HIS POINT OF VIEW

New Zealand Tablet, 2 December 1915, Page 7

HIS POINT OF VIEW

Some fifty years ago one Peter Lennon, a selfmade man, and comfortable according to the standard of his little world, had sent home to Connemara for a nephew, one of the tribe of bare-footed boys who tumbled over each other on the mud floor -of their father’s west country dwelling, and ten-year-old William had accordingly been sent to be his uncle’s heir. But good feeding and good schooling had aroused undreamed-of ambitions in the boy, and not content with the modest business in an unimportant Dublin street which he came into at his uncle’s death, he had built and built it up, all engrossed in his work, until as an elderly man himself he, like his uncle, had discovered the need of someone—not an heir, for he •would not entertain for a moment the idea of-passing his hardly-earned fortune to another —the need of some of his own kin, whom, perhaps, in a moderate way, he might benefit and, in the far-off future, enrich, but who would certainly admire and envy him for what he was. No one who saw him could have doubted that he was anything but a successful man of business. Commerce and prosperity were written in large letters all over him, and he was almost ludicrously out of place in the old Connemara home, enlarged and improved though it was since his boyhood’s days. His arrival there was tinged with sadness, for he found them all dispersed, the band of brothers and sisters of which he had been a, member. Fever and the sea had taken their toll at home, and the American climate accounted for two or three abroad. Then there was a girl who had gone potato-farming to Scotland, and, marrying, had settled there; then William himself, and lastly Patrick, the youngest brother and father of the half-dozen colleens who all hung their heads, equally bashful, when called out. for inspection by their rich, strange uncle from Dublin. * And isn’t there a single boy of the old name at all ?’ asked their uncle in a tone of disappointment, when the young children on the hearth, whose cropped heads and straight locksx were common alike to boys and girls of their age in the district, had been pointed out r as Rose and Ellen and wee Brideen. . ‘ Oil, there’s John,’ came a chorus of voices, father and mother and sisters alike speaking the name with pride. And as . all heads were turned expectantly to the door, so too did William Lennon look out on the gray road, and there approaching the house was a figure which "surprised him more than anything he yet had seen }in-' Ireland. ’ - • , }

Inside the kitchen parents and children were neatly, aye, becomingly clad in various colored homespuns; the mother and elder daughters in scarlet petticoats and dark blue bodices, the younger ones in plain baimie, while the father wore the loose white coat and speckled trousers of universal custom. But the newcomer, evidently the John in whom their pride was centred, the newcomer wore black. A plain cloth suit, a soft felt hat and a white Roman collar which, in conjuncture with his boyish face, proclaimed him what he was, a student for the Church.

The Lennons’ hope that their only son should be a priest seemed likely of fulfilment. • The student, somewhat accustomed to mixing with strangers, was more at his ease, .with his uncle than any of the others had been. Indeed, it was now the uncle himself who was embarrassed.

He was quite a good man, honest' according to his lights, a Catholic of course and if not proud of it, at least not ashamed, and though his prosperous life had left him no time to feel the need of his religion, he had nob neglected those practices of it which bind under pain of sin. Yet the idea of an only son choosing the priesthood as his walk in life filled him with an amazement which, it must be confessed, was turned to resistance and disapproval when young John Lennon’s further intentions were revealed to him.

The idea of entering the Church had come entirely from the boy himself. His parents would have thought such aspirations quite impossible, not because he was their only son, but on account of the prohibietive fees of the diocesan college. The honor of having a son a priest could not, they thought, be for poor folk such as they were. But John had different ideas. He did not think of the diocesan college,, did not ’think of the home mission at all. Had he been offered a free burse, or the wherewithal for a course at Maynooth, it would have made no difference to him, because his heart had - been set since childhood on working among the heathens, and it was to a missionary college he had sought and gained admission. The commercial instinct which was overwhelming in William Lennon prompted him to think it folly for anyone who might inherit not only a farm but some, if not all, of his own comfortable fortune, to become i a priest. As for being a missionary, words failed himluckily perhaps— he tried to express his feelings on the subject. And what he saw of his nephew during the few days of his visit made him regret more and more what he called the folly of such a proceeding. With his brother and sister-in-law he had expostulated in vain, and finally he turned to the young student himself. They were walking together along the gray road that runs for miles between the mountains and the sea, and he began by referring to his own approaching departure. ‘ And you,’ he said, ‘ what are your plans?’ ‘Mine?’ replied the young man. ‘Oh, I have a full fortnight yet before returning to St. Peter’s.’ ‘ Then you are going back to college ?’ ‘Of course I am. Why I hope to be ordained in less than three years’ time.’ ‘ Andand you’re sure you like it ?’ the question was awkwardly put. ‘ Like it!’ The answer was clear on the student’s face, but his uncle would not take the assurance it gave. ‘ Look here, John,’ he said, laying his hand on his companion’s arm. ‘I suppose your father was afraid to tell you, when I only hinted at my intentions to him. I told him I disapproved of what you want to do and I said I might—might, mind you — to push you on in any other business. But now I tell you plainly if you’ll give'up this notion of yours, I’ll start you in the hardware line, and if you don’t step into my shoes when they’re empty I swear I’ll leave you what’ll start a shop of your own. That’s a better offer than most of your friends can boast, straight made, and straight kept. Say now, what do you think of it?’ * I think, Uncle William, that it’s most awfully good of you, but you see,’ with a smile, ‘lni already started on a line of my own.’' ~ v } . !

