H.M.I.: Some Passages in the Life of One of H.M. Inspectors of Schools

by E. M. Sneyd-Kynnersley

FOOTNOTES:

[32] “Hoo,” or more properly “oo,” in the Counties Palatine stands for “she” or “her.”

CHAPTER XXI
R.C.s

“A single life doth well with churchmen, for charity will hardly water the ground, where it must first fill a pool.”—Bacon.

I think I have already said that one of the charms of our life, seemingly so monotonous, was its infinite variety. There were no days in the year that provided such varied entertainment as those set apart for the Roman Catholic schools. Technically we knew them only as R.C.s.

It should be premised that, as a general rule, in the north-west of England (in French idiom) “who says Roman Catholic says also Irish.” This is not the case in some villages in Lancashire where the Reformation has not yet penetrated; and in such towns as Liverpool and Manchester there is a large admixture of the Latin race, besides Belgians and Hollanders; but in Cheshire with very few exceptions the priests are Irish, and the school-teachers and children are Irish. There is a sprinkling of English priests, but by dint of living almost wholly with Irish co-religionists they nearly always have a noticeable brogue. They study their business so diligently and so skilfully that I can quite imagine they would cultivate the brogue, if it were not self-sowing, as the key to the hearts of their flocks. Assume a virtue if you have it not.

On the other hand I have known some Irish priests whose families have lived so long in the land of the silent H, that, if on such a theme I may be allowed a bull, they have added the absent H to their brogue, making themselves all things to all men.

It must always be borne in mind that in the North there are exceedingly few of the well-born, well-to-do priests, such as are to be found in London and the South. In the former district they are for the most part born of the working class; workers among the working class, and especially among the working class that does not work if it can avoid it. Born poor, often poorly educated, poorly paid, chiefly dependent on the poorest of the poor, holding office practically at the will of the bishop (subject to an appeal to Rome) and without prospect of any promotion except to the dignity of an honorary canonry, they seem to have less of the enviable in their lives than most of their flock. A drudgery with the halo of martyrdom.

“Happily,” said a ’vert to me, “these Catholic-born priests are exempt from doubt;” and their absolute knowledge that the next world will bring them a recompense for their work here is sufficient consolation.

Nothing could be farther from the truth than the popular conception of their character and habits. What priests in Ireland may be I know not; what they are in north-west England I know in part. As regards their character, I may say that I have known very many priests among the five million inhabitants of the two Counties Palatine in the last thirty years, and that I have heard of only two charges affecting their moral character (in the popular acceptation of the phrase); in one case the offender was a foreigner and he was expatriated with admirable speed; in the other case, there was only the gossip that no one heeds. They are priests of the church of a small minority: they are on their guard, and they keep guard well.

I do not mean to say that they are impeccable. But their peccadilloes were not my concern, unless they took the form of an attempt on the public purse in school matters. And this chronicle is not a chronicle of other people’s failings. I turn to Lorna Doone:

“That is said to be the angels’ business; and I doubt if they can attend to it without injury to themselves.”

For the rest, their bitterest enemies—and they are very bitter in these parts—will allow that they work without ceasing and with entire self-devotion. In their parochial work I imagine—not from enquiry, but from casual observation—that the house-to-house visiting falls chiefly on the curates; the rector is more easily found at home. But the heavy work undoubtedly comes at night. The door bell seems to get no rest; sometimes it is a drunken woman, who comes to take the pledge, just as a wealthier drunkard might ask for a bottle of seltzer; sometimes a request for worldly advice or assistance; sometimes, and many times, an urgent demand for a speedy visit to Biddy, who is “dyin’ entirely,” but turns out to be dismally drunk. The whole force of the mission is sometimes called out, and then, even when the inspector was playing his annual rubber, it was with much difficulty that a quorum could be kept.

