Read Ebook: Saint Patrick 1887 by Chaplin Heman White

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Ebook has 148 lines and 12709 words, and 3 pages

It was a large, showy shop, with Virgins and crucifixes and altar candelabra's in the windows, and pictures of bleeding hearts. He went in and stood at the counter. A rosy-faced servant-girl, with a shy, pleased expression, was making choice of a rosary. A young priest, a few steps away, was looking at an image of Saint Joseph.

The salesman left the servant-girl to her hesitating choice, and turned to Mr. Martin.

"What have you," asked Mr. Martin, with a slightly conscious tone, "upon the life of Saint Patrick?"

The priest turned and looked; but the salesman, with an unmoved countenance, went to the shelves and selected two volumes and laid them in silence on the counter. One was the "Life and Legends of Saint Patrick" with a picture in gilt of Brian Boru on the cover. The other was "Saint Patrick, the Apostle of Ireland," by William Bullen Morris, Priest of the Oratory. They were both green-covered.

Early in the evening Mr. Martin settled down by his study fire to his new purchases. First he took up the "Life and Legends." He read the saint's own Confession, and the Letter to Co-roticus, and looked through the translation of the Tripartite Life, with its queer mixture of Latin and English: "Prima feria venit Patricius ad Talleriam, where the regal assembly was, to Cairpre, the son of Niall." "Interrogat autem Patricius qua causa venit Conall, and Conall related the reason to Patrick."

He glanced over the miracles and wonders of which this book was full. But before very long he laid it aside and took up the Life by William Bullen Morris, Priest of the Oratory, and decided that he must depend upon that for his preparation.

It was late at night. It was full time to stop reading; but it laid strong hold of his imagination,--this strange, intense, and humorous figure, looming up all new to him from the mists of the past. He read the book to the end; he read how the good Saint Bridget foretold the apostle's death; how two provinces contended for his remains, and how a light shone over his burial-place after he was laid to rest.

It was very late when Mr. Martin finished the book and laid it down.

Thus it happens that the Rev. Dr. Parsons and the Rev. Mr. Martin are both preparing themselves at the same time on the life of Saint Patrick, from this one brief book by William Bullen Morris, Priest of the Oratory.

Saint Patrick's Day has come and is now fast waning. The sun has sunk behind the chimney-stack of the New Albion dance-hall; the street lamps are lighted and are faintly contending against the dull glow of the late afternoon.

There is a lull between day and evening. All day there has been a stir in the city. There has been a procession in green sashes, with harps on the banners,--a long procession, in barouches, on horseback, and afoot. There have been impassioned addresses before the Hibernian Society and the Saint Peter's Young Men's Irish Catholic Benevolent Association. There has been more or less celebration in Ship Street.

The evening advances. It is seven o'clock. Strains of invitation issue from all the dance-halls. Already the people have begun to file in to the Day-Star Mission. The audience-room is on the street floor. The missionary stands at the open door, with anxious smiles, urging decorum. A knot of idlers on each side of the doorway, on the sidewalk, comment freely on him and on those who enter. Every moment or two a policeman forces them back.

At a quarter of seven a preliminary praise-meeting begins. Singing from within jars against the fiddling from over the way. You hear at once "Come to Jesus just now!" and "Old Dan Tucker."

Dr. Parsons's train brought him to town in good season. He passed in with other invited guests at the private door, and he has been upon the platform for ten minutes. His daughter is beside him; ten or a dozen of his parishioners, who have come too, occupy seats directly in front.

The platform seats are nearly all taken; it is time to begin. The street-door opens and a passage is made for a new-comer. It is Mr. Martin. A contingent from his church come with him and fill the few chairs that are still reserved about the desk.

Now all would appear to be ready; but there is still a few moments' pause. The missionary is probably completing some preliminary arrangements. The audience sit in stolid expectation.

Dr. Parsons, from beneath his eyebrows, is studying the faces before him. In this short time his address has entirely changed form in his mind. It was simple as he had planned it; it must be simpler yet But he has felt the pulse of the people before him. He feels that he can hold them, that he can stir them.

Meanwhile a whispered colloquy is going on, at the rear of the platform, between the missionary and the chairman of the committee for the evening. The missionary appears to be explanatory and apologetic, the chairman flushed. In a moment a hand is placed on Dr. Parsons's shoulder. He starts, half rises, and turns abruptly.

