University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
HIGH MASS, WHOSE “INTENTION” WAS FOR MR. BANGS,
AND A SERMON.

MR. BANGS remained at (and about) the Mission
premises at Bay-Harbor. So fast had the
convert advanced in his zeal (perhaps not yet
in knowledge, which time would assure) that he had
really never yet been present in a Roman Catholic
Church, in the time of worship, except on one occasion,
in the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, “down in Fed'ral
Street, 'n Boston, 'n' then he on'y had a chance to see
some holy characters,—Bishops and so on, he supposed,
with queer-lookin' caps on their heads,—may've ben
pooty enough when they used to be the fashion—and
crosses down their backs, and diff'rent colored clo'es on;
—he couldn't git into a pew, for they were all chock-full
of Irish pad—native Americans,—with pad-locks on the
doors; and he had to come out b'fore meetin' was over.”
Mr. Bangs was, in short, “as fresh as a pun'kin 'th the
rind on, day b'fore Thanksgiving,” as he himself told
Father Terence.

The reverend man, as we have intimated, felt a little
awkward, sometimes, in dealing with his novel subject.
The way of thinking, style of expression, temperament,
of the American, were all strange to him, and he did not

quite know how to manage with a scholar of the sort.
The very ease with which the sacred work went on occasionally
perplexed him. Mr. Bangs described his progress
as that of “a full team an' a horse to let;” and in
different words, changing the figure, (for Mr. Bangs,
though not as witty as Sheridan, perhaps, had his way of
getting up beforehand little variations of the same saying
or sentiment;) and he gave his excellent preceptor in
holy things to understand that he “wanted to git right
through, 's quick 's wus consistent.”

We say that he kept about Bay-Harbor; for he did
not, by any means, confine himself to the place of edification,
but did “a little mite 'n the way o' huntin' up
business,” (especially among Father Terence's co-religionists,)
for the purpose, as he said, of “keepin' up the circulation.”
He made excursions, therefore, far and near,
returning, at intervals, to tilt his chair and talk with the
reverend converter.

Father O'Toole had no thought of losing his hopeful
pupil by throwing obstructions in his way to the truth,
which might dishearten so brisk a man; and he only
wished to do all things with that sober solemnity that
suited his own feelings and the dignity of his character.

On the great occasion of public worship, which, as we
have said, Father O'Toole had in prospect for the special
benefit of Mr. Bangs, he spared no effort to have things
as they ought to be. To be sure, he could not muster so
strong a body of clergy as he would have liked, (for Father
Nicholas had an engagement, and was out of the
way; and none of the clergy from other stations happened
to be in Bay-Harbor, as they sometimes were, and
he could not well ask any one to come for the day,) but
he made a good show of force notwithstanding. He managed

to have his sacristan, an acolyte, a couple of boys,
and—a Master of Ceremonies; and all in costume. This
latter, it must be confessed, was not a clergyman, as, according
to rule, he should be; but he wore a surplice, and
that is a good deal. The Master of Ceremonies,—where
there are a dozen clergy or so, apt to forget some of the
minute details of their performance,—is to know every
thing and remember every thing, and be on the alert for
every thing: when to bow, when to bend the knee, when
to take the censer from the bearer, and give it to the celebrant
and back again; when the deacon is to go to the
priest's left hand, and when he is to station himself behind
him; to take the pax from the subdeacon, and to give it
to somebody else; when the sacred ministers change
places, and when they take off their caps, and when they
put them on again; when the deacon doffs the folded
vestment and dons the stole, and when he puts off the
stole again and puts on the folded chasuble, and so forth;
in short, where everybody is to go, stand, kneel, speak,
be still, and twenty things beside, ingeniously contrived
to give everybody something to do, and that something
different from what his neighbor is engaged with.

Father O'Toole might have got along very well without
such an official, and indeed, except that he was determined
to go beyond himself, would not have thought of
introducing one, any more than of inviting a cardinal over
the water to help him; however, he had one for this occasion,
and drilled him to the best of his ability, beforehand.
He gave the important functionary, also, a small paper to
keep about him, on which the priest himself had written,
in printing letters, some chief and principal directions
and hints, for the information that he was to impart, and
the signs that he was to make to himself, the Very Reverend
Celebrant.

