THE CLERGY.
From Kilrush, on the coast of Clare, an excellent service of steamers
goes up the estuary of the Shannon to Foynes, where one takes the train
to Limerick. It is a charming excursion, undertaken by all tourists.
The Shannon here is of great breadth and majesty, flowing in an immense
sheet of water, recalling the aspect of the great rivers of America. At
the back you have the stormy ocean; in front, on the right, on the left,
green hills dotted with snowy villas. Few trees or none, as is the rule
in Ireland, but a light haze that softens all the outlines of the ground,
magnifies the least shrubs, and lends to all the view a melting aspect of
striking loveliness.
The boats are few in number, though the depth of the channel would allow
ships of the heaviest tonnage to go up to within five miles of Limerick.
I notice hardly two or three sailing boats at anchor on this four hours’
journey. What an admirable harbour for an active commerce would be that
broad estuary, opening directly opposite to America, on the extreme
point of the European continent. It is the natural point of arrival and
departure for the Transatlantic steamers, which would reach New York in
five days from there. Engineers have dreamed of this possibility. But
to justify a maritime movement, and legitimise such enterprise, a great
commerce, an industry that Ireland lacks, would be wanted. Gentlemen of
an engineering turn, come back again in a century or two.
* * * * *
At Tarbert, where we stop to take passengers, a fort opens its
loop-holes, armed with guns, on the river. Redcoats are encamping at the
foot of the fortress, and the morning breeze carries to us the rough
voice of a non-commissioned officer drilling his men. One might imagine
him addressing the _Invincibles_ across the ocean somewhat after this
guise:
“Here we are, keeping watch: If ever this alluring bay tempt you to come
over, you shall find us ready to receive you!”...
The helm trembles; the boat goes on its course, and soon Tarbert melts
behind us in the sunny haze.
On board, the travellers resemble those seen in summer on all great
rivers—merchants bent on a pleasure trip; judges and barristers, having
taken leave of briefs; professors enjoying their holidays, with wives,
daughters, sons, goods, and chattels—all have the sun-burnt complexion
and the satisfied look one brings back from the seaside. They have been
staying on the beautiful shores of the County Clare, and are returning
home with a provision of health for one year. La Fontaine has already
noticed that, travelling, one is sure to see “the monk poring over his
breviary.” Here the proportion is far greater than in the ancient coach;
it is not one priest we have on board, but a dozen, all sleek, fat, and
prosperous, dressed in good stout broadcloth, as smooth as their rubicund
faces, and provided with gold chains resting on comfortable abdomens.
One remark, by the way. When you meet an Irish peasant on the road, he
stops, wishes you good-day, and adds, “Please, sir, what is the time?”
Not that he cares much to know. He is perfectly well able to read the
time on the great clock of the heavens. But it is his own manner of
saying, “I can see, sir, that you are a man of substance—one of the great
ones of this earth—_since you have a watch_. My sincere congratulations!”
Well, all those travelling priests possess chronometers—we are obliged
to notice it, since it appears to be a sign of easy circumstances in
Ireland—and the rest of their attire fully carries out that symptom.
Under the undefinable cut that at once betrays a clerical garment,
their black coat has all the softness of first quality cloth; their
travelling bag is of good bright leather; their very umbrella has a look
of smartness, and does not affect the lamentable droop that with us is
always associated with the idea of a clerical umbrella. Some of them wear
the Roman hat and collar, with a square-cut waistcoat and the ordinary
trousers of the laity, and stockings of all the hues of the rainbow. A
young curate sports violet-coloured ones, which he exhibits with some
complacency. I ventured to ask him, in the course of conversation,
whether he belonged to the Pope’s household. He answered with a blush of
modesty that he had not that honour, and wore violet hose because he was
fond of that colour.
That is a matter of taste; but I have a right to suppose, young
Levite, that the mitre and episcopal rochet—perhaps even the cardinal
purple—hover at night over your ingenuous dreams.
* * * * *
LIMERICK.
Limerick is a big town of 40,000 inhabitants, celebrated for its hams,
lace, and gloves. The objects of interest are an important linen factory,
and another for military equipments, besides a stone mounted on a
pedestal, and which served as a table for signing the famous treaty of
1691—soon violated like all treaties, however. Opposite that historic
stone, on the other side of the Shannon, the ancient castle of King John
rears its proud head; it has a grim and gloomy look, with its seven
towers, its thick walls and iron-bound gates.
At the large hotel of the place I meet again three of my ecclesiastical
fellow-travellers. They evidently know what is good for them, and would
on no account stop at second-rate inns. One cannot blame them for it. But
this is a sign of prosperity, added to all the others; a hotel at fifteen
shillings a day, without counting the wine, seems at first sight suited
to prelates rather than to humble clergymen. Yet these are only village
and parish priests, as I gather from the book on which I sign my name
after theirs. At dinner, where we sit side by side, I am compelled to
see that the appetite of the reverend fathers is excellent, and that the
_carte_ of the wines is a familiar object with them. They each have their
favourite claret: one likes Léoville, another Château Margaux, while the
third prefers Chambertin; and they drain the cup to the last drop. After
dessert they remain last in the dining-room, in company with a bottle of
port.