In the small hours of the morning the flock break out afresh. Patsey is brought home helpless at 2 A.M., Michael has his head cut open at 3; Molly upsets the lamp, and sets the baby on fire at 4. In each and every case his reverence is brought down to give the last rites to the afflicted person, and in each and every case he finds that he might as well have gone on with his sleep.

Dear Canon C. much loved, much plundered! Was it not told of him, how his flock took it in turns to trade on his loving credulity? In the early morning there would come a violent ring at the bell, and the Canon would stare out into wet darkness:

“Who is there?”

“It’s me, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, God help me, yer Rivirence.”

“What do you want?”

“It’s me husband that’s had a shtroke, an’ he’s dyin’ this minute.”

“Well, I can’t come, but here’s half-a-crown.”

And so on da capo till the purse was empty.

Why do they stand it? The answer was given me, indirectly, by a contemplative priest:

He: “There can be no doubt that for the working-man the Church of Rome is the best in the world.”

I: “Why specially for the working-man?”

He: “Because it enables him to lead whatever sort of life he prefers, and then at the last moment he can send for the priest, and put it all straight.”

I: “Good Heavens, Canon! do you believe that?”

He: “My dear man, if you believe the Bible, there can’t be the least doubt in the world about it.”

This seems to account for the “conversation” (in the Scriptural sense) of several friends. It is hard that the privilege should seem to be confined to working-men. However, it becomes abundantly clear that even at 2 A.M. Patsey cannot be neglected: it may be for him the chance of a lifetime.

Another and a most distracting part of their work is Finance. I believe I am correct in the following premises: Every mission in these parts has a debt on the buildings. No such debt can be incurred without leave from the bishop. The priest is bound to find the quarterly interest. No personal liability attaches to the priest: his successor inherits the debt.

In favour of spending there is:

(1) A congregation full of zeal; thriftless; firmly believing in Justification by Works.

(2) Freedom from personal or family liability.

(3) Accruing reputation for zeal.

On the other side:

The interest has to be found, and the congregations are poor, and heavily taxed for maintenance.

You may say that is three “For,” and one “Against.” But arguments are weighed, not counted; and the weight of that quarterly interest is the weight of the Old Man of the Sea. How many lives have I seen wrecked in that sea of debt—in spite of the Anchor of Faith! Yet debt, in moderation, is “most wholesome and full of comfort,” as one of the Articles says of something else—I forget what; and I have preached to Anglican divines, and with some acceptance, the blessings of debt. Call it “distributing capital expenditure over a term of years,” and even a rural dean succumbs. “Out of debt, out of danger,” but “out of debt, out of progress.”

The third great branch of their work is one that I can discuss with more knowledge—the educational side.

This is the most remarkable instance of their zeal, and also of their success. The mere building of the schools, merely in the two Palatine counties, represents a very large expenditure; though, no doubt, a good deal of this was added to the debt, there remained the overwhelming difficulty of the annual upkeep.

It was in their favour that the salaries of R.C. school teachers were low, and that the excuse of poverty was often accepted for a scanty supply of school apparatus. Against this must be set the arduous task of getting school-pence from a poverty-stricken flock—(“school-pence, indeed, an’ me wid nothin’ to eat in the house, and the childer wid niver a boot to the sole of their feet: Howly Mother!”)—and subscriptions from exhausted subscribers. There is, I believe, in some domain of chemistry an “exhausted receiver”: it has no counterpart in the charitable world.

The Free Education Act of 1891[33] was a positive boon to them: it gave them a certain 10s. per child per year, instead of a problematic 5s. or 7s. 6d. But the Act of 1902 seems to have brought them the sort of riches which Horace called “operosiores.” I think the matter has been mentioned in the newspapers.

