University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
MR. BANGS HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE HEAD OF
THE MISSION.

WE left Mr. Bangs at Bay-Harbor, in charge of
Father Nicholas, coming from the nunnery,
which he had just inspected. Under the same
sacerdotal guidance, he walked towards the priests' quarters.

They passed into the hall, Father Nicholas leading, and
awaited, next, the result of the latter's knocking thrice
upon an inner door.

The word “Enter,” surrounded, so to speak, by a sound
of bustle,—much as a word is written by painters in a surrounding
of cloud,—called them to the “dignitary's” presence.
He sat, sedate, in his wide chair,—his dress carefully
arranged in his style of state,—and was intent, in
studious zeal, upon a book. Looking up gravely from
his work, he fidgeted a little, trying to wear a calm, high
dignity, in waiting for an explanation of the visit,—
(which, by the way, it may be thought he understood
beforehand,)—and ended with a kindly bustle of bringing
chairs.

“This gentleman, Reverend Father Terence, is an
American, descended from an eminent stock in the republic—”

Mr. Bangs,—who sat with his right ankle resting on
his left knee, his chair now and then rearing under him,
like a trained horse, and coming down again on all fours,
—said, meekly: “Oh, some of 'em 've got their coats-'f-arms,
'n' what not; that's beyond me; but I know jest as
wall who my gran'ther was as can be. You know, I told
ye about the deacon—Parsimmon Tarbox—on mother's
side; but, on father's side, they were Bangses all the
way up to Noah's flood, 's fur 's I know; Jedidiah, and
Jehoshaphat, and Jeshimon, and Joshuy, and what not,
—church-members and s'lectmen, (some of 'em,)—an' so
on, all down.”

“Atavis regibus; they are all kings and sovereigns in
that favored country,”—(“Cer-tin,” said Mr. Bangs,)—
“and he professes a desire to be acquainted with the
Catholic Faith, Father Terence, and, indeed, a readiness
to be converted. I bring him, of course, to yourself,”—
(the dignitary bowed, with as smooth and steady a swing
as that of a pendulum, and said “Of coorse!”)—“knowing
that if there was any one to do extraordinary work,
that one was the very Reverend Father O'Toole;”—
(again a smooth, slow bow from the dignitary, who spoke
thus:)—

“And, by a strange forchuitous accident, what should
I be engaged upon at this identical, present moment, but
a very ab'struse work upon that very country! It's a
rare work, too, I'm thinkin'. I've here the second volume,
which I procured with great difficulty through
Barney Baine,—(did ye know Barney?) and he had but
the one. I'm not sure is there another copy iv it ex
tant.”

“You're quite recondite in the authorities you consult.
I should have thought that credible writers on that country

could be found with less trouble, and in a complete
form.”

“Ay; but, d'ye see? it's but little they've known of
writing and the like o' that,—those Amerikyins,—until
those late years, (the most o' thim, that is,) being all
mostly savage Indgins, I suppose, (with a small sprinkling
of Europyins and Irish, certainly.) Some o' thim took
to learning, I suppose, naturally, for the man here's got a
name of his own that would puzzle a Tom'hawk himself,
—(that's one of their tribes, d'ye know? as they call
them.) To be sure, the most of it seems to be in plain
English, surely; but then, d'ye see? the great learning
that's here, undoubtedly, all in the original tongue,” said
Father O'Toole, shutting the book.

“Have you mastered the `original,' then, already, in
your retirement, and without a teacher? What a figure
you'd have made in the Sacred Congregation, or in our
College at Rome, to be sure!”

The portly personage complimented thus, rose up to
put away the book, while the younger priest, with a grave
courtesy, followed him, and, asking permission to look at
the learned treatise, secured it, when laid down, and read
aloud “Diedrich Knickerbocker,” as the author's name,
and added, as comment, “What a Dutch-sounding name
it is!”

“Ye may say that; and ye'll remember, be-the-by, the
Dutch has much trade with the Indies and the neighboring
parts, and has had, those many years. It's to be
feared they've been teaching them their own religion, too,
mostly.”

The other inquired:—

“Do you find this writer orthodox? The name sounds
as if it ought, fairly, to be found in the Index: `Diedrichius

Knickerbocker. Storia di Nuova York, quacumque lingua
impressa.'”

“Oh, it's for reference, just, that I keep them,—books
o' that kind! It's a learn'd work,—it's a very learn'd
work, this, doubtless, in its way,—but not sound in
the one point. They're to stand up in a library, and it's
not too often that a busy man, like meself, can get a look
at them. It's only dipping into it, that I've done, just to
get at the marrow of it. But here is our excellent friend
ready to throw behind him all the Dutch and Indyan religion,”—(“Cer-tin,”
assented the American,)—“and to
take up the old anncient faith.”