At ten o’clock that night, entering it to get a cup of tea, I find the
three seated round glasses of smoking toddy.
* * * * *
These memorable events are not consigned here, it need hardly be said,
for the vain satisfaction of recording that on a certain evening three
Irish priests were tippling freely. They certainly had a perfect right
to do so, if such was their bent. It is the most cherished privilege of
a British subject; and of all capital sins proscribed by the Church,
drunkenness is certainly the most innocent. But this remark, made
without prejudice, during a chance meeting at an inn, carries out the
general impression left by the Irish clergy—that of a corporation
greatly enamoured of its comforts, endowed with good incomes, and whose
sleekness forms a striking contrast with the general emaciation of their
parishioners.
Everywhere, in visiting this island, one meets with this typical pair
of abbots, well dressed and well “groomed,” travelling comfortably
together, and, to use a popular expression, “la coulant douce.” It is
startling in this realm of poverty, the more startling because the
Catholic clergy have no official means of existence, no salary paid
them by the State. They owe all the money they spend to the private
contributions of their admirers. Was there ever, they doubtlessly think,
a more legitimate way of making money? That is probably why they make
so little mystery of it, and disdain to hide when they exchange part of
their income against a bottle of Chambertin. In other places, priests
think that a certain reserve is expected of them; they prefer being
securely shut in privacy before they carve a partridge or plentifully
moisten a synod dinner. Here they are so secure in their position that
they recoil from no profane glance.
Their lives are, I am told, of exemplary purity. I have no difficulty in
believing it, both because purity is a marked characteristic of the race,
and because their faith has seemed to me simple as that of the Breton
priests. There must be exceptions, and some were pointed out to me; but
assuredly those exceptions are few in number. By many signs which do not
deceive those who have some experience of life, one can see that the
Irish priest has not the vices of the Italian or Spanish priest. He is
a gormandizer to be sure, but he is chaste—perhaps for the very reason
that he is so devoted to the pleasures of the table. His simplicity of
heart is wonderful sometimes, and makes one think of those Mount Athos
monks, nursed in the cloister from the tenderest age, and who know
literally nothing of the exterior world. I heard two of them, old men
both, who were quietly chatting in a corner of the railway carriage. Both
had small, bald birds’ heads, shaven chins, and a quaint, old-fashioned
look.
“_I am next door to an idiot!_” one of them was saying, with curious
complacency.
“So am I,” answered the other; “so was I always, and I thank Almighty God
for it!... for have you not noticed that all those grand, clever people
often lose the faith?...”
* * * * *
Where does their income come from? That is a question doubly interesting
to us Frenchmen, who every year pay out two million sterling for the
budget of public worship. A placard seen everywhere in Limerick, and
presenting a marked resemblance to the advertisement for a theatre, will
help to tell us. This placard is to the effect that on the day after
to-morrow a general ordination of young priests will take place in the
Cathedral of St. John, by the hands of the Right Reverend X. O’Dyer,
archbishop of the town (the name and quality in conspicuous characters),
assisted by several other prelates and dignitaries. It proceeds to state
that excursion trains have been established for the occasion, and that
tickets for the ceremony may be procured, at the price of half-a-crown
and one shilling, at No. 98, George Street.
This is a booking-office, exactly like those we have in theatres. Plenty
of placards, the plan of the church showing the number and position of
each seat, a table of prices, and behind a little grated window a bearded
old woman for the tickets,—nothing is wanting. One has only to choose
one’s place, to pay the price down, and to take away the ticket. About
twenty persons perform these various acts before my eyes. Evidently the
receipt will be good. The cathedral of St. John, that proudly raises
its brand-new spire above all the others, must be able to accommodate
at least three or four thousand spectators. At 1_s._ 9_d._ per head on
an average, that gives already a total of two or three hundred pounds.
To this must be added the product of the collections and that of the
wooden money-boxes, that open everywhere to receive the outcome of
the generosity of the faithful; the total, we may be sure, cannot be
otherwise than respectable. It is true that an ordination is not an
every-day event, and that it must be an expensive affair to put on the
stage. We must therefore suppose the ordinary income to be raised by way
of semestrial and direct contribution.
* * * * *
This is how the thing is done: each parish priest has two Sundays in
the year devoted to the taking his _dues_, as he calls it. On these
days, instead of preaching, he exhibits a manuscript list upon which
are inscribed by name all his tributaries, that is to say, all his
parishioners, with the sums they have paid into his hands; this he reads
publicly. As a rule he adds a running commentary to each name, either to
praise the generosity of the donor, or, on the contrary, to complain of
his stinginess. In the country, especially, the scene is not wanting in
humour.