Many of the girls’ and infants’ schools were taught by Nuns, and I have usually supposed that some co-operative arrangement was made in such cases with the convents, by which chaplain’s duty at the convent was set off (in part) against the sisters’ salaries. There are many Orders in the North-West, and their names, whether polysyllabic, or foreign, or both, are often a sore trial to the poor Irish. Outside Liverpool there may be some one that has not heard the story of the afflicted Irishman who gratefully acknowledged the kindness of “the Frightful Companions (Faithful Companions); they was very good to me; and the Little Sisters of Misery (Misericorde), they was very good, but the best of all was the Bone Suckers (Bon Secours).” Of these three the first named is the only teaching order: but there are many others, of whom the best known are the Sisters of Notre Dame, in Liverpool. And if any one wants to know what can be done for education, primary, secondary, tertiary for aught I know, he should go to Mount Pleasant in that city, and look around him.

As teachers nuns have many advantages. They are wholly devoted to their work; not to their pay, for they never see a farthing of it: it goes to Domus. They regard their service as their permanent vocation without the distraction of possible courtships: in their ways with girls they are almost motherly: and the sisters from the better orders have a singularly refining influence on the children.

There are also certain disadvantages. The good sisters are too unworldly: they never read a newspaper; I suppose they read few books: their chances of improvement are limited, and their tendency is narrowing. In the case of the less successful ones it is rather dispiriting for a school manager, or an inspector, to think that, as the happy dispatch of marriage is impossible, they must wait for the slower process of age to remove them from the list. Also they have too often a profound contempt for rules and codes. I think this is due to their Irish ancestry, which naturally disposes them to be “agin the Government.” And they are by no means subservient to their priestly managers: at their back in case of dispute is reverend mother, and only the boldest priest would go to war with so excellent and so powerful a person.

When the Orangemen have persuaded Parliament to pass an Act for the inspection of convents I shall not apply for the post of Inspector. Not that I have any fear of a hostile reception. On the contrary: it is because I fear that, inasmuch as I may be by that time somewhat advanced in years, my constitution would not be able to stand a life of profuse hospitality. There was one convent, but I hope reverend mother will never see this page, where I found the Lord Mayoral collations after the annual inspection so perilous that I had to resort to the most discreditable manœuvres to escape. “Bolton Abbey in the olden time” (Landseer) was their model; and fish, flesh, and fowl made the table groan before me, and made me groan after the table. Cruel only to be kind, and inversely.

A clerical friend of mine, holding strong Evangelical views, and being annoyed, I suppose, by his school report, took some pains to undermine my character by spreading a rumour that I had played whist at a certain convent with the mother superior, the second in command, and the chaplain. I should have been very glad to do so, and I can quite imagine reverend mother playing a very good game, and coming out with small cards from her long suit when all our trumps were gone. But in sober truth I was not asked. My dear friend, Father Rigidus, was much shocked when I told him of the rumour. It appeared that cards are forbidden to holy women. But surely this would not exclude Patience?

It is another instance of the tyranny of man, that he, the man-priest, persuades holy women to regard cards as permissible to him, but wicked for them. I admit that they are forbidden to the clergy by the canons of the Church of England, but I believe Rome is more lenient. And I have known several Anglican transgressors. In this connection a friend tells a story of the great Henry of Exeter, Bishop Phillpotts. He was in residence as Golden Canon of Durham, and in that ancient city was playing an unhallowed rubber. Close by his side was a stray parson, who was telling with some glee how he had buried a Dissenter, or married a divorcee, or what not. Phillpotts turned savagely round on him:

“Sir, are you aware that your proceeding was directly contrary to the canons of the Church?”

The parson was entirely unabashed: “So it is contrary to the canons,” he retorted, “for you to sit there playing whist with the ace of trumps in your hand.”

But I am straying from the point, if there ever was one.

There is, finally, a branch of priestly employment upon which I am peculiarly well qualified to speak: this is the hospitality department: and herein they excel all denominations. Their traditions are partly Irish, partly collegiate, or monastic; a good stock on both sides, if it’s dining you want. There were still remaining in my earlier inspecting days a few country rectories where, before the fall in the value of tithe and glebe, H.M.I. was royally received, and the neighbouring gentry assembled to do him honour. As a rule these dinners were magnificent, but not festive. A modest man (like the present chronicler) soon gets weary of being stared at and listened to. Moreover, the tedium was prolonged beyond the grave of dessert, for there was the drawing-room, and it was always possible that some one would sing.

