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V^tni
FAMILY CREEDS.
BY
WM. McDonnell,
AUTHOR OF "KXKTKB HALL," " THK HEATHENS OF THE HEATH," ETC., ETC
TORONTO :
BELFORDS, CLARKE & CO.
MDCCCLXXIX,
PSZ<i75
1)6 6 F3
^m
Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canad; , in the year one thousand eight
hundred and seventy-nine, by Belforus, Clarkb & Cu., in the office of the Minister of
Agriculture.
C. B. ROBINSON,
PRINTER,
JORDAN STREET, TORONTO.
BROWN BROS.,
BINDERS,
KING STREET, TORONTO.
wm
CONTENTS.
OHAPTEB: PAOK.
I. My Earliest Recollections 9
11. The White Boy 16
III. The " Big Room " and its AssociationR . . . .27
IV. The Siiectre Priest 3«
V. A Startling Discovery" .44
VI. A Drea<lful Burden 55
VII. Shawn Bawn 08
VIII. The Convict Ship 77
IX. An Explanation, and a Relief 86
X. An Unsafe Guide 98
XI. My Change of Faith 110
XII. An Early Betrothal 122
XIII. Harmony and Jealousy 135
XIV. Sabbath Lectures 147
XV. An Apple of Discord 158
XVI. The Picture in the Clouds 172
XVII. Plotting and Tattooing 186
XVIII. Delusions and Deceit 198
XIX. An Unholy Sacrifice 208
XX. The Secret Passage 219
XXI. My Aunt's House 231
XXII. My Aunt's Poor Lodgers 243
XXIII. The Poor. — Pious Pastimes and Prayer .... 255
XXIV. An Attack and a Rescue 267
XXV. Broken Vows 280
XXVL Neither Wife nor Widow 292
Vlll.
Contents.
OBAPTSn. VAQK.
XXVII. My Teachera St "St Philip's" 302
XXVIII. My FirHt Matins at the Oratory 315
XXIX. Some Sad VicisHitudeii 327
XXX. Tired of Life 341
XXXI. Cuught at Last ^54
XXXII. Ix)Ht in the Clouds ........ 363
XXXIII. An Unexpected Visitor 373
XXXIV. "What are the Wild Waves Saying?" ... 384
XXXV. Love's Purest J^ount 395
XXXVL In Rome 406
XXXVII. Faith and Worts 417
XXXVin. In the Clouds again 428
XXXIX. That Face iigain 440
XL. His Last Rite 452
XLL The Great Preachers ,463
FAMILY CREEDS.
CHAPTER I.
MY EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS.
V
I WANT to write a story, one not altogether a fiction. I
may try to embellish a little here and there, or rather I may
endeavor to euphemize, and deal more leniently with some of
my characters than their actions at first sight may seem to
warrant. I have always found it more profitable to remember
that to err is human, and I know by long experience that
it is blessed to forgive ; for, in a world like this, where there is
80 much temptation, so much error, so much frailty, and so
[much suffering — and perhaps, also, so much repentance — that
that impulse should be deemed sacred indeed which will lead
Ito a just, a tender, and a merciful consideration for the failings
|of others.
The story of my life, so far, has sufficient incidents, if pro-
aerly put together, to make it somewhat interesting. But
lere comes my drawback, T could never write well, that is to
ly, I could not sit down and write a page or so in an hour,
MhI so on, and on, hour after hour, sketching and painting and
10
Family Creeds.
gilding, like some of those gifted ones we read of, and whom I
■ometimes envy. I could not flash out ideas in crimson and
gold, or in rainbow hues. Mine are not glittering pearls of
thought, they are, alas ! of a kind naturally rather too sombre,
but even such as they are, I tind them difficult enough to pre-
sent, and if I have to tell a tale of suffering, I cannot portray
my ideas in the true but sad, sad coloring which should be in
keeping with the relation of that which has been, or is to be,
any way dreary or hopeless.
I must of necessity write slowly. I could not give you a
rapid description of a storm at sea, of dismasted ships tossed
about at night like horrid spectres upon the black billows. I
could not draw upon your imagination to make you listen to
the wild, wild rush of waves or of howling winds, or make your
heart bound with terror at the approaching uproar of a frantic
gale, or bid you look with dread at the angry clouds rushing
wildly through the gloomy sky. Nor could I describe with
poetic fervor, beautiful scenery ; sunlight, and blushing flowers,
and dewy meadows ; moonlight, with misty mountains afar ;
placid lakes, with dim islands in the distance. I could not
pencil to my satisfaction towering cliffs, rugged rocks, gloomy
caves, sylvan shades, or sparkling waterfalls. No, I have not
sufficient ability to deal in gorgeous metaphors, or in magnificent
artistic extravagances. Oh, how often I have wished for that
fertility of thought and that facility of expression which so many
possess. Oh, what I would sometimes give to be able to catch
and retain my fleeting visions, or to pencil my day-dreams. What
a strange but wild phantasmagoria of human life I think I
could often display. I must, however, only toil on in my own
slow way, and I would prefer to be deliberate in the hope that
what I try to take so much care to write — say, in the cause of j
Humanity — may be worthy of a perusal.
My Earliest RecoUectiona.
11
) you ft
,H to«we<i
lows. 1
listen to
ake youT
ft frantic
8 rushing
•ribe with
ig flowers,
j,iu8 afar;
could not
8, gloomy
I have not
lagnificent
|ed for that
Lh so many
pie to catch
[ams. What
I think 1
in my own
le hope that I
ilie cause of |
In the service of truth one must be ciroumspeot, and, above all
things, thoroughly impartial ; one should follow the direct line,
even if the most churished opinions have to be abandoned. I
am in earnest, and I shall have no dalliance with smiling proba-
bilities or glittering illusions. I wish to make a truthful
impression and I must therefore take time to mature my
thoughts, for I do not wish to have my words merely glanced
at and then forgotten forever. I want to be faithful in my
repreHentations, true to nature and to the sternest facts, yet,
strange as it may appear, many find it more difficult to do this
than to curb imagination and refuse to accept from its plastic
hand the aerial creations which it can so readily supply. Ex-
aggeration may answer for poetical rhapsodies ; it will not be
entirely suitable for any humble prose.
It is a curious effort to try and remember our first impres-
sions of life ; of those which first came to make us think that
I existtmce was a reality. How dreamlike is the recollection of
! our earliest a8.sociatioiis ; what misty confused ideas of persons
and things it seems to present. Yet a few of these stand out
[clear and well-defined in the memory as if all in relation to
jthem had occurred only yesterday. 1 remember when, as a
little sleepy-head, I used to sit on my mother's knee, and re-
cline on her bosom at ev«!ning time. These were the sweetest
itoments of my child life. The river Lee was beneath our
rindow, I can still see the red light of the departing day
deepening on its placid surface, and I can hear the mellowed
)unds of the Hhandon bells — the famous bells of the l)eautiful
!)ity of Cork — mingling with my mother's soft voice as she
pied to lull me, her little wearied boy, to sleep, by singing —
" Twas on the morn of Valentine,
Whon birds began to mate,"
id I can still see in imagination. " John, and Dick, and Joe,
12
Family Creeds.
