
But with all this intrinsic worth, he was, at the same time, a strange
man in exterior manners; for, with an abundance of real piety, he had
an abruptness of delivery and a strange way of mixing up an occasional
remark to his congregation in the midst of the celebration of the mass,
which might well startle a stranger; but this very want of formality
made him beloved by the people, and they would do ten times as much for
Father Phil as for Father Dominick.
On the Sunday in question, when Andy attended the chapel, Father Phil
intended delivering an address to his flock from the altar, urging them
to the necessity of bestirring themselves in the repairs of the chapel,
which was in a very dilapidated condition, and at one end let in the
rain through its worn-out thatch. A subscription was necessary; and
to raise this among a very impoverished people was no easy matter. The
weather happened to be unfavourable, which was most favourable to Father
Phil's purpose, for the rain dropped its arguments through the roof upon
the kneeling people below in the most convincing manner; and as they
endeavoured to get out of the wet, they pressed round the altar as
much as they could, for which they were reproved very smartly by
his Reverence in the very midst of the mass, and these interruptions
occurred sometimes in the most serious places, producing a ludicrous
effect, of which the worthy Father was quite unconscious in his great
anxiety to make the people repair the chapel.
A big woman was elbowing her way towards the rails of the altar,
and Father Phil, casting a sidelong glance at her, sent her to the
right-about, while he interrupted his appeal to Heaven to address her
thus:--_“Agnus Dei_--you'd better jump over the rails of the althar, I
think. Go along out o' that, there's plenty o' room in the chapel below
there.”
Then he would turn to the altar, and proceed with the service, till
turning again to the congregation he perceived some fresh offender.
_“Orate, fratres!_--will you mind what I say to you and go along out of
that? there's room below there. Thrue for you, Mrs. Finn--it's a shame
for him to be thramplin' on you. Go along, Darby Casy, down there, and
kneel in the rain; it's a pity you haven't a dacent woman's cloak undher
you indeed!--_Orate, fratres!_”
Then would the service proceed again, and while he prayed in silence at
the altar, the shuffling of feet edging out of the rain would disturb
him, and casting a backward glance, he would say--
“I hear you there--can't you be quiet and not be disturbin' the mass,
you haythens?”
Again he proceeded in silence, till the crying of a child interrupted
him. He looked round quickly.
“You'd better kill the child, I think, thramplin' on him, Lavery. Go
out o' that--your conduct is scandalous--_Dominus vobiscum!_” Again he
turned to pray, and after some time he made an interval in the service
to address his congregation on the subject of the repairs, and produced
a paper containing the names of subscribers to that pious work who had
already contributed, by way of example to those who had not.
“Here it is,” said Father Phil, “here it is, and no denying it--down
in black and white; but if they who give are down in black, how much
blacker are those who have not given at all!--but I hope they will
be ashamed of themselves when I howld up those to honour who have
contributed to the uphowlding of the house of God. And isn't it
ashamed o' yourselves you ought to be, to leave His house in such a
condition--and doesn't it rain a'most every Sunday, as if He wished to
remind you of your duty? aren't you wet to the skin a'most every Sunday?
Oh, God is good to you! to put you in mind of your duty, giving you such
bitther cowlds that you are coughing and sneezin' every Sunday to that
degree that you can't hear the blessed mass for a comfort and a benefit
to you; and so you'll go on sneezin' until you put a good thatch on the
place, and prevent the appearance of the evidence from Heaven against
you every Sunday, which is condemning you before your faces, and behind
your backs too, for don't I see this minit a strame o' wather that might
turn a mill running down Micky Mackavoy's back, between the collar of
his coat and his shirt?”
Here a laugh ensued at the expense of Micky Mackavoy, who certainly
_was_ under a very heavy drip from the imperfect roof.
