o^;\*^>r;% IMAGE EVALUATiON TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 l^i i2.8 U •i^ lilM '- 140 I. IM M 2.0 1.4 1 1.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation m -0 \ S q\ \\ '•r "o^ .^ % W^ % u % 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 L*>»-.. ,iv'f jiiii I it 1^\ ! ja^^fi^WI*?*^ m^i jJ M h jj i >f » j » U ' j w j '< wW 'y W j ' t i i ij iL ib ui i i iiH i . ni unmww B M BiMB' €nUssms OF AN APOSTATE. By Mrs. J. ^ADLIER, iUTBOB OF •WiUy Biirke," "Bessy Oonway," "EUnor Preston," "The Confederate OUeftaios," "Hermit of the Book," "Oon. O'Began," Etc i S I i NEW YORK: D. d; J. SADLIER & CO., 31 BARCLAY ST., BOSTON:— 111 FKDKBAL STBEKT. aovmAL^HWB. «* aooa bum axv r. nunou xatibb m. 1868. I ^ % T^:,cjc^ C^\%. \. Entered according to Act of CongrsH, In the jresr 18M, bjr D. « J. 8ADLIEB * 00., In the Clerk'i Office of lb« Dlatrict Court of the United States, for th* Southern District of Neir York. ( 1 ^ *=1 IL ir 18M, by States, for th* ^ ^ 1 1 ^ houi bg 0<^ he year 18M, by United States, for Iht rk. %^^^ ^ OME years ago the people in that part of the beautiful county of Wicklow M'hich adjoins the Vale of Glendalough were puzzled by the appearance of an aged raaa who suddenly took up his abode in a cottage between Laragh Bridge and the Valley. This cottage had been for years and years inhabited only by an old woman and her grand- son, a bright boy of twelve or fourteen. The house had been a snug little farm- house, but for many years past decay had been mak- bg sad inroads on its once snowy walls, and the 0) :zsasM CONFESSIONS OF AN xrOSTATE. kitchen was the only part of it in use, that being quite sufficient for the accommodation of tho hiiniblo occupants. The story of tlie deserted cottage is hut too common in Ireland. The widow of its fanner owner, being unable to pay tho advanced rent demanded by the agent of her absentee landlord, ■was turned out on the world, and her farm thrown into a sheep-walk. For years after, no one could bo got to inhabit the cottage, fearing that the widow's carse might be in and around it. At last it received as a tenant old Milly Nolan, whoso youth and middle age had been passed in the service of the agent's family. As no one else would live in the cottage, Milly was permitted to take shelter in its mouldering walls with her then infant grandson, -whose father, her son, had been a soldier and died abroad. The poor boy's mother had died in giving birth to little Tony, bo that tho child was solely dependent on his aged rela- tive. Milly contrived " to keep the life in them," as she used to say, herself, " by showin' the Churches an' things to the quality from abroad that came to see the sights in the glen within." Tony, too, being, as we intimated before, a smart, active lad, was soon able to do a little business on his own account in the cicerone department. His extreme youth, coupled with his natural quickness and that precocious humor ATK. iiRe, that being 1 of tlio liunible 1 cottage is but ,v of itH former advanced rent lentce landlord, er farm thrown 10 one could be lat the widow's ist it roooived as and middle age e agent's family, ttage, Milly was loring walls with ler, her son, bad riie poor boy's ) little Tony, so )n his aged rela- life in them," as i' the Churches id that came to rony, too, being, ve lad, was soon n account in the youth, coupled irecocious humor CONFKHSIONS OF AN APOSTATK. 9 which distinguiHhed him from all his brother or sister guides, made him exceedingly popular with all tour- ists, so that " Little Tony " was more in demiuid, by the time he was twelve years old, than any other " guide " about the Seven Churclies. Hardly a day went over his head— at least during the summer months— that he did not bring home some silver pieces to his granny, and his exultation knew no bounds when the qiierulous old woman used to say in a tone of surprise that was not quite free from vexation : " Why, then, bad cess to you for a Dprissaun, whore in the wide world do you get all the money you do ? Tm sure I don't know how it is that you always get more from the quality than any one else !" One fine summer morning when the brown moun- tains and the dark glen were looking their best, and the world outside was all joy and sunshine, the old man already mentioned alighted from a jauiiling-car at Milly's door, much to Milly's surprise, for Milly " had never laid eyes on the decent man before," and the car-boy told her he had driven him from Round- wood where he staid over night " at the head-inn, no less." So Milly could only drop a low courtesey, and offer a seat to the stranger, Avita a " God save you, sir," while Tony, drawing back into a corner, took a ! , II M, r ^ m » i ^ mtmmm!m!iimmm » iiiiji>(^ ii (i ii(^piill(r- 10 OOKFEHMIOXH of ax APObTATK. k'iHiiroly survey of llio " sowli oiild giiillt'iuiin," whose siin-lmnit faco tolil of a jirotnicti'd 8oji>ura in foreign cliiuos. The civr-boy, to the full as curiouH oa either of tlie others, hivviug thrown Iuh horse a handful of liay from the well* of tht) car, took up his station half in and half out the doorway, witli his shonldor renting against the post, so as to see and liear what was going on between " Milly the Glen" and tho strange traveller from foreign parts. Great was the astonishment of the three listeners wlien the old gentleman asked ]\Iilly if she could rout him a room. " Humph !" said the car-boy to himself, " he's no great shakes after all, when it's here he'd hang up his hat," and ho glanced contemptuously round on the half-ruinous walls of the little dwellinme invisible link ite metaphysician itranger, and the i to many strange persecuted with as to who and The professional were in greater , but the public 'or the time from cles to "thamys- ally, loved to call wever, that they managed " to get their eyes on him," for once he found out that he was the greatest Hon of the place, he studiously kept out of the way during visiting hours. His ingenuity was, it is true, put to the stretch, for parties of curious ladies, and not less curious gentlemen, arrived at all hours under pretense of seeing the Valley at sunrise, at noon, at sunset — or by moonlight, as the case might be. Some of the night arrivals, being told, in answer to their whis- pered inquiry, that the old man was in bed, insisted on Milly's making some excuse to open the door that they might get even a distant glimpse of him. The request being backed by a piece of silver, Milly's fidelity was put to the proof, and she seemed half inclined to yield, but Tony indignantly made answer that they wouldn't disturb the gentleman for all the money in Dublin town. " Well, well, Tony ! I b'lieve you're right," said Milly, " I know if he woke up on us, we'd be kilt entirely." Further expostulation was useless, so the disappointed tourists went off in a pout, declaring that they'd never set foot in the Valley again, nor a sixpence of th^r money Milly should ever handle. Next morning Milly took the first opportunity of relating what had passed over night ; the old man beard her with a smile, till she wound up with : " It's 1 ;IKWtJj! ! h < l>JWW«MM.l i .'.l.i i ' ! i i luui ' ■ ' .iaiu.;!.t i ,i! ' iiji.~'ii.«-,.iij f 16 CONFSS8ION8 OF XS APOSTATE. well come np with them, indeed, to be goin' on their tower, drest up like any quality ! It's little bother ' the sights ' 'id give them, I'm thinkin', if it wasn't for their ould lad of a father that turned for a wife, an' got an elegant fine house an' a power o' money M-ith her. The dirty drop is in them, if they were hangin' in diamonds !" " Mind your own business, woman !" said the stranger with sudden emotion, and rising from the table, he left his hardly-tasted breakfast, and calling Tony to follow him as soon as he had broken his fast, rushed out of the cottage, leaving its inmates to make what comments they pleased on his strange and unaccountable emotion. When Tony, with a whack of oaten bread in his hand, overtook him, a few mintites after, on the road to the Churches, he could hardly get a word out of him. They entered the dreary Valley, and there the old man, seating himself on a stone by the road-side, fixed his eyes on his wondering attendant who stood silently before him looking at everything but him. "Tony!" said the old man. "Well, sir!" "I'm going to give you an advice that will be better to you than silver or gold !" "I'm very thankful to you, sir!" said little Tony. wh hal lirt r jf tha the the the ma J ste lefl "I bui pla of the rel sei rol wa boi TATE. be goin' on their t's little bother kin', if it wasn't imed for a wife, power o' money em, if they were nan!" said the rising from the ifast, and calling I broken his fast, : its inmates to 1 his strange and ;cn bread in his ifter, on the road 3t a word out of ey, and there the by the road-side, ndant who stood ything but him. ell, sir 1" "I'm will be better to » sir !" said little COXFESSIONS >P AN APOSTATE. 17 " Never give up your religion, Tony ! no matter what comes or goes, keep it hard an' fast !" " Is it to turn my coat, you mane, sir ?" said Tony half indignantly. " Ah, then, with God's help, there's liule danger o' that anyhow !" The stranger shook his head. " Don't be too sure :)f that, Tony, my man 1 I've seen some in my time that were as steadfast as ever you could be — ay I till they were man-big, and yet, Tony ! the world and the devil got the better of them — yes, my boy ! and they sold themselves body and soul for — pshaw ! no matter what !" A party of tourists were now seen descending the steep path from St. Kevin's Bed, and the old man left the Valley precipitately, muttering to himself: " If the half of them staid at home and minded their business 'twould answer them better. This is no place for idle curiosity, and it's not one in a hundred of them that has any other motive in coming here." A year or two of this kind of life seemed to soothe the stranger's troubled mind, and in the practice of religious duty, with such works of charity as pre- sented themselves in that secluded spot, his days rolled on in peace. The only one whom he visited was the parish priest, and with him many of his hours were spent. Many attempts, direct and indi- 2* ' 18 CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. rect, were made to get at his history through the priest— for people hud all made up their minda that his reverence knew all about it-but pumping and sounding, and all the other ingenious contrivances failed. If Father O'Byrno knew the secret, he kept it to himself. It was not till the old man's death, which occurred about two years after his arrival in the neighborhood, that his story was made public, and then by his own request, in order, as he said, to deter others from treading that path which he had found so fatal. The following is that portion of his autobiography left in the hands of the priest for publication. It may be well to mention that little Tony was not forgotten. Twenty good pounds were left him by his old master, quite enough " to make a man of him," as old Milly said, but it didn't make a man of him, for Tony was still " Little Tony, the guide-boy," and for many and many a long year after his twenty sovereigns lay snugly away in company with some pounds of silver, in Milly's " old stockmg" somewhere up in the thatch over the house-doer. TATE. ory through tho their minds that It pumping and 0U8 contrivances e secret, he kept , which occurred he neighborhood, then by his own eter others from ud 80 fatal. The ^biography left in ition. It may be as not forgotten, by his old master, lira," as old Milly lim, for Tony was and for many and ty sovereigns lay 5 pounds of silver, re up in the thatch CONFESSIOXS OP AN AP08TATK. 19 IHE CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE; OB, LEAVES FKOM A TKOUBLKD LIFE. The term apostate is a harsh one to apply to one's self, and I must confess I do not half like the look of it when I have it down in black and white. Truth must be told, however, and I know very well that long before my story is ended the Catholic reader will have no qualms about the application of the word, so I may as well anticipate the verdict. How I came to fall away from the faith of my ancestors is at tunes a marvel to myself, although when I have traced the course of my apostasy, my readers will find it all so natural as to excite no sur- prise in them. The same causes have, doubtless, produced, and will again produce, the same effects in those who voluntarily thrust themselves into temp- tation, when far away from the healthful influences and the salutary restraints that made their home-life virtuous and happy. For their benefit, then, I will do violence to my proud heart and tear open the festering wounds which Time, the great healer, has partially closed. 1 i i i 20 CONFESSIONS OF AN ArOSTATK. My childhood and youth were passed amid scenes calculated to nourish piety by raising the mind from earth to heaven. I was born in Wicklow County, in the immediate neighborhood of Glendalough, " the Irish Palmyra," aa it has been aptly called. Tlio particular " spot where I was born " is of little con- sequence to the reader ; suffice it, then, to say that it was about midway between Laragh Bridge and the entrance to the Valley, somewhat nearer the latter. My father was a small farmer, rather easy in his cir- cumstances, inasmuch as he was always able to face the landlord on quarter-day, and was, moreover, the owner of considerable stock, principally consisting of those goats whose milk converted into " whey " is a favorite specific for incipient consumption among the inhabitants of the Irish metropolis. The scant herbage of those mountains is peculiarly palatable to the hardy animal whose presence alone gives life to many a desert-scene in that wild, remote region. Many of my childish days were passed following the goats over and around the mountains which encircle the gloomy vale, and it was my pleasure to clamber after my sure-footed companions to the highest steep of Derrybawn or Lugduif, and thence look down on the wondrous scene beneath and around me. The gloom of St. Kevin's Valley M'as awful to me, and w ei Bt o] ti ii a f: ii C a r t t < TATK. C0NTKH810N8 OF AH APOSTATE. 21 ssed amid sceiies g the inind tVom iklow County, in lendalough, " the itly called. The " is of little con- en, to nay that it li Bridge and the learer the latter. IT easy in his cir- ways able to face as, moreover, the cipally consisting 1 into " wLey " is isumptioii among polls. The scant liarly pnlatable to ilone gives life to I, remote region, jsed following the ins which encircle easure to clamber the highest steep nee look down on aronnd me. The awful to me, and when, at times, I did venture down amid the mould- ering relics of the past with whiuli it i« so thickly Btre\vn, the silence and utter lonelinet's of the place chilled my young heart. And yet I loved dearly to tread my way amongst the old tombstones, hall-buried in the grass, and creep under the crumbling arches at the apparent risk of being crushed beneath some falling fragment. The danger, ho\v«ver, was only imagii\ary, as I soon found out. The nuvsonry at Glondalough is proof against time and the elements, as grey and seemingly as indestructible as the dark rocks around. Much of it will stand in all probability to the judgment-day, like the faith which reared those sacred piles in the infant days of tlie Irish Church. As a general thing, however, the children of the neighboring district have no fondness for the Glen. The everlasting gloom which rests upon it, owing, I believe, to the dark coloring of the steep mountains around— the silence that broods within it " from night till morn, from morn till dewy eve,"— the air of solemn mystery which overhangs the ruins, with the weird and lonely pillar-tower rising like a tall spectre high over all— oh I it is a scene of more than desert soli- tude, and its desolation is oppressive even to persons of raaturo age. 1 I. ( 23 CONTESSIOX8 OP A> APOSTATE. Some of my very earliest recollections are of devo- tional assemblies in the old stone-roofed clmpel known to our antiquarians as St. Kevin's Kitflien. Its wonderful state of preservation induced some former parish priest to make use of it as a chapel of ease, for the convenience of the surrounding peasan- try, and during all tlie years of my youth it was our general place of worship. It was there my mother took me by the hand on Sunday and holiday mornings to hear Mass, followed by a colloquial discourne from his reverence Father Brannigan, the most paternal and the best-natured of all old priests. It was there we children assembled again in the afternoon for Catecliism, and I can well remember the varioiis tra- ditional anecdotes of the great St. Kevin and his successors in the Abbacy of Glendalough, Avherewith his reverence used to diversify his familiar instruc- tions. It was in that lone mountain-chapel, amid the mouldering bones of many generations, close by the silent city of the dead that I, with a brother and sister, made my first Communion, and the simple joy of our parents is even now vividly before me, although forty-and-three years have passed since that au8i)ici- ous day, and the snow of a premature old age has settled on my head. When a few more years had rolled away I began o< tc VI w w w Ul m w tl q' l»i la Si m nt 1" ai H B tl ai ol re PATB. 3118 are of (lt me ever wore." to herself were all )t hold out against those of my broth- uld be a fine thing east, on the high to give in at hist, in our possession le told me with a ur three cows that lee if she wouldn't md rig me out for I invoked on my ■vent and bo full of to her aged eyes. I was too much elated then to heed her emotion, but I have many a time thovight of it since those loving eyes were closed for ever. Si> the " fine springer " was sold, and, to my great joy, a fine price she brought. My sea-storo was amply provided, including a number of cakes of double-baked oaten bread of my mother's own mak- ing — she would sufier no one to have a hand in it but herself. A voyage to America was then far dif- ferent from what it is now, and was considered a sort of neck-or-nothing enlorprise, that was either to ter- minate in an ocean-grave or a fabulous amount of wealth. It was looked upon as something awful to ♦' tempt the great deep," and he who made up his mind to undertake the voyage was regarded with a sort of romantic interest, not more on account of the positive dangers he was about to brave, than the mysterious regions to which he was going and the strange adventures which were supposed to await him — adventures, however, which were all to " lead men on to fortune." My mother's consent once gained, there was little else thought of, or little else done in the house for the intervening time but " get- in' Simy's things ready." To the younger members of the fami'y there was pleasure in the bustle of preparation, although their labor of lovo was not ^-. aiitrtii'iffiW!»iiHitfffFfmMWW» . »tat fci^^ ^^^^ 36 C0NFKSSI0N8 OV AN APOSTATH. unmixe.l witli hoitow ; Imt for my poor mother there was no joy— no amount of hope could cheer her. For niy!*e1f, I kept, out of her sisht ns much m I possibly could, for her grief touched my heart to it« very core, and I feared that my resolution might give way, if I allowed myself to think of her approaching bereavement. It is needless to dwell on the final parting. Such scenes are too painful to bo often exposed to the l)ublic eye,— an organ which ia usually more critical thmi compassionate. SufTlce it to say, that about the middle of June, just when the whole coimtry round was preparing for St. Kevin's " patron," Patt Byrne's family and myself, with a couple of neighbor boys, who had been incited to follow my example, all set out for Dublin, accompanied for miles and miles of the way by a numerous " convoy " of friends and acquaintances. When it came to the last, my heart almost failed me, and it required all the courage I could muster to sustain me at that trying moment. But even that passed away, as all things earthly do. My poor sorrowing mother, and all the rest of my kindred vanished from my eyes— alas ! that I should Bay, for ever. There was no time to look about me in the great city, for the ship in which our passage was taken was to sail in an hour, and we were obliged to STATT!. >oor inollier there could clieor her. ht fts much fts I (1 my heart to its ihition might give f her approaching a1 parting. Such ti exposed to the liilly more critical lay, that about tlio ole country round ron," Patt Bynie's of neig>ibor boys, ly exami)le, all set iiilea and miles of r" of friends and the last, my heart all the courage I fit trying moment. I things earthly do, all the rest of my alas ! that I should .0 look about me in [)h our passage was we were obliged to CONFESSIONS OF AN APOHTATK. 37 hurry at onco on board, ami leave all the city wonders unseen — those wonders of which we had heard so much. Our voyage was rather tedious, and its vicissitudes were many, including perhaps, more than the usual amount of sea-sickness. Patt Hyrue lost his youngest child, a rosy, chubby, prattling boy of three years old ; and the event threw a damp on us all, especially when we saw the poor little fellow, who had been a general favorite in the steerage, sewed up in a can- vas and thrown overboard. That was the first cloud that settled on our path, and I have often thought since that it was ominous of evil. Its impression on us youngsters was, however, only transient, and when, at the end of nine dreary weeks, we were told by the sailors that we were on the far-famed " Banks of Newfoundland," we were " entirely elevated," as poor old Patricius O'Grady of erudite memory used to say. Boston was our destination, and when, after a few days more, our ship cast anchor in IMassachusetts Bay, and we saw the stately old Puritan city before us, with its numerous spires and its palace-like dwell- ings, rising grandly from the bosom of the waters, we forgot all our sorrows and all our troubles, and felt that " all sorts of good luck " must await us in that land which presented to our view so noble a frontispiece. ...ai^a^'t^.^iMBrlteilgift'; tl CnVFKSSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. The captain of our ship had taken a fancy to me at an early period of oin* voyuj^e, and ho was good enough to intercHt himself on my belialf. lie pro- cured mo a Hituation as porter in an extensive hard- ware cstablishtnent, the proprietor of which was an old friend of his. IMy enthusiastic admiration of " America " had been somewhat staggered by the ■tate of affairs in the marine lodging-hotjso where Ave had all " put up" for the first week. It was one of those old, rickety Avooden buildings much beloved }»y bugs, and other such nocturnal vampires which are unluckily no rarity in seaport cities ; and as those interesting insects are well-known to delight in "alien" blood, I was so tormented that I almost wished myself back again in the old whitewashed cottage among the bare Wicklow mountains, which humble dwelling was, at least, bug less. The temp- tation to repent was happily of short duration. One of tlie other porters at Brown & Steenson's, hearing of my affliction, kindly undertook to procure me relief, laughing heartily the while at my piteous com- plaints, and telling me for my comfort that that was little to what I had before mo. His laughter annoyed me a little at the time, but I soon forgave him, for he made arrangements that very evening for me in his own boarding-house, where I next day made my OHTATB. ikeii a fancy to me y helmlf. IIu jno- aii t'xteimive hard- r of which was an itio adinirfttion of staggered by the [Iging-houHo where week. It was one lings much beloved al vampires which ;ities ; and as those wn to dcHght in ited that I ahnost 3 old whitewashed V mountains, which igless. The tomp- ort duration. One Steenson's, hearing ok to prociu'e me at my piteous com- [nfort that that was is laughter annoyed forgave him, fur he jning for me in his ext day made my CON'FEHSIOMS OF AN AI'OHTATK. 89 entrance, very glad to get rid of my first l Banagher !" I ex- ild at homo Avould 168 to I" for there everybody e, it's most all hear- owfl as little about fin in the moon, and hands in the world- g stories — just like be goin' about long ving, the creatures ! m. The only differ- s used to toll about and the ministers' lore mystified than I went off to Patt COyFKSSIONS OF AK APOSTATE. 51 Byrne's to see how thingu were getting on thfro. I found the whole family in high Hjurits. Patt and Inn eldest son were both emi)Ioyed by the corporation, and between ihem they brought in twelve dollars every Saturday night. Their work was hard, to be sure, very hard, but what of that, they said, so long as they were well paid for it. They evidently did not calculate then, what sad experience taught them afterwards, that twelve dollars a week in a large city did not go far beyond the sui)port of a large family. " Why, Simy I" said my friend Patt, " if things goes on in this way, it's buyin' property I'll be some of these days— Nancy an' myself took a walk out a Sunday evenin' to see some lots for buildin' that they say are to be got very reasonable." " Yis," put in Nancy, " and we're goin' to put up a nice little house on the lot when we get it, and I think we'll have a room to spare for you, Simy, and then you'll come and board with us — won't you now ?" Of course I promised, nothing loath, and nothing doubting, either, that out of such fine wages a " lot " could soon be bought, and a house put up, too, and all the rest of it. They were all much interested by the account of my adventures at Mrs. Johnson's. The delinquency of Harry O'Haulou in regard to the It CONrSRBIONB OF AN APOHTATB. Fourth Commandment of the Church exoitcci their wannoHt hidignution, and nil I could any in hin favor afterwiirda was of no use. I'utt dcchired energeti- cally that he wouldn't truMt hiu life in that fellow's hands— no he wouldn't. A man that wouldn't stand up for his religion, or do what it commanded him, because there happened to he odds against him, de- Bcrved to be whipped at a cart-tail, Patt said. " But they tell me it'ii very common here," I ob- served in extenuation. " Get out 1" said Nancy with more zeal than polite- ness, " what sort of an excuse is that ? I wish to the Lord some of them lads were at home in the ould country and do the likes of it — if it wouldn't be dear pickin' to them I'm not here. Why, they'd never get over the shame of it the longest day they'd have to live !" But if they were severe on O'llanlon's backsliding, my worthy friends were full of admiration for tl»e generous liberality of John Parkinson, whom they expressively apostrophized as " the broth of a bey." " And him an Englishman and a Prodestan'," said Patt, " and to take your part that way ; well, now see that. I'll tell you what it is, Simy, you must bring that chap to see us some evening; I uould 08TAT>. OONFESalONH OF AN At'OHTATK. S3 urch excited their 1*1 Huy iit \m favor (leclarod encrgeti- ifu in that felluw'a liat wouldn't Htand . oomtnandud him, Ih agaiiiHt him, de> Patt Maid, umon here," I ob- )re zeal than polite- that ? I wish to X home in the ould t wouldn't be dear rVhy, they'd never St day they'd have inlon's backsliding, tdmiration for tlie iimon, whom they ' the broth of a i Prodestan'," said t way; well, now i, Simy, you must evening; I could divide my last mouthful with a fellow lilce him. B«* dad I couhl I" " But vfhero'8 Billy ?" I 8aid, looking round aH I roHO to go. This was their eldest son, whose absenre I had not before noticed. " Why, sure enough, we forgot to tell you," said the father, " the priest made us send him to a night- school, as he's at his work all day. There's one of the finest priests here, Simy, that ever stood at an altar. Nancy there was at Confession with him lust Saturday was eight days, and she suys he's a saint if there's one livin'. I mane to go myself a Saturday evenin' if God 8[)are8 me, for his reverence sent me word by Nancy that he'd be ever so glad to see me. But what was I talking about — oh I the night-school — well 1 Billy's goin' every evenin' — barrin' Sunday — and you wouldn't b'lieve, Simy, how well he's gettiu' on. His reverence said it was the pity of the world not to give him a chance of the larnin'." This started a new idea in my head. If Billy Byrne, who was at much harder work than I, all day long, could go to a night-school, what was to hinder me from doing the same. A thirst for knowledge was one of my master-passions, and shared with am- bition the empire of my being. Frora my earliest boyhood I had been looking forward lo some indefi* 6* 54 CONFESSIONS OF AN AP08TAT5. nite period when I could gain access to the' fountains of knowledge, and drink my fill of their mystic waters. If I ever was to rise in the world, I had an idea that it must be by knowledge and skill, not by labor. Here, then, was a golden opportunity held out to me, and I grasped it with an eager hand. Havuig ascertained from Patt where the school was to be found, I went straight thither, and made arrangements to commence my studies on the follow- ing evening. I had never thought of asking the Byrnes what the master's religion was, but I soon found out that it was just what it ought to be. The teacher was a good, simple-hearted Kerry man, wholly unskilled in the world's ways, but well versed in classical and other lore, both ancient and modern. He was a devout Christian, a protege of the excellent priest of whom Patt Byrne had told me, and the pedantry which formed his most striking character- istic was so very amusing, and at the same time so very inoffensive, that you could not help liking the old man even when ho assumed the greatest sternness. Tou felt that far down under that thick layer of pedantry and that other thinner one of scholastic exactness, there was a world of truthfulness and genuine kindness, and that the quaint exterior of the pedagogue covered a heart attuned to the softest i OSTATB. !88 to the' fountains 1 of their mystic he world, I had an 3 and skill, not by I opportunity held a eager hand, where the school thither, and made idies on the follow- ;ht of asking the tt was, but I soon ought to be. The rted Kerry man, ys, but well versed icient and modem. •ffe of the excellent told me, and the striking character- the same time so ot help liking the greatest sternness. lat thick layer of one of scholastic truthfulness and int exterior of the led to the softest C0NFESSI0X8 OF AN APOSTATE. 65 Larmony. It was lucky for poor Philippus O'Siilli- van, as he chose to call himsdf, that his pupils were young men rather than boys. Had they been of an age for flogging, I verily believe the old man would have been the subject, they the masters, for his rule was simply no rule at all. The doctrine of " moral 'suasion " was as yet unbroaclied in theory, but in practice it was identically that which my old master carried out in exemplary fidelity. Fortunately for his credit— for I confess I have no faith whatever in " moral force " as applied to urchins at school— he was saved the necessity of keeping a day-schooi by a certain little office which his kind patron had pro- cured for him, and which occupied his time from nine till four every day. With us of more mature growth he was exceedingly popular, perhaps fully an much on account of his grotesque physique, and the amuse- ment we derived from his quaint, old-fashioned ways, as the real good qualities which adorned his inner man. It so happened that Master Philippus took quite a fancy to my unworthy self, notwithstanding that I played more tricks on him than any other in the school. He saw that I was pursuing knowledge with all the fervor of my heart, and as he used to say in his own peculiar way : " It does me good to see a (« CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. well-endowed youth bending his head lovingly to drink of the Parian spring spoken of by that true and ever-to-be-remeuibered poet, Alexander Pope. Surely I esteem myself highly favored when an all- bountiful Providence permits me to hold the cup — that is to say, boys, to be made the humble instrument in replenishing your young minds with the fullness of that wisdom which proceeds not from books alone, but also from a close observance of men and things as we see them in this mundane sphere of ours — " To what an extent poor Philippus had observed " men," the foregoing remarks will show ; but as for " thmgs " he had certainly given them much atten- tion, and was no mean authority in the physical and exact sciences. There was one thing— yes, there were two things in which the old man excelled most men whom I had as yet known. These were inex- tinguishable love for his native knd, and a child-like submission of his understanding to the teachings of religion. Like most Irishmen deserving of the name, ho cherished the memory of the old land as some- thing inseparably connected with religion. With him, Ireland ought still to be the Island of Saints, and the national reputation was, I think, dearer to him than his own. It was a strange lot that had cast him over the great sea into the heart of that POSTATB. i head lovingly to :en of by that true , Alexander Pope, vored when an all- 3 to hold the cup — 5 humble instrument Is with the fullness )t from books alone, of men and things phere of ours — " ippuB had observed ill show ; but as for I them much atten- in the physical and i thing — yes, there I man excelled most . These were inex- [and, and a child-like to the teachings of serving of the name, 3 old land as some- ith religion. With he Island of Saints, i, I think, dearer to trange lot that had to the heart of that COKFSSSIOXS OF AN APOSTATK. 57 foreign city ; foreign indeed to him, forming a unit in the great numerical whole, but as distinct in his national and personal peculiaritieo as man could well be. His very w.alk on the street when you chanced — and it was a rare chance — to meet him abroad, told you that he was merely in. the community, not of it, for while multitudes hurried past him to and fro, intent on the visible world around them, he glided like a spectre through their midst, looking strangely grave in his long brown surtoul closely buttoned to the chin, little heeding the human vortex whirling around him, but wrapt up in his own cogitations, and journeying, it might be, on the top of Parnassus, or, more likely still, through the storied passes of his own mountains far away in " O'Sullivan's Country." He was a man of the past, that old Philippus, yet he was neither dry, nor cold, nor even insensible to the boyish ambition which lured us on up the steep path which leads to Science. Although caring little for the world himself, and despising ii his heart all it has to offer, he certainly did his best to fit us, Ma pupils, for the several narts by it assigned us. Under Mr. O'Sullivan's tuition, I made considera- ble progress in the several branches to which I ap- plied myself. By his advice I made grammar, arith- motic, and book-keeping my prmcipal studies. I soon 08 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATK. found my account in this, for Mr. Brown, my first employer, having himself taken the trouble to exam- ine me, and being satisfied with my capacity, ob- tained for me a good situation as clerk in another hardware establishment. This was another step in advance, and it was with » proud and exulting heart that I sat down to inform my mother of my good fortune. I had written home regularly every few weeks since my arrival in America, and in the an- swers which I duly received (elaborately penned and indited by no less a person than Master O'Grady him- self,) my poor mother never failed to express her satisfaction at the wonderful change that was taking place in the style and appearance of my letters. At first she could hardly believe that I wrote them my- self, and the neighbors were all of the same notion, she said ; but after a little, when I had really con- vinced both her and " the neighbors," her exultation knew no bounds. These letters from home gave much pleasure to Mr. O'Suilivan, whose kind heart rejoiced in the happiness which he felt was chiefly his own v'ork ; but unluckily Patricius O'Grady took it into his head to append to one of the long-winded epistles a postscript of self-laudation. He always knew, he said, that I'd come to something, for he gave me " what you might call a good foundation." I 'OSTATK. r. Brown, my first le trouble to exara- i my capacity, ob- is clerk in another as another step in and exulting heart nother of my good jgularly every few ica, and in the an< orately penned and 'aster O'Grady him- led to express her ge that was taking of my letters. At I wrote them my- >f the same notion, 1 I had really Con- ors," her exultation I from home gave , whose kind heart he felt was chiefly •icius O'Grady took of the long-winded lation. He always something, for he good foundation." CONFESSIONS OV AN APOSTATE. 