There has been, it seems, an unfortunate misunderstanding. Through some mistake Mr. Martin has been asked to make the address upon the life of Saint Patrick, and has prepared himself with care. He is one of the Mission's most influential friends; his church is among its chief benefactors. It is an exceedingly painful affair; but will Dr. Parsons give way to Mr. Martin?

So it is all over. The Doctor takes his seat and looks out again upon those hard, dreary faces,--his no longer. He has not realized until now how he has been looking forward to this evening. But the vision has fled. No ripples of uncouth laughter, no ready tears. No reaching these dull, violated hearts through the Saint whom they adore: that privilege is another's.

But the chairman again draws near. Will Dr. Parsons make the opening prayer?

The Doctor bows assent. He folds his arms and closes his eyes. You can see that he is trying to concentrate his thoughts in preparation for prayer. It is doubtless hard to divert them from the swift channel in which they have been bounding along.

Now all is ready. The missionary touches a bell, the signal for silence.

The Doctor rises. For a moment he stands looking over the rows on rows of hardened faces,--looking on those whom he has so longed to reach. He raises his hand; there is a dead silence, and he begins.

It was inevitable, at the outset, that he should refer to the occasion which had brought us together. It was natural to recall that we were come to celebrate the birth of ap uncommon man. It was natural to suggest that he was no creature of story or ancient legend, floating about in the imagination of an ignorant people, but a real man like us, of flesh and blood. It was natural to add that he was a man born centuries ago; that the scene of his labors was the green island across the sea, where many of us now present had first seen the light. It was natural to give thanks for that godly life which had led three nations to claim the good man's birthplace. It was natural to suggest that if about the sweet memories of this man's life fancy had fondly woven countless legends, we might, with a discerning eye, read in them all the saintly power of the man of God. What though his infant hand may not have caused earthly waters to gush from the ground and heal the blindness of the ministering priest, nevertheless doth childhood ever call forth a well-spring of life, giving fresh sight to the blind,--to teacher and taught.

But why go on? Who has not heard, again and again, the old-fashioned prayer wherein all is laid forth, in outline, but with distinctness! We give thanks for this. May this be impressed upon our hearts. May this lead us solemnly to reflect.

The heart that is full must overflow,--if not in one way, then in another.

Mr. Martin has not been told about Dr. Parsons. He sits and listens as the Doctor goes on in the innocence of his heart, pouring forth with warmth and fervor the life of the saint according to William Bullen Morris, Priest of the Oratory,--pouring forth in unmistakable detail Mr. Martin's projected discourse.

The prayer is ended; a hymn is sung, and then the missionary presents to the audience the Rev. Mr. Martin, whom they are always delighted to hear; he will now address them upon the life of Saint Patrick.

Mr. Martin rises. He takes a sip of water. He coughs slightly. He passes his handkerchief across his lips. So far all is well. But the prayer is in his mind. Moreover, he unfortunately catches his wife's eye, with a suggestion of suppressed merriment in it.

What does he say? What can he say? There are certain vague lessons from the saint's virtues; some applications of what the Doctor has set forth; that is all. Saint Patrick was sober; we should be sober. Saint Patrick was kind; we should be kind.

Even his own parishioners admitted that he had not been "happy" on this particular occasion.

But at the close of the meeting Dr. Parsons received a compliment. As he descended from the platform, Mr. John Keenan, who kept the best-appointed bar-room on the street, advanced to meet him. Mr. Keenan was in an exceedingly happy frame of mind. He grasped the Doctor's hand. "I wish, sir," he said, with a fine brogue, "to congratulate you upon your very eloquent prayer. It remind me, sir,--and I take pleasure to say it,--it remind me, sir, of the Honorable John Kelly's noble oration on Daniel O'Connell."

Late that evening the Doctor stood at his study-window, looking out for a moment before retiring to rest. There was no light in the room, and the maps and the charts and the tall book-shelves were only outlines. There was a glimmer from a farm-house two miles away, where they were watching with the dead.

The Doctor's daughter came in with a light in her hand to bid her father good-night.

"What did you think, Pauline," he said to her, "of Mr. Martin's talk?" It had not been mentioned till now.

Pauline hardly knew what to think. She knew that it was not what the Rev. Dr. Parsons would have given them! But, honestly, what did her father think of it?

The Doctor mused for a moment; then he gave his judgment. "I think," he said, "that it showed a certain lack of preparation."

