in pursuing my course of lectures to my young curate—lectures which he returned with compound interest by his splendid example of zeal and energy—i put into his hands the following lines, addressed by that gentle saint, francis de sales, to some one in whom he had a similar interest:—

"accustom yourself to speak softly and slowly, and to go—i mean walk—quite composedly; to do all that you do gently and quietly, and you will see that in three or four years you will have quite regulated this hasty impetuosity. but carefully remember to act thus gently and speak softly on occasions when the impetuosity is not urging you, and when there is no appearance of danger of it, as, for example, when sitting down, rising up, eating, when you speak to n. n., etc.; and in fact everywhere and in everything dispense not yourself from it. now, i know that you will make a thousand slips a day over all this, and that your great natural activity will be always breaking out; but i do not trouble myself about this provided that it is not your will, your deliberation; and that, when you perceive these movements, you always try to calm them. equableness of mind and of outward demeanor is not a particular virtue, but the interior and exterior ornament of a friend of jesus christ." (letter vii.)

now, here's the difficulty. undoubtedly he is impetuous, he rushes at conclusions too rapidly, he judges hastily; and with an imperfect knowledge of human nature, which is a mass of irregularities, he worries himself because he cannot bring a whole parish up to his level in a few weeks. that impetuosity shows itself everywhere. he is an anachronism, a being from another time and world, set down in sleepy kilronan. for the first few weeks that he was here, whenever he slammed his hall door and strode down the village street with long, rapid, undulating steps, all the dogs came out and barked at him for disturbing their slumbers, and all the neighbors came to their doors and asked wildly, "who's dead? what happened? where's the fire?" etc., and the consequence was that the wildest rumors used to be circulated; and then, when a few days' experience disproved them, the cumulative wrath of the disappointed villagers fell on father letheby's devoted head.

"why the mischief doesn't he go aisy? sure, you'd think he was walking for a wager. he'll kill himself in no time if he goes on that way."

he used to laugh airily at all this commotion. and now here was the puzzle. no doubt whatever he can do more work in one day than i or father tom laverty could do in a month. and if i clip his wings, and put lead in his shoes, as he remarked, he may take to slippers and the gout, and all his glorious work be summarily spoiled. that would never do. i have no scruple about what i said regarding the office and mass; but if i shall see him creeping past my window in a solemn and dignified manner, i know i shall have qualms of conscience. and yet—

it was in the beginning of december, and one day i had occasion to go down through the village. it was not a day to attract any one out of doors; it was one of those dreadful days which leave an eternal landmark behind them in the trees that are bent inwards toward the mountains from the terrible stress of the southwest winds. land and sea were wiped out in the cataracts of rain that poured their deluges on sea and moor and mountain; and the channels of the village ran fiercely with brown muddy water; and every living thing was housed, except the ducks, which contemptuously waded through the dirty ruts, and only quacked melodiously when the storm lifted their feathers and flung them from pool to pool of the deserted street. i called on father letheby.

"this is dismal weather," i said, "enough to give any one a fit of the blues in this awful place."

he looked at me, as if this were an attempt to draw him. there was a roar of wind that shook his window-sashes, as if it said, "we will get in and spoil your pleasure, whether you like it or not"; and there was a shower of bullets, as from a maxim, that threatened to smash in and devastate all the cosey comforts.

"by jove," said he, turning round, "i never felt happier in my life. and every roar and splash of the tempest makes me draw closer and closer to this little nest, which i can call my own home."

it was a cosey nest, indeed. the fire burned merrily,—a little coal, a good deal of bogwood and turf, which is the cleanest fire in the world; there was cleanliness, neatness, tidiness, taste everywhere; the etchings and engravings gave tone to the walls; the piano lay open, as if saying, "come, touch me"; the books, shining in gold and red and blue and purple, winked in the firelight; and, altogether, it was a picture of delight accentuated by the desolation outside.

"what do i want?" he continued. "ease? here it is; comfort? here it is; health? thank god, perfect; society? here are the kings of men on my shelves. i have only to summon them,—here plato, aristotle, æschylus, virgil, dante, shakespeare! come here, and they come; speak, and they open their dead lips; be silent, and back they go to their shelves. i have not got your greek fathers yet; but they'll come. you notice that my theological library is rather scant. but i can borrow st. thomas, lugo, suarez; i cannot borrow the others, for you are so jealous about your books."