“And is it laughing you are, you haythens?” said Father Phil, reproving
the merriment which he himself had purposely created, _that he
might reprove it_. “Laughing is it you are--at your backslidings and
insensibility to the honour of God--laughing, because when you come here
to be _saved_ you are _lost_ intirely with the wet; and how, I ask you,
are my words of comfort to enter your hearts, when the rain is pouring
down your backs at the same time? Sure I have no chance of turning your
hearts while you are undher rain that might turn a mill--but once put a
good roof on the house, and I will inundate you with piety! Maybe it's
Father Dominick you would like to have coming among you, who would grind
your hearts to powdher with his heavy words.” (Here a low murmur of
dissent ran through the throng.) “Ha! ha! so you wouldn't like it, I
see. Very well, very well--take care then, for if I find you insensible
to my moderate reproofs, you hard-hearted haythens--you malefacthors and
cruel persecuthors, that won't put your hands in your pockets, because
your mild and quiet poor fool of a pasthor has no tongue in his head!--I
say your mild, quiet, poor fool of a pasthor (for I know my own faults,
partly, God forgive me!), and I can't spake to you as you deserve, you
hard-living vagabones, that are as insensible to your duties as you are
to the weather. I wish it was sugar or salt you were made of, and then
the rain might melt you if I couldn't: but no--them naked rafthers grin
in your face to no purpose--you chate the house of God; but take care,
maybe you won't chate the divil so aisy”--(here there was a sensation).
“Ha! ha! that makes you open your ears, does it? More shame for you;
you ought to despise that dirty enemy of man, and depend on something
betther--but I see I must call you to a sense of your situation with
the bottomless pit undher you, and no roof over you. Oh dear! dear!
dear!--I'm ashamed of you--troth, if I had time and sthraw enough, I'd
rather thatch the place myself than lose my time talking to you; sure
the place is more like a stable than a chapel. Oh, think of that!--the
house of God to be like a stable!--for though our Redeemer, in his
humility, was born in a stable, that is no reason why you are to keep
his house always like one.
“And now I will read you the list of subscribers, and it will make you
ashamed when you hear the names of several good and worthy Protestants
in the parish, and out of it, too, who have given more than the
Catholics.”
He then proceeded to read the following list, which he interlarded
copiously with observations of his own; making _vivâ voce_ marginal
notes as it were upon the subscribers, which were not unfrequently
answered by the persons so noticed, from the body of the chapel, and
laughter was often the consequence of these rejoinders, which Father
Phil never permitted to pass without a retort. Nor must all this be
considered in the least irreverent. A certain period is allowed between
two particular portions of the mass, when the priest may address his
congregation on any public matter: an approaching pattern, or fair, or
the like; in which, exhortations to propriety of conduct, or warnings
against faction fights, &c., are his themes. Then they only listen in
reverence. But when a subscription for such an object as that already
mentioned is under discussion, the flock consider themselves entitled to
“put in a word” in case of necessity.
This preliminary hint is given to the reader, that he may better enter
into the spirit of Father Phil's
SUBSCRIPTION LIST FOR THE REPAIRS AND ENLARGEMENT OF
BALLY-SLOUGHGUTPHERY CHAPEL
£ s. d. PHILIP BLAKE, P.P.
Micky Hicky 0 7 6 “He might as well have made ten
shillings: but half a loaf is betther
than no bread.”
“Plase your reverence,” says
Mick, from the body of the chapel,
“sure seven and six-pence is more
than the half of ten shillings.”
(_A laugh_.)
“Oh! how witty you are. 'Faith,
if you knew your duty as well as
your arithmetic, it would be betther
for you, Micky.”
Here the Father turned the laugh
against Mick.
£ s. d.
Bill Riley 0 3 4 “Of course he means to subscribe
again.
£ s. d.
John Dwyer 0 15 0 “That's something like! I'll
be bound he's only keeping back
the odd five shillings for a brush
full o' paint for the althar; it's as
black as a crow, instead o' being as
white as a dove.”
He then hurried over rapidly some
small subscribers as follows:--
Peter Heffernan 0 1 8
James Murphy 0 2 6
Mat Donovan 0 1 3
Luke Dannely 0 3 0
Jack Quigly 0 2 1
Pat Finnegan 0 2 2
Edward O'Connor, Esq. 2 0 0 “There's for you! Edward
O'Connor, Esq., _a Protestant in the
parish_--Two pounds!”
