My New Curate Part 26

Then, down there, below the water-line of gray heads is the coming generation of Irish priests, who, like the [Greek: lampadephoroi] of old in the Athenian games, will take the torch of faith from our hands and carry it to the Acropolis of Heaven,--clean-cut, small of stature, keen-faced, bicycle-riding, coffee-drinking, encyclopaedic young fellows, who will give a good account of themselves, I think, in the battles of the near future. It is highly amusing to a disinterested spectator, like myself, to watch the tolerant contempt with which the older generation regards the younger. They have as much contempt for coffee as for ceremonies, and I think their mistakes in the latter would form a handsome volume of _errata_, or add another appendix to our valuable compendiums. To ask one of these old men to pa.s.s a cup of coffee is equivalent to asking a Hebrew of the strict observance to carve a ham, or a Hindoo to eat from the same dish with a Christian. And many other objects that the pa.s.sing generation held in high esteem are "G.o.ds of the Gentiles" to the younger. They laugh profanely at that aureole of distinction that used hang around the heads of successful students, declaring that a man's education only commences when he leaves college, and that his academical training was but the sword exercise of the gymnasium; and they speak dreadful things about evolution and modern interpretation, and the new methods of hermeneutics, and polychrome Bibles; and they laugh at the idea of the world's creation in six days; and altogether, they disturb and disquiet the dreams of the staid and stately veterans of the Famine years, and make them forecast a dismal future for Ireland when German metaphysics and coffee will first impair, and then destroy, the sacred traditions of Irish faith. And yet, these young priests inherit the best elements of the grand inheritance that has come down to them. Their pa.s.sionate devotion to their faith is only rivalled by their pa.s.sionate devotion to the Motherland. Every one of them belongs to that great world-wide organization of Priests Adorers, which, cradled in the dying years of our century, will grow to a gigantic stature in the next; for at last it has dawned upon the world that around this sacred doctrine and devotion, as around an oriflamme, the great battles of the twentieth century will rage. And they have as tender and pa.s.sionate a love for the solitary isle in the wintry western seas as ever brought a film to the eyes of exile, or lighted the battle fires in the hearts of her heroes and kings. And with all my ancient prejudices in favor of my own caste, I see clearly that the equipments of the new generation are best suited to modern needs. The bugle-call of the future will sound the retreat for the ancient cavalry and the Old Guard, and sing out, Forward the Light Brigade!

This evening, as usual, the conversation was discursive. It ranged over the whole area of human knowledge and experience, from the price of a horse to Lehmkuhl's Latinity, and from the last political speech to the everlasting question, ever discussed and never decided, What is meant by the month's residence as a condition for the acquisition of a domicile?

That horrible drug was irritating the nerves of the younger men, until I heard, as in a dream, a Babel of voices:--"The two Ballerini,"--"They'll never arrest him,"--"He'll certainly fire on the people,"--"Daniel never wrote that book, I tell you,"--"'T is only a ringbone,"--"Fifty times worse than a sprain,"--"He got it in the Gregorian University,"--"Paddy Murray, George Crolly,"--"I admire Balfour for his profound knowledge of metaphysics,"--"Did you see the article in the _Record_ about the Spanish dispensation?"--"He's got a first-cla.s.s mission in Ballarat,"--"No, the lessons were from the Scripture occurring,"--"I don't think we're bound to these Ma.s.ses,"--"'Twas a fine sermon, but too flowery for my tastes,"--"Yes, we expect a good Shrove this year,"--"His _Data of Ethics_ won't stand examination,"--"Our fellows will lick yours well next time,"--"Picking the grapes and lemons at Tivoli,"--"Poor old Kirby, what an age he is,"--"'Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark, And may there be no sadness of farewell, when I embark,'

that's the way it runs,"--"He cut in his physic year, and is running a paper in Boston,"--"It is up now to thirty-five s.h.i.+llings a ton, and will go higher," etc., etc. The older men, under the more kindly influence, were calm as soph.o.m.ores. Amidst the whirlpool of words, they clung to two sheet-anchors,--O'Connell in politics, and St. Alphonsus in theology.

At last, the conversation simmered down into an academic debate, whether the centripetal system, which concentrates all Irish students in Maynooth, or the centrifugal, which sends them scampering over the Continent to the ancient universities, was the better. This was a calm, judicious tournament, except now and again, when I had to touch the gong, and say:--

"Gentlemen, only three at a time, if you please."

It was a curious thing to notice that those who had studied in Maynooth were very much in favor of a Continental education; and those who had been in foreign universities were rather inclined to give the verdict for Maynooth.

"You see," said one, "it is an education in itself to go abroad. It means expansion, and expansion is education. Then you have the immense advantage of being able to learn and master the foreign languages and literature, and nowadays a man that can't speak French at least is a very helpless creature."

"You take it for granted," replied another, "that residence abroad insures a knowledge of French. I spent six years in the seminary at N----, and except _cela va sans dire, tant pis_, and a few other colloquialisms, which you will find on the last page of an English dictionary, I might as well have been in Timbuctoo."

"Well," said my curate,--and though he is not very popular, somehow or other his words appear to carry great weight,--"I must confess that the regret of my life is that I had not an opportunity of studying in Rome, just as the hope of my life is that I shall see Rome before I die. I consider that the greatest Irish college in the world, in numbers and in the influence that arises from intellectual superiority, should be somewhere within the shadows of the Seven Hills."

"Why not transfer the Dunboyne, with all its endowments and emoluments, to Rome?" asked a young, eager fellow, who says he can read the Office, going ten miles an hour on the bicycle.