Far different were the R.C. nights. Clear in the memory is the recollection of that Chester south window looking over the Vale Royal, and the fresh green of the April meadows; the cheerful room where the Provost, newly recovered from the horrors of Lent, made all things smooth; and the well-beloved Canon paced restlessly up and down his quarter-deck, smoking his unfailing cigarette, and bringing out of his treasures things new and old. And never to be forgotten are those wild February nights in the City of the Future, when Monsignore dispensed carnival hospitality, ending in the long, well-stocked library, where we discoursed de iis quae melius sine ulla solennitate tradi possunt—the phrase is academical—till near the midnight hour. Well remembered, too, are the other Presbyteries in that hospitable town, and the genial welcome that began with the smiling parlour-maid at the door—who “remimbered the ould man, when I was in Standard IV. meself, and he pulled me hur, and called me Biddy”—and ended much later at night.

To many other places—Manchester and Salford alone had more than thirty R.C. schools—my duty took me; and in all the welcome was the same. To their credit, moreover, be it said, the priests are singularly free from that professional, unreal manner affected by some clergymen, and by nearly all Dissenting ministers. A good bed-side manner is esteemed in doctors, but a good grave-side manner is abominable in any one but an undertaker.

“Where is that barty now?” Few indeed of my old hosts survive:

“And I the last go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”

It must not be supposed that the company on these occasions was exclusively clerical. Poor was the mission that could not produce a festive layman, or two, to give variety to the conversation; and also, if by any remote chance some one demanded a rubber, to prevent the possibility of being counted out in consequence of an epidemic of sick-calls.

It was not in what Disraeli absurdly called “the City of the Future,” but in Utopia, that I was guest at one “inspection dinner,” that may seem to deserve a record. It was at St. Michael’s R.C., and I had inspected the schools that day.

Who was there? There was Canon A., my host; Father B., an Oxford man, formerly in Deacon’s Orders in the Church of England, afterwards a ’vert; Mr. C., treasurer of the schools, a man of good Lancashire Roman Catholic family, belonging rather to the Newman cult than to the Manningites; for the rest, interested in cotton, or silk, or wheat: Father O’Dowd, who had been trained at the English college in Rome, and had lived for some years in foreign parts; Father O’Flynn, who had come over from County Cork to see his old schoolfellow the Canon; they had been boys together at Ushaw, or Stonyhurst, or somewhere, and had kept up their old friendship in spite of distance. Lastly, there was Dr. Walsh, a keen-witted man of the world, who had a good R.C. practice in the town, and was much esteemed by my host, though he was suspected of some laxity in his views and in the observance of his duties.

We dined well, of course; but, while the maids were hovering about, the conversation was limited to local topics, neutral politics, and—for O’Dowd’s sake—recollections of foreign towns. We could not even allude to the schools, much to my relief, for the maids’ sisters, cousins, and aunts were at St. Michael’s, as teachers, or scholars. But when dessert brought freedom, we expanded, and Father O’Flynn with his pleasant Irish good-fellowship said to me across the table—he and I sat left and right of our host:

“I hope ye’ve been pleased with the Canon’s schools this morning, Mr. Inspector?”

I laughed, accepting this as a gambit, not a question; and replied that I was always pleased with St. Michael’s.

“Well, ye know,” he continued, “ye can’t make a silk purse out of unsuitable materials: but they’re a highly intelligent lot of boys that they turn out: I met one of them on my way up from the station, and he got ’lave to carry me bhag,’ because his brogue won my heart. He said he went to St. Michael’s when he was a kid, but now he’d ‘gotten a surficate’; what did he mean by that, now? Got a certificate of exemption, and he passed an examination for it? Well, well, it’s easy ye are, I can see, and there’s hopes for the Canon yet. So I just asked him how many yards there were to a foot and he said ‘twelve’; and I put it to him whether that wasn’t too liberal an allowance? Oh, he was much hurt: ‘anny ways,’ he said, ‘that was the way they larned me at St. Michael’s avverdepoyse.’”