“Long life to him,” cried a voice
in the chapel.
“Amen,” said Father Phil; “I'm
not ashamed to be clerk to so good
a prayer.
Nicholas Fagan 0 2 6
Young Nicholas Fagan 0 5 0 “Young Nick is better than owld
Nick, you see.”
The congregation honoured the
Father's demand on their risibility.
£ s. d.
Tim Doyle 0 7 6
Owny Doyl 1 0 0 “Well done, Owny na Coppal--you
deserve to prosper for you
make good use of your thrivings.
£ s. d.
Simon Leary 0 2 6
Bridget Murphy 0 10 0 “You ought to be ashamed o'
yourself, Simon: a lone widow
woman gives more than you.”
Simon answered, “I have a large
family, sir, and she has no childhre.”
“That's not her fault,” said the
priest--“and maybe she'll mend o'
that yet.” This excited much
merriment, for the widow was buxom,
and had recently buried an old
husband, and, by all accounts, was
cocking her cap at a handsome young
fellow in the parish.
£ s. d.
Judy Moylan 0 5 0 Very good, Judy; the women are
behaving like gentlemen; they'll
have their reward in the next world.
Pat Finnerty 0 3 4 “I'm not sure if it is 8s. 4d. or
3s. 4d., for the figure is blotted--
but I believe it is 8s. 4d.”
“It was three and four pince
I gave your reverence,” said Pat
from the crowd.
“Well, Pat, as I said eight and
four pence you must not let me go
back o' my word, so bring me five
shillings next week.”
“Sure you wouldn't have me pay
for a blot, sir?”
“Yes, I would--that's the rule
of back-mannon, you know, Pat.
When I hit the blot, you pay
for it.”
Here his reverence turned round,
as if looking for some one, and
called out, “Rafferty! Rafferty!
Rafferty! Where are you, Rafferty?”
An old grey-headed man appeared,
bearing a large plate, and Father
Phil continued--
“There now, be active--I'm
sending him among you, good people,
and such as cannot give as
much as you would like to be read
before your neighbours, give what
little you can towards the repairs,
and I will continue to read out the
names by way of encouragement to
you, and the next name I see is
that of Squire Egan. Long life to
him!
£ s. d.
Squire Egan 5 0 0 “Squire Egan--five pounds--
listen to that--five pounds--a
Protestant in the parish--five
pounds! 'Faith, the Protestants will
make you ashamed of yourselves, if
we don't take care.
£ s. d.
Mrs. Flanagan 2 0 0 “Not her own parish, either--a
kind lady.
£ s. d.
James Milligan
of Roundtown 1 0 0 “And here I must remark that
the people of Roundtown have not
been backward in coming forward
on this occasion. I have a long list
from Roundtown--I will read it
separate.” He then proceeded at a
great pace, jumbling the town and
the pounds and the people in a most
extraordinary manner: “James
Milligan of Roundtown, one pound;
Darby Daly of Roundtown, one
pound; Sam Finnigan of Roundtown,
one pound; James Casey of
Roundpound, one town; Kit Dwyer
of Townpound, one round--pound
I mane; Pat Roundpound--Pounden,
I mane--Pat Pounden a pound
of Poundtown also--there's an
example for you!--but what are you
about, Rafferty? _I don't like the
sound of that plate of yours_;--
you are not a good gleaner--go up
first into the gallery there, where I
see so many good-looking bonnets--I
suppose they will give something to
keep their bonnets out of the rain,
for the wet will be into the gallery
next Sunday if they don't. I think
that is Kitty Crow I see, getting her
bit of silver ready; them ribbons of
yours cost a trifle, Kitty. Well,
good Christians, here is more of the
subscription for you.
£ s. d.
Matthew Lavery 0 2 6 “_He_ doesn't belong to
Roundtown--Roundtown will be renowned
in future ages for the support
of the Church. Mark my
words--Roundtown will prosper
from this day out--Roundtown
will be a rising place.