5d " I'd like to know what it was, then," said Philippus testily, " I'm sure I had to dig it out, and lay every stone of it myself. He lay a foundation, the block- head I That's what he'll never do, Simon, except it may be a foundation of stirabout in his own paunch Foundation, indeed I" It required all the little address I was master of to soothe the professional vanity of my worthy pre- ceptor, disturbed and irritated by the .assertion of a rival claim on the part of the obscure O'Grady. I could only succeed by a very unprincipled deprecia- tion of the attainments of that personage, together with an humble confession of the lamentable state of ignorance from which Philippus had drawn me forth. Many a good laugh O'llanlon and I had over the harmless oddity of the worthy pedagogue, and even John Parkinson, bluff Englishman as he was, con- ceived a real regard for " Old Pliil," as we were wont to call him. I could luugh then at the droll peculiarities of the good old man, but now I could weep to think that I did not honor him as he deserved, and that I did not imbibe some of that science which made him " wise unto salvation," when I drank in so eagerly, and in such copious draughts, that profane learning which, compared with the other, and wanting it, is worse 60 CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. than useless. But the past cannot now be recalled. My race of life is run, once for all, and the many false steps I made are never, never to be retrieved on earth. During the year and a half that I remained at Mrs. Johnson's, O'llanlon and I had many taunts and much ridicule to endure on the score of religion, and there were times when I almost wished that I was like the others, restrained by no ties of conscience from eating as I pleased at all times. It was hard, I used to think, that the Church should insist on that which made her children ridiculous in the eyes of others. Not that I felt it any privation to eat fish on Friday and Saturday— the good old custom was still " second nature," and I had no « yearning for the flesh-pots" of others. But I was painfully sensitive to the shafts of ridicule, even though despising those who launched them, and I never could get accustomed to the slang abuse so plentifully heaped on the relig- ion I professed. Each time that I went to confession, however, I got over this false shame for a few days, or perhaps a few weeks, but unfortunately it was only at Christ- mas and Easter that I went, and a specific applied at such long intervals could have Uttle effect on the tenor of a life. Occasionally, to be sure, when I )9TATE. t now be recullecl. ill, and the many er to be retrieved [ remained at Mrs. many taunts and ire of religion, and vished that I was ties of conscience es. It was hard, I ould insist on that )U8 in the eyes of 'ation to eat fish on Id custom was still " yearning for the i painfully sensitive ugh despising those mid get accustomed leaped on the relig- ifession, however, I V days, or perhaps a was only at Christ- a specific applied at little effect on the to be sure, when I COXPK88ION8 OF AN APOaTATB, 61 went to High Mass, I heard some discourse that affected me for the time, and brought back a portion of the old fervor that was as fast disappearing from my mind and heart as the rustic bashfulness and boy- ish simplicity were from my outward bearing. The corduroy breeches and Caroline hat, which had formed important items in my outfit, were long ago laid aside as unfit for the pave of Washington Street, and with them went by degrees many of the minor observances of religion, which, like them, I thought, were " too Irish " * ji a polished state of society. Still I was a Catholic in form, and to some extent in feeling. I generally contrived to put in a word in defence of my religion, too, whenever it was assailed in my pres- ence, especially if the assailant was an intimate ac- quaintance, or if the odds were not against me. Nothing would have hurt me more than to tell me that I was growing cold and indifferent in religious matters, or to hint that there was any possibility of my falling away from the faith of my fathers. Still I could not be insensible to the change that was coming over me. When, for instance, I received a letter from my mother (as all the family epistles were written in her name), I no longer received her maternal admonitions as I formerly, or even recently, had done. She would tell me in the inflated language •3 C0}J»liSS10JJH Of AK APOStAflt. of O'Grady : " Son of my lieart, 1 pray God niglit and morning that the dow of Ilis holy grace may pour down its choicest blessings on you, and that your eyes may never go astray after the follies aiul vanities of that great city. Every day you rise keep God before your eyes, and never forget your morn- ing or evetiing prayers. I hope you'll never leave off that blessed and holy scapular that I got you invested ■with before you went, and that you'll have the beads always about you, so as to keep you from all harm." These pious and affectionate injunctions used to bring the tears to my eyes for the first few months after I came to Boston, but now I glanced them impa- tiently over, with a flushed cheek and a contemptu- ous curl of the lip. " What a foolish old woman !" I muttered, half-ashamed to hear myself speak so of such a mother ; " it is hard to say whether herself or her amanuensis is the greatest fool ! Beads in- deed ! I'd to see myself caught in Boston with a pair in my pocket. If I followed her advice to the letter, I'd soon be an old voteen myself." Nevertheless, I took care to send her some money from time to time, and my letters were more affec- tionate than one would suppose from the callous state of indifference into which I was rapidly sink- »08tAT«. I pray God night [is lioly grace irmy ! on you, and tliat ftor tho follies and Y day you rise keep forget your morn- ou'U never leave off I I got you invested )u'll have the beads ceep you from all injunctions used to the first few months glanced them impa- le and a conteniptu- ibolish old woman I" niyself speak so of say whether herself ist fool ! Beads in- t in Boston with a id her advice to the nyself." end her some money irs were more affec- ie from the callous I Avas rapidly siuk- CONFEHSlOyS OP AS APOSTATE. 69 ing. I laughed to myself, notwithstanding, as I thought of tlie " fine boovore and fine ailken gowns » which I had held out to my poor mother as an in- ducement. " What a figure she'd cut in a silk dress, poor old body !" I soliloquized ; " sure it's drugget or stuff that answers the like of her!" I forgot that my new-fashioned mode of reasoning only brought me to the same conclusion which my mother's good sense had reached long before. Tranquil and content in her humble sphere, vanity and ambition were Strang- ers to her bosom ; and when I, in my boyish folly, lost sight of the fact, she rebuked me with all the simple dignity of a true Christian. But at this time I was wholly incapable of appreciating the nobility of soul which raises the Christian above the puerile vanities of this vain world. About eighteen months after ray arrival in Boston, I was left in a minority of one in Mrs. Johnson's domicile. Harry O'llanlon saw fit to take to himself a helpmate and « went house-keeping," to my great discomfiture, for now I feared the scoffs and jeers of my companions more, far more than I did at first. While I was looking forward with the most gloomy 64 0ONT1WBION8 OF AN ArOSTATE. forebodings as to my future comfort in Mio house, an incident occurred which I could neither have foreseen nor expected, and which bettered my condition more than a little. OHTATS. )rt in *,ho house, an either have foreseen my condition more CONFESSIONS OF AX APOSTATE. 05 CILUTEIi IV. MRS. JOUNSON ISSUES A MAXIFKSTO. S^^SN- NE Friday, a week or two after O'llan Ion's departure, one of our boarders, a self-conceited young " down-easter," was, as usual, making merry at my ex- pense in regard to my eating fish whtii I might have flesh. "I guess you'll find that mackerel rayther salt," said he, " suppose now you were to try this here roast beef. Can't, eh ? Well ! that's what I caU rayther hard. Why, man, the priest won't know anything about it, except you tell him, and I reckon you might leave that out when you go to confession •—eh, Kerrigan ? toill you be a man for once ?" " To the mischief with that rusty mackerel," cried aSm ■JhikiMlijiiMlhl If COKFR8HION8 OF AK APOHTATB. •nother, " I wouldn't touch it with tho tonga. Mrs. Johnson, it's all along of you tliis nonHenwe of Kerri- gan'8 ; if yon didn't put fmh on the table he'd have to eat what he couhl get, and he'd thank you in the end, even if it annoyed him some at first. He'll luin his constitution eating fish two days in tho week. He will indeed." Mrs. Johnson's grave countenance grew graver as Bho replied : " I'd have you to know that I'll hear no more of this. Lot the young man eat what he has K mind to. It ain't my way to meddle with such things, and, besides, I don't know but what tho Pa- pists are right and other folks wrong." We all opened our eyes wide and fixed them on Mrs. Johnson's face, which looked rather blue at the moment. One made an exolftmalion of surprise, an- other upset his " tumbler," and a third pushed back his chair with such angry force that one would sup- pose inwardly vowing never to eat again. For me, I could only gaze in speocliless astonishment on the face at the head of tho table and the two grey eyes that were peering curiously at us all through a pair of Bbell-mounted sp^jclacles. ♦♦ I say they may be right," repeated Mrs. Johnson very slowly ; " I went last night to the Popish meet- ing-house, iown to Franklin street, to hear Bishop OHTATE. oonrKHHioKH or an apohtatk. 67 I tho totigs. I^Irn. iKiiiMeiiHe of Kerri- lio tablii hcM liavo 1 tliank you in tlio me at first. IIo'll dayH in tho week. ICO grew graver as ow that I'll hear no in cat what he has meddle with such r but what the Pa- ,ng." and fixed thorn on 1 rather blue at tho lion of surprise, an- \ third pushed back Lhat one would sup- lat again. For me, iHtonishmont on the [1 the two grey eyes all through a pair of leated Mrs. Johnson to the Popish meot- ■eet, to hear Bishop Cheyerus, and, my stars 1 I can't keep from thinking ever Hince of what I heanl him way. IIo'n a inoHt unconmion wise man, and talks like a phophet — I think such words I never heard from the moulh of man, and I wouldn't believe, if any one swore it, that a Popis!) priest could talk so. lie was just a talking of folks fasting and denying themselves for ChriHt'g sake, and I till you, he did make me feel wonderful queer. So says I to myself, ' Kachel Jolinson^' says I, ' if you choose to go right straight on yourself eating the nicest things you can git hold of, don't find fault any more with folks that are willing to deny themselves for conscience' sake — and that's jist what I mean to do, and I tell you I'll have no one at my table that won't do it. He's a most uncommon larncd man that Bishop Choverus, and I do believe that a man so good and so larned, cannot be wrong. So I mean to tell our minister next time I see him." Then addressing me she said, " Eat your dinner, Ker- rigan. No one shall meddle with your choice so long as you eat at my table. I opinioiiate that Pa- pists ain't half so bad after all as fulkb make them out. I said, so to Deacon Lowe on uur way home last night, and the Deacon said that that 'ere Bishop Cheverus wagn'i a bad man, anyhow I for he had had his eye on hira most all the time since he's bin in Bos* 08 CONFESSIOXS OF AN APOSTATE. ton, and if he ain't a real out-and-out good Christian he never saw one — that's all he'd got to say." The sneer had gradually vanished from every face as the blunt, earnest old woman thus delivered her- self. The whole city of Boston was at that time, as for years and years before, lost in admiration of the great and good man who had left his home and friends in the sunny land of France to labor amongst strangers in a foreign clime, and under sterner skies, for the extension of Christ's Church. His virtues were on every tongue. His talents and accomplish- ments were the theme of general praise even amongst the fastidious and " exclusive " literati of the self- styled " Athens of America." Men and women of all creeds, and of no creed, thronged to hear him when he preached, and his resistless eloquence, strengthened and enforced by the parity of his life and the heroic virtues which all men can admire but few imitate, made a lasting impression on his hearers. Before his heaven-inspired reasoning the mists of prejudice cleared away, and men who merely went through curiosity to hear him were astounded to find themselves believing as he did before they left his presence. In him the majesty of religion, the domin- ion of virtue, were displayed to an incredulous world. That world seeing, was convinced, and if all were L [•OSTATB. •out good Christian jot to say." 10(1 from every face thuB delivered her- ras at that time, as u admiration of the left his home and ce to labor amongst under sterner skies, lurch. His virtues its and accoraplish- iraise even amongst literati of the self- len and women of onged to hear him dsistless eloquence, le purity of his life nea can admire but Bsion on his hearers, aning the mists of I who merely went re astounded to find before they left his religion, the domin- 1 incredulous world, ed, and if all were CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATB. eg not converted, all were induced to think well of a religion which they had been taught to look upon as something diabolical.* The name of Bishop Cheverus, then, commanded the respect of the entire city, and the interest which every one felt in his affaire was truly remarkable. Even my messmates, indifferent as most of them were to all religion, had nothing to say against the good Bishop, and the mantle of his exalted reputa- tion served to shield my unworthy self for the time to come, from the wanton attacks of my sportive persecutors. My abstaining from flesh-meat on any particular day for cohn nee' sake was something which they regarded as very ftmny, indeed, but when they heard of such abstinence being defended and justified by the great man whom all Boston looked upon as something beyond the ordinary race of mor- tals, it became quite a different thing, so that I never after had anything like the same amount of ridicule to encounter on that particular ordinance of religion. The esteem in which I saw the good Bishop held —even by the Protestant community — was a subject • In proof of this it may be mentioned, that, when this illus trious missionary was eollecting funds to build the first Catholic Church ever put up in Boston, he was generously assisted by th« wealthy Protestant inhabitants of that city. M CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. of salutary reflection to me." " Now," said I to my- self, " here am I almost ashamed of my religion on account of its being so diiFerent from others. I'm ashamed of going to confession, and try all I can to keep others from knowing it, though, God knows, it isn't often I go ! I'm most ashamed of abstaining from meat when the Church commands it, and I wouldn't bless myself before Protestants if I got all the silver in the Wicklo\7 mines. Now that's all for fear of the Protestants laughing at you — isn't it, Simon Kerrigan ? Well ! just look at the Bishop. Isn't he a good Catholic — every way you take him ? he's never afraid or ashamed to do what the Church ordains — they say he'll never even go to a party of any kind with them unless it's some public occasion that he can't get over — still, there's ne'er a man in Boston — no'er a one of their own ministers, may'be that they think so much of, or would go farther for. Think of that now, Simon ! and hold up your head like a man for the time to come I Sure if you had the spirit of a man or an Irishman you wouldn't bo ashamed of the religion that St. Kevin and St. Patrick belonged to, not to speak of all the rest of the saints from St. Peter down — ihey used to bless themselves, end fast, ay faith ! and their fasting was no joke, for they kept it up most of the time, and hardly allowed L POSTATB. f ow," said I to my- l of my religion on from other8. I'm md try all I can to ugh, God knows, it imed of abstaining immands it, and I testants if I got all Now that's all for » at you — isn't it, ook at the Bishop. vay you take him ? lo what the Church 3n go to a party of >mtj public occasion e's ne'er a man in Q ministers, may'be 3uld go farther for. hold up your head ! Sure if you had an you wouldn't bo evin and St. Patrick le rest of the saints to bless themselves, ig was no joke, for and hardly allowed CONPfiSBlOKS O** \1i APOSTATB. 71 tliemselves enough to keep body and soul together. Keep all this in mind, Simon, my boy ! and it's proud you'll be o: imitating the likes of them, and profess- ing the faith that made saints of them !" Buoyed up by such thoughts as these I had a spas- modic fit of religion, and while it lasted I considered myself quite chivalrous in manifesting my faith on every possible and impossible occasion. While under the influence of this temporary fervor, I was rather proud than otherwise of being the only one in the house who pretended to mortify the ancient Adam, and I actually had my hand up to my forehead to make the sign of the Cross one morning as we sat down to breakfast. Unluckily I caught John Parkin- son's eye at the moment, and it seemed to me that it had a twinkle of fun in it, which I rightly attributed to the over-valorous action I was about to perpetrate. It is needless to say that the attempt was abortive as far as the blessing went. Running the culprit hand through my hair as though that were the ultimate object with which it sought my brow, I drew up my collar with a peculiarly independent air, and looked very hard at the picture of a greyhound on the wall before me. All this did not save me from the lash of Joh!i Parkinson's good-natured raillery. For many a day after he used to quiz me unmercifully 78 CONFESSIONS OF AN AF08TATB. al)out the blessing, especially the sheepish look I wore on the occasion. On the following Snnday evening I was walking with Parkinson and another yonng Protestant friend of mine, dowTi by the wharves along the banks of the Charleston river, when who should we meet but Philippus O'Sullivan strolling leisurely along with hands crossed behind his back and head bowed down in abstracted musing. "Smoke the old fellow?" said Parkinson; "he looks as thongh we might poke some fun out of him, don't he ?" " Hush, hush !" said I, " that's my old master." " What, O'Sullivan ?" " Exactly !" " Better and better, I often wished to see the old codger, for I've a sort of notion that he's a quer customer. Hail him, Kerrigan ! for if you don't he'll pass without noticing you. Go it, Simon ! Pm just in want of something to make me laugh." Thus urged, I accosted Philippus, who was as much Bxirprised to see me as though I had suddenly been brought thither from the interior of Africa. I form- ally introduced my companions, and the old man re- turned their mock salute with a very low bow togeth- er with a very sincere expression of the pleasure he •08TATB. leepish look I wore Ding I was walking g Protestant friend ilong the banks of ihoxild we meet but isurely along with i head bowed down id Parkinson ; " he ome fun out of him, ,'s my old master." ished to see the old m that he's a qner for if you don't he'll it, Simon ! I'm just e laugh." us, who was as much I had suddenly been r of Africa. I form- and the old man re- very low bow togeth- n of the pleasure he 'i CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 13 felt in making their acquaintance. At our joint re- quest he turned back with us. " How has it come to pass, Simon," said Mr. O'Sal- livan, " that I have not seen you this last fortnight ? I fear your thirst for knowledge is beginning to slacken." " Oh I not at all, master, it ain't that, T assure you." " It ain't, eh ?" interrupted the worthy pedagogue, laying marked emphasis on the word ainU, " well if it ainH that, as you say, what are it ?— oh, Simon ! that I should hear you speak such grammar— did you, or did you not, ever learn the first rule of syntax ? Tell me that now !" Parkinson winked at Sharp, as much as to say : " What did I tell you ?" and both made signs for me to continue the conversation which began so auspi- ciously for their hopes of " fun." " Oh 1 never mind syntax now," I replied, affecting to be annoyed, " there's a time for all things. When I'm in school say wliat you like to me, but when I'm not in school, I don't want to be drilled— I won't have it, Mr. O'Sullivan, I tell you once for all." The master looked aghast. He evidently doubted his own ears. "Tell me one thing, Simon ! did you hear what the Bishop said last Sunday at High Mass about the reverence due to age f " .^ CONFKSSIOKS OF AN APOSTATB. »lwarn't at High Mass last Sunday." I retu-ea .veek-the only day we can call our own u Well, Sin.on," said the old man with a hea y aicrh " the Bishop said — " _ .»i ,l.e™h,ed to .nave a -how of indcpenden . t^plcially a, I .aw my two companion, B-ag ..gn,.- e„tf,ng^eve,.y..onaad.pea«ngve.ya^y, .^ that there's no use talking to you. It 8 only g o itri'd be to these worthy young men, and the bargam. It would b r ^^^^ entirely to entertain them m any othe w y ^^ best of my poor abilities, and tb ^ ^ ^;;; ^ , lauKh at myself as long as they pleased, but m reg r'eligion it's a ditrerent thing ^^f^^J^l • Lor'woman doesn't step in ^^^^^, .now to laugh at it or make httle of it m my pr -thont raising my humble voice agamst It. 1 ence without raismg ^ ^^^^ ^ishyou all a very good e^.mng Aa^ eame old-fashioned, rustic bow as before, my OSTATE. uiulay," I returned feel Botnewhat net- ,9__it takes up too -people have in the ur own." man with a heavy le said," snapped I ow of independence, mions smiling signifi- gan," said Philipr"s- ing very drily, "after ,-ou. It's only giving •thyyonng men, and e of amusement into great pleasure to me any other way to the they'd be welcome to r pleased, hut in regard hing altogether. The n shoe leather that I'd little of it in my prea- mble voice against it. I 3ning!" AndAviththe ,ow as hefore, my old CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. in master turned and walked slowly away witli an air of offended dignity that made tne langli, altlioiigli I felt exceedingly binall, too. Neither Parkinson nor Slmrp joined in the laugh which surprised me not a little. I made no remark, however, and we walked on a few yards in silence. Parkinson was the first to speak : " I say, Kerrigan, I think yon got the worst of it that time, didn't you ? Queer and all as he is, 1 rather think the old man had you there— oh, Simon ?" " Not he," I returned, in direct contradiction to the voice of conscience which inwardly pronounced a decided affirmative, " he's nothing better than a meddlesome old fool. I'll be done with him from this out." I was not to be done with him quite so soon as I expected. It might have been some six weeks after, when I was sitting alone on one of the rustic seats on the Common, enjoying the rest which is always so sweet after a day of toil. The sunset was gilding the fine old trees which give grace and beauty to the undulating surface of the Common, and refreshing shade to the morning and evening walks of the good old people of Boston. One of these umbrageous canopies provided by the considerate care of some by-gone City-Council ; now spread its gracious shade fO COXFESSIOKS OV AN APOHTATE. over my head, and I ^vaH droanuly lounging away :::,J in the mo.t perfect enjoyment of two.. far niente, when a well-known voice «poke at my ile and a heavy ha.ul, an authoritative hand, wan :-ro:my.>ouUler. The voice was that of — O'Sullivan, and it is hardly necessary to say that h.s ..as the hand, too. I was not displeased at the m. centre, for, truth to tell, I had been thinking of home, and of days which I could not help admittmg were, after all, the happiest I had yet known. w.s hmk ingofmygood, pious, simple old mothe., of he .fothers and sisters from whom I ^^-^ ™>-^ ^; tached more than I chose to acknowledge even to my own heart. With the family group came back to „,y xnemory the long-revered minge of lathe O'Byrne, whose simple, yet touching exbortaUo.. resounded tl.rough my heart in the sdence ol tha evening hour. Though last, not least, m poppea the ome^Lt grotesque physiognomyofPatricmsOGra- dy,his lank form cased ir fne.e and corduroy, and ,!: ferule in his hand looking particularly threaten- in., yet I thought of the pedagogue then wUh un "led kindness, and the "rule" winch used to rrme " wither away for fear," was now nothmg Tor than a characteristic "accessory" to the por- Tat It was just then that rhihppus accosted me IHTATK. ily lounging away lyment of the dolce oice spoke at my )ritfttive hand, was a8 that of Dominie sary to Hay that his ipleascd at the ren- \ thinking of home, 3lp admitting were, lown. I >* as think- old mother, of tlie I knew myself de- owledge even to my roup came back to image of Father aching exhortations I the silence of that , least, in popped the ly of Patricias O'Gra- ,ze and corduroy, and partic\ilarly threaten- gogue then with un- ale" which used to ar," was now nothing ccessory" to the por- ?hilipp«9 accosted ma CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. :7 as before mentioned, and I was rather jileased than otherwise at the interraption. Assuredly there waa scarce another individual in Boston so closely afflil- iated to the scenes and persons that oconpicd my mind. " I got a letter from your mother, Simon," said the old man after a few words of mutual inquiry had passed between us. " You I you got a letter from my mother !" I ex- claimed in surprise ; " why, what docs my mother know about yow, or you about her. It's very stnmge that she'd be writing to yon /" I looked hard at the Dominie, and, through the assumed look of innocence which sat awkwardly enough on his honest old face, I detected a certain confusion which betrayed the secret of the letter. My mind instantly misgave me that he had been doing what I then considered mischief, although now I see the action in a far difterent light. I was angry, yet I strove to conceal my vexation, and asked very quietly if I might see the letter. No, he hadn't it about him, he said, he forgot it at the house beyond. Indeed, he hadn't the least idea that he'd meet me, when he went out for his even- ing walk on the Common. If he had, he'd surely have brought the letter. tl I i It CONFESSIONS OV kS APOBTATB. u What iH it alH.ut r I ««ked rathe, sharply, being now coiifirineil in n»y 9UH|/u-ion. »Well, „K.st of it'B uhout you-of cour«e-aear W« I aou't know what put it into your worthy another's head to write to me of all people. He knew well enou{,'h, if he only cho.o to «ay so. 'r. for him, ho.evor, and ho neither den^ed nor adnuttedit,hawent on as it-he had not noticed ''tu ntlyonr znother_an excellent woman she U,too_has got it into her head that you^c not a« attentive to your religious duties as y-;«g''\^« !^«; She says you're beginning to negi.-«t/.r,.nd that that's a sure sign that you'., neglecting your Gd^ u Me neglect her ! why, the old woumu s raung, 1 ,„ess. Didn't 1 send her twenty dollars about a Sh ago, and that', the last of sixty dolnxs^^s^^^^^ her altogether Neglecting her, u.deed! Id hWc to know what she expects from me I" Tni tell you that, my good Simon; she expects the same love and affection from you as when y^u e.e at home, and without that, she says, ^ledoesnt ::,ue all the money you'd send her. She's poor enough, she says, but still not so poor but ^he can do . Tuhu; your money, if your heart isn't what .used I be towards hev, and she's a'mo^t .are U is not »r- t _J »8TAT«. hvi- Blmrply, boii'g —of coarse— tl«w into your worthy r all i»eoi.le." H" K.SO to Rliy 80. I neither denied nor e had not noticed ccellent woman she I that you're not an as you ought to be. jn , she says, she doesn't jnd her. She's poor o poor Viut '•he can do jart isn't what it used a'most sure it is not t // CONKEH8IO\B or AS APOHTATK. 70 from the way you write to her. Slie's in great trou- ble, too, about your houI, for fear it's losing your failli you mijrlit be, or living in a state of sin." These words (-ut me to the (piick, for I felt that they were only what F dcMerved. I bitterly reproii-lnd myself for my ingratitude which now stared me in the face, and liad I been alone I would have shed many n repentant tear for the pangs I well knew I had caused my widowed mother. Hut O'.Sullivan was beside me, his slirewd, deep-set eye fixed full upon me as though it woidd read my thoughts. This scrutiny I considered as a downright insult, and starting angrily to my feot, I said in tones of sup- pressed rage : " I'd thank you, 3Ir. O'SulIivan, to mind your own business for the time to come, and leave me to mind mine. I'm very little obliged to you for writing to my mother about my affairs, and I'm just as little obliged to her for making so free with my name to a stranger." " A stranger, Simon !" repeated the old man in a sorrowful tone ; " am I a stranger to you, then ?" " Yes, you are, and worse than any stranger. I'll never s])eak a word to you again as long as I'm alive, unless my mind clianges, and as for the fool! h old ■woman that wrote such a blathering letter to you, ,0 c<»-"..«">» <>' »' "■"""'■ n, «„cs >,.r up fo- « -'":-:;:/::,,::::, •11 1 Wlu.ii 8ho Rets any more inonty will'. Wn«" »»" *^ ^ , ... ,.,,,1 irvethem tu God for my own » t v,,ow inv ->" y- - " *'""I ; r,o- »o*e,'. pr»r'. , II ^Tm KTATB. never fcnr but I monoy f''"" n^"' "oU her that ;/"•♦ in jit I'm anHwerttl)le not to her, »» "h* I know my on>'.» ™- l„ J. .ightof .i,e B>— ""'Vi:::: r: a. „„ deshaWe .cquainlance,, i.,.™.u* as thej «e,e .oeold-faslnoned in theU «,.e» and hab,« for ».y „,.ea.b-refi..ed ideaa. Patt « a laborer ,00 and :„ „a' hi. aon Tommy, and a, I had got at lea.. .«o «ep. higher than that, it w#» wholly .n,ro»hle, m 1 . thlg nottohe e,„eeted,that I .honid con.nu^ on ,h..ame,*rms with them. This eo„clu»,on wa. forced on me by what I considered a ve,y nnto...d circunstance. I was one day gon,g along &m,mer ,„eet,on some business for my employers, dressed „ a very stylish " basiness-suit" of fine gray jmmer eloth, and though. I was looking -f*'-- * whereat I was mightily ..leased, for "l-o »^°"™ on turning a comer bn. the charnnng M,s, Prmg le a very stylish young tady, whose aequamtance lid made at a public ball. Now Mis. Pringle had the lor of belg forewoman to a rrencbm,Wm Washington street, and it was commonly bel,e>ed Tt he? old father, who had lived and d.ed some- Ire "away down East," had left berime mm areds of dollars. This, of course, gave add.uonal attraction, to a face and tigure that were snlhc.en ly ...ractivo of themselves. I was part,cul.rly pie d, .hen, to meet Mis. Pringle just wh , I was conscou. k.TE. CONPES-IONS OP AK APOSTATE. 83 ix montlis en- I looked upon h a8 they were habits for my iborer, too^ and Tot at least two y^ impossible, in should continue 1 conclusion was V very untoward ; along Summer iployers, dressed ine gray summer remarkably well, rho should I meet ig Miss Pringle, jquainlance 1 had Pringle had the rench milliner in ■mmonly believed i and died some- ift her some hun- 5, gave additional A were sufficiently irticularly pleased, 1 I was conscious of being well dressed, and, indeed, Miss Pringle seemed just as glad to meet me,' I suppose for the same reason, for she, too, was sporting her first crapes, and had the consoling testimony of her mirror at home that she looked not only lovely, but divine, in her exceedingly deep mourning. In my delight at seeing so welcome a sight that fine summer morning I had paid little attention to the fact that some men were working in a trench close by the sidewalk, where cej'tain repairs were being made on the water-jjipes. Who, then, can conceive my mortification and em- barrassment, when, just as the young lady and my- self Iiad exclianged wliat we both thought a very polite salutation, a rough voice from the neighboring trench called out my name, with a «' Bad-manners to you, Simy ! is that you ?" I hardly knew which end of me was uppermost, so great was my confusion. The voice was that of Patt Byrne, and I must confess I could freely have per- formed that operation on his tongue which is said to give magpies the power of speech. Without answering Patt'3 impudent inquiry as to my identity, I stole a look at Miss Pringle, who, in her turn, cast a penetrating glance at me. " Good gracious, Mr. Kerrigan I are j/ou Irish ?" she asked, in a lo'r voice, not so low, however, but Patt Byrne heard her. hi^ :JBj E£ -^ 84 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. « Is he Irish ?" said he, popping his head up from the excavation. '"Deed, it's himself that is, and a dacent father and mother's child he is, too. It's my- self that knows that well, for I seen him when he was little worth. When did you hear from the old wo- man, Simy ?" Muttering some indistinct reply, I nodded to Miss Pringle and walked on, annoyed by the contemptu- ous smile on her pretty face. «mo'd have thought it!" she softly whispeml, as I passed her by. _ »Why, then, what in the world's got into that boy ?" said Patt Byrne to his companion in the work of excavation, as he dived again under ground. Neither observation was lost on me, and I felt hum- bled, and could hardly tell why. The truth was I had lost the good opinion of the fair Miss Prmgle, who, I well knew, could never get over my bemg on such intimate terms with an Irish laborer, ^vho cer- tainly looked anything but " respectable " m h.s clay- soiled working clothes ; as for Patt, I was probably done with his friendship, too, but of course that was of infinitely less importance. ^ . T,r. „ I made several atten.pts to regain my place m Miss Pringle's favor, but all in vain, she ever after treated „,e with cool contempt as a person whom she did not ATB. CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. se 3 head up from : that is, and a , too. It's my- m when he was om the old wo- nodded to Miss the contemptu- sofliy whispered, 's got into that miou in the work under ground. -, and I felt hum- The truth was, I air Miss Pringle, over my being on laborer, who cer- table " in his clay- tt, I was probably 3f course that was n my place in Miss } ever after treated whom she did not or could not, recognize. The idea of ever again asso- ciating on equal terms with Patt Byrne and his f.unily was too absurd to be entertained for a moment, and hence it was that I had out the connection in toto. Still, when I heard of Patt's misfortune, I re- proached myself for having so long kept aloof from hrm and his, especially when I thought of the happy escape I had had from pretty Fan Pringle, who, k short time after my unlucky meeting with her on the street, had given : .r fair hand to a certain young master-tailor, who, on his part, got wofully bitten, for instead of receiving four or five hundred dollars with his « bonny bride," he had to pay a round hun- dred which she owed to the French milliner before mentioned. It was with a feeling bordering on shame that I ascended the stairs lo Patt Byrne's rooms, and my heart sank within me when I saw the condition to which the family were reduced in so short a time. Patt was sitting on a low chair with his right leg bandaged up and stretched on a stool before him. His face was ghastly pale and his eyes sunk far into their sockets. So great indeed was the change in his appearance that anywhere else I might have passed him by without knowing him. His wife, too, had lost the freshness of color which was hers bv 8 * ^ It 86 COXFESSIOKS OF AN APOSTATE. nature, and the Irish rose hloomed no longer on the chnbhy faces of the children. In short, they all seemed drooping .and woe-begone, even the httle rugged terrier, th.at had been so brisk and watchful, now hung his head as it were in hopeless raelan- choly, nor noticed my entrance except by a listless Btare. I glanced my eyes around aB I crossed the threshold, the family were all there except Tommy, whom I naturally concluded was at his work, and 1 mentally exclaimed " it's well they have him to earn for them." My entrance was the signal for a burst of weepmg from Nancy Byrne, and Patt himself, as he reached his hand to me, could hardly keep in his tears. 