II I
and Jack, and Humphrey with hin flail," standing with Broiling
faoeH before me ; and " Kitty," who was the *' charming girl "
of the song, making off with her " milk and pail," lest she
should be caressed or delayed by " Dame Durden's " hilarious
"serving men." Ah, me ! how I used to try and keep awake
to listen to the words, and to look at these. But that voice,
that mother's soft voice which hushed me ho often to a heavenly
slumber, that angelic voice, has long been hushed itself — shall
I hear it no more but in my dreams 1 And the minor strain
of that song — the first I ever learned — is the cadence that has
ever softened the wildest trumpet blast that has urged me to
rush forward in the tierce battle of life.
And then I remember the little stories I was told. How
sorry I used to feel for the death of " Poor Cock Robin," and
how angry I felt at the "sparrow, with his bow and arrow," that
took his life away ; and for years afterwards I used to throw
crumbs to the little robins, and clap my hands to frighten away
every sparrow. Even still, after a long, long experience, I
sometimes look with r kind of suspicion and dislike upon these
poor plebeian chirpers.
I well know how I pitied poor " Little Red Riding Hood,"
and how sorry I felt to see her led away by the treacherous
wiles of her enemy. And then the efforts of the gentle robins
to hide with leaves the lost " Children in the Woods," had my i
most tender sympathies. Added to these, I felt amazed at the
wonderful exploits of "Jack the Giant Killer," — wonderful,
because I thought they were true. Alas, in the course of my I
life so far, I have met with men whose wanton cruelty reminded!
me of that of the sparrow ; I have met many a little Redj
Riding Hood that has been pounced upon by some ravening
wolf ; I have met pitiful hearts that have been as humane
the robins to poor lost children ; and I have had interJ
My Enriiei*t Recollect ion fi.
13
course with many of th(^ self-confident and boastful, who
fancied then)8<ilve8 speciaUy sent into the world to astonish the
multitude by the performance of only superhuman acts, and
who would scorn to direct their weapons against any of less
stature than the so-oalled giants of the age.
Besides these, there are some real scenes that I witnessed
and that are still vividly before me. I remember having once
been taken into a large building — it was a church. What a
long time ago it now seems ! It was a bright day, but the interior
of the building was draped in black ; it was very black, every
ray of heaven's light seemed to have boon excluded. Oh, how
gloomy it was ! A large black coffin was on a rich stand at
the upper end of the central aisle, near the railing at the foot
of the altar steps. Around this there must have been more than
a hundred lighted tapers, and a hundred lighted wax candles in
massive silver candelabra. At the head of the coffin there was
a faldstool, there was another at the foot, and kneeling on
these, priests in albs, who wore black stoles with crosses
wrought in silver at their ends, were reading prayers in a kind
I of monotonous undertone. Pressing around the coffin and the
kneeling priests, there was a great number of persons, mostly
[women. All of these were, I think, weeping, for I could see
[the tears, the real tears of many, as they coursed down the
cheek ; and some, whose hands were clasped, and whose bodies
swayed slowly from side to side as if under the influence of
mguish, seemed to be in great distress. Many of the women
cnelt on the bare hard floor thumbing their beads and repeating
their aves. Nearly all who stood appeared to be gazing mourn-
pully on the beloved remains that were laid in the coffin. I
)itied the people, for I thought they must have lost their
learest friend, and that hope and comfort had left them for
>ver.
14
Family Creeds.
'll
1 was held above the heads of the despondent crowd in order
that I might be better able to see what was going on. The
face in the coffin was ghastly ; the features were rather dis-
torted, wearing an expression of pain. The corpse was en-
shrouded in what appeared to be the rich vestments of a priest
or bishop ; and the pale, dead hands seemed to clutch a large
gold or silver crucifix. I was almost terror-stricken at the
sight — it was the first dead body I had ever seen — and I would
have run away if I could, but I had to remain.
Presently, while the deepest silence prevailed, when not a
sound could be heard save the occasional sobs which one might
have fancied were but the falling or the tapping of great tears
upon a coffin lid, there was an almost sudden illumination.
The great altar became all ablaze with lights, and it seemed as
if the gates of heaven had been slowly opened, and that we
could hear the sweet voices of angel and archangel, and cheru-
bim, and rapt seiaphim, in the distance. Oh, how my heart
beat when I heard the soft celestial strains, as if the saints in
glory were murmuring a welcome, and were about to descend
among us to bear away another of tho redeemed to the realms
of eternal bliss. Oh, what exquisite sounds ! what supernatural
harmony it was to me at the moment ! The plaintive music
must have smitten the rock — must have touched every heart in
the crowded church — for in a short time tears, gushing tears,
welled up into many an eye that was perhaps seldom filled witli
these sacred visitants ; and when I saw nearly all around me
bent and weeping, and while I wondered why the poople wept,
I was overcome by a singular emotion, — I bent my head and was
weeping too.
The music now seemed to be closer ; then it ceased for a
short time. There was a hush, yet the whisper of prayer was
faintly audible, and faint sobs and sighs could be heard even in
My Earliest Recollections.
\^
the prevailinjf silence. Then came the swelling harmony again ;
a greater number of voices sung louder, and a burst of hallelu-
jahs filled the entire edifice. I looked up ; the numerous lights
seemed to be more brilliant ; and a bishop in gorgeous vestments,
followed by a number of robed priests and boys in albs, was
approaching the grand altar from the vestry. I was still held
up, and for an hour or so longer I saw the imposing ceremonial
— quite unmeaning to me at the time. I was afterwards told
that an "oflRce and high mass" had been said or sung for the
repose of the soul of the departed. Many other things were
done by the bishop and the attendant clergy, none of which I
could of course understand ; but the music, repeat-ed at intervals,
engaged almost my entire attention. There was little else that
was attractive ; there were glaring lights, and spangled vest-
ments, but these offered only a feeble contra.st to the prevailing
gloom of nearly the whole place — a melancholy, repulsive gloom
— I shudder when I think of it even now. It was the first
time, to my knowledge, that I had been in a church, it was the
first religious ceremony I had ever witnessed. I had heanl
Latin prayers and Latin responses ; and I had seen clouds of
incense that made the lights appear dim. I had seen a ghastly
spectacle— a dead boily — ^ weeping people, emblems of sorrow,
and evidences of grief and hoplessness that were most depress-
ing. Nothing but the music can I now remember with the
least degree of pleasure — even that came pleading and pitiful,
bringing tears. And when I was taken out into the broad day-
light again, I felt like one who had just escaped from some
black prison, and — though it may be very wrong— since that
time large churches and great religious ceremonies are some-
times associated in my mind with everything that is gloomy,
death-like, and despondirig.
ird even m
CHAPTER II.
THE WHITE BOY.
P
ON another occasion I had been taken out for a walk. The
weather was mild and pleasant, and we rambled to some
nice places in the suburbs of the city in which I was born, and
in which we lived. It must have been spring time, for the
fields were green, and I had been picking up ever so many
daisies and butter-cups. We heard the notes of the thrush
among the orchard blossoms, and away up, up in the sky, the
song of the lark seemed to be greeting the sunbeams. I could
see for a moment or two, a little shining speck, a little warbling
mote, ascending higher and higher until it was lost in the deep
blue above us. We crossed some clear running streams, and I
stood for some time, on the margin of one of these, watching
little fish, and throwing pebbles into the water. On our way
home we saw some little boys and girls at work in a field. I
thought it was but play, and I wished to be among them. I
knew not that most of these had been forced to labor almost
from infancy — -I knew nothing of this. How happy they seemed
to be ! The world looked bright and beautiful as if it were
heaven itself. In fact, at the time, my fancied heaven could
not have been more attractive. I felt exhilarated, and could
not imagine that any others had less reason to be content with
life than I had.