Mark Hennessy 0 2 6
Luke Clancy 0 2 6
John Doolin 0 2 6 “One would think they all agreed
only to give two and sixpence apiece.
And they comfortable men, too!
And look at their names--Matthew,
Mark, Luke, and John, the
names of the Blessed Evangelists,
and only ten shillings among them!
Oh, they are apostles not worthy of
the name--we'll call them the _Poor
Apostles_ from this out” (here a
low laugh ran through the chapel)--
“Do you hear that, Matthew, Mark,
Luke, and John? 'Faith! I can tell
you that name will stick to you.'”
(Here the laugh was louder.)
A voice, when the laugh subsided,
exclaimed, “I'll make it ten
shillin's, your reverence.”
“Who's that?” said Father Phil.
“Hennessy, your reverence.”
“Very well, Mark. I suppose
Matthew, Luke, and John will follow
your example?”
“We will, your reverence.”
“Ah! I thought you made a mistake;
we'll call you now the _Faithful
Apostles_--and I think the change
in the name is better than seven
and sixpence apiece to you.
“I see you in the gallery there,
Rafferty. What do you pass that
well-dressed woman for?--thry back
--ha!--see that--she had her money
ready if you only asked for it--don't
go by that other woman
there--oh, oh!--So you won't give
anything, ma'am. You ought to be
ashamed of yourself. There is a
woman with an elegant sthraw bonnet,
and she won't give a farthing.
Well now--afther that--remember--I
give it from the althar, that
_from this day out sthraw bonnets
pay fi'penny pieces._
£ s. d.
Thomas Durfy, Esq. 1 0 0 “It's not his parish and he's a
brave gentleman.
£ s. d.
Miss Fanny Dawson 1 0 0 “_A Protestant out of the parish_,
and a sweet young lady, God bless
her! Oh, 'faith, the Protestants is
shaming you!!!
£ s. d.
Dennis Fannin 0 7 6 “Very good, indeed, for a working
mason.”
Jemmy Riley 0 5 0 “Not bad for a hedge-carpenther.”
“I gave you ten, plaze, your reverence,” shouted Jemmy, “and by the same
token, you may remember it was on the Nativity of the Blessed Vargin,
sir, I gave you the second five shillin's.”
“So you did, Jemmy,” cried Father Phil--“I put a little cross before it,
to remind me of it; but I was in a hurry to make a sick call when you
gave it to me, and forgot it after: and indeed myself doesn't know what
I did with that same five shillings.”
Here a pallid woman, who was kneeling near the rails of the altar,
uttered an impassioned blessing, and exclaimed, “Oh, that was the very
five shillings, I'm sure, you gave to me that very day, to buy some
little comforts for my poor husband, who was dying in the fever!”--and
the poor woman burst into loud sobs as she spoke.
A deep thrill of emotion ran through the flock as this accidental
proof of their poor pastor's beneficence burst upon them; and as an
affectionate murmur began to rise above the silence which that
emotion produced, the burly Father Philip blushed like a girl at this
publication of his charity, and even at the foot of that altar where he
stood, felt something like shame in being discovered in the commission
of that virtue so highly commended by the Holy One to whose worship the
altar was raised. He uttered a hasty “Whisht--whisht!” and waved with
his outstretched hands his flock into silence.
In an instant one of those sudden changes common to an Irish assembly,
and scarcely credible to a stranger, took place. The multitude was
hushed--the grotesque of the subscription list had passed away and was
forgotten, and that same man and that same multitude stood in altered
relations--_they_ were again a reverent flock, and _he_ once more a
solemn pastor; the natural play of his nation's mirthful sarcasm
was absorbed in a moment in the sacredness of his office; and with a
solemnity befitting the highest occasion, he placed his hands together
before his breast, and raising his eyes to Heaven he poured forth his
sweet voice, with a tone of the deepest devotion, in that reverential
call to prayer, “_Orate_, _fratres_.”