"rather clever economy!" i said. "but now tell me what you do without the morning paper?"

"well, now, there you touched a sore point. at least it was; but it is healing. for the first few weeks it was my daily penance. i used always breakfast in england with the paper propped against the teapot. they said it was bad for digestion, but it made me eat slowly; and you may perhaps have perceived,—indeed, you have perceived,—that i am rather quick in my habits."

i nodded oracularly.

"well, the first few weeks i was here that was my only misery. without the paper everything looked lonely and miserable. i used to go to the door every five minutes to see whether there was a newsboy on the horizon; but you cannot understand the feeling."

"can't i? i know it well. you remember what the uprooted tree was to the blinded giant in virgil:

'ea sola voluptas,

solamenque mali.'

well, that was the newspaper to me. but how do you get on now?"

"i never care to see one. nay, i should rather have a feeling of contempt for any one whom i should see wasting valuable time on them."

"but the news of the world, politics, wars, the amenities of boards of guardians, town commissioners, etc.; the suicides, the divorces, stocks and shares, etc.;—don't these things interest you?"

"no. my only regret is, when the boys ask me about the war, i am afraid i appear awfully ignorant. and they're so learned. why, every fellow down at the forge thinks himself a general or an admiral. 'ah, if i had dem troops, wouldn't i settle so and so!' or, 'why the d—— didn't gineral s—— bring out his cavalry? 't is the cavalry does it. bourbaki—he was the gineral!' 'yerra, what was he to skobeloff?' and they look at me rather mournfully."

here an awful blast swept the house, as if to raze it to its foundations.

"a pleasant day for a sick-call to slieveogue!" i said.

"i shouldn't mind one bit. 't would make the fire the merrier when i returned. i enjoy nothing half so much as walking in the teeth of wind and rain, along the smooth turf on yonder cliffs, the cool air lapping you all round, and the salt of the sea on your lips. then, when you return, a grand throw-off, and the little home pleasanter by the contrast. by the way, i was out this morning."

"out this morning? where?" i exclaimed.

"up at campion's."

"nonsense!"

"quite true. and would you guess for what, sir?"

"go on. i am a poor hand at conundrums."

"you don't know mrs. c——, a constable's widow at moydore?"

"i can't say i have that pleasure. stop! did she come about a license?"

"she did."

"and you helped her?—no! god forbid! that would be too great a somersault!"

"i did."

"what?"

he looked embarrassed, and said, apologetically: "well, pardon me, sir, and i'll tell you all. she came in here this morning, wet and bedraggled. her poor widow's weeds were dripping with the rain. she sat there. you see where her boots have left their mark. she said her husband had just died, and left her, of course, penniless, with four young children. there was nothing before her but the workhouse, unless i would help her,—and she heard that i was good to the poor; sure every one was talking about me,—you understand?"

i nodded.

"well, there was but one possible way in which she could be helped, and that was to get her a license to sell porter and spirits. i stopped her abruptly, and said: 'my dear woman, you might as well ask me to get you appointed lady in waiting to the queen. but in any case i'd rather cut off my right hand than help any one to get a license. nay, i am fully determined to cut down every license in this parish until but one is left.' she looked at me in amazement. then her celtic temper rose. 'wisha, 't is aisy for you to lecture poor people who have not a bite or a sup, nor a roof over their heads, wid your carpets, and your pictures, and your pianney, and your brass fire-irons; but if you had four little garlachs to feed, as i have, you'd have a different story.' here she arose to go; and, as a parting shot: 'god help the poor, however; sure they have no one to go to when their priests desart them.' i don't know what it was," continued father letheby, "but i softened a little here, and said: 'now, i have told you that i cannot do anything towards getting you a license—it's against all my principles; but i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll go up to captain campion's with you, and introduce you on the strength of these letters from your parish priest; but remember, not one word shall i say in favor of your demand. do you understand?' 'i do, your reverence,' she said; 'may god bless you!' the hot fires were ashes again. we both went up in the awful rain. it was rather early even for a morning call, and captain campion was not yet down stairs. so i left the widow in the hall, and went out to a sheltered spot, where i could watch the action of the storm on the waves. in half an hour i returned. there was no necessity for an introduction. the good woman had introduced herself, and secured captain campion's vote and influence for the next licensing sessions. i was never so sorry—nor so glad."

