CHAPTER IV. 

A PILGRIM

The Manuscript Man by no means waited till he got home for another look at his book. He was too eager a student, and Irish print was too rare with him for that. In fact he went no farther than the next open glade among the trees, when he sat down on a mossy stone, and prepared to take advantage of the failing light.

Which of us has never wished to bring to the reading of the Bible a perfectly fresh eye and unladen memory? To be able to peruse the marvelous story again with the heart of a child and the mind of maturity? It was all new to Donat Clare. He read with deepening interest those uncouth characters, until the page was dimmed by the dusk creeping over the earth, and an orange streak in the west alone marked where the sun had sunk behind the great gray sea.

As he looked up, drawing a deep breath from his absorption in the subject, he caught the silver glance of the earliest over a black mountain shoulder. It had a new association for him henceforth, with the story of Bethlehem and the pilgrims from the east, though he had often worshipped the Virgin Mary under her title of “Star of the Sea.”

But thus it happened that he was still at some distance from his house when complete darkness set in; no moon abroad, but hosts of stars; punctured over the heaven “to let the glory through,” as a child-interpreter once said. The Manuscript Man cared nothing for the gloom, until he was startled by hearing a deep groan and mutterd words, proceeding from the field at the left side of the way, and then it flashed upon his mind that he was close to the spot, on a lonely by-road, where Mr. Bryan had been shot by Ribbon-men years ago. Hastily crossing himself, he walked rapidly onward, and to his great relief heard no more groans, but after a few minutes became aware of steps following and gaining on him.

“Honest man, whoever you are, might a poor forlorn wanderer an’ blessed pilgrim ax a night’s lodgin’ for the sake of the blessed Virgin.

Clare stopped short at the first sound of the voice. “My brother Redmond!” he exclaimed, in unfeigned astonoshment. “Of all places in the whole wide world, what brings ye here?”

“No choice of mine, you may be certain,” was the answer, spoken bitterly. “A penance that was laid on me, that’s all.”

Both walked on without more words or further greeting, until Redmond said, “Well, I suppose as yer my own brother, an’ not a stranger, you’ve no night’s lodgin’ for me; so I’d best make my way to the light across the fields. I’m used enough to dykes and haystacks! but somehow I can’t in this counthry-side—an’ to-night I want to get among human beings!”

“Redmond,” said the Manuscript Man, “it will never be to say I refused you shelter. Come home wid me, yer welcome to whatever I have; only don’t spake of long ago before my little girl.”

“No fear,” said the other. “An’ I’d just like to have a right look at your face once more, Donat.”

The Manuscript Man was touched. “My poor man, why should I be agin you? But how comes you to be home from America?”

“Because I couldn’t find peace nor quiet anywhere. I came back to be a pilgrim in the ould country, an’ try what fastings, an’ prayers, an’ rounds could do to aise a man’s conscience; an’ pretty well I got on, till a blessed friar at Croagh laid this penance upon me; an’ I’d sooner a hunder miles of my bare knees on flints than face it again!”

Manifestly the appearance of Redmond Clare was no agreeable surprise to the Manuscript Man’s wife. She gave him the most constrained reception after the first salutation had passed; scarcely becoming more friendly when he presented her with an article very valuable to all “votheens,” or devout persons, namely, a pebble from the holy place at Lough Derg, to be put in her coffin. And many a history had he about the pigrimages he had made, being under a perpetual vow to go from station to station; from one holy well or blessed mountain to another, through the length and breadth of Ireland. As to means of support, he was a sort of lay begging friar. Bags hung in front and behind to recieve the gifts of the faithful. To the strap round his waist was attached a string of beads of portentious length and bigness, whereby to regulate his devotions. With their assistance he repeated five paters, five aves, and a credo, every morning upon waking; that number being chosen because of the “five words of our Saviour;” and before noon he repeated three paters and three aves, in remembrance of “the three hours upon the Cross.” During the day it was meritorious to recite twelve paters, with an equal number of aves and credos, in honor of the twelve apostles; and so on, multiplying words without knowledge. Various benefits accrued to the person who should keep this round of repetitions without fail during a year.

