“I pity the poor priest that has to listen to your tale.”
Mr. Kernan’s expression changed.
“If he doesn’t like it,” he said bluntly, “he can… do the other thing. I’ll just tell him my little tale of woe. I’m not such a bad fellow——”
Mr. Cunningham intervened promptly.
“We’ll all renounce the devil,” he said, “together, not forgetting his works and pomps.”
“Get behind me, Satan!” said Mr. Fogarty, laughing and looking at the others.
Mr. Power said nothing. He felt completely out-generalled. But a pleased expression flickered across his face.
“All we have to do,” said Mr. Cunningham, “is to stand up with lighted candles in our hands and renew our baptismal vows.”
“O, don’t forget the candle, Tom,” said Mr. M’Coy, “whatever you do.”
“What?” said Mr. Kernan. “Must I have a candle?”
“O yes,” said Mr. Cunningham.
“No, damn it all,” said Mr. Kernan sensibly, “I draw the line there. I’ll do the job right enough. I’ll do the retreat business and confession, and … all that business. But… no candles! No, damn it all, I bar the candles!”
He shook his head with farcical gravity.
“Listen to that!” said his wife.
“I bar the candles,” said Mr. Kernan, conscious of having created an effect on his audience and continuing to shake his head to and fro. “I bar the magic-lantern business.”
Everyone laughed heartily.
“There’s a nice Catholic for you!” said his wife.
“No candles!” repeated Mr. Kernan obdurately. “That’s off!”
The transept of the Jesuit Church in Gardiner Street was almost full; and still at every moment gentlemen entered from the side door and, directed by the lay-brother, walked on tiptoe along the aisles until they found seating accommodation. The gentlemen were all well dressed and orderly. The light of the lamps of the church fell upon an assembly of black clothes and white collars, relieved here and there by tweeds, on dark mottled pillars of green marble and on lugubrious canvases. The gentlemen sat in the benches, having hitched their trousers slightly above their knees and laid their hats in security. They sat well back and gazed formally at the distant speck of red light which was suspended before the high altar.
In one of the benches near the pulpit sat Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Kernan. In the bench behind sat Mr. M’Coy alone: and in the bench behind him sat Mr. Power and Mr. Fogarty. Mr. M’Coy had tried unsuccessfully to find a place in the bench with the others, and, when the party had settled down in the form of a quincunx, he had tried unsuccessfully to make comic remarks. As these had not been well received, he had desisted. Even he was sensible of the decorous atmosphere and even he began to respond to the religious stimulus. In a whisper, Mr. Cunningham drew Mr. Kernan’s attention to Mr. Harford, the moneylender, who sat some distance off, and to Mr. Fanning, the registration agent and mayor maker of the city, who was sitting immediately under the pulpit beside one of the newly elected councillors of the ward. To the right sat old Michael Grimes, the owner of three pawnbroker’s shops, and Dan Hogan’s nephew, who was up for the job in the Town Clerk’s office. Farther in front sat Mr. Hendrick, the chief reporter of The Freeman’s Journal, and poor O’Carroll, an old friend of Mr. Kernan’s, who had been at one time a considerable commercial figure. Gradually, as he recognised familiar faces, Mr. Kernan began to feel more at home. His hat, which had been rehabilitated by his wife, rested upon his knees. Once or twice he pulled down his cuffs with one hand while he held the brim of his hat lightly, but firmly, with the other hand.
A powerful-looking figure, the upper part of which was draped with a white surplice, was observed to be struggling into the pulpit. Simultaneously the congregation unsettled, produced handkerchiefs and knelt upon them with care. Mr. Kernan followed the general example. The priest’s figure now stood upright in the pulpit, two-thirds of its bulk, crowned by a massive red face, appearing above the balustrade.
Father Purdon knelt down, turned towards the red speck of light and, covering his face with his hands, prayed. After an interval, he uncovered his face and rose. The congregation rose also and settled again on its benches. Mr. Kernan restored his hat to its original position on his knee and presented an attentive face to the preacher. The preacher turned back each wide sleeve of his surplice with an elaborate large gesture and slowly surveyed the array of faces. Then he said:
“For the children of this world are wiser in their generation than the children of light. Wherefore make unto yourselves friends out of the mammon of iniquity so that when you die they may receive you into everlasting dwellings.”