Our host shook with laughter: the boy was Jimmy Nolan, and he was “not all there.” There had been a fight at a wake in the house when Jimmy was a baby, and Jimmy had a nasty fall on the floor, and something had gone wrong.

“Ah, well,” O’Flynn went on, “the boys have a better time of it than you and I had, William. Do you remember the Provost? He had the heavy hand. Do you remember how, when he had given us a dozen a-piece, he would send us into chapel to pray for him? What do ye think of that, now, Mr. Kynnersley?”

I replied with official caution that it seemed to show a certain lack of humour on the Provost’s part; or else a strong disbelief in the efficacy of prayer. If I had been in the Provost’s place I should not have given two sore boys carte blanche to besiege Providence. He might have found himself an inverted Balak. And I recalled the reply of Archbishop Sumner, when Bishop Phillpotts (already quoted a few pages ago) at the end of a heated argument said it only remained for him to return to Exeter and pray for His Grace. “No,” said the Archbishop, turning pale, “don’t do anything uncharitable.”

“That was neatly put for an Englishman,” said O’Flynn. “I like a clean give and take, all in good manners. Did ye ever hear of Cardinal Z.’s rebuff at his installation? There is a custom, you may have heard, that when a Cardinal Bishop is appointed he takes his title from a particular church in Rome. Cardinal Newman, for instance, was this way associated with the church of St. Giorgio in Velabro, down by the Arch of Janus, is it not, Father O’Dowd? And the story goes that Z., who had at one time aspired to be the head of a certain church in the Immortal City, which we may call St. Apollinaris, and had at that time been unsuccessful, eventually received the purple, and took his title from that same church. In due course he attended the church in full pomp to be installed; and it gave him the keenest delight to see at the head of the local clergy the man who had led the opposition against him. As he descended from his state carriage, he bowed formally to his enemy, and said as if it were part of the ceremony:

“‘Lapidem quem reprobaverunt aedificantes, hic factus est in caput anguli.’[34]

“The other bowed almost to the ground, and responded:

“‘A Domino factum est istud, et est mirabile in oculis nostris.’[35]

“I doubt if history can produce a better thrust and parry.”

“In the upper circles of Rome,” said Father B., who seemed to be, like Mr. C., an admirer of Newman, “they cultivate these amenities. The inspector may not know Monsignor Talbot’s remark to Cardinal Howard. You remember that Cardinal Manning’s life is full of allusions to those two great men; and you will not have forgotten how Manning relied on Talbot’s help, and how, when Talbot broke down in mind and body, Manning neglected him.[36] At one time both Howard and Talbot were in great favour at the Vatican; but while Talbot was well aware that he owed his position simply to the fact that he was a Talbot, the Cardinal was secretly certain that, besides his personal appearance (which at one time added lustre to the Life Guards) and his connection with ‘the blood of all the Howards,’ there was intrinsic merit. It was therefore the delight of Talbot to poke fun at his fellow countryman, and the Inner Circle greatly enjoyed these scenes. At last the climax was reached. The Pope sent for both grandees, and informed them that he had determined to send them on a special mission to Goa, in S.W. India. Full particulars were promised: meanwhile he proffered his blessing.

“The two returned to their gorgeous carriage, and when it moved on, Howard lay back in his corner, meditating triumphantly that his time had come: obvious merit had at last been recognised, and the Catholic world would admit it. Goa was only a starting-point; and then—. Beneath the dome of St. Peter’s a dense crowd of the faithful cheering, a blare of trumpets, an atmosphere thick with incense, and a fifteen stone Pontiff borne on a sedia gestatoria—all these floated before his eyes, ears, nose; why should Nicholas Breakspear be the last Englishman to ascend the Papal throne?—and then came a chuckle by his side, and a familiar voice:

“‘I say, Howard, I expect this isn’t much of a job, or they wouldn’t have sent you and me.’”