1 endeavored to console them as well as I could, and then asked how all this happened without my hear- ing a word of it. «Ay' you may well ask that,Simyr' said Patt Byrne reproachfully ; " we might be all dead it seems without your knowin' or carin'. God knows, then, if a less thing ailed you, it's in sore trouble we d be about you, all of us." I felt the truth of this, and, for a moment, could frame no answer. At last I ventured on some words of consolation. I had ascertained that Patt had broLn his leg by -. fall, and I muttered something t \' iSTATE. no longer on the n short, they all i, even the little risk and watchful, n hopeless melan- ccept by a listless , aB I crossed the re except Tommy, at his work, and I r have him to earn a burst of weeping iself, as he reached ep in his tears. I nrell as I could, and d without my hear- ,, Simy !" said Patt ; be all dgad it seems God knows, then, sore trouble we'd be For a moment, could tured on some words lined that Patt had muttered something f CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 81 about the trials that some i)eople had to undei-go in this world. "But after all," said I, "sure there'a nothing bad but it might bo worse. Things are bad enough with you now, it's true, but how would it be if you hadn't Tommy earning for you— then you might cry in earnest i" This brouglit a torrent of tears trom Nancy, and even Patt's eyes ran over, as he fixed them on me. " Ah, then, Simon Kerrigan !" said he in a voice that was hardly audible, " is that all you know about it ?" I' About what ?" I asked, with a sinking heart. . " Why, about our heavy sorrow— an' och • och I but that's what it is I" ■ "If it's the broken leg you mean, I know all about that, sure you told me yourself since I came in!" " Oh worra ./» said poor Patt, " if it was only that, I wouldn't regard it a pinch of snuff, God 'sees 1 wouldn't." " Well, and what is it ?" I asked, impatiently. "We lost poor Tommy, Simy,-" Patt's voico failed him, and he covered his tace with his hunds, while a chorus of wailing arose from the mother and children. The blow mnnanned iiyself, for I was altogether unprepared for such dismal tidings, and besides I really felt heart-sorry for the poor lad, who . £*^ 88 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE, was a fine, athletic, promising young fellow, with all his father's good nature, and with no small share of drollery in his composition. I knew not what to say, even after I recovered the use of my speech, and I can hardly tell what I did or what I said. I did not dare to ask questions, every one of which would have been a stab for each heart-wrung parent, and I felt that consolation was beyond my power to give. As well as I can remember I took Patt's hand in silence and squeezed it very hard, and then going over to Nancy I did the same to her, while the tears that streamed down my cheeks evinced the sincerity of my sympathy. After a little, when grief had exhausted itself m' tears, the husband and wife dried their eyes, and appeared comparatively calm. " God bless you, Simy !" said Patt with touching fervor, "may you never have to bear such a load of sorrow as that poor woman and myself have on our hearts this day. Yis, Simy, we have lost the best Bon ever poor people had, a boy that wouldn't take a Bhillin' out of his week's wages 'till he'd brmg it home an' put it in his mother's hand, an' if she'd give him back a quarter or so, he'd be as thankful, my poor boy ! as if it wasn't his own hard earnm'." « True for you, Patt dear, true for you— oh ! Lord 4 i ATK. fellow, with all ) small share of w not what to i of my speech, what I said. I py one of which rt-wrung parent, )nd my power to took Patt's hand , and then going r, while the tears ced the sincerity chansted itself in • I their eyes, and att with touching ear such a load of lyself have on our ave lost the best at wouldn't take a 'till he'd bring it hand, an' if she'd I'd be as thankful, wn hard earnin'." for you— oh! Lord CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. W look on us this sorrowful day !" This touching ex- clamation from the bereaved mother Avent to my very heart— it spoke such a world of unutterable woe. It was some time before I discovered how poor Tommy met his death. He had taken a heavy cold which settled on his lungs, and finally turned to inflammation, which carried him oft' in a few days. He had been taken to the hospital for medical assist- ance, and there he died. About six weeks after, his father fell from a ladder and broke his leg, and the long illness which followed had exhausted the little hoard so carefully preserved as the beginumg of a fortune. " So here we are, you see," said poor Byrne, in conclusion, with an attempt at cheerfulness that made my heart ache; "here we are, Simy, as poor, ay I and poorer than when we landed ; we were layin' out great things for ourselves, God help us ! the very last time you' were here, but see how different things have turned out; well, I suppose we must be con. tent, whatever comes— only it was God's will it wouldn't have come across us, that's aU the comfort we have, sure." " But how in the world do you make out to live, Patt ?" 8* -ifpappiif 90 CONFESSIONS OF AK APOSTATB. " Well ! myself couUl harclly tell you tlmt-tl.ere's none of these chiUler able to do much for us yet, though they're >vilUu' enough, poor things I .f they bad the ability—" "You're forgettin' me, father!" said the second Bon, Johnny, a lad of some fourteen years or so and he stretched up his little thick-set form to its h.ghcst ; « don't you know I'm able to work if I can only get something to do." , , /. j » Dear help you, poor fellow !" ejaculated the fond mother, » it's little you can do, I'm afeard." » I'll soon let you see what I can do," said Johnny, with quite a mortified air, "if Simon will only try and get me in somewhere or other." ^^ " That's just what I wanted to see you for, Simon, said Patt, as he stooped to move the disabled member with both hands; "I know there's a good many people employed where you are, and we were thmk- in' Nancy and myself, that maybe you'd try to get him in. If there's no place there for him, maybe you'd know somebody that would give him work for God's sake." I smiled sadly at this. "If they don't employ him for the sake of his broad little shoulders, Patt, they'll hardly do it for God'« sake. I'm afraid there s no vax^ancy for the like of him about our place, but I hrV Wi _.»i*» i TATK. rou that— llieie's iiuch for us yet, things ! if they said the Recond I years or bo, and rm to its highest ; if I can only get jaculated the fond afeard." do," said Johnny, mon will only try 3e you for, Simon," e disabled member re's a good many ind we were thmk- ,e you'd try to get re for him, maybe give him work for they don't employ ttle shoulders, Patt, I'm afraid there's ibout our place, but C0NPK8RI0NS OF AN APOSTATE. 01 I'll see what can be done. I'll come back soon, at any rate, with soniL'thing better than words." Blessiiigs were heaped on me to no end, and I was hurrying away with a view to cut them short, when on the narrow and somewhat rickety stairs I encoun- tered a person who, notwithstanding the bundle under his arm, I had no difficulty in recognizing as the great and good Bishop of Boston. I stei)i)ed back to the landing to let him pass, and he acknow- ledged the act by a salute as courteous as if I had been an emperor, I saw he was perfectly familiar with the place, and knew well where he was going, for he went straight to Patt Byrne's door, although several other dwellings opened on the same passage. The contents of the clumsy parcel which ho carried were not known to me till my next visit to the Byrnes, but I felt that his errand was one of mercy, for Bishop Cheverus was the good Samaritan who, ubiquitous in his exhaustless charity, was found pour- ing oil on every wound, and ministering in whatever way he could to the wants and woes of his people.* I afterwards found that his bundle contained • It is related in the life of this most worthy prelate that he was very often seen carrying wood up several flights of stairs, to poor, destitute persons, and performing for the sicli and infina the most menial officea. CONFKBHIOSB OT AJt APOSTATK. «s «, Mm OM for . «t«»ti..n. I Imd •.'■••'l » 8™ <1«»'' :::;„. pro,..t™.^ of the go„a«*p;...-^; ta. ...mehow the .nore I hcar.l it ..IkeJ o. the . . I .heugh. »hou. it. The .hu,« h.d h.« « -t ■ •! „ life and it .eeme.! » matter ef cou,.„ for e^cry : :.* ahou. the act, of l.i..op a,ev««. Now thai I saw him with my own eye. m the c er^ „i.eofhi,h»ignmi..ion,".yheart.weW.'hm „, ; I felt that ,uch a m«. wa., mJeea, Uule leM Z, the aog.la."«.d a. far exalted above .heaver. .ge run of mankind a. heaven i. above the earth. The .i"ht of .uoh Q.*like .elf-devot,on brought m« back to a .en., of what the world owe, to rehg.o._ Z went far to revive the halfforgotten fervor of "y e, 'y year.. " Well, after .11," rea.ened w.th Z.elf,"t would be a poor world ».*..' jehgion. Xy ma, make fan of pio... P^-P^ " "-" » »W pJcbut when .iekn... or poverty eome. .cro„ L them that are alway. ready to lend a hand. Son.. .,11 have it that religion i. only . •"•"-"'^"^ ' " ,i.„ »me, but not with all, rU go batl. Here. Bi.hop now-doe.n't he do the «uno thmg every L ol hi. life that we read of the Samt. domg m old time.. And, .ign. on him! there', not man, wc. „an. or child in Boston that doesn't love the ground ly, in order to i a greiit deal, shop's iharity, id of the less I omo m natural urH« for every hop CheveruB. yes in the exer- Bwelled within eed, " liillw less above tlie aver- ,'0 the earth, ition brought me owes to religlc , gotten fervor of reasoned I with without religion. J as much as they rty comes across, tidahand. Some iham— maybe it is > bail. Here's the same thing every e Saints doing in ere's not man, wo- I't love the ground I CONFI-' TONS or AX ArOBTATE. 08 he wallcH on. Well, it's a folly to talk, now, I must stir rip, tliiH sort of a doad-aiid r.'ive way that I'm in wiU nev.-r do. Please God, I'll go to my duty on Saturday next, and I'll write to my mother on Sun- day, and I'll go to see poor O'Sullivan. I wonder how he's getting on !" This frame of mind < .ntinued all that week, and I actually j.erformod all I had proiiusttd. I bought a barrel of ilour for Patt Byrne, and having heard of a situation that I thought might suit Joh.if;v, I went to let them know ; but found that the Bishop had been beforehand with me. He had himself got employ, ment for the lad, to commence on the following Mon- day.^ This w.a8 a drop of joy in the cup of grief, but it hardly served to sweeten it. Dark, and dull, and heavy was the load of sorrow that weighed ddwn the hearts of Patt Byrne and Nancy ; and, as they afterwards told me, there were times when they were tempted to curse the day that saw them leav« their native land, where they might still ha\ .• had their son. But these thoughts were speedily re- pressed, the one rebuking the other for giving utter- ance to them : " Sure, didn't they know well enough, both of them, that their poor boy's hour was come' and he'd die all the same if he had been at home in the corner with his granny in Derrylavery. I'll war- §4 CONFKaaiOXB 0» AJT AP08TAT». rant," 8»id Nancy ; " Ukt heard tl.o baimhoe thU time pant about the oul.l place, for thoro'n never ..no belongin' to the Shana^^hans that dies but hhe er5e» them for weeks before. Oeh ! och ! il'« Utile notion they'd have that it was our Tommy beyant in Amorua she waM cryin'." Palt'B leg, however, was rapidly improving, and that was about the greatest consolation they could all have, under the circumstances. In a couple of M-eeks he was able to go back to his work ; Nancy and the children all watching his first departure from the door with as much pride and satisfaction as if he « walked in silk attire," and " siller had to spare," neither of which was poor I'att's case. On the Sunday I wrote to my mother, and 1 thmk •he never got a letter from me so oonsoUng to her heart, for I felt as though it was but the day before I had left her, and "the kind old friendly feelings " came gushing out from my heart of hearts. I told my mother how very careless I had been about rehg- ion-I told her very frankly; but assured her that for the time to come I was going to turn over a new leaf. I forgot to say, or even to think, " with God s assistance," and so, like boastful Peter, I fell, but unlike him, my fall was a fatal one. Having finished my letter on that auspicious Sun- ,TE. 1 Itannlitie this jro'K never oi>o but Hhe crit'B I'm Utile notion ftiit in Ainmua inproviiifj, and tiou they ooiild In ft cu\ii>le of s work ; Nancy dei)Rft»>e from sfiiction iiH if lie r had to spare," e. thcr, M\d 1 tliink consoling to her It the day before riendly feelings " )f hearts. I told been about relig- assured her that ) turn over a new ink, " witli CJod'8 Peter, I fell, but it auspicious Sun* ■ ■i%d.3 .-.«< €# IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) / O 4 // ,0 ■&, A ifn Q- L^/ / fA 1.0 " 32 i^ I.I liB 1.25 Photographic Sdences Corporation M 2.2 2.0 III™ 1.4 11 1.6 "^ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 l^. :\ \ t> o ;V > CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICMH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut canadien de microreproductions historiques ^ COXFESSIOKS OP AN APOSTATE* 05 day afternoon, I went to pay my intemlcd visit to Philil)l)us O'Sullivan. Tlie old man's recei)tion of me was kind as heart could wisli ; but I saw with pain that he could not speak to me freely and openly as of old. He tried hard to appear the same, but the effort was too visible, and only made both of us un- comfortable. There was little of the sarcastic in the old man's cotnposilion, and yet he gave me more than one severe cut during the hour that I staid with him. I had been telling him of wliat the Bisliop had done for the Byrnes, Avinding up with a very sincere expression of admiraticm for his saintly virtues. " Yes," said Philippns, elevating his eyebrows, and fetching a half sigh ; " yes, lie's a very worthy man, they say— indeed, a God-fearing man, too— but, like myself, he belongs to the old school— neither him nor me has any great push in us as regards things mun- dane — " I could not but feel tJiat this was meant for me and I winced under the sting ; but yet I could not for my life help laughing when I looked at O'Sullivan and heard him associate his own name and fame with those .of the eminent prelate, who might well be called the Fenelon of America. I thought the old fellow -was serious, but not he indeed, for when I burst out laughing, he laughed, too, in his own dry, ll il 9fl XJOIfFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. unxnusical way, then took out his box, gave it the professional tap, and handed it to me. ^.Simon,"saidhe,asIstooduptogo, iNea crow to pluck with you." » So I thought, Biv," I replied ; " what is it ? if it s aWut what happened down at the water-side tha Sunday, you needn't say a word. There's no one sorrier for that than I am." "ltWt*at,S,n,on;IW„htl,e-.e™noth,„g ,„„e *.n tha.. Tm toM you're WJ.« »mF"f, with . Protestant girl. I'd Uke to know U it s true. " Well, it i» not true-at the present time. •Thank God for that, anjho»-aU-.weUtaUhat Ti'jr:::. 'oonie, Mr. O-Sulllvanrl replied, in '^f;:r;';antitl".aidmipp«.ear,,e..y,ashe „„gn,y hand at parting. I went home m h,gh ;irit:reU>"*e«arationIW^ as if it were a poinv gamed o^er the enemy •ATK. OX, gave it the COXFESSIONS OF AN APOSTArB. 97 to go, "I've a vbat is it ? if it's 1 water-side that There's no one ie:e was nothing keeping company know if it's true." sent time." , -all's well till that ran !" I replied, in as earnestly, as he irent home in high m I had just made, Lhe enemy of souls. CHAPTER VI. ^^ I ll ^^^^^. ^""^^ °^'®'" *^® "^^' ^"»»' years of my life as being comparatively void of interest for the reader. During that time I had been gradually casting my shell, that is r„ say, the incrustation of superstition (as I learned to call the pastoral simplicity of my early life), which the teaching and example of credulous parents had formed on every faculty of my being; impeding the action of my natural intelligence, which I now discovered to be «of prime quality." This was the light in which I viewed the hideous skepticism that was fast takmg root in my mind, growing up in rank luxuri- ance amongst the virtues that were spontaneous there. Ihis baneful exotic threw its dark shade over the 9 gg C0NFK8810S8 OP AX APOBTATB. fairest and brightest regions of my bouI. I had long ago left off the practice of confesHion as something altogether too absurd for a yonng man of my preten- Bions. I BtiU went to Mass occasionally-not, how ever, to High Mass, for I had no notion of being bored with tiresoTne sermons, and the Sundays were all too short for amusement. I had cut off all con- nection with the Byrnes, and poor I'hilippus O'Sulli- van had been gathered-not to his fathers-but to the bosom of his mother earth. When he " sh.-.ffled off this mortal coil," it was a great relief to me, for he had dogged my steps in a way that fretted and annoyed rae. He had even set the Bishop on me one time when I had grown more than usually care- less about religion ; and although I yielded to the good prelate's affectionate remonstrances, and for fully a year attended High Mass regularly, still I had a grudge at O'SuUivan for meddling in my spn-itual affairs. I might never have discovered his transgres- sion but for his own childish garrulity, and the secret did come out m artlessly, by way of a boast, that, with all my irritation, I could not help lauglung heartily. That was but a year or so before the final Bummons came to poor Philippus, and when it did come, shame to say, I was not sorry. I never smd a prayer more devoutly in my life than the "Rest ] '06TATB. y Boul. I l»ad long «Hion as soinething man of my preten- isionally— not, liow- no notion of Wing I the Sundays were had ciit off all con- .r Philipinis O'SuUi- his fathers— but to When he " shv.ffled •eat relief to me, for vay that fretted and , the Bishop on me re than usually care- igh I yielded to the lonstrances, and for regularly, still I had dling in my spiritual jovercd his transgrea- 1 garrulity, and the y, by way of a boast, uld not help laughing or so before the final pus, and when it did ; sorry. I never said r life than the " Rest ] CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 09 his soul I" which escaped my lips wlien I first heard of his death. As I followed Iiis funeral to tlie re- mote corner of the cemetery to which his poverty consigned him, I was sensible of the same relief whid, a man would feel after getting rid of a heavy burthen which he liad been forced to carry a long and tedious way. My mother was loo far away to be much of a restraint on me-hor advices and admonitions, seen only by myself, and then committed to the flames, were notliing more than a source of amusement, and I could really afford to laugh at the zeal which kept the old woman eternally fiddling, like Paganini, on the one string. The case was fir different with O'Sullivan, who, as it were, at the door Mith me, had his eyes ever on my motions, at least I felt as though he had. The pertinacity Avith which he interested himself in my affairs, do as I would, or say as I would, was something altogether intolerable^ and the sense of his continual surveillance haunted me like a spirit. The all-seeing eye of Providence had lost somewhat of its terrors for me, and I could sin with almost as much composure as though I had never feared its scrutiny. Not so the eye of O'Sulli- van, that living, speaking organ which told me, when we met, as plain as any words could do, that I was diverging from the way of life. It may well be sup- XOO CONFESSIONS OF AN AP08TATB. posed, then, that the dny of O'SulUvan's death was then set down as a bright spot in my life. It was BO ; and I revelled in my sense of freedom like a bird escaped from a cage. Now that I can see men and things in their connec- tion with the miseen world, my ancient master stands before me in a different light, and his grotesque form is enshrined within my heart as the casket that con- tained a Christian soul, sublime in its humble virtues, many of which were known but " to the Father who seeth in secret," With the Philomath banished the last remaining link thai bound my aspiring soul to the lowliness of earlier life. As I stood by his lonely grave for a few moments' thought, when all but me were gone, I said within myself, " Now, Simon, you have just closed a volume of your memoirs-you are free now to make a start, and you can't but know that you have a glori- ous opportunity. Throw aside at once and for ever the narrow bigotry which was all the inheritance left you by your soKjalled ' pious ancestors '-they made precious little of their piety as far as this world goes, and, for that matter, I don't see that God ever willed fl whole people to remain for ages in the depths of poverty-so I fear, Simon ! that the talk about being ■♦a chosen people' and soon is all moonshine-the \ OBTATE. illivaii's death was n my life. It was freedom like a bird igs in their connec- cient master stands liis grotesque form he casket that con- its liumble virtues, ' to the Father who the last remaining to the lowliness of icly grave for a few le were gone, I said u have just closed a re free now to make [lat you have a glori- it once and for ever 1 the inheritance left cestors '—they made a- as this world goes, that God ever willed ges in the depths of the talk about being 1 all moonshine — the \ C0XFE88I0N3 OF VN APOSTATE. 101 fact is, .those ' pious forefathers ' of yours were at all times behind the age, and had no more idea of getting along tluin— tlian that headstone there which exi.res- ses such a deal of filial devotion on the part of some excellent son. (II„pe he didn't die himself of grief) Keep the faith still, Simon, ns, of course, you're bound to do, through thick and thin, but cast off as fast as ever you can the trammels of 8ui)er8lition ; be a Catholic l,eart and soul, but a Catholic such as becomes this free and enlightened country. Courage now, Sinuin Kerrigan— ah-h-li !" what was it that caused that sudden twitch ! my name, good reader, only my name. I had very soon found out after I came to Boston that the name which, with my relig- ion, I inherited from my parents, was exceedingly vulgar, and had " such a common sound with it " that, as I used to say to myself, it proved beyond all doubt the plebeian origin which I would fain conceal from all the world. It makes me smile now to think of all the trouble that unlucky name gave me, especi- ally when it smote my ear in an introduction. I always fancied that my accpiaintanoes took a malici- ous pleasure in repeating the name oftener than waa at all necessary, and on their foreign tongues it sounded so harshly, so uncouthly, that I thought there never was such a mean name. My cogitations r 103 CONFESttlONS OF AN AI'OSTATB. at U-iiglh endea, and the night at hand-a dark, cheerless night, too-I n,ade a l.recipitate retreat from a place which, of all others, had the least possi- ble attrnctions for me. It might have been some nine months after the death of my old master, that I one day overheard a conversation between Mr. lirown, the head of our firni, and a merchant from New Haven, who was one of our best country customers ever since I had been in the establishment, and, perhaps, long before it This conversation, I could not, even at the mo- ment, but apply to myself, and I soon found my surprise correct. « I should be sorry to deprive you of him," said the New Haven gentleman, whose name was Samuels, "in case it put you to any very great inconve- nience." . "Oh, not at all, I assure you," broke m Mr. Brown, eager to oblige so good a customer, " not at „;/_we have so many here-in fact, too many for our present requirements-but even if it be a trifling Bacrifice on our part, it will give us the greatest pleasure, inasmuch as it affords us an oi.portumty of showing the interest we take in y<.ur affairs. Besides, we liere in Bo«ton can more easily provide a substi- tute, than you in New Ilaveu. There is one thing, } I ■M (STATE. it Imiul— a tliiik, irecipitate retreat ad the least poHsi- inonths after tlio le (lay overlieard a , the head of our Haven, who was ever since I had irhaps, long before »t, even at the mo- I soon found ray you of him," said name was Samuels, erij great inconve- 3H," broke in Mr. I, customer, " not at fact, too many for ven if it be a trifling he us the greatest 8 an opportunity of .ur affairs. Besides, «ily provide a substi- Thore is one thing. CONFESSIONS OF AN Al'OSTATK. 10.1 I however, concerning this young man which I think you ought to know." I could see from where I was that Mr. Brown looked grave, and Mr. Samuels elevated his spectacles so as to peer inquiringly into his friend's face with his own visual orbs. " And what may that be ?" he inquired anxiously. "No bad habit, eh? nothing against his moral character, I trust." " Well I not exactly— but still you may think it bad enough. The young man is a Papist." " A Papist I you don't say so, Mr. Brown I" " But I do say so, Mr. Samuels !" " Wall ! you really surprise me— you de lift* a CH8, and I «1«> want a 1)i«l— very bad, in- i to himHulf— I mean stltloii." •tunatc— j"Ht what I 1 IB pre8»ing. I think into the warelionBe, lim. I will leave yon een yourselves. If it dr. Samuels, it would , but to you, as 1 have ansfer our rights over ne to me in the ware- ary chat, during which It the bush," he darted ie his proposal in due CONFESSIONS OP AK APOSTATK. lOS form. I aflt'cled to be much HurprJHcd, and exprcHHcd flouHidcrable relucUnce to leave my preHont employ- e.'s. In this I was (piite sincere, for I had been, on the whole, well treated by them, and had no reason, therefore, to h« dissatiMfied. My objections were easily overruled, for Mr. Samuels, after some i)arli.y, offered me such a tempting salary that I couldn't longer think of refusing his ofter, and I agreed to go to New Haven early in the following week, (my en- gagement was weekly at IJrown &, Steensons.) I was Hurprisod that the New Knglander made no allusion to the obnoxious n.iture of my religious "opinions," but he was only leaving that point for the last. Just as he took up his broad-brimmed hat to re- tire, he fetched an asthmatic " hem I" and approach- ing quite close to me, said in a hesitating sort of tone, " Mr. Brown tells me— what indeed I did not expect to near— aliem !— that you are a— a— Catholic 1" " I am, sir— but what of that ?" " Oh nothing— nothing at all— I hope we shall get along together as though you warn't— but— butr— it would ruin the business if I were known to have a partner of your persuasion. You have no idea how Papists are disliked down our way. You han't indeed I Can't you oblige me now by making no one the wiser as to what you are ?" Hi JMM IjiftgaBfii— n I tMi^rtliM I (I II ' 108 CONFESSIONS OP A>, APOSTATE. " But, sir !" I said with a smile, " it will be useless for me keeping the secret so long as I am seen attend- in c the Catholic Church. The murder will out, you CJ sec." " Oh ! if it's only that, of course I ain't afraid, because, you see, we haven't got any Popi&h meeting- house within many a mile of us. You must pray at home, Mr. Kerrigan— ha ! ha! only promise to say nothing about what you are, and we shall get on swimmingly. I Avon't mind if you do say Mass in your own room once in a while, or count over your beads, or anything of that kind. Oh, no ! Mr. Ker- rigan, you will find me a very tolerant man— very tolerant, I assure you ! no matter how mistaken oth- ers may be in their religious vie ivs, I can make all allowance— I cau, indeed, Mr. Kerrigan !" Though much amused at the good man's idea of " saying Mass," I thought any attempt at enlighten, ing him would be so much labor lost ; I, therefore, thanked him for bis promised stretch of liberality, and prepared with a hopeful heart, and with the pleasurable excitement which young people always feel when about to " visit parts unknown," to enter upon my new situation. I bade farewell to Boston with little regret. Few- ties of friendship had I there to mak« my departure APOSTATB. le, " it will bo uselous ; as I am seen attend- murder will out, you 30uise I ain't afraid, t any Popi!.h meeting- 3. You njust pray at only promise to say and we shall get on ' you do say Mass in le, or count over your d. Oh, no ! Mr. Ker- y tolerant man — very ter how mistaken oth- rietvs, I can make all Kerrigan !" lie good man's idea of ■ attempt at enlighten- ,bor lost ; I, therefore, 3 stretch of liberality, heart, and with the young people always ts unknown," to enter ith little regret. Few to m»k« my departure CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. S&i 107 painful. John Parkinson had gone to New York to live some three years before, and I had quarrelled M-ith O'llaiilon soon after his marriage, on account of a biting sarcasm levelled at my religious indiffer- ence one evening by his wife, who was a fervent Catholic, much more fervent indeed than Harry. I thought O'llanlon ought to have taken sides with me, whereas he did not ; but, on the contrary, seemed to enjoy my confusion. I Avas too jiroud to appear to take any notice of tlie affair at the time, but I never could endure Mrs. O'llanlon after, .and my warm friendship for ITarry became suddenly icy cold. It was the last evening I ever 8i)ont at their lodgings, wliere I had spent m.any a pleasant one before. With tlie O'llanlons went my last chance of Catholic so- ciety. Never again did I form an intimate connec- tion with any Catholic, male or female, for even if I were inclined to do so, I had no opportunity in the now and str.ange position to which Providence— shall I say Providence ? — assigned me. For some weeks .after my arrival in NewIIrven all was strange, and dull, and cheerless to me. Even now, after the la])se of some five-and-thirty or forty years,* the State of Connecticut is, perhaps, the most Puri- tanical in the Union, and consequently the most op- • We are to suppose that this was Bomewhere about 1850. i »'>iwriiftimmii«M 108 CONFESSIONS OF AN AP08TATB. posed to the general and enlivening spirit of Catho- licity. What must it have been, then, at the time ■when T took np my abode in the family of Deacon Samuels, for such was the spiritual office of my new employer. A ruler in Israel, an ancient of the people was he, grave and melancholic in temperament, yet upright and honest in his dealings, and withal rather kind-hearted. He was a worthy man in his own peculiar fashion, and had naturally very little of that bile in his composition which, in regard to Papists, he was obliged to manifest exteriorly, as, without it, he could not maintain that influence which his high pretensions to godliness gave him in the community. Tlie family of Deacon Samuels consisted at this time of a maiden-sister whose grand climacteric was at least, ten years back in the past, and a son of sixteen, named Josiah, a tall and rather cliunsy youth whose precoci- ous gravity gave great hopes of future distinction amongst the elect. I was told that Josiah had a sister who was away somewhere seaward on a visit, but as none of the family spoke of her, I, of course made no inquiries concerning her. From the tone in which my informant mentioned the young lady, I knew not what to think of her, other than this, that she was esteemed no credit to the house of Samuels. . The surmise to which this impression gave rise in my 38TATE, ig spirit of Catho- then, at the time family of Deacon il office of my new cient of the people temperament, yet , and withal rather man in his own r very little of that regard to Papists, arly, as, without it, mce which his high in the community, onsisted at this time lacteric was at least, )n of sixteen, named outh whose precoci- l future distinction that Josiah had a seaward on a visit, of her, I, of course jr. From the tone d the young lady, I 3ther than this, that e house of Samuels. . sion gave rise in my 1 CONFESSIONS OP AN AIOSTATE. 109 mind was strengthened if not confirmed by the dead silence which reigned in the house concerning her. " She must be no great things," said I to myself, " when they seem to feel her absence so little." The dements of Miss Samuels, tlie younger, if demerits she had, were amply made up for to the community in general by the rare qualities of her Aunt Olive, who, good lady ! was looked up to stiU more on account of lier evangelical virtues than her commanding stature, which, together with her high- heeled shoes, elevated lier far above all female com- petitors. Such was the family into which I was happily and most graciously introduced by the worthy patriarch who was its ostensible head. Ostensible, I say, for I afterwards found out that Miss Olive, not he, wielded the domestic sceptre. \ 110 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. CHAPTER VII. I BOUT a month after I had taken up my abode in the house of Deacon Sam- uels, (where to say the truth I was as ■well treated as lieart could wish,) I was one morning disturbed out of a pleasant dream by the sound of voices clattering and talking at a prodigious rate in the garden without, and almost under my Avindow. Starting up in a fright sup- posing I had overslept myself, I first to ran my watch and found it only a few minutes past six, which was my usual liour for " turning out." Finding all right in that direction I next hastened to the window, and lifted the smallest possible bit of the snowy blind, with a view to discover what the noise meant at that early hour of the morning. The speakers were not to be seen from where I was, they boinc. close iy the wall underneath, but I speedily re- \P08TATE. m. er I liaa taken up my use of Deacon Sain- ly the truth I was as art conkT wish,) T was irbcd out of a pleasant nd of voices clattering prodigious rate in the and almost under my ig up in a fright snp- erslept myself, I first t only a few minutes our for " turning out." ion I next hastened to nallest possible bit of I to discover what the • of the morning. The rom where I was, they cath, but I speedily re- ( CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. m cognized one of the voices as that of Miss Olive The other was a female voice, too, but it sonnded strange to me, although somehow I liked its toTies, for they were clear and silvery, ay! and mirthful,' too, like the warbling of a linnet or a thrush. " It ain't any use to talk so, aunt ."' said the musi- cal voice, and its tones waxed somewhat sharper and lugher, "I don't care if he do hear me-I say you had no f.u.su,e,s to give him my room, and I will have It this very day. An attic-room is quite good enouc^h for father's clerk, and so you sho.dd have knownl all of you !" The aunt tried to soothe the ruffled young terma- gant, as I inwardly styled her, but her efforts were thrown away, at least while the pair were in my hearmg,and as they walked away together, still i„'- vis.ble to me, the debate proceeded fast and warm. "So," said I to myself, as I made my hurried toilet, " this ,s a fine specimen of a godly young puritan. I suppose she arrived some time iti the night. And she wants to eject my poor self in a summary mau- ner, I see. Well ! I'.n sorry to leave this p.-ettv room, for I don't think there's another like it in the house-but, of course, her ladyship must liave her way and her room into the bargain. ' I will have it this very day !' To be sure, Miss Brimstone ! it isn't ■smmmimmimmmrm I 112 C0XPK8SION8 OF AK APOSTATE. me that would keep you out of it-much good may it do you, Avheu you get it !-' it ain't any use talk- ing 80, aunt !'-oh ! of course not, you young spawn of"t:he. covenant ! you have it in yon. I'll go bail you're bitter as soot, and as sharp as a razor ! Well ! I don't wonder now at their being so careless about her. I'll be bound she keeps the house in hot water for them when she's in it !" Feeling anything but comfortable in the conscious- ness of having the spoiled daughter of the house prejudiced against me beforehand, I looked forward M-ith no very pleasant sensations to the prospect of meeting her at breakfast, and when eight o'clock came, I left the store with a heavy heart, and entered the parlor with, T must confess, a very sheepish air. At the first glance, I thought I had the room to myself, and I felt ever so much relieved. I was mistaken, however, for I had hardly taken a seat-which I did near one of the front windows-when a light rustling sound at the farther end made me start and look around. O ye fates ! half buried in an old arm-chair near the back window right opposite where I sat, was the daintiest little sylph that ever floated on a moonbeam, and looking at me from behind some stray curls, with the drollest expression imaginable, were a pair of eyes that seemed formed for mischief— a 1 Mli rosi ATE. it— much good may b ain't any use talk- t, you young spawn in you. I'll go bail r) as a razor ! Well t ng so careless about I house in hot water ible in the conscious- urhter of the house nd, I looked forward a to the prospect of en eight o'clock came, >art, and entered the cry sheepish air. At I the room to luyself, ed. I ■was mistaken, a a seat — -which I did -when a light rustling le me start and look ed in an old arm-chair >pposite where I sat, that ever floated on a •om behind some stray sion imaginable, were rmed for mischief— a CONFESSIONS OF AN Al'OSTATE. 113 malicious pair of orbs they were, if my judgment went for anything— and as I caught their expression cf sui)ercili.)us mockery, evidently diiwlcd to myself, I wiiioed as though an .ndder had stung me. Still tlie f:Ke to which tliese eyes belonged was so very— sliall I say beautiful— no, in,j,„nit rather, ai,d bright and sparkling, that it riveted your gaze in spite of you. I was at the same time attracted and repelled, and although I took up a book which fortunately lay in my way, and jjretcndeil to be much engrossey nanie. " 'Hiere ain't any more of it," said I, "my name is Kerr- Simon Kerr, at your service." u Kerr !— why that is funny, now— I thought aunt said your name was Kcr-gan, or something that sounded horrid Irish-are you sure your name is only Kerr ?" " Quite sure, miss !— people have sometimes put an addition to it in the way you mention-but that was only amongst the lads in our office, who did it for a ].^,.li_,ny name is Kerr, I assure you !" The rest of the family now came in, and as break- fast was already on the table, we took our seats at once, after a formal introduction of me to Miss Sam- «els,'and of Miss Samuels to me by her fother as " my daughter Eve-Mr. Kerrigan !" The introduc- tion I felt to be superfluous, and so did Miss Eve, too, as she contrived to make me understand by a fm-tive look of sly meaning. The introduction over, I took occasion to set the seniors and Josiah right as regarded my name, whereat the Deacon expressed hil satisfaction, inasmuch as my real nante had much (STATE. ," said I, involun- tof it?" siiggosted l)y IMisa ly name. " There y name is Kevr — w — I thonglit aunt ir Bometliing tbat 5 your name is only 'e sometimes put an ition— but that was ce, who did it for a rou !" no in, and as break- e took our seats at of me to Miss Sam- e by her father as m !" The introduc- d so did Miss Eve, ne understand by a le introduction over, I and Josiah riglit a8 Deacon expressed rwiinanie had much COXFKSSIONS OF AN APOSTATK. Hg the advantage of the nickname in point of rospccta- bility. The good man was quite indignant at the hberty which the good-for-nothing y„ung Boston- ians had taken with my patronymic. It is nuodluss to say that ever after I was known to the Siuauels and all New Haven as Mr. Kerr. IJioss the mark! many a time I laughed in my sleeve as I thought how uicoiy I had gulled the Irish-hating Xevv Engianders, but the laugh was turned the otlK-r way, as I fancied how my mother and tlie "folks at home" would foel if t/>e!