The White Boy.
17
As we turned a corner on the highway we saw an old wo-
man sitting by the roadside. She was very old, very old and
weak. She was eating something out of a little basket near
her — something that she had probably begged and got for
chai icy. I remember well how she looked — very old. Her face
was mild but care-worn, and I somehow thought she must have
been very handsome when she was young. But oh, how long
ago!
We stood before her, and, without minding us, she continued
to pick and to eat the cold table refuse out of her little basket
— eating her solitary meal — no familiar friend or protector
with her ; no little child to share her repast. How I pitied
that poor woman, and, without fully understanding the reason
why, my heart went out towards her and I offered her the half-
penny that I had in my pocket. It was all I had ; I would
have given her all I had at the time were it even a million.
Poor thing, she looked surprised at the voluntary offering ; so
mucli from a child seemed to have been greaily valued by her.
She had made no entreaty, but there was her pale, placid face,
her resigne<l expression, her pitiful poverty, pleading for her all
the time, and such pleading was to me the most eloquent appeal
that could be made. She looked again at my little offering,
and then, how like a mother she gazed at me ! She stood up
to bless me, and while she kept her trembling hand upon my
head, she sought my face again, her eyes filled, and the big
tears followed the furrows in her sunken cheeks. Oh, what
sad visions memory must have then brought her !
My attendant was greatly affected, as I was myself, and, as
[we could not help her to the extent of our pity, we turned to
go away. Just then, however, a heavy covered wagon drove
|up. A man jumped out of it and hurried towards us. He laid
lis hand roughly on the poor woman and told her she must go
Sfr
18
Faraily Creeds.
'■W
ftl!
with him. Ah me, how she trembled, and pleaded and looked,
I thought, to us for assistance. But what could we dol It
was the poor-house wagon on its rounds to pick up vagrants ;
it was as heartless as the laws that set its wheels in motion.
Porerty had been made a crime and the woman just arrested
was a street beggar, a poor, patient, inoffensive wanderer from
door to door. She had perhaps but just left the crowded
thoroughfare to come out here and sit in the sunlight, near a
blossoming hedge, to eat her crust in peace ; and it might be to
look once more on some familiar scene of happier days. But
here she was an unlicensed pauper, here she was an unclean
thing polluting the highway, here she was a poor feeble beggar-
woman found upon a public road, a public reproach to Chris-
tian pastors and to Christian men, and offensive to the eyes of
a respectable Christian community ; and contrary also to some
humane law or statute by Christian legislators in her case made
and provided.
I well remember how keenly I felt the outrage. I was in-
censed at the monstrous injustice which I was unable to resist.
And had I been a strong and full-grown man at the time, had 1
had ample power at the moment, my impulse would have been to
annihilate the coarse rude agents of an oppressive inhuman
system that had shocked the best feelings of my nature, and
that was a disgrace to the so-called civilization of a Christian
land. But of what avail was the indignation of a child ; the
wagon was driven off with its sad burden, and I shall never
forget the hopeless, yet imploring look the poor woman gave
us when she found herself hurried away to the poor-house
prison.
But a sadder circumstance than this is now before my mind.
A year or so afterwards, soon after breakfast, one morning, I
was told to get ready for a walk.
Some great even< was to
The White Boy.
19
K)ked,
)] It
rants ;
notion,
rrested
jr from
Towded
near a
htbe to
8. But
unclean
e beggar-
10 Chria-
le eyes of
) to some
case made
take place that day ; I was not infonned what it was to be, but
I was desired to dress with particular care, and as we were to
be away for some time, a little satchel which we often took
out with us was filled with bread and cakes, as it was
probably thought that these might be in brisk demand before
our return. It seemed to be like some kind of a holiday with
many, and I hoard some one speak about a person called "the
poor White Boy," in terms of commiseration.
" The poor White Boy ! " Who was he, and why did people
seem to be sad when they mentioned his name — if this was the
one by which he was known 1 I had heard of some urchin that
had been brutally beaten for having kept away from school,
and I had a kind of idea that an obstinate boy of this class
was perhaps about to be terribly punished before his fellows.
However, I was led away from home evidently to see a sight
of some important kind.
Early as it was in the forenoon a greater number of persons
than usual could be seen in the streets. Little groups of men
and women stood here and there as if in the consultation of
some serious subject ; and as we passed a dark -looking old
])rison, which then stood near the end of North Gate Bridge,
tliere was a great crowd standing or lounging about, ;i,nd several
armed soldiers were on the alert to keep the pres.sing numbers
of men, women, and children at a proper distance from the
grim structure they were guarding. The prison v;as erected
across the north end of North Main street ; it stood over three
great archways, and there were massive looj)holed gates at each
end of these which could be closed to cut off communication
in case of a popular disturbance. The large central archway
was for horsemen and vehicles, and the smaller one at either
side was for pedestrians. The black, barred, deep-set windows
along one side of the prison looked down upon the River Lee,
w
^F
20
Family Creeds.
and from those on the other extent, the everyday hurry and
bustle of the busy street could be seen.
On this day in particular, there seemed to be more faces than
usual at the tiers of windows fronting the river — the faces of a
few felons and of numerous poor debtors (the stringent law
for the incarceration of debtors was then in full force), all of
whom appeared to be looking wistfully at the tinted cloud
shadows that were mirrored beneath them in the flowing water .
In one distant corner of the building there was a very heavily
barred window, one of the highest from the ground, and be-
hind the strong bars there was a pale face, the very pale face
a young man — scarcely indeed at manhood yet — who gazed
sadly on the people below. He was one who had evidently
been led away by boyish enthusiasm, for he must have been in-
capable of seeing the folly or the crime of becoming a member
of an illegal organization, and the eyes of nearly all assembled
outside appeared to be turned upwards with sympathising look
to that poor prisoner ; and the moment I saw his pallid face,
it somehow struck me at once that he, with the sad and hope-
less expression, that chilled me at the time, was the " White
Boy."
Well, I was soon led away, we had some difficulty, I re-
member, in getting through one of the side archways, as there
were a great many people passing and repassing. North Main
street, as far south as the Court House, was crowded, and our
progress was slow ; but afterwards we got along the other streets
well enough. Several persons appeared to be going our way,
and after a time we got to where the houses were more scattered ;
they were fewer and smaller, and we could see fields at a short
distance. There a number of people stood or loitered around,
evidently going no farther. I was helped up and seated upon a
low wall a few yards from an elevated open space, and my con-
The White Boy.
21
ductor sat next to me. Other persons came and clambered up, and
the wall was soon covered with waiting people ; and when I en-
quired where we were, the open space in front of us was pointed
out to me as '* Gallows Green."
An hour or so longer passed away ; many seemed to grow
impatient ; I grew hungry and had something to eat, and as
the day was fine, I enjoyed my elevation and rest upon the
wall after my long walk. A number of boys began, as usual,
to play ; some commenced to wrestle ; and others went in search
of sparrow's nests. Men lit their pipes and conversed, they
had probably discussed and differed on various subjects, but all
seemed to agree in their expressions of sympathy for — the
"White Boy."