“Wall, I'm looking that way, to see what I can make
of it,” explained the American. “It's conviction, 's
much 's any thing, that I want, I ruther guess. There's
that hymn,—I do'no the Latin of it,—(anyhow it's seven
hundred forty-seven in `Revival Rhapsodies':)—

“The way Elder Tertullus Taylor used to give that out
at Eastham Camp-Meeting[1] would do a body good.
There! You know, he w's a long kind of a slobsided
chap, an' when he come to `load o' clay,' he wriggled his
shoulders, you see, so fashion,” (doing it as he sat,)
“an' pulled an' tugged 't his coat, like all possessed; but
when he got to `stretch my limbs, and soar away,' why
the most I can compare it to was,—wall, he up 'th this
arm, 'th the book in it, an' then t'other, an' kicked down
his legs, jest 's if he was goin' to stick the hymn-book
away up through somew'er's, an' go right up after it.
Why, all the old women, 'most, put right out to git hold
of him by the heels, or what not, singin' `Glory!' jest as
tight 's they could stretch.—But, as you say,”—(nobody
but himself said any thing,)—“this ain't the question
now. Question is: What's about the shortest an'
quickest way o' gitting at this Catholic religion? 's you
may say.”

In the presence of this active elocutionist, Father Terence
looked, for the moment, as if the world that he belonged
to had been knocked away somewhere, and he
himself had tumbled down among strange things and
people. Of course his apparatus, argumentative, was as
useless as a battery of cannon against a freshet or other
incongruity. He almost instinctively glanced around at
the odd volume of Knickerbocker's heretical History,
which the Holy Father (Sanctissimus Noster,) has put
upon the prohibitory Index, but which he had had in hand,
before this unusual encounter.

Father Nicholas, for whatever cause, adapted himself
at once to the character of the man, and said, with grave
appreciation of the American's performance, (which had
been given with as thorough zest as if he had had a sly
fancy for astonishing the old priest,) “That seems to be
to the life, Mr. Bangs. You appropriate the religion you
belong to and make it your own; and if you once take
the true faith fairly in, no doubt will naturalize that, also.
It's just the thing for an independent thinker.”

“Guess I should; make no kind o' doubt of it; and
that's the way. Your folks 'll find it out one o' these days,

and do according. I tell ye what it is: 't'll take a pretty
smart chap, and he'll have to unbutton his galluses, to
ketch our real Yankees. What's the use o' talkin' about
winkin' madonnys or maid of honors, or what you may
call 'em, to fellahs that think any thing o' the value o' time.
Why, lor', jes' to consider that the Almighty, 't knows
what a man's soul 's wuth, should set down to that sort
o' work!— 'T looks 's though 'twa'n't consistent. Don't
it, now?”

“You see, Father Terence, how the uncatholic mind
goes in the same path with the heathen,” said Father
Nicholas, solemnly, this is the `nisi dignus vindice nodus'
of the great Roman critic.”

“Ye see they hev to be taught and reasoned down to
it (or up to it, 'f't suits better,) b'fore they can swaller
what you may say 's the truth, 'n that department o'
science. After a man's once made up his mind, then 't's
no odds; give him punkin and tell him it's custard, 'n',
'f ye want him to, he'll swear to't, an' cuss all out-doors,
'f they make 'ny bones about it; why, 'f you c'n only
convert 'em, yer 'nlightened 'mericans 'll make the greatest
foo—that is, fullahs for Catholics, agoin. They'll be jest
the fullahs for mirycles, 'n' imyges, 'n' saints, an' what not.
Why, take me, say. Tie a han'k'ch'f 'crost here,” (setting
down his hat, and going through the motions with his
hands,) “and then jest make me think `now you can't
see, and I can; so you jest see what I see,' and then tell
me there's a picture 't painted itself 'n' I take it f'r law
'n' gospil.”

Hereabouts Mr. O'Toole seemed to have found his feet
again, and to know where he was, and he joined the conversation
with an assurance to the American that he was
“well-pleased to hear him talk that way, and that he

would show him as much as he could reasonably expect
of the like of that.”