/ heard me addressed by a name so uniUn.iliar to Irish tongues or Irish ears. TJie Deacon looked at me with no small surprise when he first heard his daughter address me by my now cognomen, and per- ceived that I answered it as naturally as possible. The wicked device of my IJoston comrades which had given such an awkward addition to my name was then explained, much to the good man's gratification, for « somewhow he never could take to that there name of Kerrigan, or get his tongue right about it— and besides, it always made folks stare to hear it in his store, it sounded so Irish-like !" This point happily settled, wo " men-folk " swal- lowed our breakfast with due dispatch, and proceeded ■ to the dispatch of business in the store at the corner of the next block. When night came I was shown lie C0>T?B8»10NS OF AN APOSTATE. to a bed-room very different indeed from U,.t which I Ind previuUHly occupied, not, however, without aa elahorato apology fro.n the elder Mi«« Samuel».^ u T hope you won't find it hard of me, Mr. Iverr . sai.l the torn.il ni-innter, " it ain't my fault, I assure you It's all along of that Belf-wiUed Eve, who insisted on having her room back again, and no other room v-ould Hhe have. She'« an awful girl that, Mr. Kerr 1 Her heart is a^ dry-a« dry as powaor-the dew of heavenly grace has never watered it, nor never wdl, I guess, for the child is so proud, so obdurate I might say, that Ihavo no hopes of her-none m the ^,,,ld'-oh! what a house we should have without l.er I would that some charitable Christian man would take her to himself, for her own father is ashamed of her imregenerate spirit !" . A charitable wish," thought I, " for the Christian man-her own father cannot manage her, and yet you would have another undertake the job. A pre- cious piece of goods she must be, this Miss Eve. And yet "-what I further soliloqui«jd after closing my room-door, any young gentleman of twenty-two may imagine who has ever been "struck" as I was by the sudden apparition, when least expected, of a bright-eyed, roguish lovely girl of eighteen, breaking in on the dullest and most monotonous ot Uvos. T OSTATE. id from th:it whith )WL'ver, witliout an \im SaniuelH. of me, Mr. Kerr !" y favilt, I aHSiire you. Evo, who insi»teil and no other room ghl that, Mr. Kerr ! )ow:ior— the dew of id it, nor never will, oud, BO obdurate, I 1 of her — none in the Bhoidd have without table Chrislian man • her own father is irit !" I, " for the Chrifitian manage her, and vet take the job. A pre- ,e, this MiH8 Eve. And iised after closing my m of twenty-two may ■struck" as I was by least expected, of a [ of eighteen, breaking monotonous of lives. \ C0NPK8SI0.V8 OP AV APOHTATE. 117 Suffice it to say, that I was quife willing to excuse her faiiltH, patent m they were to every holioldcr. " How do you feel in your now chamber, Mv what's your name ?" said Mm Eve to mo with pro- voking indifference when we met next morning very, very oarly, at a 8h.arp angle of one of the gardeii walks. I doj.'t know what took us both out so early that morning. "Much exalted," I rej.Iied, "and entirely obligod to you for my sudden promotion, which is altogether beyond my merits." "Oh, you are too modest by half, Mr. Kerr!" She remembered my name this time. '' Muuy „f yom- countrymen attain much higher promotion than that in this Western World-thuugh I'm sorry to say they thank people as little for ' drawing them up ' as you do me for sending you to the upper story." It needed not the significant motion by which the sauey girl pointed to her delicate neck to show that she meant anything but a compliment, and otherwise her words were not very i)leasing to mo. " Ml/ countrymen, Miss Samuels ?" " That's just what I said !— I guess you think I don't know what you are. But you can't blindfold »«^ I tell you. There's that about you that's too Irish to be got rid of, though you try ever so hard. lit CONIfKHHlONS OV AN Al'OSTATB. There! don't look bo angry-it iiiu't any uHi. t- U-ny it. I see you want to, ».ut donU-l l.iu.'t got anything againHt tho Irinh, for uU I .lo H,.c.:ik h:m\ of thcin once in a while. If you ain't a Tapist, / don't n.in.l your being IriHh, though fatlier and aunt and all the folks about here have a perfect horror of theni-they have indeed !" Where was tho use of denial under these cir.-um- Hlances ? and resentment, or the appea. aiuo of it, Mould have only given Eve an opportnuiiy .1 laugh- ing at my petulaneo, bo I had nothing for it but to admit the fact, and compliment the young lady on her penetration. « And now that you have my confession !" Raid I, " I have no doubt but you will take good care to make it public-cHpecialiy as you seem quite con- scions that it would injure me." " I'll do just aH I have a mind to, Mr, Kerr !— I always do : if I thought it would really npite yon I might wl/mper it to a confidential fricn.d who would Hoon set numerous other contidential t.mgues agoing on the subject, and it would be all up with your pre- teuHions to respectability-but-it all depends on how you act." I was just going to inquire, half jest and whole earnest, what line of conduct would bo most likely I OriTATK. I't any t««' to Ifiiv lijiirtgot luijiliing hiiril of thoin oiu-e /don't miinl your lit imd nil the folks if thcni— they Imve ikUt tlu'BC cipuiii- ajipt'aiiuu'o of it, ,l»()itnnUy of laugU- ithing for it but to the youiig huly on confession !" wiid I, take yood care to ou Becm qnite cou- nd to, Mr. Kerr !— I Id rt-ally Hpitu you I al friond who wouhl Mitial tonyuL'S agoing all up with your pre- ■it all depends on how , half Jest and whole ft'ould bo inot;t likely I ilr t I etafPt^mnm Off A!T Aro«TAT«. 119 to m, • her npprolmf ion, when nhe stnil,..! and nodch^l IM the diree.ion of the hon«e, „,m1 lookin^j ,h,nt way I '-au-, to my utter dismay, the Deacon himself a,l proachirig, " With n-vcrpiul itep and ilow." T was for mnkinff ,«y cncapo tin.ler cover of the pyro- "...la! hox-woo.! „enr which we stood, but Mi«H Eve eo.nn,an.led nu, („ keep ,„y gro„„d, and stoop!,., «he H-ked a leaf of trefoil which grew at her feet, and lianded it to me. " Cotne quick, n,thor," «he naid to the old man, who certan.ly looked rather .ourish an ho approached, and gln..ced frotn one to the other of u« with an uneasy aspect ; " can yo„ tell ns-for being a Deacon you ought to know- more than others- whether this three- leaved plant is ft descendant of the weed so loved of I..sh,nen, or if not-how came it here? Jlr. Kerr J'^-e, though never having seen an Irish shamrock, w.n have it that this is a spurious article, not even a -•'-" "r the other." Oh ! the wicked glance that shot upward at me from under the long lashes 1 Much reliove.1, apparently, by this ingenious though Hi.nple Htratagcu, the old n,an declared that he knew ve.7 httle of such matters, not being overstocked with book-learning. 12fi CONFESSIONS OF AK APOSTATE. "And indeed I think you\l he hitter in yoiir bed, Eve Samuels!" he curtly added, "than studying botany before sunrise. Go in, child, and help Rachel to prepare the breakfast." Eve tripped away with the brightest of smiles, after pinching the grave old man on the cheek and laughing heartily at his » Shame, shame. Eve '.-will you never learn to conduct yourself as a Christian maiden should ?" I saw nothing un-Christiac in the girl's conduct, yet I did not wonder at what her father said, for it must be confessed there was as little of the Puritan about her as though zh^ had been nurtured in France or Ireland. I was roused from a reverie into which I was falling by the voice of Deacon Samuels. » Mr. Kerr—" said he, and then lie' stopped, " Mr. Kerr ! it ain't pleasant to have to speak of the faults of our OAvn flesh and blood, but I do hope you'll not be scandalized at the ttioughtless levity of this child's conduct." " Scandali-.ed, Mr. Samuels ! why, I see no fault m her !" I spoke more warmly than I intended, and the old man looked np at me with a peculiar expres- Eion, as he replied : "You don't, eh?— you must be very -lax in your notions of female propriety, then 1" I Me^ '08TATK. jttter in your bed, J, "than Btu'lying Id, and help Rachel brightest of smiles, n on the cheek and , shame, Eve '.—will irself as a Christian I the girl's conduct, er father said, for it little of the Puritan Q nurtured in France a reverie into which aeon Samnels. en he' stopped, " Mr. to speak of the faults ; I do hope you'll not s levity of this child's why, T see no fault in than I intended, and rith a peculiar expres- ; he very -lax in your 5nl" CONTESSIOJrS OF AS APOSTATE. 121 ""Well! I don't know that I am, sir ! — howevei, that's neitlier here nor there — I had no intention of gi\ing an opinion on your daugliter's merits, which I would consider a great liberty on my part. Surely you would not have me speak hard of her in your presence^''' " Why no, Kerr !— come to think of it, you couldn't well do that. But I may speak of her myself as she deserves— with a view to prevent you from being f^candalizcd by her fantastical ways. I hope you have noticed that she is altogether different from the rest of us." " I have, indeed, Mr. Samuels .'—the difference is quite perceptible." " ^'ery good, ve-ry good, indeed. And I guess you have been puzzled to know how she came to be as she is," I thought it best to answer by an affirmati.e nod, as I knew not well what I could say with safety. " Well, now, I know Olive would soon tell you all about it, so I may as well have Jie first of it. You must know that Eve's mother was a Frenchwoman." "A Frenchwoman!" I repeated with unfeigned astonishment. " Yes, a Frenchwoman !" "And a Catholic?" 11 122 COXFESSIOKS OP AX APOSTATE. It was the Deacon's turn to look astonished, which he did, and Homewhat nettled, too I he drew himself up and looked me full in the face with a counten- ance quite evangelical, it was so bitter. " Now, Mr. Kerr ! I want to know," said he very slowly, his words gathering intensity of emphasis as he pro- ceeded, " I want to know do you, or do you not, mean to insult me I" I, of course, eagerly disclaimed any such intention. " Well, then, sir, never — as long as you and I live under the same roof — never su far forget what is duo to my character as to hint, or insinuate the possibility of my ever having consorted with a Pipist. No, sir ! it was my misfortune to fall in witn a French- woman — a Protestant, of course — when I was a giddy lad serving my time to a dry-goods merchant in Bos- ton." " I should like to have seen you when you were a * giddy lad,' " I said within myself, but, of course, it was within myself. "The young woman was comely," went on the Deacon, " a well-favored damsel and well spoken, too, and I met her often at the house of a relative of mine wh.ose ways were according to the flesh. I was giddy, as I told you, and like a little fish that plays around the fatal bait till it can no longer resist its r APOSTATE. look astonishecl, which too ! he drew himself ! face with a counten- 80 bitter. " Now, Mr. d he very slowly, his emphasis as he pro- ou, or do you not, mean ned any sncli intention, long as you and I live > far forget what is duo nsinuate the possibility I with a Pipist. No, 5 fall in witn a Frencli- se — when I was a giddy joods merchant m Bos- yon when you were a lysclf, but, of course, it comely," went on the nsel and well spoken, ? house of a relative of ing to the flesh. I was J a little fish that plays lan no longer resist its CONFESSIONS OP AN AroSTATE. 123 longing, and snatches greedily at its ruin, so I was attracted by this ' strange woman' (as the good book forcibly styles the unregenorate dan^d,ters of the eno- nues of Goa's people), till my heart was ensnared. I swallowed the bait, hook and all, and took the for- eigner to my bosom, and since that hour remorse has settled on n.e like a blood-sucker, and the effects of my sm are still with me in the daughter that Angt-le left behind her when she died. Woe is me ! she has the comeliness of her unhapi,y mother, and her hard, unregencrate spirit that mocks at the workings of divine grace." " But was your wife's conduct really b.ad or objec- tionable ?" I inquired with much curiosity. "No, no-according to this vain world she was a good wife and a good mother, for the short time she lived with me, but oh ! the lightness, the levity, the un-Christian levity of that woman was beyond de- scription. She was worse than her daughter, I ,fo thmk, and you may judge from that what manner of wife she made me." I was strongly tempted to laugh in his face, but I knew that would make him my enemy for life, so I stretched my face to a sympathetic length, and cast about for something to offer by w.ay of consolation. i ortunately I had it at hand, for I just caught a glimpse j 124 CONFESSIOXS OF AX APOSTATE. of Josiah, crossing the .alley with that precocious heaviness of step and gravity of countenance wliich made him a juvenile pillar of the conventicle, " It is happy for you, sir," said I, " that the lato Mrs. Samuels left you one promising subject — Jlr. Josi.ih seems to take after your side of the house." " I thank my Maker he is a good lad," said the Deacon with a sudden change of manner ; " he grows ill wisdom and in grace." " In f/rjase certainly," said I to myself, as my eyes again fell on Josiah who was somewhat of the fattest for his years. "But his superabundance of grace came not to him from Angele Dnpro — " " No ?— who, then ?" " Why, from his own mothc > , a godly woman, who was a shining light here in New Haven, where I took her to wife after it pleased Heaven to take Angtle hence. Mercy Heavyside was indeed a rare woman •—a woman endowed with the Spirit's best gifts- would that \e had lived longer, for she might have overcome the rebellious heart of my unhappy Eve — " We were here summoned to breakfast. During the meal, I noticed Miss Eve glancing at me occa- sionally with an expression half humorous, half in- quisitive, which I was at no loss to understand, but I APOSTATE. with that precocious of countenance wliicli he conventicle, said I, " that the late romising subject — Mr. • side of the house." a good lad," said the if manner ; " he grows to myself, as my eyes )me\vliut of the fattest if grace came not to CONFESSIOXS OP AX APOSTATE. 125 dared not give even one explanatory look, for I felt that three pair of lynx eyes were upon me. As for Eve, Hhe seemed to take a malicious ple.isure in teas- ing her atmt .and mimicking her grave brother, to the evident annoyance of her father, who w.as, neverthe- less, forced to laugh at times in a very undeaconlike manner. 11» , A godly woman, who r Haven, where I took ^ea\en to take Angole indeed a rare Avoman ! Spirit's best gifts — er, for she might have ' my unhappy Eve — " breakfast. During glancing at me occa- ,lf humorous, half iu- 3 to understand, but I L_ 126 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. CHAPTER VIII. cs !x\ HE aspect of things was coniipletely clianged in the Deacon's household after the return of Eve. The still water of our daily life was now per- petually in motion, curled hourly and momentarily by some delightful little whim of Eve's, set down by her staid and sober relatives as a fearful back- sliding. Dullness Avas forthwith ban- ished from the house, driven hence, it would seem, by the sparkling smile and mirthful voice of our Euphrosyne. To her father, aunt, and brother, the change was torture, but to me it was delightful— quite a relief. It is true there was little sympathy between myself and Eve. We were always carping at each other, and hardly ever agreed on any one APOSTATE. t^III. lings was coni]()lotely B Deacon's household •n of Eve. The still lily life was now per- ion, curled hourly and ' some delightful little set down by her staid ives as a fearful back- ess was forthwith ban- house, driven hence, it y the sparkling smile ice of our Euphrosyne. aunt, and brother, the ne it was delightful — •e was little sympathy 'e were always carping rer agreed on any one CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 127 subject, yet this very disagreement had in it a kind of strange cliann. In spite of myself I was attracted to the wild, witty, provoking little damsel who seemed bent, morning, noon, and night, on thwarting and annoying mo in every possible way. Tiie very sight of her freshened up my wits and set them sparkling and frothing like champagne. I thought it was a spirit of emulation that moved me to foil the girl with her own weapons, and so I encouraged it, littlo dreaming of its real character. It did startle me a little at times wlien I found myself so continually oc- cupied with the thought of » what Miss Eve would say to this," and « what Miss Eve would think of that," but I easily managed to get over my uneasi- ness, for. every time the pair of us entered into con- versation she nettled me so in one way or the other that for the time I was positively angry, and wondered very innocently how any one covld possibly like that tormenting little minx. Part of her system of an- noyance was to keep me continually on the stretch about my unfortunate country. Twenty times a day she was, or appeared to be, on the point of letting out my secret, and my imploring look only made her laugh. Still she always managed to avoid makino- any disclosure, adroitly changing the conversation just when my fears were wound up to the highest i 128 COXFESSIOKS OF AW AP08TATB. pitch, and perliaps, too, the curiosity of others i)re. sent who would, doubtless, have enjoyed such an ex- quisite morsel of scandal as that of Mr. Kerr's being convicted of Irish birth. As regarded my religion I liad little or no apprehension, for the Deacon was the only one who knew it, and his interest, together with the credit of his establishment, alike bound him to secrecy. Even to myself he made no allusion to it, and I sometimes thought that he forgot all about it, as, for instance, when he so earnestly besought me not to be scandalized at the delinipiency of his daugh- ter. I was mistaken, however ; Mr. Samuels did not forget that I was a Papist, but he wanted to make me forget it, and in this he was excellently well assisted by the peculiar circumstances in which I was placed. The whole of New England was at that time one vast mission under the pastoral care of the Bishop of Boston. The Catholics were comparatively few, and scattered here and there in little knots and groups throughout the New England States, without priest or church, except when the charity of the Boston clergy impelled thei . to visit the remote parts of the immese diocese on a mission. I was, therefore, com- pletely isolated, for although there were, doubtless, many other Catholics in New Haven, I neither kne\r them, nor they me. My intercourse was exclusively POBTATB. osity of others pre- enjoyed sucli an ex- of Mr. Kerr's being arded my religion I the Deacon was the terest, togetlicr with alike bound him to ide no allusion to it, > forgot all about it, mestly besought me (juency of his daugh- Mr. Samuels did not e wanted to make me ellently well assisted which I was placed, ■as at that time one •are of the Bishop of mparatively few, and tie knots and groups States, without priest liarity of the Boston remote parts of the [ was, therefore, com- there were, doubtless, laven, I neither knew ourse was exclusively ■fPiiiPiHiPiiiiilil CONFESSIONS OF AS APOSTATE. 129 with Protestants of the evangelical school, and they never api)eared to suspect me eveji of Popish pro- divity. They had a notion, I could see, that I was rather lax in my views, but that was nothing more than often occurred to good father and mother's chil- dren. Go no farther than Eve Samuels, who had been nurtured in godliness, and fed on sound doc- trine ever since— ever since her mother's death. Mine was just a similur case, the old ladies of the town seemed to think. Wy my name I must be Scotch, for the Kerrs were most all lowland Scotch folk, and, no doubt, I had had a pious. God-fearing mother, not to speak of my paternal parent, but I had been so long amongst " the tribe of the ungodly " in Boston, that I had fallen into the slough of indiffer- ence. I believe my name and Eve's were often cou- pled in public prayers at the meeting-house which the Deacon and his family attended. This was capi- tal fun to Eve, and many a good laugh she had her- self at the pious exercises practiced in her behalf. But the laugh was all to herself, for as often as I was moved to mirth by her serio-comic account of the zeal with which our joint conversion was sought after in the conventicle, she instantly stopped short and rebuked me with well-feigned displeasure. It was my greatest consolation that she knew nothing of 1 u lao COVFKSSIONft OF AN APOSTATR. my real roligUMiH " opiniotm," mid I felt ever so grate* fill to her father for kee|tiiig the matter secret. Tliis cowardly concealment of my faith I easily accoiiritt'd for to my coiiHcience by the Hpec'utus jirelext that when there wan neither cluircli nor priest, nor any opportunity of practicing the duties of religion, there waH no necessity for my making idle professions which could only subject me to ridicule and contempt. " Yes !" said conscience, " that is all very fine, INIr. Simon Kerr ! — ahem I but how will you account for eating meat on Fridays and Saturdays ? You were terribly angry with poor O'lTanlon some years back for doing the same thing, M-hat have you now to say for yourself, when you do it to make folks believe that yon are what you are not ? — eh, Simon ? — w hat would the old woman at home say if she saw you gorging yourself three times a day with forbidden moats ?— what would Father O'Byrne say, either ?" As I never was able to answer this with any degree of satisfaction, I generally snubbed "the inward voice " at this point, and manfully asserting my inde- pendence, said I didn't care a snap for either of them, I'd eat what I pleased, and when I pleased. Many other things I said to conscience in regard to its be- ing meddlesome and intrusive, and I know not what, but somehow, bluster as I would, conscience never iPOSTATB. i I felt ever so grate- iiDvUer Hserot. This h I fiwily 8(H'<>uiit('il jt'ciouH pretext tliiit nor ])riest, nor nny ,ie8 of religion, there lie profesbions wliich cule and contemi>t. is all very fine, Mr. will you iiccount for tudays ? Yoii were Ion some years back mve you now to say make folks believe — eh, Simon ? — what say if she saw you day with forbidden iyrne say, either ?" this with any degree ibbed "the inward ly asserting n»y inde- ip for either of them, en I pleased. IMany I in regard to its be- ,nd I know not what, dd, conscience never OMmBMtOXS OP A?f AroSTATK. 131 m„l,/ be convinced nor yet silenced, and I was obliged to admit, moreover, that it always had the best of the argument. Logic and rhetoric were alike at fault in discussing matters with conscience, which, in fact, I f..unut as polite as Home of my neighbors, MiHS Eve— I can't but be obligeil to you for that nickname you gave mo. There's your father calling you." " I'm not deaf, I thank you. But do tell me," and her voice softened a very little, " do tell me what re- ligion you proft'SH." " Another time, Miss Eve !— when I feel disposed for confession. Will that do ?" " No, it won't do, and I'll tell you what, Mr. Kerr, you'd best not put me to guessing. I might possibly guess something that you Avouldn't like." I shrank, without knowing why, from the piercing glance tliac rested on my face, and I actually felt my cheek glow. I knew not what I had best say, and was still hesitating as to what I would say, when a low mocking laugh from our first mother's malicious namesake made me start and look towards her. She was about to leave the room, and had turned back with a warning gesture, accompanied by the straTige, startling laugh I have mentioned. " So you won't tell !" " What can I tell ?— there's no preacher here whose .rOSTATB. >e wisor if I wore to r. rud.ly." 110 of n>y ne'ighV)or«, ;cd to you for that a your father culling Hut do tell me," nnd ' do tell me what re- whon I feel disposed you what, Mr. Kerr, ig. I might possibly In't like." Iiy, from the piercing md I actually felt my t I had best say, and I xeouhl say, when a it mother's malicious ok towards her. She and had turned back lanied by the strange, d. preacher here whose COXFESSIOX.^ OF AN APOSTATK. 133 doctrines meet my approbation. That's all, I assure you." " No, it ain't all— you know it ain't, but I'll get to the botloiu of it some day, and then— look out for yourself!" On another occasion she pressed me so close that I was fairly cornered, and I told her half jestingly, and by way of a pun, that I was a Universalist. " UniviTsalist !" she reju'ated very slowly, eyeing me at the same time with a very scrutinizing look. "That's an odd religion for an Irishnuin— how did you come by it ?" " That's a secret ?" " Not to me, for I don't believe you're anything of the kind." "And why not. Miss Eve ?" " Why, because you Irish, unless you're greatly belied, are more prone to bciieve too much than too little — in fact you're too superstitious to be a Univer- salist or any such thing I" Having no very clear idea of the extent to which Universalisra was opposed to superstition, as insinu- ated by Miss Eve, I thought it best to beat a retreat, the ground on which I stood being so untenable ; I, therefore, made a very low bow, and thanked the young lady on behalf of my countrymen. "m 134 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. I liad been about lialf a year in New Ilaveti when the entire toAvn was thrown into commotion by the news that a Catholic priest from Uoston had arrived for the purpose of holding a mission. At fiJ-st the report was considered incredible, and the gossips were sharply rebuked by the more godly among the inhabitants for giving circulation to such scandalous rumors. In due time, however, the report was found to be but too true ; a very mysterious-looking indi- vidual suddenly made liis appearance in the quiet streets, closely buttoned up in a tight-fitting black surtout, gliding here and there in the quietest and and most Jesuitical manner jjossible. Quite a Popish- looking cha-acter he was described to me, although those who had seen him felt bound to admit that he seemed to be " rayther a decent-looking man," which, under the circumstances, was quite remark- able. All that day there was nothing talked of but the Popish priest, his dress, his ap»)earance, with the prob- able object of his visit, for the meaning of the word mission was by no means clearly understood. Various speculations were afloat, and more than the usual amount of guessing was done on the occasion, but, of course, all was shrouded in mystery, and no one was any wiser than his neighbor, at least amongst POSTATE. , New Haven wlien ) commotion by the Boston had arrived ision. At fii'st the 3, and the gos8ip8 e godly among the to such scandalous le report was found erious-looking indi- irance in the quiet I. tight-fitting black in the quietest and le. Quite a Popish- •ed to me, although )und to admit that scent-looking man," was quite remark- » talked of but the ance, with the prob- eaning of the word iderstood. Various are than the usual 1 the occasion, but, lystery, and no one r, at least amongst 'I H..I) ^ t '' CONFESSIONS OF AX Al OSTATK. 135 the inhabitants proper. Miss Olive was in a stnte of nervous excitement from morning till night, — and from night till morning, I suppose, too — for at the breakfast-table she appeared each morning Avith such an increase of haggardness and attra-biliousness on that leaf of flesh which is said to contain the index of the mind, that it was quite plain she had not wooed the drowsy deity, or, woohig, found him un- propitions ; which Eve and myself set down to her anxious curiosity concerning the priest. Poor man ! how innocent he was, or appeared to be, as he walked our streets, of the thousands of eager eyes that were peering at him through half-closed blinds, and from behind curtains. Still less conscious was he, I have no doubt, of the tenter-hooks on which his myste- rious appearance had placed the good people of the vicinage. When the announcement of the priest's arrival was first made certain by Josiah's oracular testimony, I could perceive that the Deacon glanced at me un- easily, and I purposely avoided his prying eye. There Avere eyes, however, that I dreaded still more than his, a pair of dazzling orbs whose language I had learned to understand, — how, I could hardly say e\en to myself. To these eyes, as usual, mine were irre- oistibly attracted, hnpelled. on the present occasion, 186 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. '''!'• >' by a feeling that was far beyond curiosity. I expected to encounter a fixed gaze full of malicious meaning, and was prepared to look as defiant and as independ- ent as possible. I bad kept from looking at Eve until the effort became painful, and with desper- ate resolution, I at last turned my eyes towards her —and was relieved beyond expression. She was look- ing me full ill the face, but in a way which I little expected. She was evidently lost in thought, and the expression of her face was such as I had never seen it wear before. Dreamy, and soft, and subdued it was, as though her thoughts were of a gentle, pleasant kind, such as she loved to dwell upon. Meet- ing my eye she neither started nor blushed, but smiled good-naturedly, I suppose at the sudden change which she must have seen on my countenance. I could hardly believe my eyts, and I know not what I should have said in my utter amazement, but before I could get out even a solitary interjection, the smile on Eve's face had assumed its wonted archness, the softened, pensive look had vanished from her eyes, and she asked in her mocking way, " What are you thinking of, Mr. Kerr ! — ain't you gouig to take any tea this evening ?" Of course I was, and my apologies to Miss Olive, when I found her hand outstretched Avith my share )STATB. CONFESSION'S OF AN APOSTATE. 137 iosity. I expected lalicious meuning, t and as independ- n looking at Eve and with desper- ' eyes towards her on. She was look- way which I little t in thought, and Lch as I had never . soft, and subdued were of a gentle, dwell upon. Meet- blushed, but smiled dden change which itenance. I could r not what I should but before I could , the smile on Eve's mess, the softened, her eyes, and she it are you thinking o take any tea this )gic8 to Miss Olive, led with my share of the precious beverage, Mere very sinceie but very awkward, so much so, indeed, that Eve laiijrlied out- right, and oven tlie evangelical features of her brother relaxed into a smile for which I could have knocked him down with right good will. " Don't mind them, Mr. Kerr !" said Miss Olive with very unexpected kindness, " I reckon you were taken up, as I am myself, with tiie audacity of these agents of the man of sin. It is, indeed, deplorable ; and calculated to make us think — that is, if we can think on any such serious subject," and she cast a vinegar-glance at her niece. The latter, in reply to the caustic insinuation and the petrifying look, shook her finger playfully at her aunt, and told her to be- ware lest she might be provoked to say what some people wouldn't like to hear. The ghost of a blush made its appearance on Aunt OUve's lank face, and she made a deprecating gesture to Eve tliat was meant to be seen by us all, as much as to say : " Don't now — there's a good girl — dont let out my little deli- cate secret !" There was an affectation of youthful bashfulnesB, too, in the spinster's keen eyes so affect- edly cast down, that the effect was irresistibly coinio, and the Deacon himself laughed as heartily as any of us youngsters, to the utter surprise and discomfiture of good Miss Olive. She had been playing off what 12* ''^■^a^^iffiii*'^''*^ ..^,i^. '^ K. 138 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOi^TATE. she considered very pretty airs with a view to make us men-folk understand that wliat " met the ear " was little compared with wliat was "meant," and her mortification was beyond expression wlien she fomid the impression the very reverse of what she expected. To the Deacon especially her anger was directed, and after him Eve came under the lash. "It ain't any wonder, Joel Samuels," said she, drawing herself up, " to see your children miscon- ducting themselves, when an aged man, like you, and a Deacon, moreover, gives them such an example. I wonder at you, brother — indeed I do !" "Why, Olive," said her brother in extenuation, « flesh and blood couldn't stand it without laughing !" " Stand what. Deacon Samuels ?" " Oh ! you know well enough !— pooh ! pooh ! don't be angry — what is it all but a joke !" " Joke, indeed I" repeated the ancient fair oiie with increasing asperity, " I know the joke it is— -I do — it ain't anything but real spite," and she darted a look at Eve who was smiling and playing with her spoon in the easiest way imaginable ; "some people know very well that they've lost the best string they had to their bo"' -at least the one they fain would have. Joke indeed !— we shall see how the joke will end !'* And so sayuig she sailed out of the room with the [ STATE. h a view to make met the ear " was meant," and her II when she found ,'hat she expected, was directed, and tnnels," said she, children miscon- nan, Hke you, and ah an example. I o!" :r in extenuation, rithout laughing !" [>ooh I pooh ! don't !" cient fair one with oke it is— I do— it she darted a look ng with her spoon wme people know ist string they had jy fain would have, tie joke will end !'* he room with the I i CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 139 nearest approach to the majestic that she could com- mand. " Why, do tell, Eve," said the Deacon, trying hard to compose his features, "why do tell what this means ?" Eve shook her head, but Josiah answered, " I guess /know, father ; it's all along of Turson Greerson— " Every eye was now turned on Eve, and to say the truth she looked somewhat fluttered, but still the careless smile was on her saucy lip. "Parson Greerson," repeated her father slowly, " why, I thought—" " You thought him a fool, father, but you find liira a wise man— eh ?" and with a piercing glance at me from under her long laahes, she tripped off after her aunt. " Well !" said the Deacon, " it ain't any use trying to understand these girls— I thouglit it was quite an- other way— but it's best as it is, Josiah !— ain't it ?" "Maybe so," was the answer, and so the matter rested for that time. I, of course, had nothing to say, but I felt puzzled and mystified, perhaps, some- what glad, like the Deacon, but on different grounds, for reasons to be shown hereafter. 140 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. CHAPTER IX. LL that night and the follow hig day I could think of nothing but Parson Greerson, and his supposed attentions to Miss Olive Samuels. Do as I would, I could not get the matter out of my head, and I dwelt on it till my brain was giddy. Had I heard that the monument on Bunker Hill had been taking a sail on Massachusetts Bay, I could not have been more per- plexed to account for its volition, than I was by the intimation of Greerson's proclivity to our ancient femme de menage. Although sorely puzzled to account for his taste, I was fully aware that my heart throbbed and fluttered in a very strange manner at the thought that sucli was his 1 >8TATE. CONFESSIONS OF AX APOSTATE. 