JOLLY FATHER JOE A TALE FROM "THE GOLDEN LEGEND," IN HONOUR OF THE B.V.M., TO BE READ ESPECIALLY ON THE 15TH OF AUGUST, BEING THE FESTIVAL OF HER ASSUMPTION. In olden times, when monks and friars, and priests of all degrees, About the land were cluster'd thick as swarms of summer bees, And, like the bees on sunny days, were wont abroad to roam, To gather, as they went along, sweet provender for home, Bright blazed the abbey's kitchen fire, the larder well was stored, And merrily the beards wagg'd round the refectorial board. What layman dare declare that they led not a life divine, Who sat in state to dine off plate, and quaff the rosy wine? Good men, and true as bricks were they, to every Church decree; Because as kings were called "The State," [K] they said "the Church are we;" And then all men believed "The Church" could pardon every sin; And foul as was the outward stain, wash white the soul within. No marvel that they prosper'd so, for then, as in our times, Sins ever were most plentiful--their traffic was in crimes; And as each man who pardon sought, became the Church's debtor, Each wicked deed their store would feed, the worse it was the better. For they'd a regular tariff, as we've Sir Robert Peel's, Stating so much for him who "lies, swears, murders, stabs, or steals;" And p'rhaps a thousand items more, as "not attending mass," "Ogling the girls," "neglecting shrift," and others we'll let pass. However, all a duty paid for priestly absolution, According to the culprit's sex, rank, purse, or constitution. Such was the pleasant state of things, some centuries ago, With holy men throughout the land and jolly Father Joe. "A round, fat, oily man of God," as ever sang a psalm, Or closed a penitential fee devoutly in his palm, Was Father Joe; and he also, when psalms and prayers were done, In festive scene, with smile serene, aye cheerfully made one. Fond of a jest, he'd do his best good-humour to provoke, Fill up his glass, extol some lass, and crack some convent joke; Nor heed the frown or looks cast down of atrabilious friars, Till his gills grew red, and his laughing head look'd a rose amid the briers. Right well he knew each roast and stew, and chose the choicest dishes, And the bill of fare, as well as prayer, with its venison, game, and fishes; Were he living now he might, I vow, with his culinary knowledge, Have writ a book, or been a cook, or fellow of a college. In those old days the wealthy knew such qualities to prize, And our good priest much favour found in lords' and ladies' eyes; For seldom in their ancient halls a sumptuous feast was dressing, But Father Joe that way would go thereon to "ask a blessing." When lords and ladies bade their guests to castles, halls, and towers, Though every thing beside was good they seldom kept good hours; Course after course slow marshall'd in with dignity and state, Their prime repasts were apt to last sometimes till rather late. And Father Joe esteem'd it rude to break a party up, Indeed, it was his usual plan, where'er he dined to sup; And then to take what modern rakes sometimes "a nightcap" call-- That is, a friendly parting glass, a sort of "over-all." He used to say it kept at bay the night-air, cold, and damp, And cheer'd him on his journey home as though it were a lamp; Nought cared he then how black the clouds might gather overhead, His heart felt brave as he humm'd a stave and boldly onward sped. So Father Joe his course pursued--a pleasant mode of living; Alternately at prayers and feasts--now taking, now forgiving; But dark or light, by day or night, the great thing to be said is, Where'er he went he ne'er forgot due homage to the ladies. By this it is not meant that he knelt down to living beauty-- A deed forbidden and eschew'd by priests who mind their duty; His were not walking, breathing belles, to monkish rules contrary, But images of wood and wax, dress'd like the Virgin Mary. He seldom pass'd by one of these without a genuflexion, Beseeching that she'd condescend to grant him her protection; Or if in too much haste to pray, he always bow'd politely Before her shrine, as heretics to damsels fair and sprightly. But such a holy, jolly man could scarce escape the eye Of Satan, who, if all be true that legends testify, Was then allow'd great liberty, and took, of course, much more, Playing his pranks among all ranks, till he was "quite a bore." Go where one might, some ugly sprite of his long-tail'd police Was ever on the dodge to break, instead of keep, the peace; And he himself at times appears to have appear'd where he, By rules canonical forbid, no business had to be. Much he alarm'd the laity, while reverend men of grace, Like Father Joe, we're told, might snap their fingers in his face, Or order him to take a dip all in the sea so red; Wherefore, when holy men he saw, he turn'd about and fled. Yet not the less watch'd he their steps, but set his imps to mark The paths they trode, in hopes to catch them stumbling in the dark; And one dark night--ah me! it is a grievous tale to tell-- In coming home past twelve o'clock, our jolly father fell. He fell--and fell into a stream that ran both deep and strong; No pain felt he, but seem'd to be as borne in sleep along; His head contused, or else confused, allow'd him not to swim, And Satan swore, with joyous roar, "At least, I'm sure of him!" Crowding along the river's banks, his imps all eager ran, Each striving to be first to catch the fallen holy man; And when at length they fish'd him up, and laid him on the ground, 'Twas plain an inquest's verdict must have been brought in "found drown'd." But twelve grave men were not there then, the case was graver far; An evil set, as black as jet, all gabble, grin, and jar, Claim'd Father Joe as lawful prize, and Satan said, "No doubt! Angels and saints abandon him, or they'd have pulled him out: "So bear him off!" But as he spake a sudden gleam of light Broke forth, nor ceased, but still increased, till all around was bright; And then appear'd what most he fear'd, in white and wing'd array, A company of angels come to take from him his prey. "We claim all holy men," said one who seem'd to be their chief; "I don't dispute that," Satan cried; "but really, to be brief, This friar or monk died reeling drunk, without or shrift or prayer; So yours can't be, but comes to me. I only want what's fair." The bright one look'd, of course, surprised, and then observed, that he Could not conceive nor yet believe that such a thing could be; So Satan call'd his witnesses, who swore through thick and thin, That Father Joe couldn't stand or go before he tumbled in. Now though the angel knew that imps were never over nice In swearing at their master's call to prop each foul device, He felt perplex'd, because the case look'd really rather shady, And so declared, "I daren't decide till I consult Our Lady." While thus he spake, a sudden quake ran through the dingy crowd, And, as in votive paintings seen, encircled by a cloud, With 'broider'd coat and lace-frill'd throat, and jewels rich and rare, The Virgin Queen, with smiles serene, came sailing through the air. The angels with an "Ave!" hail'd the lady to the place, The impish band, each with his hand conceal'd his ugly face, And Satan stared as though ensnared, but speedily regain'd His wonted air of confidence, and still his claim maintain'd. Said he, "I'm sure your ladyship could never stoop to own Acquaintance with a libertine, to drunkenness so prone; A gormandizer too you see, as full as any sack," And here he gave poor Joe a kick, and turn'd him on his back. The lady started with surprise, and cried, "That face I know: Oh yes! 'Tis he! I plainly see! Dear jolly Father Joe!

[K] "L'Etat. C'est moi!" Quoth some French Roi; but which of the "most Christian" set it was, I do not now recollect, and being from home at this present writing, have no means of reference.