Of all the duties of the sacerdotal office, the most august, perhaps, are those of the ordinary of a prison—of the priest whose presence sanctifies the aspect of the gibbet! Yet the scepticism of modern times has flung its bitter mockeries in the face of these devoted men! “Hardening their hearts under the cuirass of habit,” says the voice of the scorner, “these officials become utterly insensible. They forget to weep with the condemned—they forget to weep for them; and the routine of their professional exhortations has neither grace nor inspiration in its forms of prayer.”
Alas! of what avail were the most varied efforts of eloquence—since the exhortation is fated to reach but once the ear of the victim? Alas! what need to inveigh against a calling which condemns the pure and virtuous to live surrounded by the profligate and hard-hearted, who reply to their words of peace and love, with insults, imprecations, and contempt? Like yourselves, these devoted men might have tasted the luxuries and enjoyments of life—instead of braving the contact of the loathsome rags of misery, and the infected atmosphere of a dungeon. Endued with human sensibilities, and that horror of sights of blood and death inherent in all mankind, they compel themselves to behold, year after year, the gory knife of the guillotine descend on the neck of the malefactor; and such is the spectacle, such the enjoyment, which men of the world denounce as likely to wear down their hearts to insensibility!
The priest at Charney’s bedside.
In place of this “man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,” devoted for a lapse of years to this dreadful function, in place of this humble Christian, who has made himself the comrade of the executioner, summon a new priest to the aid of every criminal! It is true, he will be more deeply moved; it is true, his tears will fall more readily—but will he be more capable of the task of imparting consolation? His words are rendered incoherent by tears and sobs; his mind is distracted by agitation. The emotion of which he is so deeply susceptible, will communicate itself to the condemned, and enfeeble his courage at the moment of rendering up his life a sacrifice to the well-being of society. If the fortitude of the new almoner be such as enables him to command at once composure in his calling, be assured that his heart is a thousand times harder than that of the most experienced ordinary.
No—cast not a stone at the prison priest; throw no additional obstacles in the way of so painful a duty! Deprive not the condemned of their last friend. Let the cross of Christ interpose, as he ascends the scaffold, between the eyes of the criminal and the fatal axe of the executioner. Let his last looks fall upon an object proclaiming, trumpet-tongued, that after the brief vengeance of man comes the everlasting mercy of God!
The priest summoned to the bedside of Charney was fortunately worthy of his sacred functions. Fraught with tenderness for suffering humanity, he read at once, in the obstinate silence of the Count, and the withering sentences which disfigured his prison walls, how little was to be expected of so imperious and scornful a spirit; and satisfied himself with passing the night in prayers by his bedside, charitably officiating with Ludovico in the services indispensable to the sufferer. The Christian priest waited, as for the light of dawning day, an auspicious moment to brighten with a ray of hope the fearful darkness of incredulity!
In the course of that critical night, the blood of the patient determining to the brain, produced transports of delirium, necessitating restraint to prevent the unfortunate Count from dashing himself out of bed. As he struggled in the arms of Ludovico and the priest, a thousand incoherent exclamations and wild apostrophes burst from his lips; among which the words “Picciola—povera Picciola!” were distinctly audible.
“Andiamo!” cried Ludovico, the moment he caught the sound. “The moment is come! Yes, yes, the Count is right; the moment is come,” he reiterated with impatience. But how was he to leave the poor chaplain there alone, exposed to all the violence of a madman? “In another hour, it may be too late!” cried Ludovico. “Corpo di Dio! it will be too late. Blessed Virgin, methinks he is growing calmer! Yes, he droops! he closes his eyes! he is sinking to sleep! If at my return he is still alive, all’s well. Hurra! reverend father, we shall yet preserve him, hurra, hurra!”
And away went Ludovico, satisfied, now the excitement of Charney’s delirium was appeased, to leave him in the charge of the kind-hearted priest.