Supported by these accessory and inferior ministers,
the worthy Priest came, very red and dignified, out of the
sacristy, and proceeded to the choir, in orderly array, the
organ (a hand-organ, left on trial in the place, with a
view to its purchase) playing Handel's “Tantum, ergo.”
It was sometimes said of Father Terence, “that when he
got his great looks on, the Governor reviewing the
troops was a fool to um;” this day some thought that he
outdid his Excellency and himself put together. He
took the Holy Water at the sacristy door with less of
honest “recollection” than was customary with him, and
he put on his cap again, after that important ceremony,
to march to the altar at the head of his troops, with the
decided gesture of a Lieutenant-General or Field Marshal—I
mean such an one as wears the uniform or bears
the baton only in peaceful fields of trainings and evolution,
and is competent to visit the Greenwich Pensioners
or review the Honorable Artillery Company of London.
So did Father O'Toole, on this great day, in the eyes of
Mr. Bangs, who was favored with a most advantageous
place for witnessing every thing.

The good priest went down, at the lowest step of the
altar, with his white-robed flock of attendants about him,
in successive alightings, like sea-gulls round one of our
ponds in the Barrens. He went through his crossing and
his confiteor and absolution as usual, except that, with the
honest solemnity that he commonly carried into the confession
of his sins and other solemn acts of worship, was
mingled to-day a flurry, occasioned by his consciousness
of the unusual complicatedness of his arrangements.

There was some blundering on the part of his subordinates,
in bringing him the censer, and taking and giving
the pax, and things of that kind. The master of ceremonies

got the candles put out when they should have
been lighted, and so on; but when he came into direct
relation to the Priest himself, he was as inconvenient and
obstructive as an unaccustomed sword, getting between its
wearer's legs. The Church, with a wise appreciation of
its children, treats them as children ought to be treated—
leaves to their memories such weightier matters as the
degree of inclination—viz: “moderate” or “profound,”
—and to be sure and cross the right thumb over the left,
when one stands, junctis manibus, at the altar, and so
forth; but how to find his book, or take it, or know where
to read in it, she does not expect of the priest, but commits
to the memory of the master of ceremonies, when
there is one.

The prompter was always inclined to keep at the most
respectful distance, except that once he rushed zealously
to the celebrant's side, to assist him in rising, and planted
his foot so dexterously on some part of the sacerdotal
dress, as to counteract his own purpose and the best
efforts of Father O'Toole. He proceeded, with the most
excellent intentions, to take the book, at the proper time,
and to point out the places; but, in the first case, he got
the edges of the leaves to the left hand, instead of the
right,—(lamentable blunder!)—and, in correcting it, got
the book upside down,—(a thing of less consequence);—
in the second case, he pointed out, with the most zealous
hand, the wrong place, and turned the leaves at the wrong
time.

In short, the day being warm, and the congregation
large, and Mr. Bangs's spiritual welfare depending upon
the performance, the worthy priest was hot and flustered,
before he had half finished his morning's work, and his
attendants were in a state of confusion and depression,

which made them bow when they ought to have made
genuflexion, (and that on both knees,) and kept them sitting
when they ought to have been on their feet.

On the other hand, the organ turned and gave its
sounds, and the singers sang, sometimes unaccompanied,
and sometimes in concert with the instrument, lustily.

It was not a part of Father O'Toole's usual practice to
have a sermon; indeed, the current report of him was
that he was a “tarrible larn'd man entirely, and, on that
account,”—(singular effect of a cause!)—“had been recommended
by his spiritual superior not to preach.” He
was satisfied with offering up the “August, Unbloody
Sacrifice for the Living and the Dead,” and seldom said
a word outside of the Ordo and Canon, except to publish
banns and give notices. He was not in the habit of denouncing
from the Altar—kindly man!—either his Protestant
neighbors or backsliders of his own.

On this day, he felt called upon to stir up the gift that
was in him, and deliver himself of a message. His text
was in Psalms, lxvii. 32: Æthiopia præveniet manus
ejus Deo. Ethiopia shall soon stretch out her hands to
God. From these words of Holy Writ, he proceeded to
establish the following points,—though he did not divide
his discourse into any heads: First, that there was only
one church, and the Pope was the head of it, as a necessary
consequence; second, that the Mass was beneficial
to the dead and the living, by reason that both of those
classes of men could secure indulgences for every mass;
third, that Latin was the language for the mass, as any
man could see by listening to the words of the text;
fourth, that the glorious Mother of God was rapidly gaining
that preëminence that the whole world, as well as
Aythiopia, would soon give up to her; fifth, that convents

were not bad, and no good Catholic would think of forcing
any one to go into a convent, Catholic or Protestant,
(upon this he dwelt longest;) sixth, that confession was
not that bad thing that was represented, but was a great
stimulus to the soul to keep it down, and was it not
a great convenience for paying the dues, twice in the
year?

