My New Curate Part 17

"Hould your tongue, you spalpeen," said a grown man, "Jem can sing as well as twinty Simons, dat is if he could only wet his whistle."

"Thry dat grand song, Jem, ''T is Years Since Last We Met.'"

"No, no," said the chorus, "give us 'Larry McGee.'"

"Wisha, byes, wouldn't wan of ye run over to Mrs. Haley's for a pint.

'T is mighty dhry up here."

"Here ye are," said the chorus, chipping in and making up the requisite "tuppence." "Don't be long about it, ye young ruffian."

"But what about the pledge, Jem?" asked a conscientious spectator.

"Shure your time isn't up yet."

"'T is up long ago," cried another. "'Twas three months yesterday since he took the pledge."

"Byes," said Jem, who was troubled at the possible scandal he was about to give, "I promised not to dhrink in a public house; and shure this isn't a public house, glory be to G.o.d!"

They took off their hats reverently; and then the pint came, was taken up the ladder with great care and solemnity, and a few minutes after, Father Letheby heard:--

"What is it going to be, byes? I've left me music on the pianney!"

"'Larry McGee!' 'Larry McGee!' No. No. 'T is Yares Since Last----.' No.

No. 'The Byes of Wexford.'"

"Byes, I think the majority is in favor of 'Larry McGee.'--Here's to yer health!"

And then came floating from the roof in various quavers and semiquavers and grace-notes the following, which is all Father Letheby can remember.

"I--in the town of Kilkinny lived Larry McGee, Oh--oh the divil's own boy at divarshion was he; He--he had a donkey, a pig, but he hadn't a wife, His cabin was dreary, and wretched his life."

Then the notes came wavering and fitful, as the wind took them up, and carried them struggling over the moorland; and all that Father Letheby could hear was about a certain Miss Brady, who was reared up a lady, and who was requested to accept the name of Mrs. McGee. This suit must have been successful, because, as the wind lulled down, the words came clearly:--

"Sure the chickens were roasted,--the praties was biled, They were all in their jackets, for fear they'd be spiled; And the neighbors came flockin', for to fling up the stockin', And dance at the weddin' of Larry McGee."

It was interesting; but Father Letheby's temper was rising with the undulations of the song. He came out into the graveyard, and there was a stampede of the spectators. Jem was lifting the porter to his lips, and looked down calmly and philosophically at the young priest.

"Mr. Deady," said the latter, putting on his strongest accent, "I do not think I engaged you to entertain the village with your vocal powers, much as I esteem them. I engaged you to work,--to do honest work for honest wages."

"Begor," said the unabashed Jem, "if I was a Turk, or a Armaynian, I'd be allowed to ate my dinner."

"But this is not your dinner hour!"

"Twelve to wan is the dinner hour, except when I dines at the Grate House, whin, for my convaynience, they puts it off till aight."

It was a sly cut at Father Letheby, and he felt it.

"And your dinner, I presume, is the usual quant.i.ty of filthy porter, such as I see represented in your hand."

"It is, your reverence, excep' whin I dines with the Captain. Den we haves roast beef and champagne."

All this Father Letheby told me, with a look of puzzled anger, and with many exclamations.

"I never saw such a people; I'll never understand them," etc. His magnificent impetuosity again.

"Tell me," I said, for he had given me most cordially the privilege of speaking freely, "do you make your meditation regularly?"

"Well, I do," he replied, "in a kind of way."

"Because," I went on to say, "apart from the spiritual advantages it affords, that closing of our eyes daily and looking steadily into ourselves is a wonderfully soothing process. It is solitude--and solitude is the mother country of the strong. It is astonishing what an amount of irritation is poured from external objects through the windows of the soul,--on the retina, where they appear to be focused, and then turned like a burning-gla.s.s on the naked nerves of the soul. To shut one's eyes and turn the thoughts inward is like sleep, and, like sleep, gives strength and peace. Now, would you accept from me a subject of meditation?"

"Willingly, sir," he said, like a child.

"All that you want to be perfect is to curb your impetuosity. I notice it everywhere. Probably it is natural; probably it is accentuated by your residence in feverish cities. Now, I have a right to give an advice on this matter, for I got it and took it myself. When I was as young as you I said Ma.s.s in twenty minutes, and said the Office in forty minutes.

How? Because I slurred over words, spoke to the Almighty as a ballad-singer, and for a few years went through these awful and sacred duties without ever resting or dwelling on their sublime signification.

One day a holy old priest said to me:--

"'Father, would you kindly give me an easy translation of the first stanza of the hymn for Terce?'

"I was completely at sea. He saw it.

"'Ah, never mind. But what means _factus sum, sicut uter in pruina?_ You say it every day nearly.'

"I couldn't tell him.

"'_Herodii domus dux est eorum._' What is that?"

"I made a feeble attempt here, and translated boldly, 'The house of Herod is their leader.'

"The venerable man looked smilingly at me; and then asked me to look up my Bible. I did, and found that I had been speaking an unknown language to Almighty G.o.d for years, and I called it prayer."

Father Letheby looked humbled. He said: "True, Father, I fear; and if you had to say the entire Office, commencing Matins at eleven o'clock at night; or if you had to crush Vespers and Compline, under the light of a street lamp, into the ten minutes before twelve o'clock, you'd see the absurdity of the whole thing more clearly. A strictly conscientious confrere of mine in England used always commence Prime about ten o'clock at night; but then he always lighted a candle, for consistency, before he uttered _Jam lucis orto sidere_. It is a wonder we were never taught the very translation of the psalms in college."

"Well, we're wandering. But set apart, _hic et nunc_, a half-hour for Matins and Lauds; twenty minutes for the Small Hours; a quarter of an hour for Vespers and Compline; and take up no other duty until that time has expired. Then never say your Office from memory, even the parts you know best. Read every line from your Breviary. It is not my advice, but that of St. Charles Borromeo. Take half an hour for the celebration of Ma.s.s. It will be difficult at first, but it will come all right. Lastly, train yourself to walk slowly and speak slowly and deliberately--"

"You are clipping my wings, Father," said he, "and putting soles of lead on my feet."

"Did you ever hear of Michael Montaigne?" I said.

"Yes. But that's all I know about him."

"Quite enough, indeed. He hardly improves on acquaintance. But his father trained himself to wear leaden shoes in order that he might leap the higher. That's what I want from you. But where's this we were? Oh, yes! You must take these poor people more easily. You cannot undo in a day the operations of three hundred years--"

"Yes, but look how these people spring into the very van of civilization when they go to England or America. Why, they seem to a.s.sume at once all the graces of the higher life."

"Precisely,--the eternal question of environment. But under our circ.u.mstances we must be infinitely patient."

"What vexes me most," said Father Letheby, "is that we have here the material of saints; and yet--look now at that wretched Deady! I don't mind his insolence, but the shifty dishonesty of the fellow."