“There were many stories of Talbot,” said Mr. C.; “my uncle knew Cardinal Newman well at Birmingham, and heard many, for Talbot was, of course, too nearly allied to Cardinal Manning to be a persona grata to the other great ecclesiastic. I remember one story illustrating the simplicity of his character:

“Talbot came over to London to preach for a special fund in some church, and there was a vast congregation to hear ‘the intimate and constant attendant’ of Pio Nono.[37] He began by informing them that he had only on the previous day received a letter from the Holy Father himself upon the very topic which had brought them together that day. He would read it to them, and he begged that they would remember that, the Pope being the vicegerent of the Almighty, they should regard it as a voice from the unseen world. He would now begin:

‘My dear Monsignor
It is very hot here——’

What followed, the congregation never could remember, for they laughed so much that the rest was lost.”

I think that Father O’Flynn did not like these anecdotes. I suspected that he, the Canon, and probably O’Dowd were ultramontanes, and that Walsh was entirely indifferent. Certainly at this moment the Canon rose, and suggested a move upstairs, where we should find a fire more suitable for the January temperature; and we went.

There was indeed a charming fire and a goodly array of comfortable chairs. I don’t know why it is, but after a good dinner the frail body seems to yearn for external heat: something to do with the gastric juices, I believe, but I never was good at animal physiology, though I examined in it when required. I settled myself with a sigh of relief in a huge arm-chair, and O’Dowd found a seat next me. We cast away the trifling cigarette, and betook ourselves to the businesslike pipe or cigar. Walsh and some others betook themselves at once to whist.

We talked about Paris for some time, and then moved south. O’Dowd remarked that he believed I knew Rome. I told him how much and how little I knew of it, and for a time we talked of churches, and palaces, pictures, and music, and an abiding calm came over us.

“I daresay you know,” said he, probably with some reference in his mind to what we had heard downstairs, “that you must not believe all you hear in Rome? They are very great in anecdotes: ‘quid Romae faciam? mentiri nescio,’ said Juvenal, but that was as a critic.”

(Never before had I heard a priest quote Juvenal!)

“Do you know the Gesù church at the foot of the Capitol, a terribly gusty place?”

I knew that tawdry edifice, and I told him so, omitting the adjective.

“And the story of the Devil and the North Wind? No? It is a typical Roman legend. The Devil and the North Wind one autumn evening were coming down from the Capitol, and they stopped outside the Gesù. Said Satan, ‘Just stop here a moment, while I go inside and say a prayer:’ and he went in, and the North Wind has ever since been waiting outside for him to come out.”

Now I saw how Livy came to write his history. He was “nursed upon the selfsame” seven hills, and he would have liked that legend. Insensibly, in the comfort of the arm-chair and the fire, I began to translate the story into “Latin in the style of Livy,” that would have gladdened the heart of the Rev. E. C. W., sometime Fellow and Tutor of Balliol: “Eodem anno jam autumnale equinoctium instabat et complura prodigia referebantur ta ... ta ...” when O’Flynn woke me up with a start:

“They were telling me in the boat,” he said, “about Father Hennessy and the Orangeman: have ye heard it? Hennessy was travelling to Dublin, and was saying his Office as he was in the carriage; and opposite him was a man from County Down. Soon after they left the station, the Orangeman leant across to Father Hennessy, in the middle of his Office, ye understand, and says, ‘I wouldn’t go to Purgatory,’ says he.

“‘Beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos,’ mutters Hennessy, looking over the other’s head, as if he didn’t exist anny way.

“This took the Orangeman back a bit, but soon he perks up and slides a bit nearer: ‘I wouldn’t go to Purgatory,’ he says again, and Hennessy goes on: ‘Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper,’ he says, and never heeds him.