“I s'pose I'm 'bout's ignorant o' this nunnery business
's any thing, pooty nigh; haven't got the hang of it,
yet —”

“Indeed you needn't be botherin' yerself about these
holy houses at all, for it's small concern ye'll have with
them, anny way, unless ye've a sister or cousin, or the
like o' that, ye'd want to devote to the service of God;
but we'll put ye into the direct way of learning all the
whole order and system of the Catholic religion, all out,
meself will discourse ye, and Father Nicholas, here, —
he that was here, a moment since, anny way, for it's not
here now that he is, — we'll all take ye in hand, and
we'll make short and sure work of ye, if ye're ready for
it,” and Father Terence proceeded to lay down a programme
for the impending course of teaching.

“Me good sir, ye'll consider, ye know, my avycations,
in some degree; but a jue proportion of me time shall be
given, doubtless, to the important work ye're proposing.
Yerself'll mostly give yer whole time to it, iv course.”

During this speech the Reverend Father took down his
pipe from his mouth, filled and—after a good deal of
exercise with a flint and steel, between which too great
familiarity had bred a mutual contempt—lighted it.

“Guess I c'd git ye some ' the real stuff, 'n th' way o'
t'bacca, 't less 'n cost and no commission, — but, sir,
'bout this religion-business,—when sh'll I call?” said Mr.
Bangs, killing two birds with one stone, whether he aimed
at two or not.

“Ye'll just come every day, beginning the morrow—
not too early, ye know, be rason iv the church juties.
Yerself'll desire an hour or two for early devotion and

meditation, and will practice abstinence; takin' yer tea or
coffee, and bread and butter, and a morsel of fish, or the
like. In the meanwhile ye'll put yer thoughts upon two
things chiefly: the first, Will ye submit to the Vicar of
Christ, that's His Holiness the Pope,—and second, Will
ye believe as the Church believes? that's the anncient
Church that's never changed? Ye'll find it a great help,
no doubt, if ye consider that rason and history and the
Word of God are all upon the one side, entirely, and
upon the other just nothing at all but private opinion and
nonsense.”

Having thus given a salutary direction to the thoughts
of the religious inquirer, the Very Reverend Father
ceased.

“Wall!” exclaimed Mr. Bangs, “if Casty-Divy —”

“Ah thin, y'are not that ignorant o' the holy Latin
tongue but y'ave got a bit iv it at the tip o' yer tooth!”
said the Priest.

“Oh! Casty-Divy? That's Casty-Divy Scienshy Cook,
't used t' live—(does, now, fur's I know,)—jest 'cross lots
f'm our house.—S'pose 't's this Nunnery, much's any
thing, made me think 'f her. Used to stick 'n m' crop,
's ye may say,—ye know birds have a kind 'f a thing
here,” (pointing to the place and going on like a lecturer,)
“'s I said b'fore, dono what 'tis 'n Irish—that is Latin,—
wall, 't's what ye may call a swallah—'n sometimes the'
undertake to git someth'n down, 't wunt go.” This illustration
from comparative anatomy, he was giving as if it
were quite new with himself.

Father O'Toole was not in the habit of interrupting,
but he interrupted here.

“Come, man,” said he, “ye shall stretch yer legs a bit
and we'll go into the chapel convenient, and it'll help on

the conversion, it's likely, and be a good thing to meself,
at the same time, being at the beginning of an affair like
the present. Ye'll follow me, just, and do what ye see
me be doing.

Down went the reverend gentleman, as they entered
the sacred door, crossing himself, touching himself with
Holy Water, and going through a prayer, apparently, but
with a half-glance towards his companion, now and then,
who went through some performances of his own, which
bore but a very far-off likeness to those of his prototype;
and exclaiming, before long, “Look ahere, sir; I don't
expect to git into this sort o' thing right away, 'ny more
'n chawing tobaccah. I s'pose doctrine first, practice
aft'rward, 's the best way. I'll jest as' to be 'xcused,
now. You go on, same as ever, for all me. You find
sweet'nin,' as ye may say, in it, no doubt, 'f ye take
anough of it 't once. When ye come to the lookin'-round
part 'f it, I'll do my share. Fact 'f you want to make a
to-do front 'f any picture, 'r idol, 'r what-not,—would
say, not idol, b't image,—'n the way 'f curtseyin' or
dancin', wh' I'll stand and keep watch 't the winders so's
t' keep folks from peeking-in and making fun 'f it.”