"'t is a bad business," i said mournfully. "imagine eight public houses in this wretched village of three hundred souls!"

"'tis, sir!" he said, as if his conscience stung him; "but i did some good by my visit; i think i have brought captain campion around."

"to what?" i exclaimed.

"to recognize his duty to the church, and the people, and god, by going to his duty."

"you don't say so?" i said, and i was surprised. i could not help thinking of what a glorious triumph it would be to that gentle saint, whose brow was never troubled but with the thought of her father's perversity. how often, how ardently, she had prayed for that day; how many masses, how many communions, she had offered to obtain that grace! many a time i have seen her, after holy communion, straining her eyes on the tabernacle, and i knew she was knocking vigorously at the heart of christ; and many a time have i seen her, a lady of sorrows, imploring the queen of sorrows to take that one trouble from her life. oh! if men could only know what clouds of anguish and despair their indifference to the practices of their holy religion brings down upon gentle hearts, that dare not speak their sorrow, the church would not have to mourn so many and such faithless and rebellious children.

i said to father letheby: "god bless you; but how did you work the miracle?"

"well," he said bashfully, "it was not the work of one day or of one visit. i have been laying my train to the citadel; to-day i fired it, and he capitulated. tell me, sir, did you ever hear of the halcyone?"

did i ever hear of the halcyone? who didn't? was there a man, woman, or child, from the cliffs of moher to achill island, that did not know the dainty five-ton yacht, which, as a contrast to his own turbulent spirit, he had so named? was it not everywhere said that campion loved that yacht more than his child,—that he spoke to her and caressed her as a living thing,—and how they slept on the calm deep on summer nights, whilst phosphor-laden waves lapped around them, and only the dim dawn, with her cold, red finger woke them to life? and was it not told with pride and terror in every coracle along the coast with what fierce exultation he took her out on stormy days, and headed her straight against the billows, that broke into courtesies on every side, and how she leaped up the walls of water which lay down meekly beneath her, and shook out her white sail to the blast, until its curved face brushed the breakers, and her leaden keel showed through the valleys of the sea? and men leaned on their spades to see her engulfed in the deep, and the coast-guards levelled their long glasses, and cried: "there goes mad campion and the witch again!"

"what do you know about the halcyone?" said i.

"a good deal by hearsay; not a little by personal experience," he replied.

"why, you don't mean to say that you have seen the famous yacht?" i asked, in amazement.

"seen her, steered her, laughed at her, feared her, like campion himself."

"why, i thought campion never allowed any one but himself and his daughter to cross her gunwale?"

"well, all that i tell you is, i have been out several evenings with the captain; and if you want to examine me in jibs, and mainsails, and top-gallants, now is your time."

look here! this curate of mine is becoming quite humorous, and picking up all our celtic ways. i don't at all like it, because i would much rather he would keep up all his graceful dignity. but there again—the eternal environments. how far will he go?

"don't mind your lessons in navigation now," i said, "but come to the point. how—did—you—catch—campion?"

"well, 't is a long story, but i shall try to abridge it. i knew there was but one way to this man's heart, and i was determined to try it. has not some one said, 'all things to all men?' very well. talk to a farmer about his crops, to a huntsman about his horses, to a fisherman about his nets, you have him in the palm of your hands. it is a kind of christian diplomacy; but i would much rather it were not necessary."

he was silent, leaning his head on his hands.

"never mind," i said, "the question of honor. human nature is a very crooked thing, and you can't run a level road over a hill."

"i never like even the shadow of deception," he said; "i hate concealment; and yet i should not like campion to know that i practised even so innocent a stratagem."

"oh, shade of pascal!" i cried, "even you could detect no casuistry here. and have you no scruple, young man, in keeping an old gentleman on the tenter-hooks of expectation whilst you are splitting hairs? go on, like a good fellow, i was never so interested in my life. the idea of landing campion!"

