FATHER MATHEW.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume III, Issue 152, 31 March 1876, Page 7

FATHER MATHEW.

lN]an obscure noolc on the southern side of tbe cily of Cork, known by the name of Bi ickamoor Lane, there stood many years ago a very humble little church. A very poor structure it was, built in between houses and stables. Were it not for the sacred purpose to which it was dedicated, you would be justified in calling it a more barn. But the stately temples builfc by the early Catholics had, under the British rule, either been usurped or destroyed by aliens : and the multitudinous followers oi" the old faith were glad to worship God in any place they could find. The ministering priests of this humble temple, on which the sun seemed scarce ever to shine, were monks of the Capuchin Order, modest, retiring men, who went about their Sacred work quietly and unpretendingly, attempting to make no great stir in the world. Nevertheless, the fame of the obscure little church was as wide as the bounds of the city — aye, the bounds of the province. The priest at the head of it was a most remarkable man — an unique type of our high class humanity. He did not profess to be a great scholar. He was not a great pulpit orator. But heaven had blessed him Avith the faculty of winning the hearts of men as few others have ever won them. He was not a stern polemic — he was no impassioned denouncer of human weakness and viee — but his great heart overflowed with Christian charity. He constantly, by his acts and words, reminded you of St. Paul's beautiful exposition of the three great virtues of faith, hope, and charity, and winding up with the words, "And the greatest oE these is charity." A very handsome man was this priest, and somewhat portly. He dressed like a gentleman always, just as a respectable citizen might dress, in sober black. For, remember the clergy in Ireland then wore no peculiar collars or distinctive cuts of coats — you could not at any time distinguish them from grave professional gentlemen, such as lawyers or doctors. His eye, soft and full, could read you through ; yet there was ever a kind, almost womanly, smile upon his lips. His benevolence was boundless, Whatever he had, from food to clothes, he shared with the poor; and they loved and worshipped him. He was the most unpretending but most popular man in Cork. This gentleman was of Welsh-Celtic origin on the paternal side, and was a scion of one of the families of the Irish nobility. I need not tell the reader that I am writing of the Very Rev. Theobald Mathew, popularly known as Father Mathew, and more familiarly and affectionately still as " Father Toby." There he is before my mind's eye now. He wears a rather long black coat of shining broad-cloth, buttoned nearly to the chin, a spotless white cravat of cambric, and a hat somewhat broad in the leaf. Black cloth pants and shining boots terminate the costume. Here he comes along the grand parade, and every hat is lifted to him, which salute he answers with a gracious smile. But when he stops a moment bo speak a word or two, it is mostly to a poor person, some apple-woman, candy-seller, or basket- vender, such as make their little staD by the front of the footpath. How the eyes of the poor creatures sparkled as he spoke ! How they laughed at some pleasant word he had said ! How happy he left them for the remainder of the day, while his departure was greeted by murmured prayers of " OJod bless your reverence." But let us come to that humble little chapel in Blackamoor Lane. It is Saturday afternoon, when confessions are being heard. You perceive through the dim light that the edifice is filled with persons of all classes, from the opulent merchant to the humble quay laborer, from the sire of seventy to the child of ten. They are all on their knees waiting for confession. Immediately as you enter, look to your left, and you behold there a confessional, fashioned in the usual form, with a closed box for the priest, and an open apartment on each side with a communicating grating for the penitent. Thither the whole of that great crowd are tending, waiting with earnest patience each for his or her turn ; and it will be far into the night before they are all cleared away. Look a little closer still to the confessional, and you see something more. Mark that there is a sliding panel in the door of the box where the clergyman sits. Some little person kneels before it; the slide is pushed back, and a soft white hand is extended over the child's head ; and you know, from the motion of the hand, that a blessing is being uttered. The hand falls gently on the young head. The child tells his story of childish peccadilloes : the absolution is softly pronounced ; and the young penitent goes away happy. It was thus I knew Father Matthew first ; and I seem now to kneel there in front whilst I tell my brief tale of childish penitence. Ah ! those were innocent days. Noble priest ! tender, thoughtful friend, generous, all-loving heart, may the Lord keep his memory green ! — Dennis Holland.