“_Daniel MacCarthy_, four shillings and six-pence,” says the priest.
“That’s not much for a farmer who keeps three cows and sold two calves
this year. I will hope for him that he only meant that as a preliminary
gift.... _Simon Redmond_, seven shillings and six-pence; he might have
given ten shillings, as he did last year. He is not what we should call
a progressive man.... _George Roehe_, two shillings and three-pence.
_Richard MacKenna_, one shilling and three-pence. _Denis Twoney_, one
shilling and nine-pence. Against those who do their best I have nothing
to say. _Michael Murphy_, fifteen shillings. Now, I ask, could not he
have made it a pound? The pity of it! _John Coleman_, five shillings.
_Daniel Clune_, five shillings. _Cornelius Nagle_, five shillings. One
would think they had agreed to do it.... _Henry Townsend_, Esq., of
Townsend Manor, three pounds sterling. That’s what I call a subscriber!
And he is a Protestant. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves to let a
Protestant be more generous to your own church than you are.... _Harriet
O’Connor_, one shilling and nine-pence. I will be bound she liked buying
a new bonnet better than doing her duty. That is between her and her
conscience. But I am afraid that at the Day of Judgment she won’t find it
such a good investment.... _Mary Ann Cunningham_, twelve shillings and
nine-pence. If everybody knew how to spare and how to use what they spare
in the same way as this good lady, things would go better in this world
and in the next, take my word for it.... _Colonel Lewis_, of Knockamore
Villa, five pounds sterling. Another Protestant! Positively one might
think one lived in a parish of heathens when one sees that the heretics
alone seem to have some regard for the church!...”
The reading goes on in this guise, adorned with reflections more or less
pungent, and interrupted now and then by a repartee coming from the far
end of the audience, and torn from the patient by the malignity of the
attack; a general hilarity is then provoked without impairing in the
least the reverence of the congregation for their priest or their church.
This semestrial subscription, added to the weekly collections, the daily
masses, the baptisms, weddings and burials, is amply sufficient to keep
the church, the priest, and the priest’s house in a good state of repair.
Most of the parish priests besides, have the habit of “binage,” that is
to say they often say two or three masses a day, at different points of
their sometimes very wide parish.
* * * * *
They are generally addressed by their christian name, prefaced by the
name of _Father_: _Father James_, _Father Henry_, etc., and this title
well describes the terms of filial familiarity of the flocks with their
pastor,—a familiarity not unfrequently manifested by sound boxes on the
ear for children, and good blows with the stick on the shoulders of
his grown-up parishioners, but which does not preclude respect. In the
streets one always sees the parish priest respectfully greeted by the
passers by; many women kneel down to kiss his hand as in Italy or Spain.
His authority is that of a patriarch, who not only wields spiritual
power, but also, to a great extent, social and political power. He
incarnates at once in himself the native faith so long proscribed in the
country, resistance to the oppressor, heavenly hopes and compensation for
human trials. As a consequence, his influence is great, for good as for
ill.
The faith of the Irish peasant is entire, unquestioning, absolute as that
of a thirteenth century’s serf. One must see on Sundays those churches
crowded to overflowing, and too narrow for the congregation who remain,
silent and kneeling, on the steps and even outside the doors. One must
see those ragged people, forming a chain by holding on to each other’s
tatters, one behind the other, at a distance of 50 to 60 feet from the
altar, a patch of dim light up there in the darkness of the church; or
else they must be seen at some pilgrimage round a miraculous well or
stream, like the Lough Derg, wallowing indiscriminately in the pond,
washing therein their moral and physical uncleanliness, drinking the
sacred water by the pailful, intoxicated with enthusiasm and hope.
The devotees of Our Lady del Pilar, and of San Gennaro, are less
expansive and less ardent. The Sacred Heart of Jesus, the Rosary, St.
Philip of Neri, all the mystical armoury of the modern church have
innumerable votaries in Ireland. One would perhaps experience some
difficulty in finding there ten born Catholics not wearing next to their
skin some amulet made of cloth or ivory, and invested in their eyes with
supernatural powers. If I do not greatly err, St. Peter’s pence must find
its more generous contributors amidst those poverty-stricken populations.
To those imaginations of starved and half hysterical people the Roman
pontiff appears in the far distance, all in white, in a halo of gold,
like a superhuman vision of Justice and Pity in this world where they
found neither the one nor the other.
An Irish servant in London once asked my advice about the investment of
her savings, some thirty pounds which she had scraped together at the
Post Office Savings Bank. I congratulated her on her thrift, when the
poor girl told me, her eyes bright with unshed tears:
“It is for our Holy Father, that they keep in prison up there in Rome....