Having thus exhausted the subject, argumentatively,
he proceeded to a practical application of it. He said he
need not be telling his audience how long ago those words
were spoken, for they would not be able to recollect it;
nor where Aythiopia was, because not one of them knew,
most likely. (At this point, he remembered that Mr.
Bangs possessed a good deal of general information, and
cast a rather uneasy glance at him. The latter, beginning,
in a low voice, to “bound” the country in question,
was put to silence by certain truculent looks, and other
more threatening demonstrations, on the part of some of
his neighbors.)

The reverend preacher went on, immediately, to say
that there was another country they had heard of, whose
name ended also in A, and began with the same letter,
mostly, as that in the text, which was beginning to stretch
forth her hands to God and the Church; that converts
were beginning to come in, as would soon be seen;—
(some of Mr. Bangs's neighbors here looked dubiously at
him, taking pains to see him fairly down to his feet;)—
that St. Patrick was the great converter,—under the
Empress of the Universe,—(in which connection, he digressed
a little to prove that that great man was an Irishman,
and not a Frenchman, much less a Scotsman,—
this argument, perhaps, might better have had its place
among the logical deductions from the text, than in the

application, but did not come amiss where it was;)—that
the country he spoke of, resembled that mentioned in the
text in another respect, as having a great number of black
men in it,—though there were many that might properly
be called white.

Finally, he applied his exhortation closely, by reproving
many of his hearers, who were imperfect Catholics, for
being too soon for stretching out their hands to shilelaghs,
and the like, much as if they were brute bastes,
instead of Catholics; and he hoped they would sooner
stretch out their hands to God. So effective was this
latter part of the discourse, that not a few of the congregation,
after the manner of their race, made a public exhibition
of themselves, by way of hiding from the pastoral
eye, and the censorious looks of neighbors. Mr. Bangs,
during these last sentences, had sunk his head upon the
back of the seat before him, and made an occasional noise,
which the good-natured speaker, and other indulgent persons,
took to be the sound of a choking, by excess of feeling.
Some, indeed, thought that the American had gone
to sleep.—The sound may have been one still less appropriate.—We
leave the question to the discrimination of the
reader; only saying, further, that Mr. Bangs confessed,
afterwards, that “it was pleggy close in there, fact, an'
consid'r'ble 'f a smell 'f incense an' tobacca, an' what not.”

It was an evidence of the ease with which a public
speaker is misunderstood, that some of the audience, after
going out,—although one would think that the reference
to America had been sufficiently explicit, capped, as it
was, by the allusion to the slaves,—yet some of the more
literary of the audience, standing at corners, drew the
conclusion, from what they had heard, that, as Aythiopia
and Ayrin began with the same letters, the latter was soon

to throw off the bloody English yoke, and set her foot
on the proud, heretical tyrant's throat.

The excellent priest, when all was done, had recovered
his habitual kindly equanimity, and, instead of looking
vain or conceited after the display of reason and rhetoric
that had just come from him, honestly took upon him a
double share of humility, which ought to have disarmed
hostile criticism of his sermon, had there been any such.
He felt satisfied and comfortable now, having felt his own
force, and made proof of his priesthood. Cordially he
saluted his ministers, on his return to the sacristy, made
a hearty bow to the cross, and, without taking off his
vestments, fell earnestly down upon his knees, and made
his thanksgiving.

Mr. Bangs was recovered, after all was done, through
the sacristan, who found him in front of the scene of the
late holy operations, guessing about it, to himself.

Father Terence, in the interview that followed, was full
of a comfortable confidence that what had been done had
not been done in vain for the American's good; and was
assured in this feeling by the latter acknowledging that,
after what he had seen and heard, he had not a word to
say. He helped Mr. Bangs to a correct appreciation of
the whole, by supplying information on several parts, and,
among others, he explained to him that white was the
color appropriated to festivals of Our Lord, Our Lady,
and saints not martyrs; that, for seasons of penitence and
others, different colors were appropriate.

Mr. Bangs being anxious to know the penitential color,
and being told that it was violet, explained his curiosity
by saying that “he had heard tell of folks lookin' blue,
and had thought, likely, that was where it come from.”
His next remark was more to his credit: he “presumed

that violet come from violatin' our dooty, most likely.”
Father Terence complimented him on the derivation, saying
that it “had not occurred to himself,—or, indeed, he'd
forgotten it, having that much on his mind,—but, indeed,
it was much that way that the word sea, in Latin, came
from maris stella, (that's Maria, of course,) because she's
the queen of it; and it was a good offer at a Catholic
derivation.”