The White Boy again ! Why who could he be 1 I knew
nothing at the time of "Peep-o'-day Boys," or "White Boys," or
"Defenders," or "Ribbon-men," or of any other such association
which entrapped many a foolish youth to his ruin, and which
led to agrarian and other retaliatory outrages disgraceful to
the country. The one in my imagination was he with the pale
face whom we had seen and left behind at the North Gate
Gaol, a long way distant ; surely this could not be the person.
Then who was it, what had he done, and what was to happen
him ] I had an impression from what I had heard and could
understand, that he was some innocent person who had suffered,
or was about to suffer, some great wrong ; and this impression
became stronger when I heard some call him a martyr, others
a saint, and others, a true Irish hero. Near us there were
some women who knelt on the grass, and while looking towards
the open space, were counting their beads, and praying fer-
vently. Were they praying for him 1 And I heard one or
two men wish that the poor innocent fellow, now in the haods
of tyrannical persecutors, might have a painless happy death,
Family Creeds,
and a place in heaven near the mother of God. What did all
this mean 1
While I was thus perplexed, there must have been an ex-
citing rumour, for I heard many say that there was a reprieve ;
that a reprieve had just come from the Lord Lieutenant ; and
several men sprang down from the wall and clapped their
hands for joy ; others shouted and waved their hats in the air;
and others cried, " Success to ould Ireland, and down with the
Sassenach." Of course I knew nothing as to the meaning of
these expressions, but even then, while many seemed to rejoice,
I could clearly trace disappointment in the faces of others ; as
if if they had come to witness a sight and had lost their time
and trouble.
Eager to know something of the matter I asked the person
who was with me —
" What are the White Boys]"
"Foolish boys, allanah ; gommochs — mad men the half of
'em."
"And what do they do?"
" Do] little good, oyea^ none ; but they keep the gallows
goin' in iviry town in Ireland."
" What is the gallows? "
*' Somethin' that's seen here too often, God help us ! an'
they'll have it here agin directly."
" Who is that poor woman crying there so much, among the
others 1"
" Who avick 1 Oh that's the woman who bore him, his
broken-hearted mother; and there's his father at her side,
whose head will soon be gray."
For half an hour longer there seemed to be a state of un-
certainty. Some few here and there left the place and went
away ; but most of those present remained. Still it was
The White Boy.
plain to perceive that many knew not what to make of the
rumor, but soon, however, they seemed to understand all.
Just then a cart was seen approaching. It was loaded with
what appeared to be long, heavy, dark-colored poles, and some
boards. Four or five soldiers followed the cart, whicli was
drawn up into the centre of the open space. There a few
men unloaded the vehicle, and bolted or fastened the poles
some way together at one end. They then raised them up and
spread out the lower ends on the ground, and, behold, there
was a triangle erected ; it was much larger than those used in
market places for the suspension of weigh scales. The men
then fixed a kind of platform in the triangle somewhat over
half way its height from the ground ; a step ladder was
placed against the platform, one of the men ascended on it, and
with a hammer and one or two bolts made some other
arrangements ; and then, when he stepped down again, I could
perceive a big iron hook hanging ominously from the top of the
triangle ; aTid some of the women who saw it commenced again
to pray.
By this time I saw that many of those who had appeared in-
clined to goaway remained, that several of those who had gone had
returned, and that the crowd around the whole place had greatly
increased. And then again there came another rumor ; a re-
prieve had not come — it had been refused — and there was to
be an execution.
Fortunately I knew not the significance of this terriljle word.
I still sat quietly looking on, and I noticed that the people had
become more subdued and orderly. We had not much longer
to wait. The eyes of nearly all seemed to be turned in one
direction. I looked and could see soldiers, horse and foot,
coming slowly towards us. Midway between the lines of these
.guards two men were also to be seen. One was dressed in
'■'f
24
Family Creeds.
Mill
black and wan reading a small book ; the other wore a long,
light blue frock coat — ah, how well I i-eniember ! — his neck was
bare, his arms were pinioned back with a rope, and his face —
that same young face again ! — was deadly pale. One of these
men was a Catholic priest, the other was— the "White Boy."
In a few minutes longer the procession arrived at the open
space. The soldiers surrounded this, the cavalry being on the
outside ; the two men and a few officials were the only ones
permitted to go within the guarded circle. They stood near
the foot of the ladder which leant against the triangle, or
gallows, as we now shall call it. The priest continued to read
from his book, and the "White Boy" knelt as if to receive the
last blessing. In a short time the priest took his leave, and
one or two others shook hands with the poor prisoner ; and,
then last of all, down came Canty, the hangman, who had
assisted him to mount the platform.
And now, while standing there before all, the clouds seem
to gather portentously over the place, the sky becomes gloomy
as if the sun has averted his face from the sad scene. There
is a hush, for most of the people have evidently become de-
pressed. Women begin to sob and to pray again ; and more
than one man sighs heavily, and prays that God will have
mercy on the soul of the poor " White Boy."
Now he is alone on the platform, a white cap or cover is over
his head and face, the rope from his neck has been fastened to
the great iron hook over his head, the executioner has de-
scended, and, O God ! there stands a man on the very brink of
eternity ! But even at this awful moment he has courage to
say something to those around him. I could not hear all he
said, but, before he ceased forever, he raised his voice and his
last words were, — " Good people, I am sorry I have to die, but
I suppose my sentence is just ; I didn't know that I was doing
The White Boy.
25
anything wrong when I joined the boys ; I was led astray by
othiTH, which I hope will be a warning to all. I forgive my
accuserH, and I awk yo all to pray for nie now."
I could look at him no longer ; I trembled, and a feeling of
faintness came over me, for I felt that something dreadful was
going to happen. But then came a dull sound, and then came
a prolonged murmur from the multitude. I looked up again,
the " White Boy" had fallen from where he stood ; he hung sus-
pendetl by the neck. 1 could see his knees partly drawn up,
and I fancied I saw his limbs quivering in his death struggles.
And while people around wept, the thunder growled its rebuke,
and the clouds poured down their tears ; and when the people
sighed, the wind came sobbing and sighing too ; and then it
icame in frantic gusts, rushing against the gallows structure as
lif to sweep its foul dark outlines from the face of the earth.
[But it still remained ; it had stood there before, and would be
erected again.
And now the hanging body turns its covered face to the
guards, and then to the people ; and, while I shudder, it then
^rus towards me. And then a sudden blast comes, and the
lifeless form sways from side to side : it turns again, and again
pe drooping body of the "White Boy " is seen swaying in the
nnd, swaying in the wind.
0, compassionate law-makers, what a sight was this to prepare
jr the eyes of women and children ! For years there had been
luch exhibitions here semi-annually — free and without charge —
mtil Gallows Green had become a periodical place of resort ;
pitil hardened criminals had become almost as reckless or indif-
Brent about taking human life as the jury that had brought in
leir verdict, or the judge that had pronounced his sentence.