141 <^ le follow iiig day I thing but Parson uppoaed attentions itnuels. Do as I get the matter out dwelt on it till my Had I heard that Bunker Hill had on Massachusetts *ve been more per- br its volition, than ition of Greerson's Tienage, Although taste, I was fully fluttered in a very that such was his taste. Of all the male visitors who frequented the Deacon's uouse, Tarson Greerson was the very last man whom 1 would have suspected of any such at- traction, he was really a gentlemanly, handsome young fellow, with as little of the Puritan about hua as I ever saw in any other native New Englander. He was one of the most popular preachers of " our kirk" in those parts, and, to do him justice, was mas- ter of a fine intellect and a happy vein of humor, which, however, he was fain to repress within the very narrowest bounds, in virtue of his standmg amongst " the chosen." Now it seemed to me that the young minister had been unusually mindful m our regard of his duty of visiting his hearers, and that principally since Eve's return. It is true he paid no particular attention to the fair daughter of the house, on the contrary, he rather afl-ected to avoid her, but still I always had a misgiving that his eyes wan- dered in her direction oftener than they had any need to do I bad noticed him, at times, too, when con- versihg with the aunt, falling into a fit of abstraction that to me was very suspicious, as his eyes followed the graceful and fawn-like figure of the niece. I had even seen his whole face brighten into smiles at some pert witticism of Eve's, until a glance at the serious visage of Miss Olive recalled him to decent gravity ^i 142 CONyESSIONS OF AN APOSTATK. and a proper sense of liis position. A new liyht Iind broken in on me through Eve's hadinage, and the light was wonderfully cheering. But, alas I there was a cloud hanging over the matter — a cloud of doubt and misgiving that would not be dispelled, do as I might, so that fear and hope had alternate pos- session of my mind, and I was sensible of a nervous tremor, a flutter of anxiety such as i had never before experienced. Why all this, was the question I asked myself fifty times a day, but somehow I could never get a satisfactory answer from within. Meanwhile the Catholics of the town and of its vicinity wore making the most of the "days of grace" afforded them by the priest's visit. Almost the only one whom I knew for certain as " belonging to that persuasion," was an Irishman who worked by the day in the Deacon's garden. I know not how he came to suspect me of being his co-religionist, for, although I had many a chat with liim about " the old country," I had carefully avoided even the slightest intimation of my being a Catholic, whereas Phil took good care that I should not remain in doubt on the subject of his belief. On the Satur. luy evening of that week, Phil watched his opportunity (I believe he staid an hour past his time for the very purpose) and accosted me iSTATK. CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 143 A new liglit lind hadiiiage, and tlie But, alas I there itter — a cloud of )t be dispelled, do lad alternate pos- ilble of a nervous i had never before B question I asked low I could never lin. town and of its af the "days of t's visit. Almost jin as " belonging nan who worked I know not how co-religionist, for, m about " the old even the slightest whereas Phil took 1 in doubt on the eek, Phil watched lid an hour past and accosted me as T walked in the garden a few minutes after gui)per. "There'll be Mass in the mornin' at John Gray's," said Phil, as I stopped to admire the neatness of a bush he was trimming. " Well ! " said I, with a start, " and what of that ?" •' Oh ! nothing at all," said he, with the queerest, drollest look, "only I thought, maybe, you might like to know. Among us Catholics here," and he laid a great stress on the word, "if ,'reat news en- tirely. It's not often we've a chai • of hearing Mass these times. Glory be to God, it's the fine oj)- portunity we have now — if it 'id only lust we'd be all right — but I hope there's a good time comin'. Ilowsomever, sir, if you're not what I took you for, there's no harm done." " Oh ! not at all, Phil," said T, with some hesit.a- tion, for I did not half like the comical expression of sly humor that was visible on Phil's nut-brown face. I was at first half inclined to confess the truth, but when once I noticed the quizzical look aforesaid, and fancied that Phil was making fun of me, and perhaps despised me in his heart, pride rose up in arms and obstinately closed my mouth on the secret. Still I would not appear to notice what was, after all, only a look and a half smile, so I bade the gardener " good- j Jl i B a i jBllHff^ '^-''^''"'™'™^™^'^ fmusmmmmmmm 144 C0NFRSHTOW8 or AN AP08TATS. evening " with as much composure as T could com- mand, and Btrolk'd leisurely down a shady walk. I was induced to look hack more than once as I walked, and, through the sun-lit foliage that skirted the walk, T saw Phil leaning against a crabbed plum-tree, with an unusually thoughtful look on his weather-worn features. He was, doubtless, trying hard to solve the knotty problem of my religious indifference. Honest Phil Cullen I how sincere was my respect for you at that moment, as you stood there in your mole- skin jacket, your fine manly figure a personification of sturdy independence, and your frank countenance darkened with a frovm at the thoughts of my pitiful prevarication, which could not escape your native shrewdness, aided by the light of faith. How poor, how contemptible a creature was T in comparison !— I, mean, truckling, shrinking like a guilty thing from the suspicion of being a Catholic, which this humble day-laborer doubtless considered his proudest distinc- tion. Other thoughts crowded into my mind in this coimection — aye! thoughts of " the moUier that looked on my childhood," the pious mother who would cheerfully walk many a long, long mile rather than miss hearing Mass on Sunday or holiday. And the father who was little STATB. as I cGuld com- % shady walk. I once as I walked, skirted the walk, d plum-tree, with his weather-worn ng hard to solve ious indifference, 'as my respect for liere in your mole- a personification frank countenance ghts of my pitiful ?cape your native faith. How poor, in comparison ! — guilty thing from (vhich this humble 8 proudest distinc- to my mind in this my childhood," rfully walk many a ) hearing Mass on her who was little COKFK88ION8 OF AN APOSTATE. 115 less devout— and the sintors and hrothcrs who were dwelling peacefully at home in the good, old-fashioned, homely sanctuary, where all virtue was inculcated, not by words, but by daily, hourly example— and the venerable pastor who had been so proud of my pro- gresfi in religious instruction— all, all were before me, and my heart swelled a'most to bursting M'ith the multitude and magnitude of my emotions. I rushed back to open my mind to Phil, but Phil was no longer there. Happily, my dear-bought resolution did not vanish with him, and, as if in reward for the effort it had cost mc, I was enabled to carry it out. So true it is that God assists those who labor in earn- est to overcome themselves and their evil passions. The most serious difficulty which I had foreseen was -unexpectedly removed by the absence of Eve, who iiad gone out to spend the evening, as I was told on entering the house. The witchery of her eyes once out of the way, I dreaded nothing during the even- ing, and had actually made up my mind to go to confession, as I knew the priest would be "hearing" till the night was far advanced. Now this I con- sidered an achievement— I mean the resolution— and I felt myself more of a man during the hour or so that I had it before my mind than I had done since— since I came to New Haven. Avoiding. all uuueces- 13 14C C<)N'FK8»IOM8 Of A^ AP08TATK. Bary converHutioH with the family, I retired to my room soon ftftor I wont in from the giirdon, iiitt'iidin;; to sol about propariiij^ inywi'lf for tlie Holeiiin, iind, «t nil tinit'«, painful duly in wiiivli I was Hteadily ri- Molved. I had not been long thus engiigod when raji, rap, comes Josiah to my door. What was wanting, I asked. Oh I Homebody's grandmother had died, and certain things wore wanting that could only be had in Deacon Samuels' store. So down I had to go, and when the store was seen ojien, sundry persons popj)cd in for something or another of which they suddenly found themselves in need. I was so vexed th:it I could hardly speak a civil word to any of tliem, but still they were all customers, and must be served when once in. By the time I got back to the house, the Deacon was there, and Parson Oreerson' was there, and some other notable individual with him. The Deacon could not hear of my going out. I pleaded a pressing engagement. It was no use, out I could no* get, unless I told the truth, and I would as soon bite my tongue off as do that. So theie Avent the oppf)rtuiiity in mercy given me, and all through my pusillanimous fear of being known for ft Catholic. I was on thorns all that evening, as, indeed, I well deserved to be. It was late when Miss Eve came home, so late that / nOSTATB. y, I retired to my lO giirdcn, inteiiditig the Ri>l(*iiin, and, nt I wiiH Hteadily re- eiigitj{i'd wlieii rnp, Wliiit woH wanting, dniotlier had died, f tliat could only he o down I liad to go, )en, Hnndry peiHons itlior of wliit'h they 3(1. I was so vexed nl word to any of >'nerH, and must l»e no I get bai'lv to the d Parson Oreerson ble individual with XT of my going out. lit. It was no use. Id the truth, and I off &H do that. So lercy given nie, and !ar of being known all that evening, as, le home, so late that COXFKHHtONH OK AN APt STATE. H7 I was already in my ro<.m iircparing for bed. Tl is (rue it was only half-pMHt ten, or tluMcnboutH, but tliat Mas coUHidereil a late hour in the New Haven of that day. 1 opened my door noflly, and stepjied on tip- toe to the top of the staircase, so as to afeertain, if possible, who it was that saw Kve home. I listened anxiously, trying to catch the words that <;iim> dulled to my ear up two )>aira of stairs, but I coidil tlis- tinguisli nothing, save and except the parting " Goodnight," whicli I fancied was spoken tenderly by Eve. Undoubtedly the young m:in's voice (piiv- ered in a way which it had no right to do, and I laid my head on my pillow to dream a harassing dream of the owner of that voice, a certain young mcrcliant of the town who was esteemed a thriving nmii ; what was more alarming to me, he had long been paying attention to Eve, thougli with doubtful prospect of success. After a night of feverish, broken slumber, T aros3 very early, and, profiting by the unbroken stillness of the houM , stole softly down stairs and made my way to the street. T was determined to hear Mass that morning at all hazards, and bracing myself uj), as best I could, for the prcjbablc or possible chances of discovery, I walked manfully on in the direction of John Grey's furm-house, which stood a little way 148 CONFESSIOXS OP AN APOSTATE. from the city, at the farther end of a pleasant green lane, or what I would I liave called in my boyish days, a hnreen. The house and every tiling about it looked, it seemed to me, particularly snug and com- fortable that bright autumn morning, with " The corn-tops green and the meadows in their bloom," the richly-laden apple-trees in a small orchard at one end of the house, and the soft, hazy-looking sun shin- ing down with his gentlest liglit on all the pleasant scene. But to me the chief beauty of the picture was the stream of people, men, women and children, that was flowing in through the white gateway, and under the hop-covered door-porch. Oh ! how my heart swelled that moment with thoughts long un- known, unfelt. Memory was busy, b.isy weaving her magic spell that carried me back to St. Kevin's Glen and our new parish chapel, where the country- folk, for miles around, were wont to assemble weekly, in all weathers, to ofier prayer and sacrifice, and hear the familiar teachings of the good old pastor, who had grown grey amongst them. When I, too, with a lightsome heart, though, perchance, an empty pocket, would " Cross the fields to early mass, And walk homo with the neighbors." POSTATE. of a pleasant green ailed in my boyish everything about it larly snug and com- ing, with ows in their bloom," small orchard at one izy-looking sun shin- ) on all the pleasant sauty of the picture romen and children, white gateway, and ch. Oh I how my 1 thoughts long un- jusy, busy weaving back to St. Kevin's , where the country- i to assemble weekly, id sacrifice, and hear jod old pastor, who When I, too, with ice, an empty pocket, mass, oeighbora." CONFESSIONS OF AX AVOSTATK. 119 My thdiiirlits were sad, if not bitter, and I asked my- self witli a sinking heart, " What Imve you gained, Simon Kerrigan, by leaving your old home ? has e you not lost more in one way llian you gained in another?" Before I had come to any conclusion on tlie subject (other tliau the instinct which was tlie voice of con- science), I had reached the door and followed the crowd into a large room on the first floor, where a temporary altar had been fitted up, and before it in silent prayer knelt the venerable priest in his white surplus and stole. He had evidently been hearing confessions, tilthough it Avas yet but six o'clock. In a few moments he stood up and commenced vesting himself for Mass, while the people all knelt in pious recollection. As I looked around upon the little con- gregation I recognized many whom I had never sus- pected of being Catholics, and others whom I did know for what they were. Amongst the latter class was Phil Cullen, whose round eyes were fixed on me, as I entered, with a kind of half-pleased, half mock- ing expression. During the time that the priest was preparing for i^Iass I noticed one female coming in, whose appear- ance riveted my attention, it was so unlike any of the others present. Her figure Mas small and grace- 13» L 150 CONFESSIONS OF AIT APOSTATE. ful, as I could see even tlirough the long cloak in which it was enveloi.ed. ller l\ice I could not see, or even catch a glimpse of through the thick veil which hung from her close straw bonnet. There was, on tlie whole, an air of mystery about the figure that attracted me with irresistible force, and I was almost sorry when Mass commenced, because I had to turn my back on it. I much fear that I derived little bene- fit from that ]Mass, good as my resolutions were as I approached the house where it was said, for in spite of myself my mind was wandering to the veiled fiiir one near the door, and instead of reflecting on the dread couunemo.ative mysteries going on before me, I was wondering who she could be, and to what Catholic family in or about New Haven she could belong. To complete my perturbation I fancied once or twice that the eyes which I saw shining behind the veil, like stars through a mist, were observing me with fixed attention. It might be only imagination, but whether or not, the effect was the sanve on me. I was, as it were, in a fever of curiosity, and although decency obliged me to foce the altar, I paid no more attention to the sacred rites than if they were cele- brated a hundred miles away. I had made up my mind to hurry out when the people stood up at ti.e last Gospel, so as to watch the motions of the fair m- •OSTATB. the long cloak in ,ce I could not see, mgli the thick veil )onnet. There was, bout the figure that e, and I was almost cause I had to turn I derived little bene- esolutions were as I 'as said, for in spite ng to the veiled fivir eflecting on the dread on before me, I was id to Avhat Catholic he could belong. n I fancied once or iV shining behind the were observing me be only imagination, ,vas the same on me. Liriosity, and although altar, I paid no more lan if they were cele- I had made up my eoplo stood up at fi;e motions of the fair in- CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 151 cognita, instead of waiting to see the priest, accord- ing to my first intention. I was doomed to be disappointed, however, for by the time I made my way to the door, the veiled figure was gone. I looked around in all directions, bewil- dered and amazed, but the object of ray search was nuwhere to be seen. A buggy was driving along the road in the direction of the town, but whether it con- tained the person in whom I was interested I had no means of knowing. Slowly, very slowly, I plodded my way back to town, in a very different frame of Jnind from that in which I came. The sunshine was still bright on the fields and gardens, the air was still fresh and balmy, and laden with the thousand perfumes of fruit, and flower, and herb, the people were already dispersing, and wending their homeward way in picturesque groups, chatting pleasantly as they went. I alone was dull, lonely, and de^^cted, uncheered by the smiles of nature, or the converse of my kind. And yet I could not tell why it was so. It could not be possible that baflled curiosity could alone produce such effects, but if not that, I could in no ways ac- count for the depression into which I had so suddenly fallen. The Sabbath amongst Puritans is ever a dreary I- r 1. 162 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. day— dull, and cold, and cheerless. The very cats and dogs seem to feel the saddening influence of over-strained and misapplied " religion," and neither bark nor mew is heard as it is on Avorking-days. In fact, cheerfulness (not to say mirth) is prohibited on tlie evangelical Sabbath, so that a day which, amongst Catholics, brings not only rest but joy, is strangely enough converted by the people amongst whom my lot was then cast, into a day of weary, dreary, cold restraint. Even the buoyant spirits of Eve Samuels could not resist the overwhelming heaviness of the domestic atmosphere, and although she laughed at the hypocritical length of pious faces, and in her heart had little sympathy with " the saints," still the force of habit made her almost as grave and serious on the Sunday as any other member of the family. ■ On this particular Sunday, I thought her even more serious than the occasion required, and, being myself in such low spirits, I felt sad and dejected, longing for Monday to come, and with it business in tlie fctore and the stir of life in the house, and Eve's pportive gaiety, best and most effectual specific of r.11 to cure my despondency. I would have given anything for a visit, no matter who made it — except, indeed, it was Parson Greerson, fur notwithstandhig Eve's raillery, and her aunt's POSTATE. 299. The very c^ats lening influence of ligion," and neither I workhig-days. In th) is prohibited on day which, amongst ut joy, i9 strangely aniong9t whom my weary, dreary, cold i-it9 of Eve Samuels ig heaviness of the iigh she laughed at ^ faces, and in her the saints," still the IS crave and serious ber of the family. > '. thought her even required, and, being It sad and dejected, i with it business in lie house, and Eve's fectual specific of nil CONFERSTONS OP AN APOSTATE. 153 appropriation of his attentions and intentions to her- self, I, somehow, could not get over my growing dis- like of the man, based on fears which lay far down in the depths of my heart. But no one came, not even the minister, and we had to pass the day in un- broken stillness and monotony. for a visit, no matter vas Parson Greerson, lery, and her aunt's 154 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. CIIAFfEIl X. :^^ lEUE was a faint impression on my mind as I ascended to my chamber on that Sunday night that there was something mmm.al in Eve's manner, at least towards myself. It was not increased coldness, or keener irony, or yet any shade of bitterness, an.l yet assuredly the change was not for the better in my regard. In my wak- ing moments during the night I had thought of it, and thought of it until I was lost in conjecture, and at last, towards morning, I fell into a sound, dreamless slumber on the conclusion that it was all imagination, and that it was only the Sunday cloud which hung heavier than usual on Eve's buoyant mind, which was sure to regain its lightness with the py"-' T. fOSTATB. COXFEJSIOXS OV AN APOSTATE. 156 t impression on my iknl to my chambei- nii^lit that thoie was al in Eve's manner, myself. It was not 88, or keener irony, ie of bitterness, ami e change was not for regard. In my wak- iring the night I had id thought of it until )njeeture, and at last, ,g, I fell into a sound, jlusion that it was .ill jnly the Sunday cloud Luil on Eve's buoyant 1 its lightness Avilh the cheerful dawn of Monday. After a h.asty toilet I descended to the garden, hoping yet somehow fe.aring to iiud Eve there. llo\)0 or fear, there she was, in iier broiid-lcafed straw-hat, and looking like n second Flora a^ she bent over her llowcrs, watering-pot in hand. Yielding to the strong hnpnlse which urged nie on, I approached her. She nuist have been lost in thought, for she started at the sound of my voice, and I saw by the momentary glance she cist on nic tliat the interrviption Avas anything but agreeable. Anxious to know v.hethcr Eve was really changed, or, if so, what had caused the ch.inge, I made an at- tempt to enter into conversation, but her answers either came m monosyllables or came not at all, and, with a heavy heart, I was forced to give in to the conviction th.it Eve Samuels was no longer the same. >.\)t a trace remained of all that girlish coquetry, that sprightly wit and drollery, which had so charmed my senses. Oh ! how much I Avould have given at that moment for one of those sunny, flashing glances which used to illumine the darkest recesses of my heart. Even the mocking, scoffijig tone which she very often assumed in talking to me, would have been now most welcome, but that was not vouchsafed me. Hardly a word or look could I get from Eve, no matter what subject I started, and I was about -.Jbbsm 156 C0N-FESS10N8 OP AW APOSTATT?. to give it up in despair, when a desperate idea came into my head. Worse I could not be I saw plainly, so I paid then what, at another time, I could not have got my tongue to utter. "I suppose you're biting your nails now, IMiss Samuels, that you let such a fine ' take ' go off into your aunt's net I" " Take !" she repeated, with a kindling eye, " what ' take ' do you mean ?" " Why, the minister, to be sure !" A scornful laugh, a bitter, scornful laugh escaped Eve, and she turned on me with the air of a wounded tigress : " Do you mean to say, Mr. Simon Kerr ! that you can swallow such a story as that ? I guess Greerson would be ill displeased with you if you be- lieved it even for a moment. My aunt's net ! Ruben Greerson in my aunt's net ! ha ! ha ! ha !— no one living but, a stupid Irishman would think of such a thing 1" I was nettled at the way in which she spoke of Irishmen in general : " As I told you before, Miss Samuels !" said I, " I am much beholden to you for your flattering opinion of ' Irishmen,' but Irish as / am, I didn't really swallow the story, as you say your- self. The mouthful w^as rather large for my throat, and wouldn't go down, do all I could." 'OSTATB. espcrate itlefi camo it be I saw plainly, le, I could not have ir nails now, Miss I ' take ' go off into undling eye, " wliat •nful laugh escaped lie air of a wounded , Mr. Simon Kerr ! y as that ? I guess with you if you be- aunt's net ! Ruben ! lia ! ha ! — no one )uld think of such a which she spoke of Id you before, Misa beholden to you for men,' but Irish as / ory, as you say your- large for my throat, lould." CONTEPSTnTCS OF AW APOSTATE. IBI «« Indeed! — why, you astonish mo, Mr. Kerr! — po you are not quite so dull as I took you to be — you are actually a shade or two in intelligence above the animal with thi long ears so generally useful where you came from." Every word of this taunting speech went like a dagger to my heart. A sudden faintness came over me, and I was obliged to lean against a tree for sup- l)ort. The false spirit which had hitherto sustained me was entirely gone, and I felt utterly miserable. " This from you !" I said in a broken voice ; " this from yov, Miss Eve ! of all people !" " And why not from me, pray ?" and she ttirned on me quickly with a lowering brow, but seeing me leaning ag.Vmst the tree, doubtless as pale as a ghost, her countenance changed, and she said in an altered tone : " Why, what on earth is the matter with you, Mr. Kf rr ? you look like a corpse !" *' Oh ! it was only a little weakness I took," said I with a forced smile, " if anything serious did ail me I shouldn't like to have you see me." " And why not ?" " Why, because I believe you incapable of human pity—would to God that I had known it sooner !— many a year of misery it might have saved me !— but now— " I stopped, turned my eyes from her face, 14 v^sMSHW mmmmHKmiiiKfi L. 168 coNfKssioss Of ak apostate. and Bighod deeply I heard my own sigh echoed near me, but Hun-ly the echo came not from the lioart- less, ho«dle8H, teasing creattirc before me. Ahis ! it did, and more, too, much more than I ever dared expect. AVhon T thnii^ht the girl so utterly un- Avorthy of real affect ion, she Mas nK)st worthy, be- cause she was true to her own high heart, and spoke with a candor that in any other woman would have been set down as indecorous, perhaps imprudent. *' Look at me," said she, and her voice trembled ; " hiok at mt and say again that I am dead to Inunnn pity." I did look, and could hardly believe that the pale, agitated features, and the tear-dimmed eyes Avere those of the merry, laughing girl who had been for months' long the sunshine of our dull domicile. So great was my amazement that I rould not speak. Eve smiled faintly and went on : " T do not ask what you mean — 1 know it— I feel it here—" and she laid her hand on her heart, " I will not pretend to misunderst.and you— a short time —a very short time ago I might h.ave been— pleased —to know what I now know for the first time— but now—" she nnconsciously ended in the same way I had done, but T noticed it not— I noticed nothing but the insinuation convoyed in her words, and that infused new life into every vein, and made my heart 1^ I'OSTATB. 1 own sigh edioed not from the licivrt- 'fore me. AIiih ! it than I ever ilaretl girl m utterly nn- s nioHt Worthy, Ite- gh heart, ami spoke woman AvonlJ have Imps imprudent, lior voice tremhled ; I ;iin (li'.'ul to human rtlly believe that the e tear-dinnnod eyes ig girl who had been )f our dull domicile. It I f'ould not speak. n__l know it— I feel nd on her heart, " I id yon — a short time t have been— pleased p the first time — but 1 in the same way I I noticed nothing but ler words, and that 1, and made my heart C0XFE8810XS OF AX Al'OHTATK. l.)9 boutid with renewed \w\m. I .sprung towards her, and attiinpted to take both her hanils, but she cpiickly placed tiain behind her back, and warned mo with a dark scowl not to make ko free. " Come no nearer," Haid «he sharply, " there is a gulf between us which neither can j)ass — you are in the condition of Dives, and I in that of Lazarus." " How is that, ]\Iiss Samuels V" " I tell you there has arisen between us au iniMipera- ble obstacle." " Obstacle ! — an insuperable oljstacle ! — why, what can it be ?" *' That I keep to myself for the present — for you, I think you know it already — I think you do— hush ! anyhow, there's father — not a word more — but hasten down that alley !" For some days after this my mind was in a constant whirl of troubled thought. The sudden change in Evo'b manner, the emotion she had betrayed in the garden, were each a source of anxious speculation. The latter might have given me a gleam of hope, but the former instantly obscured it, and left me plimged in the deepest gloom. I tried .and tried to pouetrato the myslery, but tlio more I tried, it became only the more inscrutable. And what made the matter worse, that wicked Eve plainly enjoyed my distress, for, mmmmimiilk mmiiiii i m m r^'^i* ■ 160 CONFKfiSlONS OF AN ArOSTATa. raising my e\ es HiuMenly after a fit of painful mus- ing, I often found lier watching mo with u Hingular mixture of fun and sympathy that sot my heart in a fli'tter. To crown all, the old man appeared to havo been UtU'W 1iy his whimsical daughter, for he, too, was changed, and began to wax thouglitful on our hands, and, as I considered, a little fretful, which, to say the truth, had never been his fault heretofore. Aunt Olive was just as usual, except that she be- gan to entertain fears for my health, which annoyed me not a little. Often, when I was doing my best to elude observation, and, perhaps, took reftige in a corner from the piercing eyes of Eve, Miss Olive would call out across the room : " I guess you're going to have dyspepsy, Mr. Kerr ! You look the picture of it ! You must take something for it be- fore it goes any farther. You must, indeed 1" Eve's mocking laugh was sure to follow : " I guerj you're about right, aunty ! poor Mr. Kerr had better take some medicine— suppose ynu tried catnop, ob? it's ever so good for the stomach, Mr. Kerr— it is, indeed !" I could with diflRculty repress my tears, but I managed to stammer out thanks for the well-meant, though officious kindness of Miss Olive. One eveuing when I felt, and I suppose looked )gTATB. fit of painful m\i8- 10 with ft Hingiiiar set my heart in a I nppeareil to havo ghtor, for he, too, tiioiightful on our ttlc fretful, wliicli, 18 fault horotoforo. ixcept that she be- 1th, which annoyed 18 doing my best to took refuge in a if Eve, MiHs Olive : " I guess you're >rr I You look the jmething for it be ist, indeed !" ,0 follow : " I guefj ^Ir. Kerr had better u tried catnop, eh ? •h, Mr, Kerr— it is, SB my tears, but I for the well-meant, Olive. i I suppose looked CONKKHHIO.Vrt Of AN AI'imlATE. 101 more depressed than usual, the good lady withtlrew quietly from the room, and Hpcedily returned with u bowl of— walergrufl, prepared, she Maid, by her own hand. Even Josiah's gravity was not proof against this, and he heartily joined in his sister's burst of merrina-nt. I tried to lii'ilino the " gruel " with composure, assuring Miss Olive that there was noth- ing the matter with me, and that I never could take gruel. She still persisted in pressing it upon mo, till at last I fairly lost my temper, and bolted from the room, leaving MisH Olive standing on the floor with the unlucky bowl in her hand. Shrieks of laughter followed me even to the privacy of my little room, mingled with the angry voice of Olive ; and, to escape, if possible, the unwelcome sounds, I threw myself on my bed, just as I was, and buried my head in the coverlit. That was a luckless night to me, for it cost mo the friendship of good Miss Olive, who ever after treated mo witli coldness and that starched civility which was her general manner. I observed, too, that she talked very often, unusually often, of "that dear man. Parson Greerson," pointing her remarks ever and anon with a glance of sovereign contempt at my unlucky self. Of course, I was much amused at the old lady's little afl'ucted airs, and, at another time, would have enjoyed then as capital 14* ,162 COJTFKSSIONS OF AN Al'OSTATE. fun. But I felt sick at heart, and could find no enjoyment in anything, save watching Eve's ever- changing features, and although there was little iu her eyes or in her face to cheer my drooping spirits, I took a morbid pleasure in trying to read that fair, but treacherous index, thence to form my conclusions, whether correct or not. So disturbed was my mind that I would gladly have gone to confession had I still had the opportu- nity. But the priest was gone, and the hour of grace had passed away, as I then sadly felt. Things could not go on in this way. The Deacon grew graver and more serious every day, and various hints escaped Josiah that " father wan't pleased any more with how I managed matters in the store." At last the old man spoke to me himself, and fairly told me that I wasn't what I used to be, and that customers began to complain of my negligence and inattention. " Now, once for all, Mr. Kerr," said he, " that will not do," and he struck his stick on the floor, " that ain't the way I made my business, and what is more, it ain't the way that you got along after you fii-st came." Had I foUoAved the dictates of my own judgment, or even of my own temper at the time, I would have warned the old man tliat I meant to leave very soon, ■IMM I'OSTATE. and could find no Itching Eve'a ever- there was little iu my drooping spirits, iig to read that fair, brm my conclusions, hat I would gladly ill had the opportu- e, and the hour of . sadly felt. s way. The Deacon ery day, and various er wan't pleased any itters in the store." e himself, and fairly ised to be, and that f my negligence and I, Mr. Kerr," said he, ick his stick on the ido my business, and ' that you got along f my own judgment, le time, I would have it to leave very soon, r COJJFESSIONS OF AX APOSTATT!. 1C3 but my heart failed me when I thought of Eve, and I felt that, to tear myself away from the house where she dwelt, would have been more than T could bear. Pride and prudence \^ ould alike have prompted me to leave a place so fatal to my happiness, but pride and prudence Avere silenced by the louder voice of passion, luring me on with flilse, deceitful hope. So I was fain to apologize to the Deacon, and in extenua- tion qf my temporary negligence, meanly sheltered myself under Miss Olive's mistake. T muttered some- thing about the indifferent state of my health, but, to my utter discomfiture, the grave old man only shook his head and smiled a serious smile. " Simon," said he, " I may as well tell you that I have had some thoughts of taking you in as a part ner — what would you think of that ?" I, of course, expressed my obligations, and said I had no right to expect any such thing. " Of course not, Simon, of course not, but T find you so useful, in regard to your knowledge of the business, and so good a salesman, moreover, tliat I certainly thought of giving you an interest — of course a small one, at first — in the business. I may do it yet, Simon, — if — if — you will only pay attention — and — why if there ain't our Eve, a-walking in the garden with ParsiDn Greorson ? I wonder what he's r- : -^r^ .^.^mmi 164 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. got to say to her-I hope he ain't a-maWng love to her, after all-for all she's my daughter, she amta fit wife for him. She aiu't !" Aw.yhe stumped, leaving me still more ag.tated than before, yet quite willing to endorse the Deacon s opinion as regarded the matrimonial prospects of the pair before us. I had an intuitive feehng that my all of happiness was staked on the result of that confer- ence, L my very temples throbbed wUh Inn-nmg aesire to know what I had to expect, or what to fear. I was strongly tempted to go into the garden, where I ™i..ht possibly overhear something to enhghten „.e, but, whilst I was hesitating, I saw the Deacon ,nake up to Greerson, and Eve breaking away from both with a laugh, whos3 ringing music reached me .vhere I stood. I knew not what to tlnnk, but one thing was certain, viz. : that I dared not venture oat """wrhad an early tea that evening, as the Deacon and his son had to go some -^- ^^^^^^ J^?" business, expecting to return by the hght of the voung harvest moon. After tea, I heard Miss Olive asking her niece to go with her to pay a visit to a sick relation, where, upon I betook myself to the garden, almost rejoicing in the excess of my loneliness. I walked about for >OSTATE. 't a-making love to augliter, she ain't a still more agitated lulorse the Deacon's lial prospects of the e feeling that my all result of that confer- ohhed with burning pect, or what to fear, to the garden, where lething to enlighten (T. I saw the Deacon breaking away from ig music reached me hat to think, but one Jarcd not venture out vening, as the Deacon miles out of town on by the light of the vre asking her niece to a sick relation, where- ;arden, almost rejoicing 3. I walked about for CONFE88IOXS OP AN APOSTATB. 165 some time, thinking of the strange position in which I found myself, and wondering at the singular destiny which I fancied had brouglit me tliere, keeping my mind as far as possible from dwelling on its favorite object. All at once I remembered that I bad re- ceived a letter from Ire and two days before, and had not as yet opened it, so entirely was I engrossed by the one thought. I had drawn it from my pocket, and was in the act of breaking the seal when in pass- ing the arbor I involuntarily looked in ; and there, with her back towards me, sat the identical young lady whose appearance at Mass in John Gray's house had set ;ny wits a-working ever since. I could hardly repress an exclamation of surprise, and my feet were as if riveted to the ground. The still unopened let- ter was again consigned to my pocket, and I stood with gaping eyes fixed on the graceful little figure which sat as motionless before me as though it were animated by no breath of life. I know not how long I might have stood there, fearing to move, or to take my eyes off the mysteri- ous figure, lest it should vanish from my siglit like the leprachaun of Irish faery, but as it was I had not long to remain in such breathless suspense. The lady arose and turned towards me — the veil was thrown back, and tie face of Eve Samuels was be- 1 166 CONFESSIONS OF AX APOSTATE. fore me, looking 8omewhj.t as I had seen lior fur the last week, with the exception of an incipient smile which lurked about her mouth and eyes. Even this was encouragement for me and I made some steps towards her. "Miss Samuels!" I exclaimed, "can I believe my eyes — " " You can and may— how do you like my masque- rade ?" I made no answer— I knew not yveWwhat to say, BO I remained silent. " You noticed a change in me," said Eve, « and I fell the change myself. I could not appear the same towards yru after seeing what I had scon. You now understand the why and whereforc-at least I hope 60. It is true I do not feel at ease about the means which I took to satisfy my doubts concerning you. J feel that I did wrong in bending my knee with Papists in their idolatrous rites, but I toll you plainly, I suspected you, partly from some hints let fall by my fiither, partly from other causes— now— " she stopped, colored violently, and was preparing to move away. Her emotion was too visible, and too flatter- ing for me to let her go so easily. " Now," said I, repeating her own word, " in what is now different fron. then ?-you hated, you despised fiM^!N!»N»SMiiRMI»KK>i^^ ?OSTATE. ad seen her for tlie au incipient smile ud eyes. Even this I made some steps "can I believe my rou like my masque- lot well what to say, E5," said Eve, " and I not appear the same had seen. You now Iji-e— at least I hope (ase about the means ubts concerning you. nding my knee with but I toll you plainly, jme hints let fall by causes — now — " she vsis preparing to move 'isible, and too flatter- y- r own word, " in what u hated, you despised COXFKSSIOXS OP AX AI'OKTATE. 107 me before, what lower can I have fallen in your esti- mation — what is it to you, Eve Samuels ! what relig- ion I profess ?" I spoke bitterly, because I felt keenly, and Eve's trepidation increased with every word I uttered. " Hate !— despise !" slie repeated, " who told you I hated or despised you, 8inion Kerr ? I am an Ameri- can girl, and I never shrink from giving expression to my thoughts. I know ijoii do not hate mc," here she CMst down lier radiant eyes with tlie prettiest blush and the archest snn'le iiiiagiiiablo, " and just as little do / hate i/oit — if I did, I would not have gone in amongst tlie children of Belial to w.