‘ Nonsense! I’m talking straight. What’s your line ? Going to be worked to death in a foreign country. Even if it had been at home I’d have seen some sense in it. You’d earn a good living if you like that kind of work. But a missionary ! Don’t be a fool, lad ; think over my offer while'you are still free to choose.’ ‘ A fool,’ thought the would-be missionary. * And what is more blessed than a fool—for Christ’s sake.’ Aloud, however, his answer referred to his uncle’s previous statement .

' And if I did take your most, kind offer, Uncle William?' lie said. 'l'd be apprenticed to the hardware business, you say, and perhaps-that would lead, some day, to my having a shop of my own. Well, if I did, what then ' Then,' repeated the man of business, not quite following his nephew's drift. ' Oh, then you could get married.' ' And then V - ' Then you'd have children, I suppose.' The answer came testily now. ' Who in their turn would apprenticed to the hardware,' concluded John. Uncle William was now completely at sea. 'Well, and why not? It's a clean, honest trade. Of course, if you prefer some other line—grocer or victualler— with your education I might manage the civil service, if you despise trade.' 'My dear uncle, despise it ! I should not dream of despising any honest means of earning a living, only, you don't quite take my point of view. You see, making money is not the end I have before me.' ' What is it then V asked his uncle contemptuously. ' Saving my soul,' replied the young man flushing, for it is not the nature of young men, even if they are clerical students, to speak much of these things. ' And,' he added almost in a whisper, ' the souls of others, for Christ's sake.'

His uncle’s comment on this was short, one word only. It may, and probably did, relieve his feelings, but nothing that he could have said would have been further from the point, or more inappropriate. Next morning William Lennon walked for the last time down the road he had trodden the previous night with his nephew. He was going to the station, and his bainin-clad brother was now his companion. ‘He’s an obstinate chap, that son of yours,’ he said, almost spitefully. ‘ Wouldn’t listen to a w'ord against this wild plan of his, not though I as good as promised to make my business over to him when I die.’ ‘Well, well,’ said Patrick, anxious for peace, ‘that’s a long time off, please God—too long to think or talk about it yet.’ ‘ You’re nearly as big a fool yourself, retorted the man of business angrily. ‘ Why, I’m worth more money this minute than you’ve ever seen or thought of in all your born days, and yet you do nothing to put that headstrong lad of yours in the w r ay of anyhow of getting as much or more again.’ Patrick Lennon, accustomed to the wide, silent spaces of bay and mountain, w 7 as slow of speech and thought, and'to his brother’s argument he could think of no reply; not, indeed, that he tried very hard to do so. He knew that John Was right and that really settled the matter, only he could not argue over it. Indeed, had he been obliged to make known his thoughts during his brother’s short harangue they w'ould have been found to concern the pleasure afforded by- such tobacco as that with wdiich his companion had lavishly supplied him rather than , any question as to whether or no his son should be a priest. That w T as settled and done for long ago, he thanked God. But William, in spite of this rebuff of silence, had one last cut to give upon the subject. , ‘ Well, anyhow, as he is he’ll never do much for you,’ he said, ‘ you and your family.’ Then his brother slowly removed his pipe from his mouth and his eyes rested far, far out to sea, towards the infinite space which every dweller on Ireland’s western coast connects consciously or unconsciously with the infinity of the world to come.

... - •■' ■■ ■■. ;- - : ■ > . \ .-.V ■_-_- ~ ■ • .-■■■■-.» -;>. -.' ■-..-. J. 'I don't know that,' he said slowly. 'We're mighty obliged to you for what you're willing to do for John, but I don't know but having a priest in the family, even one that goes out to be eaten by the heathens, I don't know, after, but that it won't do more than you'd think for us that stop at home.' And so the brothers parted, each" one holding to his own point of view. They could not understand each other completely, for one looked straight before him on the earth, while the view of the other and that of his son was directed Heavenwards.—Alice Dease, in the Magnificat. - ~ ~