Only six months before the last dread evidence of the power
Parliament, a wretched culprit had to forfeit his life for
26
Family Creeds.
ateftling half a dozen aheep. Here, again, was a young life
forfeited for scarcely more than a mere political offence ; no
charge more nerious than simple enrollment having been
substantiated. Only fifty or sixty years ago a man's life was
held comparatively of but little value to what it is at the pre-
sent tima Law-makers in the House of Commons, and episco-
pal members of the House of fjords, claimed to have had
scriptural authority for their Draconian enactments which
caused a man's life to be taken for what might now be scarcely
called a felony. And although capital crimes, which at that day
might be counted by the score, are now reduced to less than half a
dozen, yet it was with reluctance that law-makers yielded to
the demands of the compassionate and merciful ; and even, at
the present day, when the most advanced and humane pro-
nounce the death penalty a legal atrocity, the venerable bishops
ensconced in the same House of Lords, and those whom they
can influence, will hurl texts against every presumptuous inno-
vator who denies the moral or the legal right of any govern-
ment to claim such a dread forfeiture.
But there the body still swings — for after long years I can j
see it still. O humane legislators, see what your merciful]
enactments have accomplished ! Gentlemen of the jury, you
twelve good men and true, see the result of your verdict ! My
Lord Judge, Baron P , with your horsehair wig — which
ought to have stood aghast upon your head when it heard you
pray for the prisoner's soul — look at the victim that you have!
condemned ! But none of these came to witness the closingl
scene ; they saw not the weeping clouds, nor the tears of the!
people ; they heard not the rebuke of the storm, nor the muti
tered threatenings of the multitude ; nor did they see thel
lifeless body of the hapless "White Boy" swaying in the wind,!
swayiixg in the wind.
CHAPTER III.
THE " BIO ROOM," AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS.
BEFORE I was led Iiome that evening I was almost drenched
to the skin. It had rained heavily for nearly two hours,
and, as we had not come prepared for bad M'eather, I was most
of the time exposed. That night I became nervous and rest-
less, my sleep was greatly disturbed, and my dreams were
frightful. At times I would start up under the terrible im-
pression that I was the White Boy, that the rope was about my
neck, that I was standing on the dreadful platform, and that it
had fallen from under me. And then I would feel a choking
sensation and the blood would rush into my head until it was
ready to burst. Then I would hear the people's mournful
prayers ; then the dead man's distorted face would turn towards
me, and I would try to shriek in terror. Then I would hear
the moanings of the storm and again see the hanging body
swaying in the wind ; and then I would hear the roll of thun-
der, and the vivid lightnings would seem to heat the air, until
it became like the scorching breath of a furnace, which set my
brain on fire.
Far more than three weeks longer I lay almost senseless, my
life had been despaired of, and it was fully a month before
, I could venture out of bed for an hour. Still, as the days
passed, I seemed to grow no stronger. There was but little
improvement, and as my condition gave rise to the most serious
m
28
Family Creeds.
/
i!
misgivings, it was decided that a change of air and scene was
of the first importance, and I was taken in a steamboat to
Cove,
My father had a lease of a pleasant place in this delightful
resort, and our family, like many others from the city, spent
most of the summer months here close to the ocean. As it
was, an occasional cliange from city-life was so agreeable that
one or more of our connections could be found in this residence
even during the winter months ; so that it might, in a maimer,
be said to be occupied nearly all the time.
Our house was situated on the side of a hill overlooking Cove
harbor — now called Queenstown. It would be difficult indeed
for a lover of the picturesque to select a more attractive loca-
tion. Before us lay the shining haven, holding many vessels
of dilFerent kinds — war ships, and ocean steamers ; great India-
men, and coasters ; yachts, gigs, and fishing smacks ; besides
several other crafts of diflferent sizes, shapes, and tonnage.
This grand harbor was almost surrounded by an amphitheatre of
hills which were dotted with mansions, villas, and cottages—
with here and there a projecting spire or turret — -embowered in
trees or in the midst of gardens that were bounded by fields of
the richest verdure, and which, in many places, extended down
to the water's edge. To the south, nearly in the middle of the
watery space, we could see Spike Island, almost in front of
the inlet leading to the sea, and on each side of this passage
were the forts for the protection of the harlor — a harbor whidi
is said to be sufficiently spacious to contain the whole Britisli
Navy, and one which has justified the authorities of Cork in
the adoption of the motto for the arms of " The Beautiful
City," of " Statio Bene Fide Carinis ;" and then beyond these
defensive spots we could see the great Atlantic.
Our place of residence at Cove had once formed part of an
The "Big Room" and its Associntions.
29
old priory, part of which had been pulled down ; and the re-
mainder, having been fitted up in fair style and in a comfort-
able manner, made an excellent dwelling. One side and one
end of the house was nearly covered with ivy, which in some
spots crept upon the roof, and even up to the very top of one
of the tall chimneys, as if desirous of testing the possibility of
clingi-ng to the column of smoke that could be almost con-
stantly seen ascending from this outlet.
The house was but a short distance from the church with
which it originally had been ecclesiastically connected, and
after its alteiation it mi-^ht have been intended for the resi-
dence of the parish priest, and the curate ; but, though occupied
by these clergymen' for a few years, a change was made, and,
when the place was vacated, my father, though a staunch Pro-
testant, had somehow got possession of the house ; and as it
was most desirable for a person of limited income, he continued
[to be rather indirectly a kind of pecuniary helper of a church
and creed to which he was by no means partial.
It was perhaps owing to my mother's influence that he was
Iput in possession of the premises. She was an ardent Catho-
llic, and had a strange fancy for the old house and its associa-
tions. It belonged to her church, the only true church to her ;
nass had been celebrated under its roof ; and, in the twilight
)f (juiet evenings, shut out as it were from the world, priests
lad here read their breviaries and prepared for repose. These
r'ero attractions for her ; she fancied that there was an air of
[uiet sanctity around the place into wliich evil could never
linter ; and though my father had often in times of irritation
[enounced Romanism and threatened to remove and go to
>nie other abode, yet she had had sufficient influence over hii.i
persuade him to remain ; for the longer my mother con-
tnucd in the house the more disinclined she was to leave it.
80
Famnily Creeds.
and, after some time, my father became affected by a similar
feeling, and looking on the old dwelling as a pleasant, healthy,
and desii-able home, he gave up all idea of leaving it for any
other.
My parents lived on and off in this house for many years.
At the time they first took possession of it my brother was
very young, only just able to walk ; my sister was but an in-
fant only a few weeks old ; and about two years afterwards, as
I have been informed, I was born in the city and brought down
here to be nursed in what was called the " big room," the
largest in the house, and one farthest from those most fre-
quently occupied ; a quaint old room to many, but a treasured
spot to my mothei', and a favorite apartment to me. Here I
spent the greater part of my infant life, and the term of my
vaccination ; here my baby shrieks and cries were smothered,
or wafted away out on the clear air, or drawn up the great
chimney, down which the curious ivy sometimes peered as if to
see what was the matter ; here I first paid some of the primal
penalties of existence, in the shape of the measles, the croup and
the whooping-cough ; and here at my mother's knee I was shown 1
those great rudimentary characters of literature, and taught to
lisp the magical names of A, B, C.
