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THE BULLETIN OF THE CATHOLIC LAYMEN’S ASSOCIATION OF GEORGIA
THE EARLY CATHOLIC DAYS IN ATLANTA
Personal Recollections of the First Priest Ordained In Atlanta
BY REV. JAMES A. DOONAN, S. J.
This is the second, and last of a series of articles
from the pen of the late Rev. James A. Doonan, S.
J., the first priest ordained from Atlanta. Father
Doonan intended to write in full before he died his
recollections of the early Catholic history in Atlanta,
but the end came before he was able to complete his
program. The Bulletin is indebted to Rev. J. B. Doo
nan, S. J., of New Orleans, a nephew of the author
of the series, for the reminiscences.
As has already been said, Father Jerry, Senior,
was a ready speaker. Precise truth seems to de
mand a qualification of this statement. He was ever
ready to begin, but by no means equally ready to
conclude his_ sermon. In illustration of this dis
tinction another incident of his missionary labors in
Georgia may be recorded. He had arranged to re
ceive into the Church a certain Mrs. Taylor, having
announced the ceremony of Baptism to take place
before the celebration of High Mass in the country
school house where he was to conduct divine ser
vice. On the given Sunday, in due time, Father
O’Neill appeared before a congregation, largely non-
Catholics, which filled the principal room of the lit
tle school house. Turning to the kneeling neophyte,
he informed those present that he would explain in
a few words the ceremony which they were about to
witness.
He began at 10:30 A. M. and as usual became ob
livious to the passing of time. The expectant con
gregation had all but despaired witnessing anything
in the shape of ceremony or ritual, when the vener
able missionary, producing his watch, remarked, a
benignant smile playing upon his benevolent counten
ance: “It is now past the hour when it is permitted
me to begin the celebration of Holy Mass, but if you
will come next Sunday, good friends, we’ll try again,
and hope to get through.”
The young Father O’Neill was the first resident
pastor of Atlanta and for several years a beloved
member of our household, in which his presence by
each and every member thereof was regarded as a
benediction. Under his supervision was erected the
first frame Church of Atlanta, to which, is worthy
of note, many years before the definition of the dog
ma was attached the title of the Immaculate Concep
tion. Circumstances attending the dedication of the
humble temple remain indelibly impressed upon mem
ory. Bisnop Reynolds, the successor of the immortal
England in the sea of Charleston, then exercising
jurisdiction over both the Carolinas and Georgia, had
come to Atlanta, accompanied by several of his priests
for the dedication. On arriving in our home, and
after opening his trunks, he discovered that he had
failed to place therein a copy of the Pontificale con
taining the ritual for the function to be performed.
It must be remembered that in those days the tele
graph was an unknown servitor of man, and our
modern express service was likewise buried in the
future. To prucure in season the missing Pontificale,
he drafted the services of brothers, Irish Catholics
by the name of Sheridan, locomotive engineers on
the Georgia railroad, which at that time ran two
trains in the twenty-four hours, one by day and the
other by night. The engineer of the day ran to
Augusta was directed to go at once to the parsonage
on his arrival in that city, secure the missing volume,
and give it to the care of his brother for the night run
back to Atlanta. I perfectly recall how on the morn
ing of the day set for the dedication, Bishop Reynolds
and attendant priests, surrounded by members of the
family, stood on the rear porch of the Whitehall
Street house, straining eyes to catch the first sight of
the white column of steam from Mr. Sheridan’s loco
motive, and the quickly delivered commission entrust-
to myself to hurry down to the car-shed, get the
desired book, and place it in the Bishop’s hands.
The First Church.
The little frame Church, neither in its exterior nor
interior, could lay claim to any beauty. Ruddely con
structed pews, untouched by paint, unrelieved by
cushions, filled the main floor of the edifice, said floor
being constructed of roughly planed pine boards, hav
ing its only suggestion of the ornamentation in the
frequently receiving pews knot holes, one of which
in after years was responsible for the suspension of
the celebration of a marriage ceremony. The groom
on the occasion referred to, being, as is still the event
of grooms in similar cases, a victim of considerable
nervousness, as he extracted from his pockets the
wedding ring, fumbling it, let it fall. The interested
spectators watched it falling in dangerous proximity
of the pine knot-hole, through which it fell before
rescued, necessitating the retirement of the writer,
then an acolyte, to crawl beneath the Church and re
cover the missing symbol of conjugal fidelity.
How meagre were the facilities for equipping even
so modest a Church as that first erected in Atlanta
may be inferred from the fact that the first holy
water stoup was fashioned by a tinsmith from a model
cut in card board furnished from our home. Another
incident illustrative of primitive conditions may be
recalled. I was serving Mass in the little Church,
young Father O’Neill, our pastor and our house guest,
being the celebrant, the congregation that morning
consisting exclusively of my mother. When the cel
ebrant of the offertory removed the veil from the
chalice, he discovered that there was no host upon
-he paten. Signalling to me, he bade me to inform my
mother of the fact. She in turn ordered me to hurry
home and have my aunt bake a host for the need.
This was done at the ironing board by the deft use
of two flat-irons, one inverte,d its handle placed be
tween two bricks set on their edge. A spoonful of
flour paste dropped upon the heated surface of the
iron, was then baked by having the second iron super
imposed. Ordinarily this process had to be operated
several times before a host of the required whiteness
and unscorched could be trimmed for the Holy Sac
rifice. Naturally, both my aunt and myself were
eager to secure one such. Yet for myself I contrived
to suppress all useless anxiety and futile hurry by
the reflection, like the man who is going to the gal
lows to be hanged: “Nothing can be done at the
altar till I get back with the host.”
Catholics in Old Atlanta.
Of leading members of the congregation of those
early days, a few cherished names still linger in
membory; the brothers Lynch, three or four, two of
whom, married men, had large families: my good
father, his estimable wife and four sons. Eminent in
the little flock was Mrs. Daniel Daugherty, a lady
held in high esteem for many amiable qualities, not
less than for her stalwart Catholicity. One of my
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