I mean to bring him fifty pounds as soon as ever I get them.”
* * * * *
Those things may tend to explain why the only prosperous trade in Ireland
is the clerical trade. Every year the number of priests increases, though
the population is decreasing. In 1871 they numbered 3,136; in 1881 they
were 3,363, or an increase of 227, under the guidance of four archbishops
and twenty-four bishops. The Catholic population is of three million
persons; that gives one priest for about 900 inhabitants.
It is generally admitted that each of these priests, with his church and
his house, cannot cost much under £300 or £400 a year. That would give
about £1,200,000 coming annually from the pockets of those labourers and
servant girls. The tithe was never so heavy.
This clergy is chiefly recruited from the class of small farmers and
peasantry (by the reason that the other classes are for the majority
Protestants); as a consequence the clergy share all the passions of
their class. The agrarian revolution has no agents more active. Almost
everywhere the parish priest is the president of the local Land League
Board. In the stormiest meetings is always to be found a village Peter
the Hermit, preaching the new crusade and denouncing the landlords
with fiery eloquence; not to speak of the Sunday preaching, which is
only another meeting closed against the police, and where landlords
are handled with extraordinary freedom of language. One has seen Irish
priests openly declare a shot to be an unimportant trifle, so long as
it was sent after a landed proprietor. A few months ago a Dublin paper
mentioned a parish in Donegal, where the priest, they asserted, had gone
so far as to put the properties of the landlords in lottery, by tickets
of ten shillings each. The verification of this fact would by no means
be easy. But, given the state of mind of the Irish priest, the ardour he
brings into the struggle, the boundless indulgence he displays towards
agrarian outrages, the tale is by no means improbable; our Leaguers have
done even worse. However surprising may be in our Continental eyes the
spectacle of a whole clergy taking part against the lords in a social
war, under the paternal eyes of their episcopate, we must remember that
here everything tends to bring about this result:—religious passions,
hereditary instinct, and personal interest.
* * * * *
A priest who had the unlucky idea of pronouncing himself against the
League would soon see his subsidies stopped. His flock would besides lose
all confidence in him, and all respect for his person. I am told of a
characteristic example of the kind of practical jokes indulged in such
a case by the peasantry against the dissident pastor. A priest of the
county Clare, seized by sudden scruples, took it into his head to abuse
the League at the Sunday preaching, instead of sounding the usual praise
in its honour. At once they sent him from the lower end of the church
an old woman who begged to be heard directly in confession, before she
could approach Holy Communion. The worthy man, grumbling a little at such
an untimely fit of devotion, nevertheless acceded to her request with
antique simplicity, and seated himself inside the confessional.
“Father,” said the old woman in aloud voice, “I accuse myself of having
this moment thought that you were a wicked bad man, who betrays his flock
to take the part of their natural enemies....”
“Amen!” answered all the congregation in a chorus.
Without waiting for absolution the old woman had got up to go. The priest
tried to imitate her. Impossible. They had placed on his seat a huge lump
of pitch which glued him, attached him indissolubly to his place. To get
him free they were obliged to go for help outside, to call strangers to
the rescue. The whole village meanwhile were shaking with laughter, and
thought the joke in the best possible taste.
The Irish clergy go with the League, both because their temperament
inclines them that way, and also because it is an imperious necessity
of their situation; their case is rather similar to that of the _Home
Rule_ members, who were compelled to enter the movement, whether they
approved of it or not. However strong their hold on the mass of the rural
population, their influence would vanish in a week if they tried to pull
against the irresistible stream. Such sacrifices have never been a habit
of the Roman Church.
Indeed it is permitted to smile, when one sees the Tory Ministry
soliciting the intervention of the Pope in the Irish crisis, and
obtaining from him the sending of a special legate entrusted with the
mission of bringing the Episcopate of Ireland back to less subversive
ideas. It is well understood that the Pope of course sends his legate,
and derives from his diplomatic compliance all the advantages it entails.
But he is better aware than any one that unless he personally gave away
one million sterling a year to the parish priests of Ireland, he would
have little reasonable hope of success in asking them to shift their
policy.
Is it necessary to add that the Irish priest himself knows on occasion
how to bring into his mundane relations the traditional suppleness and
prudence of his order? A priest of Wexford, actively mixed up with the
agrarian movement, was dining a few years ago at the house of Mr. C⸺,
proprietor of a large landed estate in the county. Conversation turned
upon the League, and no good was said of it. The priest listened in
silence, without giving his sentiment either for or against the League.
All of a sudden, with a look of assumed simplicity, he turned to his host—
“Look here, Mr. C⸺,” he said, “Will you believe me? _Me impresshun is
that there is no Land League._”
The saintly man had for the last three months been vice-president of the
board of the Land League in his district.