-itch over you." " Watch over me ! — how ?" " Why, because I am determined to save you — I will do it, come what niav*. You shall come forth from the abomination of desolation which abides in the Romish Church, or — or — " " Or Avhat ?" " Or either you or I must leave this house." "But — but—" I hcsit.ated and colored to tho temples at the base suggestion which passion urged upon me, "but — suppose T— I— did as you desire Cbr my life I could not give a name to the foul thing which I then first saw as a possibility) — what good would it do me ? Eve Samuels and I would be !Bg(iST*se*v« 168 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATB. Btill as far apart as wealth and poverty could make VIS." . - . ft. "You are mistaken, Simon," she said m a sott, yet earnest tone, and she moved a step nearer to me. How my heart throbbed at the sound of my own name pronounced by hor for the first time. " You are mistaken, Simon !-I have reason to know that if you we a Protestant, you might have Deacon Samuels daughter as well as a share of his business. I know not what you may think of me for speaking so, but 1 don't care— I tell the truth." I hardly remember how I felt at that moment, or what I did, but I remember all too well that the floodof joy which rushed in upon my soul earned away all the barriers which faith or conscience would have opposed, and I safd, almost without knowmg what I did say : „ c i i Va i' I will be whatever you wish, Eve Samuels! be mine, and make me what you please !" :#«Bt«»BK«S«W**f keen and caustic e unto ours — at least iiedick and Beatrice, jiair, wlien wo quar- 8 were tlic most at- es contradicted what is continual whetting crest to what intcr- jniented our mutual [ was HO hitoxicated lot think, even if I sh to reflect on the -reflection, I thought, t, could only embitter af which was now so ,-ith its unseen goods I with the conscious- muels, and the inime- all my own ? Bah ! leology, or any such Eve Samuels was the id for the superlmman f religion in an after These were the ran- CONFESSIOXS OF AX APOSTATE. ni m&asmbsv^^ dom thoughts wherewith I met and put to flight the jiromptings of my good angel, and before the wed- ding-day came round I had silenced them altogether. I exulted, of course, in my supposed victory, and gave full vent to the gushing flow of animal spirit which speedily bore me out of the reach of self- reproach, and all other troublesome feelings of that kind. At length the happy day arrived, and I received Eve Samuels from her father's hand. It was Parson Greorson who should have made us one, but it so happened that he was obliged to be in Hartford that day on very important business. Whether the busi- "• ness grew out of the occasion I cannot pretend to say, but I knew Eve and myself exchanged signifi- cant glances when the Parson's ceremonious " re- grets " were conveyed to the Deacon in our presence on the previous evening. For my own part, (and I think Eve's, too,) I was not sorry that the young minister had contrived to hand over to a delegate what I felt woidd have been a painful duty for him. The Deacon, Josiah, and Miss Olive were all griev- ously disappointed, especially the latter, whose new fawn-colored silk dress and beautiful chip hat, a la gi[)sy, went for nothing in his absence. The marriage ceremony was hardly over when 1'72 CONTE88IOS8 OF AN ArOBlAfB. conscience look up the Ins}, an.l cc-nienced tlio work of castigation Avhich bus hanll) yet ceased, after years of rt^inorwe and sincere ropeiitanpe. Tl.o friends and relations of my beautiful bride crowd.-d around •with their congratulations and good wishes, and n>y boBou. swelled with rapture vhen I heard thorn salute Eve by my name, but alas ! conscience whispered that the ceremony which nin.!.' her mine in the eyea of the law was f.-r mo nothing more than a cere- mony, and I shrank, as with a consci-usness of guilt, from taking her to my bosom. "The law and her father have given her to me," said I, within myself, as I looked at her with swimming eyes, '♦ but no priest has blessed our union-marriage is a sacrament divinely instituted, am I receiving it as 8uch?-ah no ! no !— our union cannot be blessed, for how even could I ask a blessing or. it ?" Notwithstanding all my efforts, these intrumve thoughts threw a fearful gloom over "the joys of wedlock." Eve herself di-l not fail to notice it, and she called me to account in her sportive way for what she called my very unreasonable gravity. It was not hard to persuade her, however, that the cloud which rested on my brow was the natural re- gret of a son that the mother who fostered his inlant years and the companions of his youthful sports APObl > I K. co'i nicnced the work lly yet ceased, after ButJinpe. The friends ride crowded nround good wishes, and my «n I heard thorn sahito couiscionce wlnt«liered her mine in the eyes g more than a cere- consuiciisness of gnilt, 1. " The law and her said 1, within myself, inming eyes, "but no niirriagc is a sacraniont iving it as such? — ah V blessed, for how even jfforts, those intrusive om over " the joys of lot fail to notice it, and I her sportive way for reasonable gravity. Tt ler, however, that the •ow was the natural re- who fostered his infant of his youtliful sports CONFKHSIOSfl Ol'- A.V Al'OSTATE. na should bo so fur, far n\\;\y on Iii.s wodding-day. But tlie great day passed away with its tiini\i!tiioiis joys, its manifold rcoollectiunH. Even its dark forebodings and sad misgivings came at last to an end, would that I might say, forever. Hut it was not so, such as that day w.'is, wore years of my after life. Tlie golden vista of joy to which it seenied the portal Avas, indeed, mine during many a year of chcijucred life, but the remorse, the scru]>Ies, the fears and doubts which cast their gloom athwart the bright- ness of that day were only the foreshadows of things to come. I found Eve all, and more than all, I had fondly believed her to be, and I never hud reason to doubt that she loved me tndy and lastingly. But unfortu- nately for my peace of mind, lier sportive vivacity was in no way diminished by her assumption of the matronly character, and, as she Imd no great respect for religion herself, in any form, my change of relig- ion was one of her favorite subjects of ridicule. It is true she had the good sense never to allude to it before strangers — even her aunt or Josiah never got a hint from her of my having once been a Catholic, but when u e were alone together, or with only her father present, she indulged in all sorts of fun and mockerv with regard to what she called my "cast* 16* 174 COXFESfllONS OF AW AP08TATK. o(T rolij,'lon." For a lonj^ time ftftur our marringo, Hho nover gave her latlior even a liint of hor having been ttt Unm one morning, hnt once, in hiH hearing, she forgot herself so far a« to repeat in a mimiolcing yray one of tlio Latin phrases she hail heard on that occasion ; her father instantly took lior to task as to how or wliore she had hoard such hoatlionisli lingo. Poor Eve, unwilling to prevaricate, told the whole truth, and was severely chidden for her pains. •♦ I am thankful," said the Deacon with n mistaka- blo sincerity, " that it ia Simon's wife you are, rather than Parson Greerson's— a woman trained as you have hoen, in the religion of the Gospel, to enter a Popish Mass-house — " "It wan't a ISIass-houae, father — there you're •wrong," interrupted the incorrigible Eve. " No matter, child ! when the godless rites of Ro- manism Avere celebrated there, the house was accursed, together with all who assisted thereat." This was too much even for me, and I asked the Deacon did he not believe that the Romanists wor- shipped the same God as he did. ♦' They pretend to, Simon— of course they do— but you know yourself they give far more honor to the Virgin ISIary and their trumpery old Saints than they do to their Maker." P09TATK. aftwr oiir innrriiigo, I liiiit of lior hivvhig nee, in hU hearing, pent in a mimicking Iiml lieiird on tliut ok hor to tiiHk as to nh hoiUhenish lingo, ato, told the whole or her pains, con with n -^mistaka- wife yon are, rather nan trained as you Gospel, to enter a itiior — there you're ible Evo. 1 godless rites of Ro- house was accursed, icroat." rne, and I asked the t the Romanists wor- » course they do — but ir more honor to tho r old Saints than they CONFKfiHIONS OF AN APOSTATR. 175 " I don't know any such thing, sir," I replied warmly ; " Catholics, oven the most simple, know well enough the diflferonoe between God and his creat\ires, no matter how favored or how privileged tlicy may be. Thoy adore but one God in three divine persons," " Nonsense, Simon, don't we know thoy have as many gods and goddesses as they have saints and saintesHcs — han't they altars erected to them, and churches, and don't they offer sacrifice to them the same as they do to God ?" " I toll you, sir, you know nothing at all about it — you just seem to know as much about Catholicity as you do about Buddhism — a great deal less, for all I know — and I suppose there ain't any sort of use in trying to set you right on the subject, or rather to open your eyes to the truth." " No use whatever, Simon, I know more about Papist doings than I want to — it surprises me to hear you talk of them as you do — before you mar- ried Eve you didn't dare begin to talk so, and now when I thought you had turned away heart and soul from tho unclean thing, T find you undertaking to prove it fair and spotless." " But, father," said Eve, anticipating me, " it was you that began the subject, not Simon — you forget that." rt i f - M n ft H i i h ii V i lit i n i ll i ll'TT liMMIiHMHmMM IIQ CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. «'It don't matter which, Eve— if Kerr had really got religion, his sense of riglit-his conscience, in fact, wouldn't permit him to speak in favor of an institution which had its origin in the dark ages, and outlived them only by a diabolical miracle. Popery is a monstrous thing, an unnatural thing existing in this advanced age of the world. Faugh I don't talk to me about it-I ain't a-going to tolerate any man or woman in my house who has a leaning towards it." « Why, Mr. Samuels," said I, more and more net- tled as the old man waxed more angry, " why, Mr. Samuels, it's a pity you didn't teU me so when I came here first. You musn't have been so bitter against Papists then, sir, for I told you I was one." "Yes, and you're one at heart still," said the Deacon with forced calmness, as he took up bis hat and stick. " Why, to be sure he is, father," said my riddle of a little wife, with one of her sly looks at me ; " you might as well try your hand at that proverbially use- less task of washing the blackamoor white, as to scrub away the rust of Popery. The Dominus Vohif cum is in them to the back bone— eh, Simon ?" The strange quotation and its ludicr isly wrong application tickled me so that I was forced to laugh. "There now, father," said Eve exultingly as the \ APOSTATE. ,e— if Kerr had really ;ht — his conscience, in speak in favor of an n in the dark ages, and olical miracle. Popery itural thing existing in Id. Faugh 1 don't talk J to tolerate any man or a leaning towards it." I, more and more net- nore angry, " why, Mr. [n't tell me so when I 't have been so bitter [ told you I was one." i heart still," said the 3, as he took up his hat ther," said my riddle of sly looks at me ; " you at that proverbially use- tlackamoor white, is to ry. The Bominus Vohii- one — eh, Simon ?" id its ludicr isly wrong A I was forced lo laugh, d Eve exidtingly as the CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 177 old man turned in surprise, " you see he's all right — you don't know how to manage him, that's all. Take my advice, and just say nothing to him, about relig- ion — leave that between him and me." " Well ! I guess you're about right, child !" said the Deacon. " Of course I am, father ! — ain't I, Simon ?" To be sure I answered in the affirmative, where- upon the Deacon nodded very graciously, and stumped away in tolerably good humor. " Eve," said I, when we had the room to ourselves, " Protestants are much given to talking of Popish intolerance — ain't they ?" " Not more so than it deserves, I think," she re- plied gravely. " What a pity they don't see their own faults as they see those of others — now tl^ere's your father, and if he ain't about as intolerant a man as — " " As any Jesuit or inquisitor," laughed Eve. " Or as any of your old New England Puritans," I retorted, '■ and they, I take it, were the most intoler- ant set of men that ever o^..,ed the earth since the days of Nero and Dioclesian." " Since the days of who ?" Instead of applying myself to give Eve a lesson in history, I set about soc thing away the frown that 178 COXFKSSIOXS OP AN APOSTATE. was gradually contracting her finely-arched brows, and in order to do this I had to give the whole dis- cussion the air of a jest, and assure her that I didn't care one straw about religion. It was only her father's tartness that provoked me to talk as I had done. " He ought to be satisfied now," said I, " when I have abjured Popery to please—" I paused. " Not hira— but me— ain't it so ?" said Eve with her arch smile. " Exactly so— I made the sacrifice for your sake— and I would make it again to-morrow— but neither you nor any one else must expect me to do more than I can do. I have cast oflT Popery, ae you call it, but no other religion will ever fit me so well- 1 can never get into Protestantism, whether Calvinism, Methodism, Baptistism— or any other ism. So just let me go on my own way, and I will gi\'e you no cause of complaint outwardly. I'll put on whatever religious garb you please, as far as going to church goes, but, for heaven's sake, let me alone about Pop- ery—all of you, I'll be all the better Protestant for it, I assure you !" The earnestness with which I spoke appeared to have its effect on Eve. Her love gave her the key to my feelings. Her lip trembled, and the color came L N APOSTATE. 3r finely-arched brows, [ to give the whole dis- asHure her that I didn't ion. It was only her :ed me to talk as I had now," said I, " when I e — " 1 paiised. i it so ?" said Eve with sacrifice for your sake — to-morrow — but neither expect me to do more off Popery, as you call 1 ever fit me so well — I iism, whether Calvinism, any other ism. So just and I will give you no f. I'll put on Avhatever 8 far as going to church let me alone about Pop- the better Protestant for ch I spoke appeared to love gave her the key to )led, and the color came COXPESSIOJTS OP AX APOSTATE. iro and went on her peachy cheek, and her eyes were full of tears. It is needless to say that nothing more was said about religion then or for many a long day after. The bitterness displayed by the Deacon on that occasion, however, made such an imjireasion on my mind that I could not help thinking of it long and often. It was something so foro'frn to his real nature, as I supposed, and so unlike anything I had hitherto seen of him, that it puzzled me more than a little. I ventured once or twice to speak to Eve on the sub- ject, but she only laughed it off, and said that it appeared I did not know before what a righteous man her father was. " If there is any one thing on which he is more touchy than another," said she, " it is just as regards Popery. He hears and reads so much of its encroach- ing nature and its baneful effects on society that he both hates and fears it — that's the truth — it ain't palatable, ain't it ?" And again she laughed and put forth all her witch- ery to banish the unpleasant subject from my mind. My own observations, together with what fell occa- sionally from the Deacon himself, speedily convinced me that the good man really did hate nothing except Popery. It was his weakness, Eve said, and she sup- T 180 C0NFESBI0N8 OF AN APOSTATE. posed he couldn't help it. It was a harmless preju- dice, she thought, and even a safe one. For her own part, although she was a little lax or so (that was her weakness, she archly said), she knew how to respect those who were always on the straight line of Scriptural truth, and never gave way either to one side or the other as much as a hair's-breadth. Wheth- er Eve spoke in jest or earnest, I never could make out— I rather think she was half serious, for I found her out as time wore on to be much more in earnest about religion than I had, at first, supposed. In a continual tumult of this kind the first six months of my married life passed away. I fancied myself, notwithstanding, the happiest of men. I was again in possession of the best chamber, with its pleasant lattice opening on the garden, and I had re- gained it under circumstances which, at the time I lost it, I would have deemed beyond the range of probability. The Deacon, at my marriage, had given me a third of his business, so that I was already in a fair way of making an independence. But above all, and beyond all, I prized my wife, the brightest, dear- est, Uveliest little helpmate that ever was given to mortal man, since Adam received his metamorphised rib. Then there was the trrumph over my formidable clerical rival, not to spenk of some half-dozen long- APOSTATE. was a harmlees prejn- afe one. For her own B lax or BO (that was 1), she knew how to rs on the straight line gave way either to one aair'B-breadth. Wheth- it, I never could make lalf serious, for I found I much more in earnest irst, supposed, this kind the first six assed away. I fancied lappiest of men. I was best chamber, with its e garden, and I had re- es which, at the time I i beyond the range of my marriage, had given ) that I was already in a endence. But above all, wife, the brightest, dear- that ever was given to eived his metamorphised umph over my formidable of some half-dozen long- COXFESSTOXS OF AS APOSTATE. 181 facod your.g prigs, who, with all their pretensions to extreme righteousness, admired Eve on the bly, and would have bid for her hand (and fortune) had there even been the shadow of a prospect of success. I was acquainted with some of these myself and ^aw, with unbounded satisfaction, wha<; they would fain have concealed, viz. : their spiteful chagi'in at seeing the richest prize in New Haven carried off before their eyes by a comparative stranger. Tlieir awkward efforts to disguise their feelings were not a little amusing, and this was especially the case with Greer- son, who generally contrived to keep out of Eve's way for some months after her marriage. This con- duct was wholly inexplicable to Miss Olive, Avho was, or appeared to be, wholly unsuspicious of the minis- tor's real " proclivities." It was a matter of astonish- ment to her how he could keep away so long, and I believe she never recovered from her amazement till the enigma was solved by the handsome parson's entering into a matrimonial pa:'tnership with the yoang and wealthy daughter of another elder who lived some miles from town on the Hartford road. "Who can tell the desolation, the despair which for many days made the sore and yellow countenance of my aunt-in-law a dreary bl.ank to look upon, and oh ! the coquettish air of indifference which, by the end 16 i«)iw»; 189 co^TESi5lO^•s of an apostate. of the first Aveck, she succeeded in getting up. Poor MiBs Olive ! no wonder she felt this " the unkindest cut of all," for, at forty-four, a lover-even an imagin- ary one-is something both rare and valuable-some- thing whose like may ne'er be seen again. They were bright days those for me, and brighter still for Eve. The canker that has gnawed away the Btrength and vigor of my mind, and destroyed the best affections of my heart, had not yet assumed its most virulent form. I was happy to all appearance, and, in part, my happiness was real. APOSTATE. CONFESSIONS OP AX ArOdTATB. 183 \ in getting up. Poor It this '' the unkindest lover — even an imagin- re and valuable — some- seen again. e for me, and brighter t has gnawed away the nd, and destroyed the ad not yet assumed its ippy to all appearance, IS real. CHAPTER XII. past away since my mar- lage, and each one as it p.assed left some memento amongst us either of joy or grief. The Deacon had closed his eyes on this world just two years before, but not till he had seen three grand -children sporting around his knee. Another was born to us in the following year, so that we had " quite a family," as the phrase goes. Josiah and I were sharers in the business, but he had lately betaken liimself to anoth- er dwelling in company with a cer- tain fat widow whose wealth was as noted in the neighborhood as her evangelical piety. Miss O'ivo was still, I might ahuost saj, at the head of our establishment, for Eve was precisely of tliat disposi 184 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. tion which ratlier slirinks from the nmltiplicity of household affiiirs, and gladly throws tho responsibility of management on any one else. She had, moreover, a sort of liking for Aunt Olive, notwithstanding their frequent "spats," and knowing her to take both pride and pleasure in keeping the house which she had kept so long, she would not for the world attempt to curtail her authority in the least thing. Had Miss Olive's watchful tare extended only to our household affairs, I, too, would have been well content. Custom had reconciled me to the sight of her lank form rigid in perpendicular altitude at tho head of our domestic board, ever amply furnished by her skill in the culinary art. Even the sound of her fife-like voice drilling » the help " in the kitchen betimes in the morning had become tolerable in the lapse of years, and, altogether, I rather relished her antiquated oddity of speech and manner. But there was one thing connected with her to which I never could, or never did become reconciled, for it touched me to the quick every day, every hour of my life, and kept ihe festering wounds of my soul ever open, ever fresh and bleeding. This was her Puritanical detestation of everything bearing upon Catholicity. Eve was a sound Protestant, too, in her way, and could be as bitter as any one at times, but there was, VPOSTATK. I the multiplicity of iws the responsibility She had, moreover, lotwithstanding their "■ her to take both tlio house which nho not for the world in the least thing, are extended only to irould have been well ed me to the sight of iicular altitude at the ever amply furnished ;. Even the sound of ) help " in the kitchen ecomo tolerable in the I rather relished hoi" id manner. But there her to which I never ionciled, for it touched )very hour of my life, of my aoul ever open, is was her Puritanical ■ing upon Catholicity, too, in her way, and ,t times, but there was, CONFKSSIOXS OF AX APOSTATE. 185 after all, nothing rancorous in her hostility to Catho- lies. She was opposed to their religion on principle, but her Imtrod did not extend to themselves; she could atlbrd a good word even to a Catholic, and as a Catholic, even for the discharge of his religious obligations. Not so, oh I not so with Miss Olive. Rabid and red-hot was ever and always her hatred cf "Romish people" and "Romish ways." It seemed as though all the narrow bigotry of her old Puritan father had descended in a stream to her. To me the strangest thing of all was that she had never come in contact with any Catholic, except, to be sure, Phil Cullen, the gardener, and him she acknowledged to be an honest, trustworthy man. Neither had she learned anything of Catholicity from books, for her reading was all on the opposition side, consisting of ignorant and senseless tirades against a religion of which the writers knew nothing. And yet Miss Olive would have it that she knew all about « the accursed thing," and her constant answer to any word of extenuation in favor of Catholicity was: " Don't tell me ! I guess I know better !" And there I had to listen for all those long, long years to her perpetual abuse of Popery, and the num- berless tales she had to tell of priestly iniquity, and Jesuitical intrigue, and Romish superstition. It wa» 10* 186 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. not my heart that hinaere.l me from refuting thco vile caluranioB, which to hear made my blood hod and my brain throb. But how could I, as a 1 rutest- ant, undertake the defence of Romanism? Had been a roal, sincre Protectant, with my disj-sition, I might have been liberal enough to defvnd Catho- lics against charges which I knew to be false or exaggerated, if only for the love of fair play, and because they were absent. As it was, my own gmlty conscience and Eve's malicious eyes alike deterred me from saying a word of all the thousand that my heart dictated. I heard my own children, my boy and my three givln, daily and hourly receiving m- Btructions that poisoned .1-ir young minds, and hlled them with the most erroneous ideas regardu.g the faith of my lathers, my own early faith, and the flush of shame was on my cheek, not nnmixed with md.g- nation; but there T sat, with my eyes apparently riveted on a newspaper although I saw not a word of its contents. It had gone to my heart to seo one after one of the innocent creatures receiving Baptism at the hands of a Protestant minister. This pang Boon past away, however, and the feverish unrest it caused me soon subsided into the easy torpor of indifference, which lasted till the next bnptisn. came round-births and baptisms were, of course, wholly irOSTATE. from refuting theso iu:i(lo my blood boil could I, as a I'rotost- Romauisra? Had I with my disi ' siti'>i'» igh to defend Catlio- knew to be false or )ve of fair play, and it was, my own guilty IS eyes alike deterred the thousand that my )wn children, my boy I hourly receiving in- roung minds, and filled s ideas regardhig the irly faith, and the flush )t unmixed with indig- K my eyes apjiarently mgh I saw not a word to my heart to sec one tures receiving Baptism t minister. This pang d the feverish unrest it ,to the easy torpor of the next baptism came were, of course, wholly CONFESSIONS OF AX Al-OSTATB. 187 unconnected with us, for it wa« not till the child was able to use both liiubs and tongue in their legn luiate functions tiiat the ceremony wiis gone through, Huch as it was. Hut the intervals between the bai)tism8 were, unfortunately, not intervals of rest for me, owing to tiie causes before mentionc', and others not yet indicated to the reader. Independent of Miss Olive's incessant, although aimless polemics, there were her secret sources of uneasiness, not to say wretchedness, growing out of my unhappy j^sition. IVIy poor mother's letters had latterly increased in frequency, and every one was rnoro desponding than the other. All the money I sent her from thne to time did not satisfy her in the least. She felt, doubtless, from the tone of my let- ters, that my heart and sold were changed. The nature of the change, or its extent, she could not understaad, but the unerring instinct of the mother's heart, aided by the light of faith— in her simple soul 80 serene and unclouded— made her feel ill at ease with regard to my spiritual state. She spoke ever of my brothers and sisters and the young fniniliea who were growing up around most of them, in that cheerful, hopeful way which was natural to her, but when she came to sjieak of ray aflairs and the dear children whom I took such delight in describing to 188 CONFESSIONS 0» AN AP08TATB. her, T »*•.-; bitterly sensible that her feelings towards us wore not the siinic. In order to put her on her gnurd, I had told her, soon aflor my marriage, that my wife was a Protestant, and although she never sent me an angry word in reply, I saw all loo plainly that the announcement had raised up a barrier be- tween us — that my mother could never again feel towards mo as she had done. After that she seldom mentioned priest, or chapel, or anything that was going on in regard to religion, lly and by even " the patron " in the Valley passed off unnoticed, and this hurt me more than all, inasmuch as, every summer, since I left homo, she had given mo a mhiute detail of everything that had occurred there that she or the neighbors thought worthy of notice. These omis- sions touched my heart to its very core, and made me feel more wretched than I can now describe. The endearments of wife and children had no power to console me when I thought that the fondest of mothers had cast me from her heart. The good which we have not is ever more valuable in our eyes than that which we liave, and the blessing whose possession gave us little or no sensible pleasure, is no sooner withdrawn from our grasp than we feel it almost a necessity of our being. Surrounded as I was by loving hearts, and loaded with the good AN APOSTATB. that her feelings towar(ln order to put her on her I aflur my nmrriiige, that anil although she never eply, I waw all too plainly 1 raised up a barrier be- r could never again feel ). After that she seldom }1, or anything that was on. By and by even " the ed off unnoticed, and this isnuicli as, every sununer, iven nio a minute detail of red there that she or the of notice. These oinis- ) its very core, and made han I can now describe, lid children had no power lught that the fondest of m her heart. The good more valuable in our eyes , and the blessing whose no sensible pleasure, is no ur grasp than we feel it being. Surronnded as I d loaded with the good -* IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) ^-. / // / o .V /^ e.^ 1.0 llf I.I 1.25 i5 150 WW IIIM 1.4 2.0 1.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 872-4503 •Jp CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICMH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut canadien de microreproductions histonques CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 180 things of life, I yearned for the motherly voice and the kindly smile of the old peasant woman far away by the Avonmore's Banks, and I felt that I could have given worlds to hear her bless me once again. But, alas ! conscience was ever at hand wiih her envenomed sting, and her icy whisper chilled my soul : "Do you merit your mother's blessing? Are you as deserving of her love, or God's love, as you were when you left her straw-thatched cottage, to seek and find a better home in the stranger's land ? — think what you were then, Simon, and what you are now, and wonder not that even the mother who bore you has grown cold and strange." Starting from a reverie of this kind one day, I found Eve's piercing eye fixed upon me with an inde- finable expression of contempt, mingled, however, with a certain softness which might indicate sympa- thy. I blushed, and she smiled— smiled in that pecu- liar way which no one else could imitate. " What would you think, Simon, of a trip to Ire- land ?" she asked abruptly. " To Ireland ! why, what put that in your head ?" "Why, cin't it very natural for one to wish to see what one hears a great deal about? — ain't it, now ?" " But you have never heard much of Ireland." L^ 190 CONFESSIONS Or- AN APOSTATB. " Haven't I, though ?— I guoss I have." ♦' How ? — from whom ?" " From you, and no other." « Me !— me talk to you of Ireland !" " Well I I don't say exactly that you talked to me, but I heard you, which was all the same. Night after night have I lain awake listening to the words which you muttered in your troubled sleep ! Things can I tell you, Simon, of which I never dreamed, but which your disjointed night-ravings have made famil- iar to my ear as household words. Your old mother in her drugget gown— (what sort of stuff drugget may be I know not)— taking her fowl and eggs to market— an old, old priest with silver-gray hair and a certain Patricius O'Grady whose ferule seems to have fixed itself in your memory- (disgraceful old bears those schoolmasters of yours must have been !) —and if I am not sufficiently well acquainted with some old b- 'y called St. Kevin, and a queer, out-of- the-way sort of place where he lives, or did live, it ain't for want of hearing of him. Even the goats that you used to be tending on some mountain-side, I'm acquainted with them, too. So you see it ain't any Avonder that I should like to see so many strange Bights of wliioh I am constantly hearing !" My confusion increased with every word she ut- APOSTATE. 98 I have." eland 1" that you talked to mo, all the Bame. Night listening to the words oubled sleep ! Things 1 1 never dreamed, but k^ings have made famil- •ds. Your old mother i sort of stuff drugget her fowl and eggs to th silver-gray hair and fthose ferule seems to nory — (disgraceful old 'ours must have been !) y well acquainted with in, and a queer, out-of- he hves, or did live, it him. Even the goats )n some mountain-side, >o. So you see it ain't to see so many strange ly hearing !" th every word she ut- C0NFE8SI0NS OF AN APOSTATB. 101 tered, and by the time she stopped (for want of breath) I was fairly confounded, and knew not well what to say. Seeing, however, that Eve expected an answer, I stammered out something about regret- ting her being so often disturbed by a habit which I never know myself to have before. " Ah Simon !" said my wife, standing up and lay- ing her hand on my shoulder, " I'm afraid your mind is ill at ease. Your heart is not with ««," and she looked with tearful eyes at our little ones, who were sporting on the green sward near us under the orchard trees. " Our religion is not yours, — there is a wall of brass between us." What could I do but AvhW her to my bosom and assure her, as I did on that first fatal day, that relig- ion was nothing — she and her love, all — all. " Will -'ou promise me, then, to struggle against these dangerous illusions — I mean recollections ?" " How dangerous ?" I asked with rising warmth. " HoiB ! why aren't they like the hankering of the Hebrews after the savory flesh-pots of Egypt ? If your eyes were really opened to the light of truth, and your heart obedient to its voice, you would look back with disgust on the silly, and, I fear, wicked practices of a superstition which made your youth a dreary blank." CONFESSIONS OF AN ArOSTATB. 192 I never M. Poor I admit 1 «»», »! ">? 1<" ''>»"'- .lyLen the contrary, It ,-a» dm, P--""' »''- -r;r:r:::;t-.h,no.r..aKve».. Intv "What a pity, Mr. Kerrigan, you rJ:ra.CyvZ-a.t.a.».»e,w*or or goat-walk, rathor_e,pec4a.,y « J'"" «'';;;^ .bout with you like the old religion winch you .car ttu und the decent garb of l>rote«ant»m-,™ ;i: loot the ,a.y old Mar, I have read of who „.ed to ,vcar a hair-shirt next the,r Am. "Why, Eve," I exclaimed, openmg my eyes very wide ' . it yo» I hear talk so ? H it was your aunt, : tl lit mind, for I'm accustomed to hear /.r :m;gatPop.ry,a„d mind her talk.omorc*a^.I the r^n pattering agaiust the «mdow "'■""J" 'f" within. But you-whaf. come over you. at a^^f u What's come over me, to be aure. A^ut t „„1 to drive one mad to see you so wrapt up m r„X nd *mgs near four thousand miles away, :7lLg foolf of «. all .- professing a re g,on « you have no faith in J-am't «, uow ? ^Wa it *„ provoke me so, at tunes, that I-I hateyo«,iao,;»«,lb-K««»°' L_ n APOSTATE. u-y Wank?— I'm sure as, and my lot lowly, I, nor dreary, ^as you calm, peaceful, and— ynot?" said Eve with ,y, Mr. Kerrigan, you ' as that sheep-walk, or ly as you can't carry it eligion which you wear of Protestantism— just xs I have read of who their skin." 1, opening my eyes very ) ? If it was your aunt, 1 accustomed to hear her .er talk no more than I do 3 window when I'm snug ome over you, at all ?' J, to be sure. Ain't it o see you so wrapt up in ur thousand miles away, here professing a religion -ain't it, uow? I declare times, that I-I-almost Kerrigan 1" CONFESSIONS OF aN APOSTATE. 193 "Mr. Kerrigan," I repeated, "that's twice you have called me so since we have been speaking." " And why not," she replied sharply ; " where would my eyes be if I didn't know that your very name is a sham ?" " IIow is that ?" " How is it, you ask ! — why, you great goose, how often have I seen yciur mother's letters — it is true you keep them pretty close, but still I have got sight of them oftener than you think. And the postmas- ter — don't you think he knows ?" « And did he tell you ?" " Oh ! of course not," and she smiled with provok- ing archness ; " he is a confidential friend of yours — ahem ! — he merely jmlnted out the address to me, one day I was in there — he wouldn't give me the letter for you, having orders to leave your letters always till called for. Ah, Simon ! Simon ! hypoc- risy and duplicity are, after all, hard to keep up ! If I were you, I tell you what I'd do — I'd go back to Rome and get out some old Dominvs Vobiscum or another — maybe St. Kevin from Ireland — to hear your confession, and deliver you of your spare change by way of praying your dead relations out of purga- tory, and all that — or else — " she paused for a mo- ment, looked askance at me, and seeing that I had 17 tmtmmftttmts^nmsmiim^iis^---' 194 COXFESSIOXS OP AN APOSTATE. uo desire to interrupt her, went on rapidly : " Or else, Simon, I'd be in earnest what I appeared to be, and let not that great bond of union— a common faith— be wanting between you and your family." » But it ain't wanting— what more can I do to prove myself a Trotestant ?" 4» po !