"'T wouldn't ever do," said a Roman student; "you must be brought up in Rome to understand its spirit. Transplanted shoots never thrive there."

"Psha!" said an old Maynooth man, who had been listening impatiently to these suggestions; "we forgot more theology in Maynooth than you ever learned."

"I don't want to disparage your knowledge of theology, Father," said my curate, sweetly, "but you know there are other elements in priestly education besides the mere propositions, and the _solvuntur objecta_ of theology. And it is in Rome these subtle and almost intangible accomplishments are acquired."

Now, this was getting a little warm; so I winked at a young fellow down along the table, and he took the hint promptly, and cried out: "Look here, Father Dan, this is tiresome. Tell us how you managed the Irish Brigade in France in the fifties. Weren't they going to throw Ma.r.s.eilles into the sea?"

"Now, now," said I, "that won't do. I'm not going to be trotting out that old chestnut at every dinner party. Let us have a song!"

And we had, and a good many of them,--dear, old Irish melodies that would melt an icicle and put blood into a marble statue. No nonsense at my table, I a.s.sure you. No operatic rubbish, but genuine Irish music, with the right lilt and the right sentiment. I did let a young fellow once sing, "I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls"; but I told him never to repeat it. But it was worth while going miles to hear my curate singing, in his own fine voice, that superb ballad of that true and gentle patriot, Thomas Davis, "The Mess-tent is Full, and the Gla.s.ses are Set."

Dear me! what a mercurial race we are; and how the mercury runs up and down in the barometer of our human hearts! I could see the young priests' faces whitening at the words:

"G.o.d prosper old Ireland! You'd think them afraid, So pale grew the chiefs of the Irish Brigade!"

and softening out in lines of tenderness when the end came:

"For, on far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Belgrade, Lie the soldiers and chiefs of the Irish Brigade."

Then we had "The West's Awake," and "Dear Land," and then we all arose and sang together, "G.o.d bless the Pope, the great, the good." I was going to say "sang in unison," but I am afraid I should be trespa.s.sing on the sacred precincts of truth; yet if that grand old man in Rome, that electric spark in the vase of alabaster, sitting in that lonely chamber, behind the long, empty, gas-lit state apartments, could hear those voices there above the western seas, he would surely realize more keenly what he understands already, that he can always call upon his Irish reserves to ring, as with a fence of steel, the chair and the prerogatives of Peter.

Then came the "Good nights." I pulled aside an old friend, a great theologian, who has all kinds of musty, dusty, leather-bound, water-stained volumes on his shelves.

"Did you ever hear," I whispered, "of a mysterious thing, called the _Kampaner Thal?_"

"Never," he said, emphatically.

"You couldn't conjecture what it is?"

"No," he said, with deliberation; "but I can aver it is neither Greek, Latin, nor Irish."

"Would you mind looking up your cyclopaedias," I pleaded, "and letting me know immediately that you find it?"

"Of course," he replied. Then, jerking his thumb over his shoulder: "I suppose it is this chap?"

"It is," I said. "He reads a good deal--"

"Look here, Father Dan, I don't know what we're coming to. Did you ever see such a sight as that table to-night?"

"Never," I replied, resignedly.

"Would any one believe, when we came on the mission, that we'd live to see such things? Why, these fellows talk up to us as if we were their equals. Don't you remember when a curate daren't open his mouth at table?"

"Of course," I replied, demurely.

"And it is only now I am beginning to discover the vagaries of this chap of mine. Do you know what he wants? A shrine, if you please,--some kind of picture, with candles lighting before it all day. 'Can't you say your Rosary,' I said, 'like your betters?' No, he should have the shrine. And now he wants to force on Benediction every Sunday,--not every first Sunday of the month, but every Sunday, if you please. And he has a big red lamp, burning in what he calls his oratory. You can see it miles away. I say to the boys, 'Don't be afraid to put to sea at night now, boys. Begor, ye've got a lighthouse at last.' Well, good by! What's this thing you want?"

And he jotted down the name, I presume phonetically, in his note-book.

Now, mind, that man has not had a scandal in his parish for fourteen years; and he is up to his neck in securities for half the farmers of the district.

All this time, shrinking into an obscure corner of the hall, was my Cure d'Ars, as I call him. He now came forward to say good night, his thin face wreathed in smiles, and his two hands stretched out in thankfulness.

"Good night, Father Dan, and a thousand thanks. I never spent a pleasanter evening. What fine young fellows! So clever, so jolly, and so edifying! Won't it be a satisfaction for us when we are going to leave behind us such splendid safeguards of the faith?"

His curate was waiting respectfully. He now got the little man into his great-coat, and b.u.t.toned it from collar to boot, the latter murmuring his thanks all the time:--

"Dear me! dear me! what a trouble I am! Many thanks! Many thanks! There, now I am all right!"

Then his m.u.f.fler was wrapped carefully around his neck by this big grenadier, and his gloves were drawn over his hands.

"Dear me! dear me! how good! how kind! I'm a regular mummy! a real Egyptian mummy, Father Dan! Good night! good night! Dear me, what a pleasant gathering!"

And the stalwart curate lifted him on his car, as if he were an infant.

A few days later we had a long chat over many things, I and my curate.

When he was going he said:--

"That was a real jolly evening, Father Dan! I never enjoyed anything so much!"

"Yes," I said, "and you had a splendid audience for that n.o.ble song!"

"Yes, indeed; they were very kind."

"Oh, I don't mean _in foro interno_," I said, "but _in foro externo_.

There was a good crowd outside the window!"