He asked, “When shall I return.”
“I will let you know, Sir.”
Then he withdrew in silence, but shaking his head as though inwardly
exclaiming, “An Unbeliever.”
No! low as I have fallen, I am _not_ an unbeliever. God is my witness
that I believe in Him. But how did that old man address me? Nothing to
be felt, nothing to affect me, nothing to draw forth tears, nothing
which sprung from his heart to enter into mine,--nothing which was
addressed from himself to myself.
On the contrary, there was something vague, inaccentuated, applicable to
any case and to none in particular: emphatic where it should have been
profound, flat where it ought to have been simple; a species of
sentimental sermon and theological elegy. Now and then a quotation in
Latin; here and there the names of Saint Augustine and Saint Gregory,
and others of the Calendar. And throughout he had the air of reciting a
lesson which he had already twenty times repeated; seeming to go over a
theme almost obliterated in his memory from being so long known; but
not one look in his eyes, not one accent in his voice, to indicate that
_he_ was interested!
And how could it be otherwise? This Priest is the head Chaplain of the
Prison; his calling is to console and exhort,--that is, he lives by it.
Condemned felons are the spring of his eloquence; he receives their
confession, and prays with them, because he keeps his place by it. He
has advanced in years in conducting men to death from his youth, he has
grown accustomed to that which makes others shudder. The dungeon and
scaffold are every-day matters with him.
He receives notice the preceding evening that he will have to attend
some one the following day, at a certain hour. He asks, “Is it for the
Galleys or an execution?” and he asks no more respecting them, but comes
next day as a matter of course.
_Oh that they would bring me, instead of this man, some young curate,
some aged Priest, taken by chance from the nearest parish! Let them find
him at his devotional studies, and, without warning, say to him, “There
is a man who is going to die, and it is reserved for you to console him.
You must be there when they bind his hands; you must take a place in the
fatal cart, with your crucifix, and conceal the executioner from him.
You must pass with him through that horrible crowd which is thirsting
for his execution; you must embrace him at the foot of the scaffold, and
you must remain there until his soul has flown!”_
_When they have said this, let them bring him hither, agitated,
palpitating, all shuddering from head to foot. Let me throw myself into
his arms; then kneel at his feet, and he will weep, and we will weep
together; and he will be eloquent, and I shall be consoled, and my heart
will unburthen itself into his heart,--and I shall receive the blessed
hope of Redemption, and he will take my Soul!_