A boy's witty faith provokes a priest's anger, illustrating spiritual conflict and courage.
The following striking anecdote of a papal priest and a clergyman's son, was related by William Digby Seymour, Esq., a young Irish barrister, at an Anniversary of the "Irish Society of London."
The boy was taking a walk, when a father-confessor of an adjoining parish met him; and when he had spoken awhile with him, he said, "You're a smart lad you young heretic! Do you know, I'd eat meat nine Fridays running to coax you into Maynooth?" "Would you?" replied the youngster; "I'd do more; I'd fast every Friday of my life to coax Maynooth into the Shannon." The priest was surprised at this sally. He spoke with the lad some minutes longer, and, when going off, he presented him with a half-crown, saying, he gave because the other was "the very picture of his poor, dear, departed grandmother!" The boy took the half-crown, and said, he would put it into his papa's collection box for the Irish Society. This enraged the priest. The face of the holy father, proceeded Mr. Seymour, blazed till ignition was momentarily threatened: an anathema of pious vengeance burst from his lips:—"My curse,—the Virgin's curse—the curse of Peter and Paul,—the curse of the Church and martyrs, be upon that Society!" he shouted; "may a blight and a blast be upon it! It took from me the best Catholic in my parish to be a Scripture-reader last week, and he'll steal them all from me before this time twelvemonth. So, you young reprobate, you're going to abuse my kindness this way! You'll not take your life and your half-crown together from this till you swear on this blessed cross (taking one from his breast) that you will not give my money to such an infernal purpose." So saying, and with a furious imprecation, he sprang off the saddle. It was truly a wild and painful scene! There stood the weeping boy and the man! the boy so bewildered as to forget restoring the coin; the priest so frenzied with religious ardor ar to forget he was before a child.
There they stood, for a moment only.
The savage man had an Irish heart;
the tears of childhood fell upon that breast and melted it to softness. The priest re-mounted his horse and bade the last adieu forever. The priest's curse fell where it was uttered. The arrow touched not the Society, for the breath of God's blessing wafted it aside.
The priest has since been gathered to them that sleep. He died a penitent.
Oh! may he awake to glory. But what of the boy? Some kind voice here may ask—"What of the boy?"
He lives, my friends; he lives to muse full oft on that eventful scene. He lives to pray for the Society he much loved then, and loves much now. He lives to thank England's people for their zeal in that Society's behalf, and to urge them to continue in the noble work of giving Irishmen the Bible; of giving children their Father's will in a copy they can understand; of giving the bondmen of Rome the Magna Charta of Protestant liberty. Full of gratitude for the past, and full of hopes for the future, it is he who now addresses you.