HOW COVETOUSNESS CAME INTO THE CHURCH.
Reading edition
PREFACE.
I heard this story from a workman of the late Mr. Redington Roche, of Rye Hill (in Irish, Druim an tseagail) near Monivea, Co. Galway. It was in Irish prose, but it reminded me so strongly of those strange semi-comic mediæval moralities common at an early date to most European languages—such pieces as Goethe has imitated in his poem of "St. Peter and the Horse Shoe"—that I could not resist the temptation to turn it into rhyme. I have heard a story something like this in the County Tipperary, only that it was told in English. This story is the reason (I think the narrator added) of the well-known proverbial rann:
Four clerks who are not covetous Four Frenchmen who are not yellow, Four shoemakers who are not liars, Those are a dozen who are not in the country.
More than one piece of both English and French literature founded upon the same motif as this story will occur to the reader. The original will be found at p. 161 of "The Religious Songs of Connacht," vol I.
THE STORY
As once our Saviour and St. Peter Were walking over the hills together, In a lonesome place that was by the sea, Beside the border of Galilee, Just as the sun to set began Whom should they meet but a poor old man! His coat was ragged, his hat was torn, He seemed most wretched and forlorn, Penury stared in his haggard eye And he asked an alms as they passed him by. Peter had only a copper or two, So he looked to see what the Lord would do. The man was trembling—it seemed to him— With hunger and cold in every limb. But, nevertheless, our Lord looked grave, He turned away and he nothing gave. And Peter was vexed awhile at that And wondered what our Lord was at, Because he had thought him much too good To ever refuse a man for food. But though he wondered he nothing said, Nor asked the cause, for he was afraid. It happened that the following day They both returned that very way, And whom should they meet where the man had been But a highway robber gaunt and lean! And in his belt a naked sword— For an alms he, too, besought the Lord. "He's a fool," thought Peter, "to cross us thus, He won't get anything from us." But Peter was seized with such surprise He scarcely could believe his eyes, When he saw the Master, without a word, Give to the man who had the sword. After the man was gone again His wonder Peter could not restrain But turning to our Saviour said: "Master, the man who asked for bread, The poor old man of yesterday, Why did you turn from him away? But to this robber, this shameless thief, Give, when he asked you for relief. I thought it most strange for you to do; We needn't have feared him, we were two. I have a sword here, as you see, And could have used it as well as he; And I am taller by a span, For he was only a little man." "Peter," said the Lord, "you see Things but as they seem to be. Look within and see behind, Know the heart and read the mind, 'Tis not long before you know Why it was I acted so." After this it chanced one day Our Lord and Peter went astray. Wandering on a mountain wide. Nothing but waste on every side. Worn with hunger, faint with thirst, Peter followed, the Lord went first. Then began a heavy rain, Lightning gleamed and gleamed again, Another deluge poured from heaven, The slanting hail swept tempest-driven. Then when fainting, frozen, spent, A man came towards them through the bent. And Peter trembled with cold and fright, When he knew again the robber wight. But the robber brought them to his cave, And what he had he freely gave. He brought them wine, he gave them bread, He strewed them rushes for a bed. He lent them both a clean attire And dried their clothes before the fire, And when they rose the following day He gave them victuals for the way, And never left them till he showed And put them on the straightest road. "The Master was right," thought Peter then, "The robber is better than better men. There's many an honest man," thought he, "Who never did as much for me." They had not left the robber's ground Above an hour, when, lo, they found A man upon the mountain track Lying dead upon his back. And Peter soon, with much surprise, The beggarman did recognize. "Ochone!" thought Peter, "we had no right To refuse him alms the other night. He's dead from the cold and want of food, And we're partly guilty of his blood." "Peter," said our Lord, "go now Feel his pockets and let us know What he has within his coat." Peter turned them inside out, And found within the lining plenty Of silver coins, and of gold ones twenty. "My Lord," said Peter, "now I know Why it was you acted so. Whatever you say or do with men, I never will think you wrong again." "Peter," said our Saviour, "take And throw those coins in yonder lake, That none may fish them up again, For money is often the curse of men." Peter gathered the coins together. And crossed to the lake through bog and heather. But he thought in his mind "It's a real sin To be flinging this lovely money in. We're often hungry, we're often cold, And money is money—I'll keep the gold To spend on the Master, he needs the pelf, For he's very neglectful of himself." Then down with a splash does Peter throw The silver coins to the lake below, And hopes our Lord from the splash would think He had thrown the whole from off the brink. And then before our Lord he stood And looked as innocent as he could. Our Lord said: "Peter, regard your soul; Are you sure you have now thrown in the whole?" "Yes, all," said Peter, "is gone below, But a few gold pieces I wouldn't throw, Since I thought we might find them very good For a sup to drink, or a bite of food. Because our own are nearly out, And they're inconvenient to do without. But, if you wish it, of course I'll go And fling the rest of the lot below." "Ah, Peter, Peter," said our Lord, "You should have obeyed me at my word. For a greedy man you are I see, And a greedy man you will ever be; A covetous man you are of gain, And a covetous man you will remain." So that's the reason, as I've been told, All clergy are since so fond of gold.