— why do what you do now, but do it in a different way, as though you were in earnest, whicU you ain't now I" This was more than I could bear. The last pull which she gave the reins was too tight even for my craven spirit, and I began to hold up my head a very little. « I'll tell you what it ia, then, Eve ! I'm as much of a Protestant now as I ever can be. All the minis- ters in New England, with your aunt at their back, couldn't get me one step farther than you got me yourself at the very start. The fact is, I wouldn't listen to them at all, so they could never talk me into Protestantism, but you made me fed— yon looked me into it, and in it now I am for good or ill I" I had worked myself up to a point of desperation, and I ended by catching her in my arms with an energy that was almost fierce, and, I believe, frightened her not a Uttlo. « I have accepted your theology. Eve 1 I have staked my temporal and eternal happiness on APOSTATE. lit on mpiilly: "Or lat 1 ai>pciuetl to be, jf union— a common and your family." t more can I tlo to ) now, but do it in a ere in earnest, wliicli bear. The last pull too tight tjvcn Tor my )ld up my head a very jn, Eve ! I'm as much ;an be. All the minia- ur aunt at their back, ther than you got nie he fact is, I wouldn't ' could never talk me ,de me feel — you loohd m for good or ill I" I int of desperation, and ly arms with an energy believe, frightened her ;d your theology. Eve I nd eternal happiness on CONFK.S3ION8 OK AN APOSTATE. 195 your love — I have given up — and for you— the my- riiwl consolations of the Communion of Saints— but don't bo too exacting — you have lowered me to the utmost in my own estimation — don't trample on me now that you have me down — spare me. Eve, and don't seek to pry into my miserable soul, lot ils secrets be my own, and my heart shall be yours — yours ever and only." One of the children just then happened to fall, and Eve broke away from my encircling arms, without a word or even a look by which I could calculate the elfect of my almost involunt-iry ajipeal. The reflections which followed when I found my- self alone were anything but cheering to my lacer- ated heart. Here was I, shut out by my own suicidal act from the comnumion of the church in Avhose doc- trines my faith was as strong as over, for, like the devils, I believed and trembled. I would have long since rid myself of what I considered the burden of faith, and walked erect in the miserable freedom of the unbeliever, but shake it off I could not. Night and day it clung to me, and held my soul in its grasp of iron, its fearful truths staring me in the face like supernatural eyes of fire, burning and searing my very brain. My days were days of dismal, hopeless thought, and at night, even Avhen sleep did weigh 106 COKKKSBIONS OF AN APOSTATE. down my eyelids, viHions of terror too often tluiUed my soul. To balance all this I had the love of Evo and the fair children she had given me. Mas ! even that, even these pure affections Avere not what they ought to he, sources of unalloyed happiness. Every one of my children was a separate cause of excruti- ating self-reproach. They were growing up not only in ignorance of true religion, but in bitter hostility to its divine doctrines, drinking in with every breath, the sour, acrid spirit of puritanical Protestantism, so diametrically opposed to the cheerful, genial, soul- enlivening faith in which I had grown to manhood. Oh 1 who can tell the torture of the thought that my apostacy affected not myself alone but every child I had, or might yet have, ah ! and their children after them? This I had never taken into account until my children began to grow up around me, then it became one of the most deadly drops in the poisoned cup I had prepared for myself. Added to all this was now the thought that the wife for whose sake I had incurred such a fearful penalty, had no faith in me. " She sees me," thought I, " almost as I see myself, and how can she but despise me, traitor as I am to God and my own convictions. She sees me as a hypocrite, professing for worldly motives a religion which my soul abhors— I loathe, I detest myself— APOSTATE. •or too often tlirillud liiid the love of Evo van me. Alas ! even I were not what they >tl happiness. Every rate cause of excruti- I growing up not only >ut in bitter hostility in with every breath, ical Protestantism, so cheerful, genial, soul- l grown to manhood, f the thought that my lone but every child I ad their children after ten into account until p aroimd me, then it r drops in the poisoned jlf. Added to all this ) wife for whose sake I penalty, had no faith in t I, " almost as I see despise me, traitor as I ctions. She sees me as rldly motives a religion athe, I detest myself— C0XFES8IOXS OF A.V ArCSTATK. 107 how can bIiu but do tlio same ? — oIi wealth ! — oh wife ! — oil children ! how dearly have I purchased you all, and yet you do not give mo hai)piness — happi- ness !" I rej)eated wit.i a low moan, " oh ! there is no more happiness for me ! The God of Heaven who created mo is angry with mo — the mother who gave me birth is grown ^ Id and strange, and those who once knew and loved me, know or love me no more— oh ! would that I had never left the lunnble shelter of my paternal roof I would that I had never taken into my head the foolish notion of rising in tho world. Had I been contented in the lowly sphere wherein I was born — had I been ' poor in sjjirit ' in my boyish days, I miglit now bo cheerful and happy as a summer bird !" Just then the softened voice of Eve spoke at my side, and her arm encircled my neck as she bent over me where I sat on a garden-bench. " The dew is fulling, Simon !" she said very gently ; " had you not better come m ?" The voice and the words fell on my heart like softest music, and the pressure of tho little hand was like the touch of an angel's wing. Hardly knowing what I did, I arose and followed Eve into the house, and the many-headed dragon took llight for that time. 17 108 CONFK8SI0N9 Of AN Ar08TAT«. ciiArrEU xiii. *!r>%v- \lK opening inteHigonce of my children wftH to lue, unlike other parents, an additional source of misery. As an- ta.'onism to Popery was the dominant characteristic of Mi«s Olive's mind, and my wife's views of religion, as far as they went, were nltra-rrotestant, it may well he supposed that our little people learned to think and speak as they did who hud the trauiiug of them. And I professing the same roligion- „o. not that exactly, either, for I could not have told if any one asked me, wkat I professed-i>ro/«i.*roliiiil t m amam 200 CONFESSIONS OF AN AP08TATK. any other man '.-ain't you ashamed to talk like that?' "Why, ao, lather !-it8 every word true-aunty Bays 80." " Oh ! yes, father," put in little Olive, the youngest girl, "aunty tells us ever so many things about the bivery word true — aunty little Olive, the youngest o many things about the 3 and red eyes— and— oh ! an— I so fraid of him !" ered with fear and horror faint protest against the ,e." The impression was of the children by the oft- tliair evangelically-pious ; enter into any positive >r his real abode, all I did ely denial, had little or no ted aversion so sedulously nths. lity, however, of represent- jnrious effect of such tales minds of children. Miss ny aspect, and when I had ith an eye of fire : f portrait of the old fellow C0NFES''10N8 OF AN APOSTATB. 201 " Well 1 it ain't- -so much that — as— as — in short, you know as well as I do, or ought to know, Miss Samuels, that it aiu't right to tell children such frightful stories. I wonder at a woman of your good sense to do it." " Good sense — ah ! — yes, I rather think I have a tmall share of that article — too much to have any leaning towards Rome — eh 1 Mr. Kerrigan /" I started as though an adder had Etung me. I looked at Eve, but Eve only smiled and shook her head. I looked once more at Miss Olive, and she smiled, too, in her grim, freezing way. " Mr. Kerrigan 1" I repeated. " Mr. Kerrigan !" said Miss Olive after me, pro- nouncing every word so slowly and distinctly as to leave no mistake about it. " Did you suppose, now, that folks here were so very green that you could come it over them like that ? Why, it wasn't many months after you told us ' your real name,' as you called it, till we foimd out your real, real onu from Wilson Hunter of the Post-office. Howevor that ain't what we were speaking of — you can still be Mr. Kerr, for all us, you know — but a^out the chil- dren. Don't you trouble about what stories I tell them. I guess you'll never hear of me telling thera any that ain't moral and useful. If you think I aiu't 202 CONFESSIONS OF AN Al 08TATB. fit to assist Eve in bringing up her children, why just say so, and I shan't have anything more to do with them— or the housekeeping either." The words that trembled on my lip wore driven back into my tortured heart by an imploring look from Eve who took it upon herself to answer for me. She e.agerly assured her aunt that I meant no harm, and that no one could be more sensible than I of the inestimable value of her care over the chUdren, and her excellent moral training of them. " Moral, Eve ! you say moral only— I should hope it is religious as well — " " Oh, certainly, aunt ! no one can dispute that— in fact it is essentially religious," Eve added with a spice of her earlier archness I groaned in spirit as I inwardly assented to the truth of this half-satirical remark. Not so Miss OUve, who was so softened by Eve's adroit manage- ment that she even deigned to overlook my silence (for I had taken up a book), and asked me with rather more good-nature than she usually displayed on any occasion, whether I would not caU Joel in to hear him read. I assented as cheerfully as I could, and told the little fellow to choose what he should read. " Oh yes, father, I'll read the pretty story mother CONFESSIONS OP AX APOSTATE. 203 AN A108TATB. ig up her children, wliy lave anything more to do ping either." d on my lip wore driven irt by an imploring look herself to answer for me. int that I meant no harm, lore sensible than I of the ire over the children, and r of thera. noral only— I should hope one can dispute that — in ious," Eve added with a 1 inwardly assented to the il remark. Not so Miss d by Eve's adroit manage- led to overlook my silence t)ook), and asked me with than she usually displayed I would not call Joel in to y as I could, and told the at he should read. lad the pretty story mother made me road this morning, about the great Romish idols, made of wood and stone and all such things, that they fall down and pray to. Ain't that horrid, father ?" said the child, as he placed his finger under the first word to commence. F)un would I have taken the book from him, and flung it in the fire which burned so temptingly in the old-fashioned brazen grate. But Eve's eye was on me, with more than its usual significance, and, what was still worse, Aunt Olive's eye was on nio, looking awfully cold and critical through the silver-mounted spcciacles which, of late, she had been driven by hard necessity to wear. There was nothing for it, then, but to let Joel go on with his precious lesson, and for full twenty minutes I was compelled to sit listening to a nonsensical and yet ingenious parallel between the heathen gods of the Pantheon and the Saints of the Roman calendar— the latter, it was said, presiding over the spiritual darkness of modern Rome as the former did over its pagan predeces- sor. My heart swelled almost to bursting as I thought of good St. Kevin, and all the beneficient patrons of my childhood, whose guardian presence threw such a charm around my lonely wanderings in those happy, happy days when I was full of faith and hope, and had boundless confidence in 204 CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. the watchful care of those beatified servants of God. , , « Alas ! alas !" said I within myself, " this blessed connection with the unseen world, this all-consoling trust in the kindly intercession of the Saints, my children can never know-a dreary blank must their infancy be, deprived of this ineffiible charm-oh mis- ery ! and am I to blame ?-have I ruined them as well as myself?" Under the influence of this rack- ing thought, I started to my feet, and telling Joel he h-d read enough for that time, T hastily left the house, nor stopped till I reached the river's bank Avhere I threw myself under a tree to give free vent to the headlong torrent of bitter thought that was sweeping through my soul. That evening, when I returned home, I found wo had a guest for supper. He was a short, stubby little man with a bronzed, and yet ruddy complexion, enlivened by a pair of small, dark, never-resting eyes, expressive both of good humor and good nature. This individual had been in the habit of supplying the family with shoes, and although he was somewhat of a favorite with us all on account of his scrupulous honesty and imperturbably good temper, no one had ever dreamed of inviting him to our family table, for the truth was that we were rather fastidious in our N APOSTATE. beatified servants of in myself, " this blessed world, this all-consoling sion of the Saints, my dreary blank must tlioir ineffable charm— oh mis- -have I ruined them as e influence of this rack- ny feet, and telling Joel at time, T hastily left the •cached the river's bunk ■ a tree to give free vent bitter thought that was iturned home, I found wo He was a short, stubby md yet ruddy complexion, I, dark, never-resting eyes, humor and good nature, in the habit of supplying xlthough he was somewhat account of his scrupulous r good temper, no one had lim to our family table, for re rather fastidious in our CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 205 choice of company. Besides good Mr. Elliott liad moved his business to the opposite extremity of tho town, so that we had not so often seen hhu of late. I was well pleased just then to see the man of leather at our board being noAvise disposed to do the talking which I knew of old would be done by him in first-rate style, as to quantity. " Wliy, Mr. Elliott ! I'm glad to see you !" I said, " its eo long since I've had that pleasure — how goes trade these times ?" " If you mean the shoe-trade, Mr. Kerr !" said the cheery little man, rubbing his hands ao he eyed the tempting viands, sweetmeats, and so forth, to attack which Ave were just on the march, " if you mean the shoe-trade, I ain't in that line any more." " Do you tell me so ?— there, take your scat near Mrs. Kerr — and what, may I ask, are you doing now?" " Preaching, my dear sir, preaching," and Elliott ])ulled up his shirt-collar, and affected an indifference of tone, in evident contradiction to the swelling im- portance of his manner. "Preaching!" I involuntarily repeated; "is it possible ?" " Oh yes, sir, it's a fact. I've got a call from a congregation up Hartford side — a good one, too, I assure you." 18 206 C0KFE8SI0NS OP AN APOSTATE. . Oh ! I've no doubt of tbat-but how-how did you get qualiticd-1 mean how did your congregation como to know of your capability?" c. Why, as to that, sir," Baid the man of trade, ^•ith the slightest possible shade of piciuc in his man- „er " if you were ever at any of our class-meetmgs, or prayimeetings, you wouldn't need to ask t^.at .aestion. Miss Samuels there can tell you that I ve Ln asked to conduct prayer-meetings farther away '.an where I'm called to now. I have had some little gifts in the way of prayer and expoundmg, too 10.. that matter, ever since-ever since M.S Samuels ,„d I used to teach Sunday school together m Mk llouham's church." . Kow the Mr. llopham aforcaid had dopavted *, life, a, a handsome monument in Im cLuroh-ya'd ■ testified, just eightand-twenty years Lefore, and Mis, Satu U,tho „» trying to look „er best and young- e.t was evidently little obliged for tin. gratuitous ,- „ ^till she kept her temper won- hint about her age. Still she kcp. uti'^ifts" derfully, and gave willing testnnony to the gifts Wore Inentioned, together with her own pnvat opinion that Mr. Elliott had been actually hidmg h. candle under a bushel bo long as he gave up Ins lable time to the covering of -n ^^ children's pedal extremities. Hearing tins Mr. Llhott N APOSTATE. lat— but how— how dia w did your congregation ility?" said the man of trade, lade of pique in his mau- ay of our class-meetings, uldn't need to ask tliat ■re can tell you that I've er-meetings farther away now. I have had some lyer and expounding, too, -ever since Miss Samuels ay school together in Mr. foresaid bad departed this imcnt m his church-yard snty years before, and Miss look her best and young- bligod for this gratuitous she kept her temper won- testiiuouy to " the gifts " Ler with her own private ad been actually hiding his o long as he gave up his v-ering of men, women, and 3S. Hearing this Mr. Elliott C0NFESSI0X3 OF AX APOSTATE. 207 looked exultingly at me, and then greedily at a most appetizing plate of " dough-nuts " which stood nciF ^liHS Olive. The former look was responded to by a very sincere expression of satisfaction on my part, that the rhetorical powers (I should have said vocal) of our friend Elliott had been at length appreciated ; in reply to the latter more expressive glance Miss Samuels presented the " dough-nuts." Having masticated the savory morsel in a silence that was jjlainly luxurious, Mr. Elliott opened his eyes very wide, and fixed them on Miss Samuels, as though instinct directed him to the fabricator. " I tell you tliem are awful good eating," said he, " did you make them. Miss Samuels ?" Aunt Olive smiled and tried to blush, and Eve hastened to say for her what her peculiar modesty would not permit herself to say. " Oh yes, Mr. Elliott, all our good things are made by Aunt Olive." The new minister gave a grunt, whether of admira- tion or of satisfaction I could not make out. lie was very taciturn during the remainder of the meal, and quite sententious in his answers when addressed. My wife and her aunt evidently respected the good man's change of manner, which they, no doubt, as- cribed to the fullness of the spirit waking within J***!*** 208 COUTFKSSlONS OF A« aPOSTATK. him To my attentive and nioro inipartiul eyes he was occvipicd with some Avcighty mutter, re»hion of fleshy men when they set about thinking; then he would hoave a. sigh-not yonr melancholy, discontented sigh, but one that denoted reflectio.i ; then he would cast a dreamy half-conscious look over the well-covered table, and end with a glance of doubtful meaning at the unm- viting countenance of my aunt-in-law. Immersed m thought as he was, IVlr. Elliott took good care to leave nothing on the table untasted, and apparently he found all very much to his liking. After supper, the minister took me one side, and told me he had just been thinking that in his new position he would require a helpmate; not a young chit who might possibly give scandal by her love of dress,- and even worse than that, but a sober, staid, God-fearing woman, who would enforce his preaching by her example—" "And make good ' dough-nuts,' Mr. Elliott, eh? and I smiled. "Well, that too, Mr. Kerr, that too,' and the minister's eyes twinkled. " We're a-goiug to have lots of flour and butter, ■^mu^*if^' .^ Al'OBTATB. iiioro impartml eyos hf lighty matter, requiring r Patrick Ol'lenipo says 1 ho pursed out his lips eshy men when they set ould heave a. sigh— not ted sigh, but one that ) would cast a dreamy, e well-covered table, and M meaning at the unin- untin-law. Lnmersed in lliott took good care to untasted, and apparently lis liking. er took me one side, and thinking that in his new a helpmate ; not a young ive scandal by her love of n that, but a sober, staid, ■ould enforce his preaching gh-nut8,'Mr. Elliott, eh?" Kerr, that too," and the -e lots of flour and butter, CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE 20ft and all such matters sent to us— o/ ro./rse— and there ain't anybody can care for things, or take such an in- terest in them as a man's wife To preach 'well, Mr. Korr, a mnn wants to eat well, and to cat well a mjin wants a good cook." " To be sure, ^Vlr. Elliott, to be sure. Now I think I know one will answer you to a t. What would you think of ^liss Samuels there ?" T could hardly preserve my gravity, but the cleri- cfxl gentleman was quite serious, and caught eagerly at the word. "Tliat's just what 1 was coming to lU: Kerr! She's the very person— her appearance will make folks respect us both, and her example will do good among the hearers, I have no doubt. But, my dear sir" he drew a step nearer, and took me by the biitton, then raised himself on his toes, and whis- pered with thrilling emphasis that under the circum- stances was quite pathetic. " But, my dear sir, will the lady be agreeable ?— I have nothing yet but the call" slightly elevating his voice at the latter word. In the fullness of my glad surprise, and the tumult of newly awakened hope, I took it upon me to answer for the " agreeableuess " of Miss Olive, assur- iiicr Mr. Elliott, at the same time, that he might depend on our best offices with our valuable relative. 15* CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATK. 210 ' It iB noeaU^K to say tl.at the a.ni.hle ami pio.. ll HO bn. existing in Mv.Elliott'HHule. V heti.e i,,,,,U.ovungcTu.Uy-soothingpn.l>ectof.^^^^^^^^^^^ atingwith the gifted «hoe-muker "-^<"";f ""^^ ; trin:by word un.l work, or the e<.onon^.cully grat.tj- Lgoneorh:.ingalaraersuH.Ueaon«uche.^ tenns a« EUi-.tt dccribocl, «he i.rotessed herself an.to ,,Uing to undertuko the twofoUi vesiK.n.hd.ty m>r Hhrank from the naming of an "early day, ^u.. that day week, being the one appointed lor ^Ir. Elliott's start. I did not ank Eve, nor neither did she tell me how ,Aef.U during the week of prep:.ath.n, and on U^ „veat day which hhw chubby Mr. Elhott bear oflf his 'looming bride and her wealth of five-and.tbrtyy<.rs. For my own part I witnessed the departure of Aun Olive without a su.gle " drappie in my e e, and indeed with se.itiments of entire resignation. 1 was very sincere, however, in n.y congratulations and good wishes, secretly hoping that the good-natured Ln of grease might find all and more than all the comfort he expected m his lady-love and her cookery, ^vith which I, for one, was quite willing to disiK^ns.. Before she left our house, she was closeted with my ^ife for a longer tune than I would have hked, and ^"^il N AI'OSTATK. lli« !uniul)lc and pioim ,V.«i.osea to till up tl>e Elliott's Hi.le. Wholli«r ling i.ro>*l>oct of cooper- uiiker in doling out doc- tho cHMnionuciiUy gratit'y- • Hn\)l>ru'd oil »>ich eany he professed horself qnito ft i.fold responsibility, nor of an " early day," viz. : one appointed for Mr. sither did she tell me how )r preparation, and on the l,y Mr. Elliott bear off bis idtU of tive-!\nd -forty years, sed tbo departure of Aunt 'drappie in my e'e," aud entire resignation. I was II my congratulations and ,ii,g that the good-natured I all and more than all the .8 lady-love and her cookery, as quite willing to dispens.-. e, she was closeted with my lan I would have hked, and COXFESSIOSS OF AN APOSTATR. 211 the natiuo of her parting cominnnicntion ni:iy bo inferred fmiii the closing words which I chunced to overhear an the pair issued together from the back parlor : » Above all, keep a dose eye to the childrt-n— I have sowed gttod seed in their young minds, see to it, Eve, that it produces good fruit. Beware of liomisli inrtuences, my dear, for tliey are abroad, I toll you ! Remember the blood that flows in your veins, and disgrace not the memory of yt)ur father by allowing his grand-children to stray from the way of righteousness." The fruit of this " solemn injunction " was an in- creased strictness on the part of Eve in watching over her children's (supposed) spiritual welfare. Im- pressed with the responsibility of her position, slie became ipiite religious on my hands, and unfortu- nately her watchful care was not confmed to the chil- dren. I came in for my share of it, and henceforward every word and action of mine was scrutinized .md taken note of for critical dissertation. Nothing could be more annoying than this cliango in Eve, -svhose lightness of heart and elasticity of mind were sud- denly destroyed as by a crushing weight. All that superabundance of gaiety which had shed a charm Over the darkest years of my life had vanished, as it SIS CONKKH8IONS UF AN APOSTATK. were, instanlancusly, un.l the npn^hUy, w.Uy >ul. Eve. more French th.n New Kn«lan.liHh u> .u.n.l and ,.,„:.er, .11 at once threw off her brilliant phunage nn,l api-eared before n.y mortified and anton.hed even in the leaden dullness of the pater.nd naure. ,,,.,•, a. fanatic zeal conld make her, ,., I i......harb ex.u=ting an regarded ,ny religion, v--- ''' '- ;>f „w Uon.i.h antecedentH, Eve to, !, upon l^er.el the office of i».l"--'tor, and from that day forward the conunon inheritance of "free-will" waavutnally a dead letter for me. At least Eve wonld have n.ade it BO, bnt the half-extingmshed spirit of n.anUood rone «P i" ar«.« within me, and I aHsnn^ed a de hunt a..d Bwaggering air which m««t have nnrpr.sed n,y ,vife .luile as mnch as it grieved and pan.ed her. It ^vas not that I ever went so far with my mdepend- cnce as to approach the assertion of my real con v. c tions with regard to religion. That 1 wonld have considered tantamount to disgrace, and pretty certam of being followed by the loss of that position for which I liad sacrificed so much. With reckless des- peration I clung to the outward form of Protestant- ism, which I still knew and felt to be a rotten shell. Such as it was, however, I believed that it seemed tne wealth and consideration amongst men, and for that ^ ' v.. Ml It even when my heart and soul were CONFlkHSrONS OF AV APnKTATB, apohtatk. Hprightly, willy lUtlu nglunilish in luiiitl luxl hor brilliant i.luumge ilitiod and aHtoui^hed if tlie piitonml niiiafe. ittlvo her, :h. I pciinUai-l) jioup view rt, b'v ; use of to, !; upon heryelf U>e thill day forwiird, the le-will" was virUiuUy » Evo would have made (hcd wpirit of manhood and I aHHunied a defiant inuHt have suritrised my sved and pained her. It (o far with my independ- lertion of my real convic- on. That 1 would have iHgvaco, and pretty certain loss of that position for inch. With reckless des- ,ward form of rroteslant- 1 felt to be a rotten sheU. [ believed that it secured ion amongst men, and for m my heart and soul were 218 most deeply stamped with the buruinjj brand of r.'ilholieity Bcorching mid withering witli its fuTy fiiilh. Wlien tlio ominous struggle of whioh I have spokfu was just at the highest, I recoived a letter from my eldest brotlier, enclosing a money letter which I Imd sent to my mother some two months before. My k'ftor W!iH imojii'iied, and my cheek burned, and my lii'iirt throbbed a.s I turned to my brother's luUcr for e.vpliuuitioii. 214 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATB. cnArTEii XIV. M Y brother's letter spoke in this wise : " Mister Simon Kerrigan, I write you these few lines, the last, I'm thinkin', that you will ever get from me, harr- iii' God turns His hand with yon, and sure enough it's the back of His h;vnd lie has to you now, any way. Your mother sends you back your letter— she doesn't know from Adam what's in it, or what's not, but she wouldn't touch a penny of your money on any account. Her heart was black with grief when she heard of your marryin' a Prodestan, and ever since she had no grah for takin' your money, but of late she got word from some one in Boston that you had sold yourself body and soul for the dirty dross of this world, and r ArOSTATB. COXFESSIONS Op AN AP08TATB. 215 XIV. ^^^ Lter spoke in this wise : on Kerrigan, I write you es, tlie last, I'm tliinkin', 1 ever get from me, barr- s His hand with you, and 1 it's the hack of His is to you now, any way. jr sends you back your ioesn't know from Adam L, or what's not, but she ouch a penny of your any account. Her heart (rith grief when she heard in, and ever since she had !y,but of late she got word Imt you had sold yourself y dross of this world, and from that day to this she wouldn't let one of us men- tion your name to her, and I'm sure all she cried was enough to melt the eyes in her head. Don't ever write another word to her, nor attempt to send her money, unless you get out of the devil's grip, for whicli she'll pray God, she says, every day and hour of her life. But her days won't be long, I'm thinkin' myself, for the crush that she got Avhen she heard of your turnin', she'll never get over in this ■world. Nobody 'id ever knoAV that they seen her before, for her face is got the color of death, and her eyes sunk b.ack in her head, and she's bent a'most two double. As you're doin' so well, you'll have all the better luck for finishin' your good mother, the kind, and lovin' mother that was a credit to us all, and well thought of by rich and poor. But then, I suppose, you got to be ashamed of her since you set up for a gentleman, and took to the Prodestans. Well, if you are ashamed of her, don't be tryin' to cheat the devil in the dnrk— leave her to us, and we'll support her, plase the Lord ! ay, and keep her comfortable, too, which we're both able and wiHin' to do. She's ashamed of you, anyhow, and not all as one, she has good reason, for you have done what not one of your breed, seed, or generation ever done, and the load of disgrace that's on her is too heavy 216 CONTESStONS OF AN AP08TATB. for her to bear. Only that chanty binds her to pray for you as she would for any other sinner she d never let your nan,e cross her lips, though it's hard enough for the mother to have to turn her face agm the ch.ld of her heart, but she bids me tell you that the enemy of God can be no child of hers, and them that could throw th^nselves overboard out of Peter^ b-k a^^ out of her reach altogether. She'll pray God al hor days that the fiery waves of hell may not swa low you up till yon get the grace of bein' --rted bacl. again and makin' your peace with God and the Blessed Virgin Mother of Christ .nd all the holy Saints and Angels that you've scandalized and m- Bulted. As for Father O'Byrne, he can hardly be- lieve it yet that you'd fall away from the trne fa>th _he still hopes that we'll find it all a tmstake, for he says he knows yon better than any one hvm , and he's full sure you could never be a Frodestan. I n- less you can tell us that his reverence is m the nght you need never write a scrowl to ns, for you get ,t hack with postage to pay, and a word you 11 never he*- from one belongin' to you. I don't want to sign myself your brother, but I'm bound to renram your well-wisher, NtcnoT,.s KKumoAN. All the grief I had ever known was nothmg to what I endured on reading this letter. Sorrow, CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSIATK. 217 ff APOSTATE. mrity binds lier to pray ither sinner, she'd never hough it's hard enough 1 her face agin the child tell you that the enemy rs, and them that could out of Peter's bark are She'll pray God all her )f hell may not swallow ! of bein' converted back ace with God, and the Christ, ".nd all the holy u've scandalized and in- Byvne, he can hardly be- away from the true faith nd it all a mistake, for he than any one livin', and tr be a Prodestan. Tn- reverence is in the right, owl to us, for you'll get it , and a word you'll never to you. I don't want to , but Pm bound to remain NtcnoLAS Kkrkican." er known was nothing to ding this letter. Sorrow, shame, remorse, were for a while the alternate pos- sessors of my unhappy soul, and at various times I wished myself dead, little heeding the additional guilt I thereby incurred in the sight of God. After some time, my thoughts (if thoughts they were) took a now turn. Pride asserted dominion over all the other passions, and immediately the tunmlt of their warfare was hushed into ominous silence. I all at once found out that I was a badly-used man, that my mother was after all neither more nor less than a bigot, and hadn't the heart of a mother, or she wouldn't be so severe on her own child. As for ray brother Nicholas and the rest of them, they l«id the impudencd of tt.e Old Boy, and his ingratitude to boot, or they wouldn't i)resume to speuk to me in such a way — to me who could buy them all from the gallows — to me who had a carriage and pair, and ser- vants to command, and the chief business of Xew Haven in my hands, I'd have them to know I wouldn't take any of their impudence, anyhow, and so I meant to write to them, and so I did write, with the lauda- ble intention of striking the iron while it was hot. As for Father O'Byrne, I requested Nicholas to let him know I had left the Romish Church, and felt all the better for it. My hand trembled, and an ice-bolt shot through my heart as I wrote the idle and desper- 10 1 218 CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. ate bravado-thc sign-manual of my own condemna- tion. But pride and revei>ge-ay, revenge ! were at my elbow guiding the pen, and I wrote, at their dic- tation, words of almost incoherent rage, for my soul was in a whirl, and I took no time to consider what I put down. Fearing lest my resolution should fiul on reflection, I hastily sealed the precious epistle, and Avalked as fast as my feet could carry me to the Post- office, nor stopped till I saw the missive deposited amongst the Boston letters on the official shelf. I strutted home in an ecstatic state of selttaudation, and in the eifervescence of my exultation, what should I do but show Nicholas' letter to my wife, and re- peated as nearly as I could what I had written to h.m in reply, or as I termed it, bow I had paid him off. That was the imlucky revelation for me, for the peru- sal of Nicholas' letter, and, indeed, the whole affair, struck Eve as something so very ludicrous that all her recently-acquired seriousness was not proof agamst it, and she laughed as I had not seen or heard her laugh for months' long. Nor was the effect transient, for ev-er after when she took it into her head to teazeme,^Bhe ^as sure to fall back to " brother Nicholas' letter for a quotation, which she repeated in such grotesque fashion that I had oflen to laugh myself when suffer- i„g most acutely from false shame and mortification. I }i-iii\ffi^<-r'\oherent rage, for my soul no time to consider what my resolution should foil ;d the precious epistle, and sould carry me to the Post- saw the missive deposited irs on the official shelf. I ;atic state of self-laudation, my exultation, what should letter to my wife, and re- i what I had written to him it, bow I had paid him off. elation for me, for the peru- tid, indeed, the whole affair, so very ludicrous that all her less was not proof against it, not seen or heard her laugh IS the effect transient, for ever ito her head to teazeme, she brother Nicholas' letter " for repeated in such grotesque to laugh myself when suffer- alse shame and mortification. CO-VFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 21» Tliis continued for months long, and then ceased only because the luckless letter assumed a lugubr'tous hue and acquired a sorrowful meaning from the intelligence — curtly and bitterly communicated — that my mother had at last sunk beneath her sorrows. This news sobered Eve comp»etely, and I could see that she even reproached herself for having so often made free with the name of her who was now beyond the reach of praise, or ridicule, or censure. For me, I was utterly prostrated by the weight of a blow so unexpected. Tlie loss of my mother would liave been at any time a severe atflicti'on, for, to say the truth, I always cherished .at heart the memory of her virtues, and a grateful recollection of her tender care. But now — now when I could not but consider myself as, at least, accessory to her death, the flood of grief, swelled by the murky stream of remorse, over- flowed every farculty of my being, and I was literally benumbed with accumulated anguish. " The hand of God is on me," said I, " and I am but reaping the whirlwind where I sowed the storm. Still the punishment is too great for the offence. My sin is grievous, I know, but the penalty is Iread- fiil. To kill my mother — oh, God ! why was I born for such a fate ?" Thus it was that my hard, unregenerate heart, 220 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATB. although tortured with remo, se, was as yet insensible to repentance, and instead of bundling myself before the outraged majesty of Heaven, I cried out and howled in impotent despair, accusing the God of all .oodness, the God whom I had once loved as the kindest of fathers, of too great severity m my regard. , v j t Had repentance then toudied my soul, had 1 re- turned like the Prodigal in the Gospel, to the ever open arms of my Father, much after suffering might have been spared me, for the temporal punishment of my transgressions might not have been so heavy. But no, I persisted in the way my dogged pride suggested, resolutely closing my ear to the silvery accents of my better angel. The death of my mother was only the prelude to a long series of misfortunes. My children, the pride of my heart, and the solace of my wretchedness, from being the healthiest in the town to all appear- ance, sickened one after the other and died of various diseases, until at last but one remained, Joel our eldest son, the first-bom of the family. In him, then all our hopes were centered, and as far as mind and person went, he gave fair promise. The boy inherited from bis mother much of that fatal beauty which had won me from my God, and much too of the buoyant liii^^rwiwaiii^ i -rg m i Wt-w i ^ t y i T^-"*-' AN APOSTATE. 01 se, was as yet insensible f humJbling myself before [leaven, I cried out an»I ir, accusing the God of all I had once loved as the o great severity in my )udied my soul, had I re- in the Gospel, to the ever nuch after suffering might • the temporal punishment 3t not have been so heavy, he way my dogged pride ing my ear to the silvery il. sr was only the prelude to a !8. My children, the pride olace of my wretchedness. It in the town to all appear- he other and died of various lut one remained, Joel our of the family. In him, then, red, and as far as mind and promise. The boy inherited r that fatal beauty which had ind much too of the buoyant CONFESSIONS OI AN APOSTATK. 