It was here in this chamber that I had my earliest matricula-
tion as an architect and as an artist. Here I fir.st built, orj
rather scooped out, my little boats, and launched my preteni
tious merchantmen, and sent them off on perilous voyages!
across a pent up ocean in a wash-basin, while I stood by, and,!
boreas-like, blew down heavy gales and sudden gusts, which!
sometimes split the tiny paper mainsails of the venturous craft, I
or left these with their towering masts — fuiiy three inches longj
— upset like helpless wrecks upon the imaginary deep. Here|
I built my windmills, and with the same motor — my puffe
The "Big Room'' and its Associations.
31
cheeks — set their huge arms — made of little bits of cardboard
— to revolve when the breeze on the window-sill was insuffi-
cient ; and it was from the same window, which commanded an
extensive view of the harbor, and the grand scenery around,
that I drew my first sketches of mountains, of islands, and of
the ocean ; of big ships and little sailors ; of great steam
vessels with immense paddle wheels, and with a train of dense
clouds of smoke in a long line behind; of the "Semiramis" guard
ship firing a broadside, while the captain with an enormous
cocked-hat, and a telescope the length of himself, was to be seen
fixed somehow like a culprit at the mast head, which I suppose
I thought at the time was the post of honor ; and then I drew
pictures of mighty waves, and big fishes, all of course imagined
by me to be perfect representations of what I had seen or
heard of ; and I also drew castles and forts ; kings with tower-
ing crowns ; officers with great drawn swords ; rows of
soldiers, rank and file, with guns disproportionately long, all
in terrible array on a slate or piece of paper six or eight inches
wide, and all of which were in my estimation, fully equal to
the appreciation of many older artists of their own crude pro-
ductions, wonderful efforts of genius ; more particularly so be-
cause these efforts seemed to surprise my poor dear mother, and
to win the repeated encomiums of her, to whom of course they
had been first exhibited.
Well, here I was in the dear old room again. My mother and
my sister were with me. My father who had to attend to busi-
ness in the city came down to see us once or twice a week — it
was only a short and pleasant trip on the steamboat — and my
brother had to remain there at school.
Poorly as I felt, I was pleased to be in Cove again. Indeed
I think I never enjoyed life more than I did during that par-
ticular visit to the old house. Though I was very weak I felt
32
Family Creeds.
no pain, but in my languid condition could lie and count the
ticking of the tall clock which stood in the hall, or listen for
hours at a time to my sister while she read some choice tale of
travel or adventure. And then my mother would amuse me
in her own way. She would tell me over so many little stories
while I lay, with my head on her lap, looking up into her clear
truthful eyes, at her mild face, and at her brown wavy hair.
Even now I still see the sweet, meek, endearing expression of
her countenance, I can hear her loving words of sympathy and
encouragement, and T can remember how delighted I used to
feel to be assured that as soon as I got well enough to run
about again — which of course was not to be long — what pleas-
ant little excursions we were to take to romantic spots, and
what boat-rides we should have to Spike Island and about the
harbor, besides little Jane was to come with us also — little Jane,
the fair-haired, rosy -cheeked, blue-eyed companion of my sister,
but indeed more ray corapanion than hers, for Jane would pre-
fer to be in-doors with me whenever I felt very poorly than to
be out with Ellen airing their dolls in the garden. Little
Jane's preference for me was strongly marked ; she was more
sympathetic than my sister, and then she had such an artless
confiding disposition, that on the whole — though it may be a
shame for me to say it — I think 1 somehow felt really more
attached to Jane, our young friend, than I did to Ellen my
sister.
On dull rainy days — and these came very often — when my head
ached, and when my limbs felt so tired, Jane would remain in
the room with my mother and keep us company. Ellen would
be in some other apartment, or it might be with the girl in the
kitchen. There were certain times when my sister became
restless and disliked to read or to remain long at a time in one
place, and then she would be, as it were, all over the house ; and,
The "Big Room" and its Associations. 3t3
while the fit was on her, she would even dash out under a heavy
shower of rain and return dripping and blushing like a rose.
But there little Jane would sit contentedly the gloomiest
day, her beautiful face shining like a sunbeam, reading for me,
or talking to my mother, or adding to the already overstocked
wardrobe of her favorite doll ; or in her livelier moments she
would take the hands of this miniature likeness of herself and
skip with it about the room like a fairy — and to me what a per-
fect little fairy she was at the time. 8he would show me her
doll s best bonnet, and I felt so interested in dolls just then —
probably because she liked them — that I gave up ray boats,
windmills, and sketches, and helped to make a doll for her my-
self, I also managed to make it a hat which had a great
feather ; little Jane made it a grand dress, and though Ellen
ridiculed me, I nursed this doll at times with as much interest
and attention as if I had been a girl.
But then there were gloomy days, and times when neither
boata, nor dolls, nor anything else could interest or amuse me.
There were dreary nights when I lay restless and feverish, and
long hours when I could get no sleep. I was one evening
almost in a kind of stupor, quite indifferent to life ; if I had
lauy wish at the time it was for death. Making an effort, how-
lever, I managed to speak a few words. "Ma," said I, looking
|up languidly at my mother, "Is it hard to diel"
" To die !" She grew alarmed and said, " O, dear child !
i^hy do you ask such a question 1"
" Only I wanted to know whether it would pain me to die."
"My love and my darling," said she, growing still more
llarmed, " you must not think of such a thing." She stooped
Mul pressed her lips upon my forehead. I could see her eyes
>rimful of tears, and then she whispered, "The good are not
Lfraid to die, it is not pain to them, for they are always ready.
Ill
^4
Family Creeds.
r,:'*:l,lli
... rlMlJ,
You are good, my darling, but — but you are scarcely yet pre-
pared for death — no not yet. O, my love, you must not die now,
you must not leave me."
After a pause I said, " I will not die now, ma." I replied
very feebly, for I felt myself growing weaker. I must have
swooned or slept. In a kind of dream I found it dark at first,
but soon it became bright, and I saw some beautiful creatures
around me. Their flutt-ering wings fanned my brow with frag-
rance, and I heard faint strains of music which were exquisite.
It seemed to me that I held a little wand, and, when I waved
it, all appeared to smile, and I could hear sweet voices singing.
How long I remained this way I know not, but when I opened
my eye'! they rested first on my mother who wi «< 'jazing at me
sorrowfully through her ^/ears. Jane and Ellen on either side
of me, were waving fans to give me more air, and there was
our maid kneeling at the foot of the bed, as if she were praying
for my soul. I felt my hands closed on something. In one I
found there had been placed a lighted wax candle — one of
those blessed tapers which my mother always kept in the house
— and, in the other, my hold was on a crucifix. Looking delib-
erately at these, and then into every face again, I smiled.
Thinking, no doubt, that I was about to depart, the blessed |
candle and crucifix had been put into my hands, as is custom-
ary towards those dying in the True Church ; holy water had I
bpen sprinkled upon me ; and though I was not at the time one!
of the "faithful," these little acts were an affecting proof of the I
great sincerity and tender devotion of my dear mother. Thesel
were the only resources at her disposal — in what was then tol
her a dread and sudden emergency — to place if possible the scull
of her little heretic son, in some manner, within the fold, sol
that it should not be found among those outside the pale, whfl|
must be condemned as castaways.
The "Big Room" and its Associations.
35
"Ma," said I, reaching her the candle and the crucifix, "take
these ; I am not going to die ; I shall live with you and stay with
you forever."