How to subdue, in a quiet and dignified way, this unimaginative
freedom of the American, without crushing,
in the shell, the promise of Yankee conversion, would
have puzzled a more sophisticated or ready-witted man
than the Very Reverend Father O'Toole. It had the
effect with him of “bothering him,” as he would have
said, or did say afterward; and, kindly as he was, being
fastened to Mr. Bangs by the tie of solicitude for his soul,
he could not yet avoid banging and thumping against him
every now and then, like one ship against another lashed
to it, when the wind begins to freshen. He was kept in

an uncomfortable state. At length,—having satisfied himself
with the experiment, probably,—he told him “that
if he (Mr. Bangs) thought he would be the better of
staying longer in that holy place, more particularly in
presence of the Adorable Redeemer, whose consecrated
Body was there kept, and in the neighborhood of certain
glorious relics that enriched the altar, —”

“No occasion 'thout ye wish it, sir, I'm jest 's well
satisfied 's if I'd ben here a hundred years; but then,
I'll hold on 's long as ye'r o' mind to, 'f that's all.”

“Will ye have the kindness just to employ yerself in
meditation? or, if ye please to go out, I'll say nothing
against it; I've some sacred occupation, here, for a bit,
and I'll join ye in the course of a few minutes, it's
likely.”

Mr. Bangs accepted the latter alternative, with the
assurance, “Wall, sir; jest 's you say. 'T's indifferent
to me;” and having occasion to look in, soon after, he
saw the priest engaged apparently quite in earnest, in
devotion before the altar.

When he looked in again, he saw two figures get up,
where he had seen but one go down, and recognized, in
the double, Father Nicholas.

Mr. O'Toole, as well as could be judged, was taken by
surprise himself; and as our American drew in again
within the chapel, he heard the last words of a short conversation
which had already taken place between the
priests, while they came forward toward the door. Father
Nicholas was saying, “Your wisdom and experience
may make something out of him in that way, which I
have no hope to give any efficient help in, if it were
needed. I see, perhaps, another way in which he may
be useful.”

With his eye fixed upon the strange neophyte that was
to be, he finished his sentence, so that Mr. Bangs might
have begun to think that he himself was not the subject
of discourse.

“We are together again, it seems, Mr. Bangs,” he continued
quietly, in the same tone and manner, “and we
meet in a good place,” (crossing himself, and saying in a
low voice, as to another inside of himself, “Tabernacula
tua, quam dilecta.)—This is perhaps your first visit to a
place like this.”

“Wall, I must own ' never was in b't one. 'Must be
a first time. We don't have all these fixin's 'n Protestant
meetin's; now th'r' ain't a relic in the whole lot of
'em, f'm Massachusetts down to Mexico, 'thout 'ts a minister's
relic', 'r someb'dy's.[2] They git to heaven as well
's they can without 'em; but lor! there ain't 'ny comparison.
This's one of those cathedrals, likely, 't I've
heard about.”

“We have handsomer places than this, certainly, not
a few, and a good deal larger,” said Father Nicholas,
smiling.

“Oh! Yes. There's Saint Peter's at Rome:—Le's
see; how w's it that money 'as raised?—I've heard.—
However, that's a pooty sizeable kind of a church, certin.
Ye never heard o' th' `Old South' at Boston, did
ye? 'T Artillery 'lections, (that's the Ancient 'n' Honorable
Artillery)—they hev' a celebration 'n' a sermon
and what not—preachin' to 'em to shoot the enemy 'th
sof' balls, I s'pose,—wall, any way, that house'll hold consid'ble
many when't's chock-full's I've seen it, jest like
huckleberries in a dumpling, where you can't see the
dough 't holds 'em together. The way they make 'em's

this: take a mess o' flour, and make it into a kind 'f a
batter, or whatever you may call it, and then stir in your
—wall, that ain't exactly what I's goin' to say. That Saint
Peter's must be great. You see the Protestants ain't
likely t' stand 'ny sort o' comparison 'n the way 'f
meet'n'-houses, b'c'se they think religion ain't s' much t'
be looked at, 's to be joined in.”

“It's refreshing to hear your hearty descriptions, Mr.
Bangs, though your abundant information, upon points
with which your friends are not always familiar, leads
you a little wide, sometimes. Did you talk with the very
Reverend Father O'Toole about the houses of God?”

“Wall, he seemed t' fight ruther shy of 'em, I thought.
On'y wish those fellahs 't Peterport c'd see all I saw”—

“We shall arrange to send any messages or communications
that you may desire,” said Father Nicholas.
“Your own time will be much occupied at first. I've got
a pleasant family for you to stay in, close at hand here;
and Father Terence, no doubt, will arrange hours, and so
forth.”

Mr. Bangs had got into a business-like arrangement,
by which the sun of independence was to be considerably
shorn of his beams. He took it, however, very genially,
and as the priest left him to await Father Terence's renewed
attention, he spread a blue handkerchief, doubled,
on the ground, and taking a newspaper out of his hat, sat
down to read.