Newspaper Page Text
THE BULLETIN OF THE CATHOLIC LAYMEN’S ASSOCIATION OF GEORGIA
5
CLERICAL LIFE; SOME OF ITS SERIOUS AND
HUMOROUS SIDES
By P. H. D.
I suppose it is true of every priest that in recalling
his experiences he meets with many instances which,
even now after the lapse of many years, brings a
smile to his face.
Sometimes, more particularly in the country mis
sions, he meets many difficulties and has a pretty
hard time. But even here his life is not devoid of
amusing incidents. I was ordained in 1873, and my
first mission was in the town of N. 1 shall never forget
my first sermon. I was terribly nervous. There was
no pulpit, and 1 stood on the platform to preach. I
did not know what to do with my hands. It would
have been a tremendous relief if I could then have
taken them off and put them on the altar. It seemed
to me they were gradually growing longer and larger
until at last they put me in mind of those sugar-cured
hams covered with some yellow canvas which I saw
in the stores.
After Mass a good old Irish woman waited for
me, and said: “Father, where were you born?” I
was (and am yet) rather proud of the fact that I
was born in Virginia, so I at once said: “I was born
in Virginia.” “Oh!” she said, with a deprecatory
shrug of the shoulders, and then added, “It’s a fine
day we are having Father.” I saw the bitter disap
pointment in the good woman’s face, and I added:
“But my father and mother were both from the
County Cork.” With a beaming face she said, “Well,
Father, you’ll do. The town has lots of Corkeys.”
My first sick call was another experience which I
will not soon forget. I was just about going to my
bedroom when the call came. I could hear a child
sobbing at the door as I opened it. She begged me to
hurry as her mother was dying. When I arrived at
the door I found another tearful group. 1 asked
what was the matter with their mother, and if they
had sent for a doctor. The reply came from all:
“Ma ate fried cabbage for supper and we sent first
for you and then for the doctor.” I said, “You don’t
need a Priest, put a mustard plaster on her,” and I
retraced my steps. At the corner I met the doctor,
whom I had not as yet met. He stopped me and
said, “I’m Doctor Black and you are the new Priest,
I suppose?” We shook hands, and then he asked me
about the patient. I told him I had usurped his duties
by prescribing, and when I related what I had done
he laughed and said: -“Well, I expect you did right,
jump into my buggy and I will drive you home.” The
good woman recovered and my reputation as a spe
cialist in fried cabbage disorders was firmly estab
lished.
I had neither sexton nor choir. I did the work of
the first and gradually established the second. I know
that comparisons are odious, but I had often heard
the Papal Choir at Rome, but when my choir ren
dered High Mass the first time, all that I can say is
that I was entirely satisfied.
The selection of a housekeeper is one of
the great difficulties in clerical life. I had
three while I was on my first mission. One in
sisted that one evening while reading her prayer book
her brother, who had been dead for seven years,
walked into the room. She said it was a warning
from the Lord for her to go back to New York. To
tell the truth, I am very glad her brother came; she
was a tearful soul, who would, for little or no reason,
break into a veritable flood of tears. She confided to
my sister that her family was of great standing in
Canada. Her father, I believe, was Paul Pierre Falls,
and she said Montmorency Falls, outside Quebec,
were called after her family. My second venture was
a woman of sixty-odd, who confided to me that she
was in mortal dread of her husband, and left him to
take the position at my house. She used to tell en
quirers, “We don’t hear confessions before the last
Mass,” etc. I often wished that I knew her husband’s
address. I would assuredly have invited him to visit
me. She left me because some savings bank presi
dent stole her money, and she went after him. I
don’t know if she found him. If she did, I know his
wife became a widow. The third housekeeper looked
as though pickles had been her ordinary diet. She
was a middle-aged woman who had a positive hatred
of tramps. The little town was infested by them,
especially during the spring and fall seasons when
they were going further South for work. I enjoyed
very frequently the discomfiture of these knights of
the road who boldly came demanding food or money,
and who fled hastily on being confronted by an irate
woman armed with a broom. A blacksmith named
Flannigan lived a few doors from my home. He was
an Ulster man, and a quiet, inoffensive fellow until
he became drunk, which took place once a year, and
then his anti-Catholic feelings were roused and he
would go out and curse the Pope, the Priest and
Catholics generally. One Saturday night about mid
night he commenced operations by throwing his wife
out of the house, and then followed the hurling chairs,
tables and all portable furniture after her. His next
move was to come in front of my house and curse
the Pope and myself. We had closed a fair that
night, and I only reached home a little before mid
night, and so there was a bright light in my room.
Flannigan remained there hurling choice Orange
phrases at my head, when I heard the creaking of
the back steps, and calling out, my housekeeper said:
“It’s me, Father; I’m going to light a fire and get
some boiling water to pour on the head of that
blackguard out there who is cursing you.” She was
very much disturbed when I told her to go back to
bed and leave Flannigan alone.
Societies have been formed in later years, for the
purpose of supplying poor missions with vestments
(Continued on Page 15.)