Father Purdon developed the text with resonant assurance. It was one of the most difficult texts in all the Scriptures, he said, to interpret properly. It was a text which might seem to the casual observer at variance with the lofty morality elsewhere preached by Jesus Christ. But, he told his hearers, the text had seemed to him specially adapted for the guidance of those whose lot it was to lead the life of the world and who yet wished to lead that life not in the manner of worldlings. It was a text for business men and professional men. Jesus Christ, with His divine understanding of every cranny of our human nature, understood that all men were not called to the religious life, that by far the vast majority were forced to live in the world, and, to a certain extent, for the world: and in this sentence He designed to give them a word of counsel, setting before them as exemplars in the religious life those very worshippers of Mammon who were of all men the least solicitous in matters religious.
He told his hearers that he was there that evening for no terrifying, no extravagant purpose; but as a man of the world speaking to his fellow-men. He came to speak to business men and he would speak to them in a businesslike way. If he might use the metaphor, he said, he was their spiritual accountant; and he wished each and every one of his hearers to open his books, the books of his spiritual life, and see if they tallied accurately with conscience.
Jesus Christ was not a hard taskmaster. He understood our little failings, understood the weakness of our poor fallen nature, understood the temptations of this life. We might have had, we all had from time to time, our temptations: we might have, we all had, our failings. But one thing only, he said, he would ask of his hearers. And that was: to be straight and manly with God. If their accounts tallied in every point to say:
“Well, I have verified my accounts. I find all well.”
But if, as might happen, there were some discrepancies, to admit the truth, to be frank and say like a man:
“Well, I have looked into my accounts. I find this wrong and this wrong. But, with God’s grace, I will rectify this and this. I will set right my accounts.”
KING O’TOOLE AND HIS GOOSE
BY S. LOVER
“By Gor, I thought all the world, far and near, heerd o’ King O’Toole—well, well, but the darkness of mankind is ontellible! Well, sir, you must know, as you didn’t hear it afore, that there was a king, called King O’Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould ancient times, long ago; and it was him that owned the churches in the early days. The king, you see, was the right sort; he was the rale boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and huntin’ in partic’lar; and from the risin’ o’ the sun, up he got, and away he wint over the mountains beyant afther the deer; and the fine times them wor.
“Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but, you see, in coorse of time the king grew ould, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got sthriken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost intirely for want o’ divarshin, bekase he couldn’t go a huntin’ no longer; and, by dad, the poor king was obleeged at last for to get a goose to divart him. Oh, you may laugh, if you like, but it’s truth I’m tellin’ you; and the way the goose divarted him was this-a-way: You see, the goose used for to swim acrass the lake, and go divin’ for throut, and cotch fish on a Friday fo
r the king, and flew every other day round about the lake, divartin’ the poor king. All went on mighty well, antil, by dad, the goose got sthriken in years like her master, and couldn’t divart him no longer, and then it was that the poor king was lost complate. The king was walkin’ one mornin’ by the edge of the lake, lamentin’ his cruel fate, and thinkin’ o’ drownin’ himself, that could get no divarshun in life, when all of a suddint, turnin’ round the corner beyant, who should he meet but a mighty dacent young man comin’ up to him.
“‘God save you,’ says the king to the young man.
“‘God save you kindly, King O’Toole,’ says the young man. ‘Thrue for you,’ says the king. ‘I am King O’Toole,’ says he, ‘prince and plennypennytinchery o’ these parts,’ says he; ‘but how kem ye to know that?’ says he. ‘Oh, never mind,’ says St. Kavin.
“You see it was Saint Kavin, sure enough—the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. ‘Oh, never mind,’ says he, ‘I know more than that. May I make bowld to ax how is your goose, King O’Toole?’ says he. ‘Blur-an-agers, how kem ye to know about my goose?’ says the king. ‘Oh, no matther; I was given to understand it,’ says Saint Kavin. After some more talk the king says, ‘What are you?’ ‘I’m an honest man,’ says Saint Kavin. ‘Well, honest man,’ says the king, ‘and how is it you make your money so aisy?’ ‘By makin’ ould things as good as new,’ says Saint Kavin. ‘Is it a tinker you are?’ says the king. ‘No,’ says the saint; ‘I’m no tinker by thrade, King O’Toole; I’ve a betther thrade than a tinker,’ says he—‘what would you say,’ says he, ‘if I made your ould goose as good as new?’