" Oh, God bless you, God bless you, my darling, for those
heavenly words — my precious jewel will not be taken from
me." She was almost overcome with joyful emotion and had to
lie down by my side. I now felt exceedingly happy. I held
my mother's hand and kept her close to me, and after a
time, when everything was very quiet, Jane, who sat sewing
near me, commenced to sing a .soft melody. It was the first
time I had ever heard her voice in song, and what a sweet
angelic voice it then seemed — a lulling sound that my sensitive
ear could listen to forever. I made efforts to catch the timid
lay ; the voice of the little angel had a mysterious soothing effect ;
I listened again and my eyes became dim with tears, and I had
to sob quietly to myself lest I should hush the voice ; but the
soft angelic strain was still heard, and while I yet listened, and
sobbed, my ears were filled with the delicate harmony, my
weary eyelids were closed, and I fell into a gentle slumber and
dreamt of heaven.
Many times after this, little Jane's gentle voice brought me
repose ; and when my mother's soft strains were added, and
those also of my sister, the blended melody was a lullaby that
was irresistible, and sleep always followed. In my last moments,
ere the slumber of death closes my eyes forever, oh, that such
voices may reach my ear, and hush me to eternal rest !
CHAPTER IV.
THK SPECTRE PRIEST.
MY father was a native of Liverpool, England. He once
held a position as an officer of some kind in the Koyal
Navy, and many of his intimate friends called him "Captain"
Fairband, — his name on the door-plate of our house was simply
"John Fairband, Esq." Having come into the possession of a
fair legacy, he left the service, formed a business connection in
Ireland with Mr. Daniel Casey— the father of little Jane — and
got married to my mother, who was a native of the " beautiful
city."
*' Fairband & Casey," was a firm well known in Cork as pur-
veyors of stores mostly for government ships, and was once
reputed wealthy. Some losses had however occurred, and in
consequence of these as well as some peculiar fluctuations in
trade, the firm, at the time of my birth though doing a fair
share of busmess, was far from being as prominent or as influ-
ential as it once was. My father was not a person over
anxious to amass a great fortune, he was content with moder-
ate success ; and his partner was, in this respect, much of the
same disposition. They had been already for some years
together, they had full confidence in each other, and their
intercourse was generally very cordial. Though the partners
differed much in personal appearance, and somewhat in temper
— my father being tall and thin and hasty in manner, and
The Spectre Priest
37
Mr. Casey being short and stout, and not easily excited — they
managed business matters agreeably enough, the one never
countermanding the orders of the other. Any dispute thjt t ever
occurred between them was mostly on subjects foreign to any-
thing concerning trade, and related to the subject of nation-
ality, or, nine times out of ten, to that of religion.
Strang*^ that this shoukl be, but so it was. My father had
very English ideas in connection with his native country ; he was
a most rigid Protestant, and at certain times, particularly when
he was peevish or irritated, he would say something the
reverse of complimentary of the poorer class of the Catholic
Irish, and of the Catholic Church and its clergy ; and although
I he would not always address his remarks to his partner — ^seldom
in fact to any one in particular — yet Mr. Casey would gener-
ally reply in defence of his countrymen, his Church, and the
Catholic priests, and would retaliate by saying a few caustic
[words about English injustice to Ireland, about the atrocities
)f Cromwell, and the noted rapacity of the great State Church.
fndeed nothing seemed to disturb the equanimity of Mr. Casey
in any marked way unless it were such allusions ; he could hear
)f dullness in business or of losses in trade, without any apparent
3tfect on his temper ; yet one would think that my father — who
nust have known his partner's vulnerable points — seemed to
^ake a strange pleasure; or satisfaction in causing him to become
ixcited in this way. After their transient disagreements there
night be a coolness between the principals for a few days, but
would soon wear away and be all right again; both evidently
Ishanied of the misunderstanding.
But, worse than this, there were occasions when my father
rould come home in a fretful mood as if dissatisfied with every-
ling. After having vented his spleen against one thing and
jixother he would ei^d by a tirade against popery. He would
1 Ji
38
Family Creeds.
denounce the doctrines and ceremonies of the Roman Church as
being semi-heathenish and superstitious, and assert his surprise
that any person of ordinary reason, or common sense, or intelli-
gence should be the adherent of such a delusive system. My poor
mother, though, as it were, compelled to listen to expressions
uttered against what was most sacred to her, would feel very
much grieved, but would seldom make a reply, she bore this
cross meekly. I know that her love for him was most ardent,
and that her first impulse daily was to pray for his conversion
to what she devoutly considered the True Faith. As a fond
wife and a mother she must have be on dreadfully pained at
heart to find, not only her husband, but her little sons, outside
the pale of the true Church, and any moment liable to be cut
off and doomed forever with other unbelievers.
My, father, I well know, used to feel sorry for having said
anything to hurt her feelings, particularly when he was fully
satisfied that for one thousand ofiences of this kind he had
always had one thousand ready pardons ; but I question if he
ever knew how sincerely, how fervently, and how constantly
his fond wife prayed to the Virgin Mother for his and for my
escape from heresy, for our acceptance within the orthodox I
fold, and for that great salvation which she believed none could
obtain who did not acknowledge the mission and authority of
the Roman PontiflT.
It is curious to see the heads of a family at issue on a subject!
considered so important as that of a religious creed. In Ire- 1
land particularly, it is quite common to see parents as well as I
children, diJQFer materially as to theological beliefs ; and whilej
all else might be harmony and love, the spectral hand of Pole-
mics has come to wave the household apart, and thus conten-
tion and disunion was almost sure to follow. In our family we,|
unfortunately, worshipped at different altars. Previous to myj
The Spectre Priest.
39
mother's marriago, some peculiar arrangement had been made
whereby it was agreed that any boys coming into the family
should become Protestants and follow the particular creed of
my father, while any girls that might bo introduced, should be
brought up to the Catholic fn.ith. Therefore, while my father
and brother and T were of the so-called reformed religion, my
mother and my sister were members of the Church of Rome.
Besides this, differences of opinions of the same kind were
entertained by most of our other relatives. My mother had a
sister who had been a nun ; she had a brother who was a
priest ; and my maternal granilmother was a most devoted
Catholic. My father's brother was a Protestant clergyman ;
his sister, my aunt, Catharine, was married to a Presbyterian,
and was a very rigid Methodist ; and with regard to some of
our other relations, I had heard that one was a Baptist,
another a Unitarian, and that another was a most exemplary
Quaker. As matters were, not many of these kindred chanced
to meet. It might have been that a family reunion was
neither sought after nor cared for. Religious differences must
have alienated them in some degree, for I remember that on
one occasion, very long ago, several of our connections as.sem-
bled — it may have been at a Christmas time — and I know that
the meeting was not altogether the most agreeable ; for, before
they had separated, some grave and obstinate discussions
1 happened to take place between Protestants and Catholics as to
I which was the true church ; and there were some bitter argu-
ments, even among our Protestant relatives, in reference to
the real intent and meaning of certain rather ambiguous texts.
I also remember that these strange differences of opinion regard-
ling religion made a singular impression on my mind, and many
[a time I thought about them afterwards.