Maureen watched the meager figure, and the hollow face seamed with sad lines and furrows, wondering that all her uncle’s holy performances had not made him look happy, or even peaceful. She had a sort of religious ambition herself, went regularly to “her duty,” and learned by heart all the prayers she could hear of. Be it known to the English reader, that articular confession is the only signification of the grand word duty for an Irish peasant. She could feel the scapular round her neck, being two pieces of red cloth hung there in her childhood, and which made her especially safe and sacred, as she believed. But what was this to the halo of sanctity surrounding the pilgrim who had been to Lough Derg and Creagh Patrick?

“As fond of th’ ould books as ever?” said Redmond, with his nearest approach to a smile, when the Manuscript Man after supper drew from his bosom the brown sheepskin Testament, and called Maureen to put down more bog-deal for a blaze.

“’Deed then, I’ll answer for him, he is,” put in Mrs. Clare, stoutly. “Look at the pratie-garden abroad; no gettin’ him to dig it like any other dacent man.”

“Have you the seed cut?” retorted her husband, with unwonted spirit. “An’ where’s the sea-weed for the ridges? I’ll do my part as soon as you do yours.”

“Sure the spring-tides wont be for another week,” she answered; “an’ we’re the latest in all the country side to be waitin’ for it; and signs by—“

He let her grumble die out, knowing, perhaps, that there was reason for it. “’Deed an’ it’s herself has to keep the pot boilin’ mostly,” he said; “but maybe I’ll be better able in future. An’ here’s a holy book about the saints an’ our blessed Saviour, an’ we’ll all like the readin’ of it, so I’ll give ye a spell before the women go to bed. The first piece was written by the blessed Saint Mhaitiu (Matthew) himself.”

Fluently he began with the singular sounds, “Leabhar geinealtias Iosa Criosd, mac Dhaibhi, mac Abraham.”

And so on through the first chapter. Much of his own old Irish MSS.* was occupied with genealogies, and this one was quite in keeping with his expectations. Maureen did not attend at first; she was busy with her own thoughts shaped in the live coals, for she could build castles like any grand lady, though of somewhat different materials, and Irish was not so constantly the language of her mind, as it was of the elder listeners. Soon, however, the simple beauty of that narrative which is pre-eminently suitable to the poor, entered into her understanding with enthralling force. They expressed their feelings openly, these unsophisticated women; they were angry with the perfidious and cruel King Herod, they were rejoiced when the angel warned away Joseph to a safe place, they mourned over the babes slain at Bethlehem. Nor did the sermon on the mount prove too abstruse for interest.

The Irish language has this advantage (perhaps, its solitary one) over English, or any compounded tongue, that its roots are in itself, so that the meaning of abstract terms is speedily manifest to a thoughtful person. No need of an expositor to tell the signification of words carrying their original in their own bosom; whereas the English “justification,” or “charity,” and many other like expressions, require to be explained to a novice. Thus the New Testament, in its most difficult passage is not at all so hard of comprehension for the reader in Irish as for the unlearned reader in English.

“You didn’t care to tell ‘em it was the Bible they were hearing to,” observed the pilgrim, when he and his brother were left alone.

“Women don’t understand the difference,” responded the Manuscript Man, with, perhaps, a shade of confusion; “but you an’ I know there can’t be any harm done through the ould original tongue. To tell the truth, I didn’t think you were so knowledgeable yourself.”

“Lend me that book for the night,” said the pilgrim, after a pause. “It’s many a year since I read a line of Irish, an’ as I’ll be sittin’ up here by the fire, may be I’d refresh my memory. The sleep’s very bad with me of late, Donat.”

“What put that name in it?” he asked sharply, on opening the title-page a few minutes afterward.

“The man that owns it, I suppose,” replied the other, who was building up the fire. “He’s at Rienvella now.”

“Then I’ll be away from this at first light in the morning.”

His brother made no remark. A more hopeless expression grew on those haggard features; and presently he broke out, “O, Donat, man, Donat, where’ll I go to get my conscience clear?”

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