"well, 't was this way. i knew a little about boats, and made the captain cognizant of the fact. i expected an invitation. he did not rise to the bait. then i tried another plan. i asked him why he never entered the halcyone for the galway regatta. he muttered something of contempt for all the coast boats. i said quietly that i heard she tacked badly in a strong gale, and that it was only in a light breeze she did well. he got furious, which was just what i wanted. we argued and reasoned; and the debate ended in his asking me out the first fresh day that came last september. i don't know if you remember that equinoctial gale that blew about the 18th or 19th. it was strong, much stronger than i cared for; but i was pinned to my engagement. i met him down at the creek. the wind blew off the land. it was calm enough in the sheltered water; but when we got out, by jove, i wished a hundred times that i was here. i lay down in the gangway of the yacht whilst campion steered. from time to time great waves broke over the bow of the yacht, and in a little while i was drenched to the skin. campion had his yellow oil-skins, and laughed at me. occasionally he asked, does she tack well? i answered coolly. i knew he was trying my nerve, as we mounted breaker after breaker and plunged down into awful valleys of the sea. then, as one great squall broke round and the yacht keeled over, he turned the helm, until she lay flat on a high wave, and her great sail swept the crest of its foam, and her pennon dipped in the deep. i thought it was all over, as i clutched the gunwale to prevent my falling into the sea. he watched me narrowly, and in a moment righted the yacht.

"'we were near davy jones's locker there?' he said coolly.

"'we wouldn't remain long together,' i replied.

"'how?'

"'well, you know, you'd go a little deeper, and i should hope i would get a little higher.'

"'you mean i'd have gone to hell?'

"'certainly,' i replied.

"'i'm not a bad man,' he said, taken aback.

"'you are,' i replied; 'you persecute the poor and drag their faces through the dust. you're an irreligious man, because you never kneel to god; you're a dishonest man, because you profess to belong to a faith whose doctrines you do not accept, and whose commands you disobey.'

"'hallo, there!' said he, 'i'm not used to this kind of language.'

"'perhaps not,' i said; for with the thorough drenching and the fright i was now thoroughly angry. 'but you'll have to listen to it. you cannot put your fingers in your ears and steer the halcyone. it will take us an hour to reach land, and you must hear what you never heard before.'

"'i've a strong inclination,' he said, 'to pitch you overboard.'

"'i'm quite sure you're perfectly capable of murder,' i said. 'but again, you cannot let go the ropes in this gale. besides, there are two sides to that question.'

"then and there i pitched into him, told him how he was breaking his child's heart, how he was hated all along the coast, etc., etc.; but i insisted especially on his dishonesty in professing a creed which he denied in daily practice. i was thoroughly angry, and gave my passion full swing. he listened without a word as we went shoreward. at last he said:

"'by jove! i never thought that a priest could speak to a gentleman so boldly. now, that damned old landlubber'—i beg your pardon, sir," broke in my curate, "the words escaped me involuntarily."

"never mind," i said, "go on."

"but it was very disrespectful—"

"now, i insist on hearing every word he said. why, that's the cream of the story."

"well, he said: 'that damned old landlubber and bookworm never addressed me in that manner,'—but perhaps he meant some one else."

"never fear! he meant his respected old pastor. the 'landlubber' might apply to other natives; but i fear they could hardly be called 'bookworm' with any degree of consistency. but go on."

"well, you know, he spoke rather jerkily, and as if in soliloquy. 'well, i never!' 'who'd have thought it from this sleek fellow?' 'why, i thought butter would not melt in his mouth!' 'what will bittra say when i tell her?' at last we pulled into the creek; i jumped ashore from the dingey, as well as my dripping clothes would let me, and lifting my hat, without a word, i walked towards home. he called after me:—

"'one word, father letheby! you must come up to the house and dry yourself. you'll catch your death of cold.'

"'oh! 't will be nothing,' i said. he had come up with me, and looked humbled and crestfallen.

"'you must pardon all my rudeness,' he said, in a shamefaced manner. 'but, to be very candid with you, i was never met so boldly before, and i like it. we men of the world hate nothing so much as a coward. if some of your brethren had the courage of their convictions and challenged us poor devils boldly, things might be different. we like men to show that they believe in hell by trying to keep us from it.' but now i am sounding my own praises. it is enough to say that he promised to think the matter over; and i clinched the whole business by getting his promise that he would be at the altar on christmas morning."

i thought a good deal, and said: "it is a wholesome lesson. we have no scruple in cuffing jem deady or bill shanahan; but we don't like to tackle the big-wigs. and they despise us for our cowardice. isn't that it? well, my dear fellow, you are a τετραγωνοσ ανηρ, as old aristotle would say,—an idea, by the way, stolen by dante in his 'sta come torre ferma.' in plainer language, you're a brick! poor little bittra! how pleased she'll be!"