"But you, my friend,--will she not be burdensome to you? You are making a great sacrifice for my sake; and I am troubled when I think that you may be further inconvenienced. I wish some one would come and make a wife of the maiden,--that is more truly a woman's vocation."

With a serious face, the syndic answered: "Most reverend Doctor, you have done so much for us. Will you do one thing more? Do not allow this to trouble you. It is no sacrifice, to keep Katharine; but it would grieve us to part with her, for she has become dear to us as our own child."

Luther's worn face was lighted with a ray of pleasure. Clasping his friend's hand, he said: "A true friend is a precious treasure, and not to be bought with gold. Continue to be my friend always. As for me, I shall hold you dearer than ever, from this day forth." Meanwhile the women had approached. Katharine, when she saw the monk, sought timidly to draw Frau Elsa away, whispering: "The great Doctor!" But the little lady was not to be restrained from welcoming the beloved guest.

Luther's eyes rested with pleased surprise upon the graceful figure of the former nun, in whose pale cheeks the air of freedom had caused the first spring-roses to bloom. With a smile he noted the traces of her work still clinging to her dress.

"Ah, Mistress Katharine," he jested, "you have indeed become a child of the world. And how does it please you? I see that your mind turns to earthly things, and that you busy yourself with mean and lowly matters, which draw your thoughts to the dust, for soiled are both your dress and hand. Would you not rather return to the convent, where you would be far removed from an evil world, while your thoughts floated heavenward upon clouds of incense?"

Katharine's cheeks grew rosier still, as she answered softly, with downcast eyes: "Leave me in the world; it is beautiful here. Surely so long as I am not of the world, I can serve God acceptably, and dedicate my life to Him. From your own lips I have learned, that the dear Lord is served with small things, as well as with great."

The Doctor was about to answer, when Frau Elsa forestalled him, with the request that he would remain to supper.

Luther met her eyes with a merry glance. "How skillfully you have divined my thoughts. Had you not bidden me stay, I should have offered myself as your guest, otherwise I had gone supperless to bed; for my servant, Wolfgang, but an hour ago, came to my cell with a very long face, saying: 'Doctor, what will you eat this evening? There was a remnant of baked fish in the larder, which would have served for your supper; but a cat must have eaten it, for nothing is left but a few bones.'"

With deep sympathy, Katharine looked up to the man, who in such rich measure broke the bread of life to all the world, and yet lacked daily bread for his own need. Her admiration rose at the greatness of his mind, which could turn his poverty into a jest. She whispered her thoughts to Frau Elsa, who answered in the same tone: "He has barely enough for the necessities of life. His professor's salary is but twenty-two thalers and twelve groschen, and he forgets his own wants, to give to the many poor, who daily importune his generous heart."

"His life must be dreary enough," Katharine continued, "in his gloomy convent, where no woman's hand can minister to his comfort. Wolfgang may be faithful,--but he is no woman."

They entered the hall, where Sybilla had served the evening meal.

"Would you hear some news, my friends?" said Luther, when they were seated. "Leonhard Koppe, the robber of nuns, for whom the Papists would fain prepare a heretic's death, rather deserves a martyr's crown; for behold, the deed which he ventured in God's name, has been followed by great blessing. It was of no avail, to conceal what had happened at Nimptschen. The tidings penetrated into other convents, and our dear Kate has found many imitators. To-day I learned, that nine nuns, together with their abbess, escaped from the Benedictine convent at Zeitz, six nuns from the abbey at Sarmitz, eight from the Cistercian convent of Bentlitz, and sixteen from the Dominican house of Widerstedt. Mistress Katharine will doubtless rejoice to hear, that three more nuns left Nimptschen,--not secretly, but were taken away in orderly fashion by their kinspeople. I am heartily glad of it. But in order that the convent gates may be opened more freely still, I am writing the history of Florentina von Oberweimar, who fled from the nunnery of Neuhelfta, near Eisleben. This little book will be printed and spread abroad, that all the world may learn what is a nun's life; that the Devil's wiles may be exposed, and that poor Leonhard Koppe may hereafter be left in peace."

Frau Elsa passed a dish to the Doctor, and pressed him to eat. "These are good tiding, reverend sir, and our dear Kate seems well pleased. I will ask you to lend me the history of Florentina, as soon as it is printed. But do not forget that this is the time to eat. You need some nourishment, for the dark shadows under your eyes tell of sleepless nights and over-much study."

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