“My dear, at the word o’ making his goose as good as new, you’d think the poor ould king’s eyes was ready to jump out iv his head. With that the king whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound, waddlin’ up to the poor cripple, her masther, and as like him as two pays. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, ‘I’ll do the job for you,’ says he, ‘King O’Toole.’ ‘By Jaminee!’ says King O’Toole, ‘if you do, bud I’ll say you’re the cleverest fellow in the sivin parishes.’ ‘Oh, by dad,’ says St. Kavin, ‘you must say more nor that—my horn’s not so soft all out,’ says he, ‘as to repair your ould goose for nothin’; what’ll you gi’ me if I do the job for you?—that’s the chat,’ says St. Kavin. ‘I’ll give you whatever you ax,’ says the king; ‘isn’t that fair?’ ‘Divil a fairer,’ says the saint; ‘that’s the way to do business. Now,’ says he, ‘this is the bargain I’ll make with you, King O’Toole: will you gi’ me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer, afther I make her as good as new?’ ‘I will,’ says the king. ‘You won’t go back o’ your word?’ says St. Kavin. ‘Honor bright!’ says King O’Toole, howldin’ out his fist. ‘Honor bright!’ says St. Kavin, back agin, ‘it’s a bargain. Come here!’ says he to the poor ould goose—‘come here, you unfort’nate ould cripple, and it’s I that’ll make you the sportin’ bird.’ With that, my dear, he took up the goose by the two wings—‘Criss o’ my crass an you,’ says he, markin’ her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute—and throwin’ her up in the air, ‘whew,’ says he, jist givin’ her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she tuk to her heels, flyin’ like one o’ the aigles themselves, and cuttin’ as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain.
“Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standin’ with his mouth open, lookin’ at his poor ould goose flyin’ as light as a lark, and betther nor ever she was: and when she lit at his fut, patted her an the head, and, ‘Ma vourneen,’ says he, ‘but you are the darlint o’ the world.’ ‘And what do you say to me,’ says Saint Kavin, ‘for makin’ her the like?’ ‘By gor,’ says the king, ‘I say nothin’ bates the art o’ man, barrin’ the bees.’ ‘And do you say no more nor that?’ says Saint Kavin. ‘And that I’m behoulden to you,’ says the king. ‘But will you gi’e me all the ground the goose flew over?’ says Saint Kavin. ‘I will,’ says King O’Toole, ‘and you’re welkim to it,’ says he, ‘though it’s the last acre I have to give.’ ‘But you’ll keep your word thrue?’ says the saint. ‘As thrue as the sun,’ says the king. ‘It’s well for you, King O’Toole, that you said that word,’ says he; ‘for if you didn’t say that word, the devil receave the bit o’ your goose id ever fly agin.’ Whin the king was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was plazed with him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the king. ‘And,’ says he, ‘King O’Toole, you’re a decent man, for I only kem here to thry you. You don’t know me,’ says he, ‘bekase I’m disguised.’ ‘Musha! thin,’ says the king, ‘who are you?’ ‘I’m Saint Kavin,’ said the saint, blessin’ himself. ‘Oh, queen iv heaven!’ says the king, makin’ the sign o’ the crass betune his eyes, and fallin’ down on his knees before the saint; ‘is it the great Saint Kavin,’ says he, ‘that I’ve been discoorsin’ all this time without knowin’ it,’ says he, ‘all as one as if he was a lump iv a gossoon?—and so you’re a saint?’ says the king. ‘I am,’ says Saint Kavin. ‘By gor, I thought I was only talking to a dacent boy,’ says the king. ‘Well, you know the differ now,’ says the saint. ‘I’m Saint Kavin,’ says he, ‘the greatest of all the saints.’ And so the king had his goose as good as new, to divart him as long as he lived: and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property, as I tould you, until the day iv his death—and that was soon afther; for the poor goose thought he was ketchin’ a throut one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made—and instead of a throut, it was a thievin’ horse-eel; and by gor, instead iv the goose killin’ a throut for the king’s supper,—by dad, the eel killed the king’s goose—and small blame to him; but he didn’t ate her, bekase he darn’t ate what Saint Kavin laid his blessed hands on.”
