“Orate, fratres!—will you mind what I say to you and go along out of that? there's room below there. Thrue for you, Mrs. Finn—it's a shame for him to be thramplin' on you. Go along, Darby Casy, down there, and kneel in the rain; it's a pity you haven't a dacent woman's cloak undher you indeed!—Orate, fratres!”
Then would the service proceed again, and while he prayed in silence at the altar, the shuffling of feet edging out of the rain would disturb him, and casting a backward glance, he would say—
“I hear you there—can't you be quiet and not be disturbin' the mass, you haythens?”
Again he proceeded in silence, till the crying of a child interrupted him. He looked round quickly.
“You'd better kill the child, I think, thramplin' on him, Lavery. Go out o' that—your conduct is scandalous—Dominus vobiscum!” Again he turned to pray, and after some time he made an interval in the service to address his congregation on the subject of the repairs, and produced a paper containing the names of subscribers to that pious work who had already contributed, by way of example to those who had not.
“Here it is,” said Father Phil, “here it is, and no denying it—down in black and white; but if they who give are down in black, how much blacker are those who have not given at all!—but I hope they will be ashamed of themselves when I howld up those to honour who have contributed to the uphowlding of the house of God. And isn't it ashamed o' yourselves you ought to be, to leave His house in such a condition—and doesn't it rain a'most every Sunday, as if He wished to remind you of your duty? aren't you wet to the skin a'most every Sunday? Oh, God is good to you! to put you in mind of your duty, giving you such bitther cowlds that you are coughing and sneezin' every Sunday to that degree that you can't hear the blessed mass for a comfort and a benefit to you; and so you'll go on sneezin' until you put a good thatch on the place, and prevent the appearance of the evidence from Heaven against you every Sunday, which is condemning you before your faces, and behind your backs too, for don't I see this minit a strame o' wather that might turn a mill running down Micky Mackavoy's back, between the collar of his coat and his shirt?”
Here a laugh ensued at the expense of Micky Mackavoy, who certainly was under a very heavy drip from the imperfect roof.
“And is it laughing you are, you haythens?” said Father Phil, reproving the merriment which he himself had purposely created, that he might reprove it. “Laughing is it you are—at your backslidings and insensibility to the honour of God—laughing, because when you come here to be saved you are lost intirely with the wet; and how, I ask you, are my words of comfort to enter your hearts, when the rain is pouring down your backs at the same time? Sure I have no chance of turning your hearts while you are undher rain that might turn a mill—but once put a good roof on the house, and I will inundate you with piety! Maybe it's Father Dominick you would like to have coming among you, who would grind your hearts to powdher with his heavy words.” (Here a low murmur of dissent ran through the throng.) “Ha! ha! so you wouldn't like it, I see. Very well, very well—take care then, for if I find you insensible to my moderate reproofs, you hard-hearted haythens—you malefacthors and cruel persecuthors, that won't put your hands in your pockets, because your mild and quiet poor fool of a pasthor has no tongue in his head!—I say your mild, quiet, poor fool of a pasthor (for I know my own faults, partly, God forgive me!), and I can't spake to you as you deserve, you hard-living vagabones, that are as insensible to your duties as you are to the weather. I wish it was sugar or salt you were made of, and then the rain might melt you if I couldn't: but no—them naked rafthers grin in your face to no purpose—you chate the house of God; but take care, maybe you won't chate the divil so aisy”—(here there was a sensation). “Ha! ha! that makes you open your ears, does it? More shame for you; you ought to despise that dirty enemy of man, and depend on something betther—but I see I must call you to a sense of your situation with the bottomless pit undher you, and no roof over you. Oh dear! dear! dear!—I'm ashamed of you—troth, if I had time and sthraw enough, I'd rather thatch the place myself than lose my time talking to you; sure the place is more like a stable than a chapel. Oh, think of that!—the house of God to be like a stable!—for though our Redeemer, in his humility, was born in a stable, that is no reason why you are to keep his house always like one.
“And now I will read you the list of subscribers, and it will make you ashamed when you hear the names of several good and worthy Protestants in the parish, and out of it, too, who have given more than the Catholics.”
He then proceeded to read the following list, which he interlarded copiously with observations of his own; making vivâ voce marginal notes as it were upon the subscribers, which were not unfrequently answered by the persons so noticed, from the body of the chapel, and laughter was often the consequence of these rejoinders, which Father Phil never permitted to pass without a retort. Nor must all this be considered in the least irreverent. A certain period is allowed between two particular portions of the mass, when the priest may address his congregation on any public matter: an approaching pattern, or fair, or the like; in which, exhortations to propriety of conduct, or warnings against faction fights, &c., are his themes. Then they only listen in reverence. But when a subscription for such an object as that already mentioned is under discussion, the flock consider themselves entitled to “put in a word” in case of necessity.