“THE WICKED PRIEST.”
In the reign of Otho there was a certain wicked priest who created much dissatisfaction among his parishioners; and many were extremely scandalized. One of them, in particular, always absented himself from the mass when it was the turn of this priest to celebrate it. Now it happened on a festival day, during the time of mass, that as this person was walking alone through a meadow, a sudden thirst came upon him, insomuch that he was persuaded, unless present relief could be obtained, he should die.
In this extremity continuing his walk, he discovered a rivulet of the purest water, of which he copiously drank; but the more he drank the more violent became his thirst. Surprised at so unusual a circumstance, he said to himself:
“I will find out the source of this rivulet, and there will I satisfy my thirst.”
With these thoughts he went up the stream. And as he went a venerable old man met and asked him whither he was going.
“Father,” he replied, “I am oppressed with an unquenchable thirst, and even now I drank of this rivulet; and lo, the more I drink, so much the more I thirst; and I now seek its source, if, perchance, I may there quench my thirst, and not die.”
The old man pointed with his finger: “There,” said he, “is the spring-head of the rivulet. But tell me, my honest friend, why are you not at church, and, with other good Christians, hearing mass?”
“Truly, master,” answered the man, “our priest leads such an execrable life that I think it utterly impossible that he should celebrate it so as to please God.”
“Suppose what you say is true,” replied the old man; “observe this fountain, from which so much excellent water issues, and from which you have so lately drunk.”
He looked in the direction pointed out, and beheld a putrid dog, with its mouth wide open, and its teeth black and decayed, through which the whole fountain gushed in a surprising manner. The man regarded the stream with terror and confusion of mind, ardently desirous of quenching his thirst, but apprehensive of poison from the fetid and loathsome carcass, with which, to all appearance, the water was imbued.
“Be not afraid,” said the old man, observing his repugnance, “thou hast already drank of the rivulet, drink again; it will not harm thee.”
Encouraged by these assurances, and impelled by the intensity of his thirst, he partook of it once more, and instantly recovered from the drought.
“Master, dear master,” exclaimed the man, “never man drank of such delicious water.”
“See now,” the old man answered, “as this water, gushing through the mouth of a putrid dog, is neither polluted, nor loses aught of its natural taste or color, so is the celebration of the mass by a worthless minister; and, therefore, though the vices of such men may displease and disgust, yet should you not forsake the duties of which they are the appointed organ.”
Saying these words, the old man disappeared; and what the other had seen he communicated to his neighbors, and ever after punctually attended mass. He brought this unstable and transitory life to a good end, and passed from that which is corruptible to inherit incorruption.
“There is but one fiction,” said Herbert, “in this legend which requires further explanation; why the stream of the fountain of life is made to flow through the rank jaws of a putrid dog rather than that of any other animal.”
“The incident is intentional,” rejoined Lathom; “an old couplet ascribes to the dog four special qualities: a healing tongue, a distinguishing sense of smell, a perfect love, and unremitting watchfulness.”
“You allude to the lines—
“‘In cane bis bina sunt, et lingua medicina,
Naris odoratus, amor integer, atque latratus,’”
said Thompson.
“Yes,” rejoined Lathom, “these four qualities, say the old writers, ought to be diligently cultivated by a priest. By his tongue he should heal the sick at heart, and probe the wounds of sin, careful not to heal with roughness the soul’s wounds, but to lick them as the dog does those of the body. His keenness of perception should be able to distinguish the true confession from the false one; to see what is due to cunningness, what to internal struggles, what to reckless contempt of consequences. He, too, should have as unshaken a love for the Church and the faith as the dog for its master or its charge; ready to lay down his life for his flock. As the watch-dog of the great King, his warning voice must be raised against enemies from without, preventing, by his diligence in his calling, the machinations of the world and its master against the soul.”
“The mass is a slight anachronism in the reign of Otho,” said Herbert.
“You must not mind such trifles. Otho has as little to do with the wicked priest, as Pompey, whether the great or an unknown namesake of his, with the incidents of the story of