“After a while the Down man gets quite mad, and he moves forward close up to the priest, and looks him straight in the face, and says very loud and distinct:

“‘I wouldn’t go to Pur—ga—to—ry!’ he shouts.

“‘Well, go to Hell, then, ne nos ’nducas in t’ntationem, sed lib’ra nos s’malo,’ said the old man, all in a breath, and the Prodesan closed up.”

I wish I could get O’Flynn to tell the story to a phonograph: but even then you would miss the gratia vivax of the narrator.

Dr. Walsh had finished his rubber, and had cut out. He joined the fireside group in time to hear the end of the last story; now he was stirred to emulation. “I heard you while I was at the whist table, Father O’Flynn, talking of the old French nobility; some of them are good friends of the Church, but they get taken in at times. When I was a student in Paris, I was told of one, who had married the Marquis de la Chose, a worthless fellow of as good blood as herself; but she was rich, and he hadn’t a sou. He wanted money after a bit for one thing and another, but she was very anxious to reform him, and she dealt it out with more care than he quite liked. So at last he comes to her with a great story of the fund they were raising for the Holy Father. ‘Peter’s Pence’ was the cry, and she ought to subscribe. She was as pleased as Punch to find him set on good works, and she forks out the money freely, and he brings her receipts, and all sorts of stories about the growth of the fund—les deniers de Saint Pierre—and she gives more and more. But one day two of his old friends saw him driving in the Bois with a lady with golden hair, and she was not the Marquise.

“‘Tiens,’ says one, ‘but regard the locks of gold.’

“‘Justement,’ says the other; ‘vous avez raison: ce sont les deniers de Saint Pierre.’”

With such-like faithful chronicles they beguiled the time, and I listened and laughed. But I had to get back to my hotel, and I craved leave to depart. Dr. Walsh offered to accompany me—“Just to be at hand if any of the St. Michael’s teachers or children happened to throw half a brick at the Inspector”—and we went off together.

There were no half bricks, and the murmured remark of one half-dressed lad to a half-naked comrade, “Thur goes the —— ould mon,” was purely affectionate recognition.

“I didn’t feel sure,” said Walsh in a few moments, “that it would be safe to tell them inside there another Parisian story, but you may like to hear it:

“It was about a certain Père H., who was visiting one of his flock, a lady of the old nobility who had lately lost her husband. She was plunged in grief, and Père H. was suggesting, in the most delicate manner in the world (like Mr. Chucks), that she ought to have masses said for the repose of the Count’s soul; because, between you and me, he hadn’t set the best example to the Republicans. But she cried, and declined; and the more he pressed it the more obstinate she was. At last she recovered herself sufficiently to explain that the money would be thrown away: the late lamented was gone là bas. The priest explained that if her husband was in Purgatory, as might conceivably be the case, masses would be profitable. But she wept more: he had died in mortal sin, and he was not in Purgatory at all, but plus bas. Father H., finding argument and entreaty thrown away upon her, went home. But two days later he returned to the charge: ‘Madame la Comtesse,’ he said, after the usual introductory remarks, ‘I have consulted our Superior, and I have consulted our books, and I find that in such a case une messe ne fait aucun mal: Ça Rafraîchit.’”

I woke up the echoes of the Irish quarter with my laughter, and Walsh’s heart warmed to me, for laughter is meat and drink to a story-teller, and he became confidential: “Good sort, are they not?” he said, referring to our hosts; and he told me of their good works, and their self-denial, as we walked through the dismal streets. Before he had finished his panegyric we came to the cross roads, where I had to turn off. He stopped and sighed: “It’s a queer thing at the same time; there’s no one quite perfect: ye’d think that the Canon went as near being an uncanonized saint as anybody: but he habitually leads from a single card, and I lost two-and-six by him this evening. Good-night: pleased to have met you.”

And we parted, and as I breasted the hill before me, like Christian in “Pilgrim’s Progress,” I sang sadly:

“How many a spot defiles the robe
That wraps an earthly saint.”