THE HOST OF THE AIR
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
O’Driscoll drove with a song,
The wild duck and the drake,
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.
And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.
He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
And he saw young men and young girls
Who danced on a level place
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.
The dancers crowded about him,
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.
But Bridget drew him by the sleeve,
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.
The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.
He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.
He bore her away in his arms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.
O’Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;
But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
CHRONICLE OF THE VOYAGES OF SAINT BRENDAN
BY STEPHEN VINCENT BRENNAN
Remember Brendan, not as a graven saint, he was a man and suffered so; in no ways proud, he sought the will of the Lord
God full meekly and contrite of heart. And I have seen his eyes start from his head at some marvel, and I have seen the cold gray oceans break over him for days, and I have seen him spit salt seas and tremble with the cold. But no thing overmanned him, because in every tempest he saw the hand of God, and in every trial he sought the will of God, and trusted so, and was not afraid, and thereby gave us heart and courage. And we brethren took example from him, and thereby saved our souls.
Remember Brendan, later called Saint, born in the land of Munster, hard by the loch Lein. A holy man of fierce abstinence, known for his great works and the father of almost three thousand monks, he lived at Clonfert then, where we knew him at the first and last.
Recall the night, just past compline it was, when the holy abbot Barrind, later called Saint, came out of the darkness into our circle to visit Brendan.
And each of them was joyful of the other. And when Brendan began to tell Barrind of the many wonders he had seen voyaging in the sea and visiting in diverse lands, Barrind at once began to sigh and anon he threw himself prostrate upon the ground and prayed hard and then began to weep. Now Brendan comforted him the best he could, and lifting him up said: “Brother Abbot, have you not come to be joyful with us, to speak the word of God and to give us heart? Therefore for God’s love, do not be afraid, but tell us what marvels you have seen in the great ocean, that encompasses all the world.”
So Barrind began to tell Brendan and all the gathered monks of a great wonder. These were his words:
“I have a son, his name is Meroc, who had a great desire to seek about by ship in diverse countries to find a solitary place wherein he might dwell secretly out of the business of the world, in order to better serve God quietly in devotion. I counseled him to sail to an island in the sea, nearby the mountain of stones, which everybody knows. So he made ready and sailed there with his monks. And when he came there, he liked the place full well, and there settled where he and his monks served our Lord devoutly. And then I saw in a vision that this monk Meroc was sailed right far westward into the sea more than three days sailing, and suddenly to those voyagers there came a dark cloud of fog that overcovered them, so that for a great part of the day they saw no light; then as our Lord willed, the fog passed away, and they saw a fair island, and thereward they drew. In that island was joy and mirth enough and all the earth of that island shone as brightly as the sun, and there were the fairest trees and herbs that ever any man saw, and here were many precious stones shining bright, and every herb was ripe, and every tree full of fruit; so that it was a glorious sight and a heavenly joy to abide there. Then there came to them a fair young man, and courteously he welcomed them all, and called every monk by his name, and said they were much bound to praise the name of our Lord Jesu, who would out of his grace show them that glorious place, where it is always day and never night, and that this place is called the garden of paradise. But by this island is another island whereon no man may come. And the fair young man said to them, ‘You have been here half a year without meat or drink or sleep.’ They supposed they had been there only half a day, so merry and joyful they were. The young man told them that this was the place where Adam and Eve lived first, and ever would have lived, if they had not broken the commandment of God. Then the fair young man brought them to their ship again and said they might no longer abide there, and when they were all shipped, suddenly the young man vanished away out of their sight. And then within a short time after, by the purveyance of the Lord Jesu, Meroc and the brothers returned to their own island where I and the other brothers received them goodly, and demanded where they had been so long. And they said that they had been in the Land of the Blest, before the Gates of Paradise. And they asked of us, ‘Cannot you tell from the sweetness of our clothes that we have been in Paradise?’ And I and the other brothers said, ‘We do believe you have been in God’s Paradise, but we don’t know where this Paradise is.’”
Irish Stories and Folklore Page 9