2J1 spirits and sportive gaiety which came down to liiin from his French gmmdaine. Tliese latter qualities, together with a strong dash of Irish humor and a warm, genial heart, would have made Joel a most loveablc character had he grown up under happier auspices. But as his aunt well said, she had laid a ftMuidation of Puritanicnl ice down deep in Joel's mind, and beneath it wore btiried the geni-al qu.ilities, the warm affections, and the generous sentiments planted by nature in the boy's soul. Never was gem so spoiled and defaced as my son's heart, and, like a rare .and cultivated vine on which a worthless wild one is engrafted, the fruit of his advancing years was bitter, and, alas ! thnt I should say it, poisonous. His mother and I made him our idol, especially after the death of our other children, and truly, truly, he became our curse. With a natural disposition such as T have described, and a training so pernicious, Joel grew up cold and heartless — he had no religion in re-ility, but affected a good deal. With all the precocious Teutonic gravity which had distinguished his uncle Josiah at the s.ame age, he had a sub-strata of Celtic fire that was ever smouldering beneath, and at intervals shoot- ing upwards through the dark, marly surface in a way that filled me with anxiety, the greater and tlie 19* CONFESSIONS OV AK APOSTATE. 222 more intolerable because I dared not give it ntter- auce. Eve, with all the parfmlity of a dotn.„^ mother for her only child, was still far from being i...e.>s.ble to Joel's faults, aHhough she gave h.m crecbt fur ,„ore religU^n, much more, than he really Imd. She would complain to me at tin.es that Joel was wantmg in atlection. and that there was somethmg about huu Bhe never could understand. " He is so very silent, she would say, " and has such long fits of nuxs.ng-- but then he is so pious, it must be the workn.gs of the Spirit that are going on within hm^. He reflects inuch, I think, on the things which appertam to ^Twould have made me smile at any other timo to hear Eve talk in such wise (although of late years she was, as I have said, quite a different person), but this subject was too painful to me permit of mu-th or levity, and notwithstanding that I trie.1 to reassure Eve my own heart was heavy with sad forebodmgs. tLc fir notable transgression of our mrfortunate Bon was the seduction of a pretty young Amencan ghl, one of our "help," who went home to her parents on account of her health, as it were. We afterwards learned that Joel had been supportmg her 'for some months, but finding the tax rather heavy for his liking, he suddenly stopped the supphes and K apostatb. livreil not give it nttcr- nlity of a doting motlier ir from being iiweJisible ho gave liim credit for .ban he really luid. She les that Joel was wanting f as something about liim " lie is so very silent,' ich long fits of musing- must be the workings of wilbin bini. He reflects ings wliich appertain to , smile at any other time ise (although of late years ite a different person), but 1 to me permit of mirth or g that I tried to reassure >avy with sad forebodings, rression of our uirfortunate a pretty young American ' who went home to her 3r health, as it were. We aelhad been supporting her ding the tax rather heavy ly stopped the supplies and CONFESSION'S OF AN APOSTATE. 223 declared against doing anything more. Tlio conse- quence was tl>.xt the whole was revealed to us by the angry damsel. Joel was at the time on a visit to Aunt Olive. We sent for him, and he came, but instead of being ashamed, or touched by our agonized reproaches, he kiughed and answered us with a coarse jest, justifying himself by the example of the older patriarchs. As to the unhapjiy child that hatl been born to him, he refused 'ven to look at it. His mother, however, seeing that he did not attempt to deny his guilt, sent the forlorn creature to nurse, but from that day till the day she died, no sound of mirth escaped her wan lips, no smile beamed on her wasted although still beautifid features. Had I had my will the fellow should never have sat at my t;ible again, but his mother, with more forbe.'irance, repre- sented that by banishing him from our presence, we might only make him desperate and lose all hold on him for the time to come. The effect of my Catholic training still clung to me, and although I gave in to Eve's reasoning, I could not look at Joel for months after without a feeling of disgust. This he was not slow to discover, and he assumed, in consequence, a brazen indifference that was still more offensive. Sometimes when my temper could not brook his saucy swaggering, I opened upon him in a vein of 22* C0OTK8S10N8 OF AN APOSTATE. bitter invective which, instead of doing good roused the devil in lu« heart. The mocking laugh, tLe Bcmth- ing taunt which scorched my very brain I was obl.ged to endure as b.st I might, for the least throat of punishment, the least appearance of pas^on on my p.rt, brought on either a violent fit of cryn^g or perhaps a fainting fit on that of his mother whose failing health and strength excited my tendere.t sjm- pathy. She had become so gentle, too, and so con- derate, so grateful for any effort n.ade to please her that, in the absence of any higher motive, M gave me, unspeakable pleasure to soothe and console her bruLd and sorrowing heart. "She .s worse than childless," would I say to myself, as I looked tln-ough „,y tears at her faded face, and her pren^atu^ely.ben form; " what on earth has she to console her, and .vhat is there in her religious belief to give her sohd Uopes for hereafter ? She talks like one in a dream of the Lord Jesus,' but I see, oh 1 too plau.ly, hat His peace is not within her. Well 1 what can I do for her?-how could I begin to talk to her of the saving doctrines which would make her happy- who have rejected, or appeared to reject them .-ah I wretch 1 the doom of your apostacy is on all you love, involving them in your destruction ! One night, just when Eve had apparently reached APOBTATK. ,f doing good, rouRed •king liiugli, Uio Hcalh- ry brain I was oldiged )r the leant throat of ICO of pasHion on my jlcat fit of crying or t of his mother whose ited my tcndercst sym- ;entlc, too, and ho con- fort made to please her lier motive, it gave me, ,the and console her "She is worse than lelf, as I looked through >d her prematurely-hent she to console her, and belief to give her solid ilks like one in a dream ee, oh 1 too plainly, that Well ! what can I do .n to talk to her of the uld make her happy— I •ed to reject them ?— ah ! apostaey is on all you ■ destruction !" 3 had apparently reached COJJFKSSIONS OF AX ArOSTATB. 225 the last Htago of weakness, I had Iain awake most of the night listening to her low, plaintive moans, and watching, by the light of the flickering night- lamp, the hectic flush that was burning on her liollow cheek as slio tossed about in the feverish shnnber of disease. Towards morning sleep overcame my feari and sorrows, and I fell into a heavy slumber. All at once my restless spirit was transported to Glondalougli, aiul by the grey light of early morning, as it seemed to mo, I looked down from the brow of old Lugduff on the long-unseen but well-remembered haunts of my boyish days. But alas ! even in a dream 1 was not as I had been in those fresh young years. I was a man, and the crimes and sorrows of my manhood were with me in that solitude. Op- pressed by the Aveight of my " thick-coming ftmcies," and the awful stillness Avhich reigned in the sacred valley, I bowed my head between my hands and wept. Suddenly an icy chill shot through my veins, my hair stood on end, and a dreary consciousness came over me that I was not alone — that I stood in the presence o^ some disembodied spirit. By an almost mechanical impulse I raised my head, and there within two feet of me stood the sheeted form of my mother, her ghastly eyes fixed full on me from under the hood of her brown Carmelite death-habit. 226 C0NKK8HI0N8 3» AN APOSTATS. I felt as lliough I could have Hunk through the ground, and involuntarily moved a Htep or two away, but tho figure moved after me and the power of motion suddenly left n.e. Speed., too, failed n.c, and there I stood face to face with tho phatiKnn, j,'n/.- ing into her so.dlesH eyen, and feeling an though the marrow in n.y bones was withering away for fear. At last I sank on one knee, partly from exhaustion, and strove to articulate a .juestion. The figure Blowly raised her right hand and pointed to tho large white cross on tho front of her lial.it, then strofhed her arm towards tho oi.posite mountains. I turned and looked. Great Clod! how awful was the sight that met my eyes. High over the mountain-crest where the clouds had just cleared from before the biue sky, a fiery cross of immense proportions waa distinctly visible. " Merciful God !" I cried in anguish, " is this the day of wrath ?" « Not yet," said a sepulchral voice from the motion- less figure near mo, " but by that cross you shall be jud-red. Wretched sinner, yo.i have trampled on it -beware tho vengeance of the man-God who jlied thereon ! Do penance, or you perish miserably." "Mother! mother!" I almost screamed, "what am I to do ?-- can I ever hope for pardon ?" ArOSTATE. Bunk through the 1 a »tep or two awny, le ftiiJ tho power of e«cli, too, failotl '"tS ith tho phiiiitoiii, gn/.- leuling ii!* ihougli tlio herhig away for fear. lutly from exhauation, iiuestion. The figure 1.1 pointed to the large • habit, then streti-hetl mountains. I turned w awful was tho sight er the mountahi-crest eared from before the iiicnse proportions wan n anguish, " is this the I voice from the motion- ' that cross you shall be ou have trampled on it the man-God who died u perish miserably." most screamed, " what e for pardon ?" CONFKKSIONH OP AV AI'OrtTATR. 227 " iToii can," said the hollow voice, " repent and do ]ieuaiK'e, and your sins thougli red nn scarlet shall become white as wool. IJut for a sign and in punisli. ment of your n[>ostacy, your idols of flesh shall be broken and destroyed — so says tho Lord of hosts 1" The oracular voice was silent, and before I could miMte." courage to speak again, the unearthly visitor }iad melted into thin air, and T was again alone with tlie elements and the mighty hills. I awoke with a start and fotmd myself covered with a cold sweat. I was trembling from head to foot, and had hanlly power to answer Eve who said she liad been some time trying in vain to rouse mo from what a})peared to bo a kind of fit. " Oh ! Eve," said I, " I liave had a horrible dream — too horrible to tell ijou," " Alas, Simon I" said my wife with a sorrowful shake of the head, " I fear that is nothing new. It seems to me as though you never have any other but horrible dreams." " Why do you think so ?" "Why, because I liear your strange mutterings and see your convulsive twitchings. It does not surprise me, however, considering that your he.irt is as the barren rock. You are as a sp.arrow on the house-top, Simon, far aw.ay from the Lord Jesus 228 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATK. whom you kuow but in name. I much foav that the chain of Romish superstition still enslaves your soul." I answered only with a groan, for the vision of that awful cross was before me, and the warning voice of my dead mother was ringing hke a knell iu my ears. And thus it has been since, and thus it will remain, I fear, till my dying day-tbat sight of terror ever before my eyes, that sound of woe and malediction ever in my ears and in the deepest cells f my heart. Al'OSTATK. I much foar that tlio ill enslaves your soul." oan, for the vision of me, and the warning ringing like a knell in een since, and thus it Qg day— thot sight of liat sound of Avoe and nd in the deepest cells CONFESSIOKS OF AN APOSTATE. 229 CHAPTER XV. HAT fearful vision took such hold on my imagination that I could not get rid of it, do as I would. Terror had taken possession of all my faculties, and the fiery cross had impressed its image on my soul as with a red-hot brand. The bonds that chained me to earthly things seemed suddenly snapt asunder — all save the one that bound my heart to Eve. Rather, it was, that in that one tie all the others were absorbed, and I could in no way ac- count for the fresh and strong impulse which my love for her had received of late. My son I could not love — my mother was dead — ^iuy brothers asid sisters had cast me out from the family-circle. All this happened long before, and yet I was no more 20 230 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOBTATK. drawn tc Eve than for the last few listless years 1 had been. How was it, then, that after that dreary night, when all other feeling and aflfections were, as it were, obliterated from my being, my heartstrings seemed to cling around her with a Bort of tenacity and energy never known before. Ahl I could not gee it then, in my halfpagan state, but now I sec it as in a glass. It was yet another proof of God's scatliing anger, yet another stroke of His divine justice, to increase the severity of my punishment and make it reach every fibre of my heart. In and through her had I sinned, in and through her was judgment to be executed on my guilty head. About a month after that (to me) memorable night, we had a visit from Aunt Olive and her reverend partner, und as Eve had really, as I said before, a sort of affection for her aunt, her presence, together with the half-vulgar, half-clerical and most profuse chitchat of good Mr. Elliott seemed to amuse and revive her more than a little. My spirits rose in pro- portion, and I felt the dreary load somewhat hght- cned on my heart. Even Aunt Olive herself was far less acrid than usual, and once or twice dunng the first day's dinner I actually saw her smile. As for Elliott he looked the very picture of good-nature, being on the best possible terms with himself and all m APOSTATE. last few listless years 1 n, that after that dreary 5 and affections were, as y being, my heartstrings r with a sort of tenacity efore. Ah ! I could not m state, but now I sec it ; another proof of God's 3r stroke of His divine (verity of my punishment ibre of my heart. In and , in and through her was n my guilty head, i (to me) memorable night, t Olive and her reverend really, as I said before, a nit, her presence, together clerical and most profuse ott seemed to amuse and le. My spirits rose in pro- :eary load somewhat light- n Aunt Olive herself was ,and once or twice during Lctually saw her smile. As ery picture of good-nature, terms with himself and all CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 231 tlie world. I verily think that he would have cheer- fully hob-a-nobbed with the Pope himself had he appeared in liis proper person on the opposite side of the table with a quart decanter of fine old Port standing on guard between. It was easy to see that the good man's heart overflowed avI th the kindliest feelings towards all mankind as he turned up his cuffs, and whetted his knife for the great work of dissecting a noble turkey which, with the concomi- tant oyster-sauce, was placed before him. Oh ! the unction with which he pronounced his " grace," his eyes taking in, the while, the rare proportions of the savory bird before him. Amid all the social warmth and unwonted cheer- fulness which made our board a truly festive one that day, Joel, our son, remained dull and silent. Gloomy and morose he sat, taking no apparent interest in what was going forward, but feeding like a ghole, for his appetite was at all times remarkable. A sar- donic smile played around his finely-curved mouth, but it was evidently in connection with his own dark imaginings. Many a sorrowful look was exchanged between his mother and myself as we glanced towards him, for I think I had never seen him look more attractive than he did that day. His face was of that transparent kind that reflects or exposes 232 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. every passing emotion of the mind, and there was a fascination in his ever-changing features and in the occasional glance of his lustrous eyes that riveted attention, do as one would. But still he persisted in his dogged silence, either vouchsafing no reply when any one spoke to him, or making some vague, half-conscious answer that was little less provoking than his silence. Every ono noticed it, even Aunt Olive, whose favorite Joel had always been. For my part, I was so indignant that I could not wait till dinner was over to express my opinion of his conduct, especially as there were no strangers present. I had asked him a question with- out receiving any answer, and even his mother looked displeased at his contemptuous conduct. « Did you hear me speak to you ?" said I, raismg my voice. « No really, fatlur !— what did you say ?" "What I said is not of much consequence, but I want you to know that you must answer me when I speak to you. Here have you been sitting like a Btatue since dinner commencea: hardly condescending f o open your lips to any of us. I tell you once for all, Joell I won't put up with such conduct, so make up your mind to mend your manners, or we'll see who is to be master in this house," tii9 fxm .'t tt< i parv N APOSTATE. mind, and there was a ing features and in the ;rou8 eyes that riveted lis dogged silence, either iny one spoke to him, or iscious answer that was his silence. Every one , whose favorite Joel had I was so indignant that was over to express my ecially as there were no ked him a question with- d even his mother looked JUS conduct. I to you ?" said I, raising at did you say ?" much conseqx^once, but I I must answer me when I ) you been sitting like a icfcd. hardly condescending .f us. I tell yon once for rith such conduct, so make )ur manners, or we'll see house." CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 233 The blood rushed to Joel's face, and liis eyes gleamed on me with a strange expression. " I guess my manners are as good as yours," said he, " do you think I'm gouig to be drilled and lectured by such as you ?" " Joel ! Joel !" cried his mother, " why do you speak so to your father ?" " My father !" he repeated with bitter emphasis ; " it's ray misfortune that he is my father — " "Leave the room," I shouted m a voice husky with rage. " I won't leave the room," said my hopeful son ; " yott have no right to order me so in my grand- father's house! — it belongs to my mother and not to you !" Joel and I had both risen, and we now stood glar- ing on each other with the fiercest anger. Aunt Olive and her husband each put in a remonstrance, the latter begging of me to keep my temper and the former reminding Joel that the disobedient child was accursed of God. " Nonsense, aunt !" said Joel, turning fiercely on her ; " don't talk to me of obedieace to such a father as I've got— thanks to my mother's folly !— if there is a God — which ain't very clear to me — he don't require a fellow to be trampled under foot in a freo 20* 284 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. country by an alien, and-" he stopped short and looked at me as though he feared to finish the sentence. "And what?" I cried, roused to desperation; " what besides an alien ?" " Joel !" said his mother, in a faint but fearfully agitated tone, "be silent, I command you !-uot a word as you love me !" " lie shall speak 1" I cried in a choking voice, and I swore a dreadful oath ; » he shall lay bare his black heart this moment. Speak, young man! what other foul name were you going to give me ?" "I think you know it yourself," said Joel, his face now pale as death ; " if you have a conscience, ask it—'" " Name it you !» I almost shrieked ; " what am 1 —a Papist ?" "Worse even than that— an apostate and a HYPOCKITB !" Maddened to hear my own son become my accuser, the words had scarcely passed his lips when I sprang on him and felled him to the ground with a blow of my clenched fist. The blood gushed from his mouth and nostrils, and he lay without sense or motion before me. A w?M, heart-ren4ing scream burst from his mother. ^f APOSTATE. he stopped short and e feared to finish the •oused to desperation; in a faint but fearfully command you ! — not a in a choking voice, and e shall lay bare his black young man ! what other I give me ?" rourself," said Joel, his if you have a conscience, it shrieked ; " what am I t — AN APOSTATE AND A ri son become ray accuser, led his lips when I sprang le ground with a blow of )d gushed from his mouth without sense or motion earn burst from his mother. CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 235 She t.ied to rush towards him, but her strength failed her and she fell back pale and trembling in iier cliair, while Aunt Olive and Mr. Elliott raised Joel between them. I saw by their looks that they tliought hiui dead, and yet with the stolid indifference of despair I threw myself uito a seat and looked on as though nowise concerned. This evidently shocked Eve yet more than the fatal blow. " Simon," said slie in a voice of preter- natural energy considering her weakness, " Simon, do you know that you have killed your son — tliat the blood of your first-born is on your hand which shall henceforth be accursed of God and man !" " I don't care — I couldn't be more accursed thau I was. An apostate and a hypocrite ? — ha ! ha I ha ! The boy spoke the truth, but it wasn't for him to say it— -he'll never say it again, anyhow !" and without another word or a glance at Joel I left the room, and ascending to my own chamber locked myself in. There I spent the remainder of the day in gloomy musings. Brooding over the dismal effects of my transgressions, and entirely absorbed in selfish sor- row that was not remorse, I neither heeded the lapse of time nor thought of the possible sufferings of others. It appeared to me more than probable that my unfortunate son had paid the penalty of his lifo 1 I 236 COSFKH8ION8 OF AN APOSTATE. for his atrocious disobeaience, but as yet the storm of passion had not subsided, nor had repentance soft- ened my heart in any degree; even the possible conse- quences of my unnatural crime never crossed my mind. An hour or so after I left the dinning-room a gentle knock came to the door. It was repeated again and again, and at last I was forced to ask " Who's there ?" hoping to get rid of the intruder, yet trembling in anticipation of the direful news I might have to hear. I was answered by the soft voice of Eve, begging for admission. Now most people are glad and thankful to have some one to condole and sympathize with them in their misery, but not so me. I desired nothing else at that moment but to be alone, and I felt as though the presence of any onen-but Eve of all people— would have been insupportable. The sight of her pale reproachful face would have been torture to mo, now tha>. I had made her, in all probability, a childless mother. " Eve !" said I, affecting a sternness which I did not feel ; " Eve ! I can't let you in. Tell me, how- ever, is Joel dead ?" u Oh, no~no, Simon ! it's not so bad as that— he is ill, very ill, but not dead— oh ! not dead. The doctor says he may live. Come and see him, won't you?" li^jp^fewsw'swi^sM^^*^***"**'*'™^^''"™'* ■■* ■" — 'rf CONFESSIONS OP AN APOtJTATB. 237 AN AP08TATB. ice, but as yet the storm , nor had repentance soft- j ; even the possible conse- crime never crossed my I left the (linning-room a door. It was repeated last I Avas forced to ask o get rid of the intruder, ion of the direful news I '^as answered by the soft r admission. Now most kfiil to have some one to rith them in their misery, othing else at that moment as though the presence of people — would have been of her pale reproachful ture to mo, now that I had jT, a childless mother, g a sternness which I did let you in. Tell me, how- t's not so bad as that — he lead — oh! not dead. The Come and see him, won't " Not dead 1" I repeated gruffly, endeavoring to conceal my satisfaction. " Well 1 it's dead he ought to be I" " For shame, Simon ! how can you hope to be forgiven it' you forgive not ? Come and see poor Joel !" " Did he ask to see me ?" " No — but then his miud is wandering, you know 1" *' Go away. Eve, and let me alotie I go to your sou —he's more to you than I am." She still continued her expostuluiiuus, but all to no purpose. I spoke no more. At last she lost hor patience and became angry. "Words of bitterness escaped her lips which sank deep into my heart and made it hard as the granite rock. Within my soul was the dark, dogged, sullen spirit bom of remorse and pride, and in Eve's, the stern determination inherited from her Puritan fathers, a quality which on ordinary occasions was but little percoptible. " Do you forget," said she, " that that room was mine before it was yours ?" " No matter for that — it is mine now — I will not open it !" " You will not ?" " No ! — leave me alone, I want no companion m my misery." 238 C0N»It88I0N8 OF AW ArOSTArB. There ww no reply, and I knew that Eve was gone. " Now," said I to myself, " I know she ha. something in her head, for I never knew her to give way «o easily when once her blood was up. I U ..ee what she is up to." Strange to say, at that moment, my curiosity swal- lowed up all other feelings, and in order to gratify it, I u..locked the door, and leaving it wholly unfas- tened, stationed myself in the shadow of a large, old- fashioned clothes-press on the lobby. I was not mistaken as to Eve's intentions, nor had I to wait long. She came again up the stairs with a feeble step, holding by the banister, and followed^by poor Phil Cullcn's successor in the garden, for Phil had gone the way of all flesh a few years before. Peeping anxiously from my concealment, I saw that my wife was ghastly pale and that her whole frame trembled with emotion. My heart was touched at her appearance, and yet I was angry, very, very angry. The reraonstrative voice of Elliott now drew off my attention for a moment from Eve. " My dear Mrs. Kerr, take him gently," said the man of peace, as he reached the stairhead puffing and blowing after the ascent. "You know we have it in the Holy Book that a soft word tumeth away wrath. Oh I don't- KV APOBTATB. 1 knew that Eve wftH lysolf, " I know she bust never knew her to give r blood waH up. I'll (we )nient, my onriosity swal- and in order to gratify I leaving it wholly unfas- le shadow of a large, old- ie lobby. Eve's intentions, nor had again up the stairs with a banister, and followed by )r in the garden, for Phil sh a few years before. 1 my concealment, I saw pale and that her whole >n. My heart was touched t I was angry, very, very e of Elliott now drew off from Eve. "My dear Mrs. kid the man of peace, as he ffing and blowing after the have it in the Holy Book away wrath. Ob ! don't— CONPEBSIOSS OF AX APOSTATE. 230 don't now — let me speak to him before you do this thing I" Eve, wrapt up in the intensity of her own passion, heedetl not the fi ieiidly renionstrances, but made a sign for the giirdener to force the door. " IJut stop a moment," said slie, " pcrhnps it ain't locked now.'' So saying Hhe pl(»oed her shoulder to the door to try it, and, loaning ])erlinps more heavily than she in- tended, from her weak state, the door went in, and with a scream of terror Eve fell forward. In an instant I had her in my arms, but she was quite insensible, nay, to all appearance, de.id. I carried her in and laid her on her bed, and watched with the most excruciating anxiety the effect of the varioua restoratives applied by Aunt Olive and the women from the kitchen. Elliott had taken his wife's place at Joel's bedxido to send her up to us, and to do the old lady justice, there full more tears from her eyes over Eve's inauhnate form than I had ever supposed her capable of shedding. For me I retired into a corner of the room, and watched the progress of the various remedies. During the hour that my wife re- mained in that swoon I went tiirough an age of suffer- ing. I already fancied myself alone in tlie world, and shrank into the depths of my wretched heart. Wlio can paint mj joy when, after an hour of iejij^ § t»g^ a : ^ i^=^«n-J««^- 240 COKFEfiSTOXS OF AW APOSTATK. frultloBH cxortlon, the vital n^nrV manifoHted it« pre«. enco in a lonj?-drawn «igh mul a convul»ive twitching of the limhH. Eve wa« reBtored to life, but not nla«! to conHcionnnoHH. Tl.o l.oautif.il cye« opened ncain, but the light of roanon waH not in tbem The voice even made itself heard, but in low incoherent muttering., broken by sighs and moans. That night I watched by Eve's bed, watched with a never-closing eye, and a heart that scarcely beat I was alone with the unconscious sufferer, for Aunt Olive watched by Joel, and others T would not admit even good Mr. Elliott, whose officious kindness and trite homilies on resignation I dreaded of all things. It was dreadful during those long, dreary hours, to hear that low plaintive voice muttering complamts and reproaches, which conscience could not fail to apply to myself. Occasionally she uttered the names of her dead children, but of Joel she seldom spoke, except once or twice when she charged me with lus death. , « She had been lying quite still for some time, and I thought she slept, when all at once she turned her eyes on me with something approaching to recolleo- tion • « There's a curse on the family," she said with BtartUng energy, "and it's all along Simon's doing. I guess he'd better have kept as he was." mmmmmm -J '?? A^ ' '"'''• 'i^-JJ^'ii •'"■'^ N APOHTATK. ,nrk matiifoHted its pro«- 1 a convulmvo twitching ,torea to life, but not, s bcnutifnl eyes opened 1 WHS not in t\ieni. Tlie il, btit in low incoherent and moans. Kve's bed, watched with heart that scarcely heat. iHcious sufferer, for Aunt jtliers 1 would not admit, ise officious Itindnoss and 1 I dreaded of all things. )8e long, dreary hours, to ice muttering complaints science could not fail to n\\y she uttered the names )f Joel she seldom spoke, she charged me with hia B still for some time, and I all at once she turned her ig approaching to recoUec- the family," she &aid with B all along Simon's doing, ept as he was." wmnaunovn of ait ArostATR. 241 Iiklcpendont of tho fearful meaning of her words, I was tenifk'd, for I saw some nhirming change tak- ing place, aiul I knew not what to do. I feared to leave the room to call aHsistnnre, which yet T desired witli friiiitic cngerness. 1 threw open the door and cjilh'd aloud for lielp, then raiwed Eve in my arms, iiiul murmured wordn of endearment. It might have been that the familiar tones awoke her to conscious- ness for a brief momejit, for she started, and her lip trembled as she looked at mo again. "You've done wrong, Simon! — to sell your God for a wife— and I did wrong to ask you — I see— I see it now — forgive — forgive me !" Overjoyed to hear her speak rationally again, 1 f(jrgot for the moment her perilous condition and tried to reassure her. A melancholy shake of tho head was her only answer. She spoke no more on earth, and before many minutes had gone by— they were an age to me— I laid her down in her last sleep — a lump of breathless clay. When Eve drew her last sigh it seemed as though tho evil spell was broken that had so long held my soul in thrall. A load of sorrow weighed mo down, selfish sorrow for her loss, but out of the darkness of my anguish came at last a ray of light. As I stood beside the lifeless body of her who had been 21 242 COXFESSIOXS OP AX APOSTATE. all the world to mc, an angel seemed to descend and trouble tlie pool of my overwhelming sorrow, and forth from it came repentance, true, genuine, Christian repentance, such as 1 had never experienced before at any period of my life. As I looked npon the stark, rigid features that had been till late so mobile and expressive, and the eyes that were as liquid orbs of light now dark and dull and sightless, I said within myself: " Can that be Eve Samuels ?— was it for that piece of flesh that I resigned my hopes of heaven ? — forfeited the love of mother and kindred— and cut myself off, a rotten branch, from the tree of iife ? God of mercy, I am worse than dead in Thy sight— dead by my own act —a miserable suicide ! What doth it profit a man to gain the whole world if lie lose his own soul ? Ay ! what, indeed, doth it profit him ? I gained the world— 4;hat is all I wanted, by my apostacy— vhat now remains of all, but some handfuls of the dross called money — money — ah ! what can it do for mc ? Can it give me peace, or rest, or happiness, even here ? Can it save me one hour from the fatal stroke that has cut her down ?— oh, no ! no ! no !— one good confession, one act of real contrition, one deed of mortification, once to knejl at a Table which I dare not nan-c, would do more to heal my lacerated heart AX APOSTATE. el seemed to descend atui er whelming sorrow, and !e, true, genuine. Christian 5ver experienced before at rk, rigid features that had expressive, and the eyes light now dark and dull n myself: "Can that be that piece of flesh that I en ? — forfeited the love of cut myself oif, a rotten fe ? God of mercy, I am ^ht — dead by my own act i^hat doth it profit a man if he lose his own soul ? profit him ? I gained the 3d, by my apostacy — vhat me handfuls of the dross ! what can it do for mc ? rest, or happiness, even hour from the fatal stroke h, no I no ! no ! — one good I contrition, one deed of II at a Table which I daro to heal my lacerated heart --^ 1 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 243 than all the wealth of London ! Coarse and bitter are the husks which I have eaten since I wandered from my Father's house. I will arise like the Prodi- gal and go back to my Father, for now I feel His gracious goodness in tliis darkest hour of my life— He beckons me from afar, holding out the Cross on which His Son died for me! Ha! the Cross! it was to crush my idols of flesh— it has crushed them— they are utterly broken— the arm of vengeance has smitten them for my sins— mercy ! oh, Lord, mercy !— spare my unhappy son— cut him not off in his wickedness — punish me, but spare him !" How long I remained in this mournful yet saving lethargy of woe I cannot tell, but when Aunt Olive towards morning came into the room, she found me kneeling beside the bed, the clay-cold hand of my dead wife locked in mine, and my eyes fixed in what appeared to her a trance. It was not till after Eve's interment that I con- sented to see Joel, and I confess I entered his room in rather a hopeful spirit, for Aunt Olive and her husband had been trying to persuade me that he was disposed to repent his undutiful conduct. Half an hour's discourse w?th him unfortunately dispelled the illusion. Dark and cynical ami obdurate as ever, I found him to be. Ho even upbraided ine with being ■ 244 CONFESSIONS OF AN Al'OSTATE. accessory to his mother's death, and said, with a sneer, that I must be ever so much disappointed to find Hill in the way of doing well. Smothering my anger as best I could, in obedience to the newly-awakened voice of religion, I strove to convince Joel of his error with regard to his mother's death and my feeling towards her. I told him I forgave him all, and even asked his pardon for all the sufferhig ray unbridled passion had caused him. He laughed in my face, and asked did I think him bo green as to believe all that stuff? This I could not bear, and telling him it would be long before I spoke to him again on any subject, I left the room and the house. S' APOSTATE. CONKESSIOXS OF AX APOSTATE. 245 ;atli, and said, with a much disappointed to well. >st I could, in obedience of religion, I strove to li regard to his mother's rds her. I told him I ed his pardon for all the m had caused him. He ted did I think him so stuff? This I could not a be long before I spoke I left the room and the CONCLUSION. ^^iS-^ , FEW weeks after Eve's death, while my good dispositions were still fresh and vivid, an opportunity was afforded me to be reconciled to God. A mission was again given in the town, and, although it cost me a fearful struggle, I resolutely prepared myself for confes- sion, approached the sacred tribunal three or four times during the week, and finally had the happiness of receiv- ing holy sjoramunion, after being pub- licly received back into the Church. Great was the liorror, and greater still the indigna- tion of all New Haven, when it became known that Elder Kerr had gone bodily over to Rome. The whole town was in an uproar of indignant exclama- tion. Everybody talked to everybody about my miserable backsliding, and everybody told his or her 21* M CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. neighbor that he or she never had faith in my princi- ple! It was all at once found out that I had been all along a suspicious character, and the only wonder was that Deacon Samuels could have been so deceived as to place confidence in me— above all to give me his daughter. When, on the day previous to his departure, 1 took the priest home with me to-dinner, the popular indig- nation reached its height. We were followed throxigh the street by an angry crowd 'of boys and women, whose comments and apostrophes were anything but complimentary. So long as they did not proceed to actual violence, neither my companion nor myself cared much. For my part, I was well content to be reviled and abused, receiving it as my due, in a spirit of penance. " I have been honored and looked np to by these people," said I to myself, "in virtue of my apostacy-it is retributive justice th.at I should now receive all contumely at their hands." All was well, however, till Joel heard of what was going on. He was just able to walk about his room, but "as yet had not ventured to leave it. To my great surprise he sent to ask me to visit him, and when I did, he asked me very gravely if it was true that a priest was in the house, and that I had gone ba^-^'