The sound of a multitude gently kneeling down followed, like the soft
breaking of a quiet sea on a sandy beach; and when Father Philip turned
to the altar to pray, his pent-up feelings found vent in tears; and
while he prayed, he wept.
I believe such scenes as this are not of unfrequent occurrence in
Ireland; that country so long-suffering, so much maligned, and so little
understood.
Suppose the foregoing scene to have been only described antecedent
to the woman in the outbreak of her gratitude revealing the priest's
charity, from which he recoiled,--suppose the mirthfulness of the
incidents arising from reading the subscription-list--a mirthfulness
bordering on the ludicrous--to have been recorded, and nothing more,
a stranger would be inclined to believe, and pardonable in the belief,
that the Irish and their priesthood were rather prone to be irreverent;
but observe, under this exterior, the deep sources of feeling that lie
hidden and wait but the wand of divination to be revealed. In a thousand
similar ways are the actions and the motives of the Irish understood by
those who are careless of them; or worse, misrepresented by those whose
interest, and too often _business_, it is to malign them.
Father Phil could proceed no further with the reading of the
subscription-list, but finished the office of the mass with unusual
solemnity. But if the incident just recorded abridged his address, and
the publication of donors' names by way of stimulus to the less active,
it produced a great effect on those who had but smaller donations to
drop into the plate; and the grey-headed collector, who could have
numbered the scanty coin before the bereaved widow had revealed the
pastor's charity, had to struggle his way afterwards through the eagerly
outstretched hands that showered their hard-earned pence upon the plate,
which was borne back to the altar heaped with contributions, heaped as
it had not been seen for many a day. The studied excitement of
their pride and their shame--and both are active agents in the Irish
nature--was less successful than the accidental appeal to their
affections.
Oh! rulers of Ireland, why have you not sooner learned to _lead_ that
people by love, whom all your severity has been unable to _drive_?
[Footnote: When this passage was written Ireland was disturbed (as she
has too often been) by special parliamentary provocation:--the vexatious
vigilance of legislative lynxes--the peevishness of paltry persecutors.]
When the mass was over, Andy waited at the door of the chapel to
catch “his riverence” coming out, and obtain his advice about what he
overheard from Larry Hogan; and Father Phil was accordingly accosted
by Andy just as he was going to get into his saddle to ride over to
breakfast with one of the neighbouring farmers, who was holding the
priest's stirrup at the moment. The extreme urgency of Andy's manner,
as he pressed up to the pastor's side, made the latter pause and inquire
what he wanted. “I want to get some advice from your riverence,” said
Andy.
“'Faith, then, the advice I give you is never to stop a hungry man
when he is going to refresh himself,” said Father Phil, who had quite
recovered his usual cheerfulness, and threw his leg over his little grey
hack as he spoke. “How could you be so unreasonable as to expect me to
stop here listening to your case, and giving you advice indeed, when
I have said three masses [Footnote: The office of the mass must be
performed fasting.] this morning, and rode three miles; how could you be
so unreasonable, I say?”
“I ax your riverence's pardon,” said Andy; “I wouldn't have taken the
liberty, only the thing is mighty particular intirely.”
“Well, I tell you again, never ask a hungry man advice; for he is likely
to cut his advice on the patthern of his stomach, and it's empty advice
you'll get. Did you never hear that a 'hungry stomach has no ears'?”
The farmer who was to have the honour of the priest's company to
breakfast exhibited rather more impatience than the good-humoured Father
Phil, and reproved Andy for his conduct.
“But it's so particular,” said Andy.
“I wondher you would dar' to stop his riverence, and he black fastin'.
Go 'long wid you!”
“Come over to my house in the course of the week, and speak to me,” said
Father Phil, riding away.
Andy still persevered, and taking advantage of the absence of the
farmer, who was mounting his own nag at the moment, said the matter of
which he wished to speak involved the interests of Squire Egan, or he
would not “make so bowld.”
This altered the matter; and Father Phil desired Andy to follow him to
the farm-house of John Dwyer, where he would speak to him after he had
breakfasted.