Well, another month had nearly passed, and I was getting
40
Family Creeds.
better. I had been out two or three tinieH on short excursions
and was growing stronger every day ; still I was far from
Ijeing rugged, and great care was yet necessary to secure my
convalescence, and on dull, misty or rainy days — which some-
how came very often — I had to remain in close confinement
within doors, and to retire early ; and many a time at niglit
when I could not sleep, and when all in the house were perhaps
slumbering soundly, I would grow tired of counting the win-
dow-panes, crosswise and lengthways, as I had counted them
a hundred times before, and of shaping imaginary forms out of
the hangings, or drapery, or carvings, and of looking at the
patterns on the wall paper becoming monks and nuns in differ-
ent attitudes of devotion. At such times I used to fancy all
kinds of things. I used to think of other days when worship-
pers assembled in this apartment ; for it had been the private
chapel of the priory. Now the room would seem to be full of
penitents attending a midnight mass, I could almost hear the
" Dominua vohiscum" and the response, " Et cum apiritu
tuo ; " even the tinkling of the bell would in a manner faintly
reach my ear. And then I could fancy myself standing aside
and unobserved, and could see the quaint spectral forms counting
beads, and hear the murmur of their prayers ; and once — I
shall never forget the time — when I imagined that a number of
persons were present, I suddenly opened ray eyes, and close to
the recess where the altar once stood, I could see, even in the
gloom, the dim form of a priest — for the figure wore a soutaine
— his head seemed to be bent, and I distinctly heard a sigli
that caused me to be perfectly awake.
When a child I had often been interested, or rather almost
frightened, by ghost stories. We had a servant-maid named i
Nelly Carberry, who used to tell me a hundred wonderful
things about witches, and fairies, and veritable ghosts. She
The. Sjiedre Pried.
41
sli'pt ill a little apiirtnuMit adjoining the l»ig room whero I lay,
an<l, many and many a night, Nolly would sit on tho side of
tny ImmI and relate* such weird and j^loomy tales until I fell
asleep.
Though this pernicious practice of wild and* ahH«ird narra-
tion on the* part of our maid did not make me altogether an
actual coward — afraid to be alone iiL the dark — or affect me
to as great a degree as, no doubt, such a practic«? had affected
others as well as children, y(^t it made me timid ; and this
night I was particularly so, I looked again for a moment at
the figuH! before me, it was plainly a priest, now he actually
moved ! I hurriedly drew the clothes over my head, I dared
not look any longer ; still, after a little reflection, I ventured
to look again, but nothing could be seen of the apparition.
The night at last wore away. I slept scarcely a minute until
daylight, and I watched anxiously for the early dawn. How
glad I was to see the first sunbeam on the distant hills ! At
breakfast that morning I told them of what I had seen. My
sister only laughed at my story ; little Jane in her pretty way
said ib was nothing but fancy, but my mother, I thought,
1 looked rather grave ; she might have imagined that my illness
had had some injurious mental effect. She asked me one or
two questions as to what I had seen, and then, upon a little
reflection, she cheered me by saying it was a mere illusion ; and
before night came again I was fully assured and satisfied that
I my eyes had greatly deceived me.
Not long after this, however, 1 awoke one night again. It
Iwas clear moonlight. I must have slept for some hours, for I
felt no inclination at the time to sleep any longer. I lay in
)ed looking at the brightness of a moonbeam on the floor, and
matching the cloud-shadows which crossed it at intervals.
Everything around was very quiet, and I could plainly hear
4
IV
42
Family Creeds.
i
m
1!i|
the ticking of the old clock. I had one of my usual waking
dreams, and I was shaping and mingling possibilities and im-
possibilities at random. We were to have another excursion
on the morrow ; little Jane was to be with us, I was in a happy
frame of mi^d, aud had altogether forgotten the alleged spectra
of imagination that had but a short time ago disconcerted me
on a night of greater darkness. My dream picture was beauti-
fully colored and exquisitely tinted. It had a floral bordering
of the richest description. There were the cloudless sky above,
the green earth beneai.h, and the sunlit isles and soft l)lue
waves in the distance ; and thfere were also the usual number
of piping shepherds ai^d blushing shepherde.'-:ses, and little
skipping lambs ; and, to complete all, J aue and I could be
seen walking together, side by side, in a kind of enchanted vale
in which was to I j found nothing but eternal youth and
happiness.
Ah me ! Are we not all dreamers'? Ho'- many live almost
altogether in dreams : they are the sha,dows of our wished-for
realities. The rich man will dream of coming honors ; the
poor man dreams of content. Our glimpses of the future are
mostly but our dreams. Who is not willing to indulge in those
delightful fancies of our wakeful hours, those day dreams, that
lead us away from the cares and trials of life t'^ the very por-
tals of heaven. Few persons seem to think that their present
condition is what it ought to bf> ; nearly all imagine that they
will be distinguished and rewarded at some future time ; and
this idea is perhaps the burden of many a life-long dream. The
present mostly disappoints our expectations, and we delight in
pleasing anticipations as to the future. The learned philoso-
pher, as well as the ignorant peasant, is lavish of time while
erecting, and beautifying, and admiring, the aerial structures of
his imagination. Wise men, as well as fools, spend most of
M
The S2)ectre Priest.
43
their days in the clouds. Every man is his own hero ; and there
are few who do not erect pyramids of some kind to their own fan-
cied greatness. Long after such heroes have made their exit and
are forgotten, mounds of different altitudes can be traced along
th(! desert of their lives. Our dreams are, as it were, a neces-
sary relaxation ; without such easements or levitations, the
realities of life might be only a burden of woe.
While still looking at the moonlight, which had now become
lengthened on the floor, I thought I heard a footstep ; I listened
for the last sound. The softest possible footfall was heard
again ; a kind of stealthy treading, and lo ! there in the moon-
lit space on the carpet was a long shadow, not the transient
obscuration by a cloud, but the well-defined outlines of a
human form. I instinctively looked towards the altar recess,
part of the partition at the one side of it was open like a door,
and there again before me, in t^ie loneliness of night, stood —
tli(! priest.
"!i
Vi, . ^-'
CHAPTER V.
A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
TO say that I was frightened — almost terrified — would con-
vey but an imperfect idea of my condition. My hair
seemed to rise ; I trembled and grew faint ; I tried to scream
but I could not. There, at the dead hour of night, was a verit-
able apparition ; no uncertainty about it this time. I rubbed
my eyes and tried to be somewhat collected, but the figure was
plainly before me. Small and rather slight, wearing the cleri-
cal soutaine ; the head a little bent with a bare spot on the top
like a tonsure ; the features mild and intellectual, with a shade
of care or rather of sorrow ; a man who had evidently passed
middle age, or who had been in the decline of life before death
came ; for I now took, the form before me to be the ghost of some
departed priest whose purgatorial penalties required that he
should revisit this old room, in which, perhaps, he had often
heard confession, or given absolution, or celebrated mass years
before I was born.
I had many a time been told that spirits came surrounded
by a kind of halo, but there was nothing of the kind to be seen
at the time. The bright moonlight must have absorbed any
glimmer that properly belonged to the spectral visitant, yet I
could plainly see every feature, every fold in his soutaine, every
motion ^ it was so bright that I could see to read. He stood,
»<l(
A Startling Discovery.
45
as I thought, looking with a mournful gaze at something which
he held in one of his hands — a look of great intensity — and
then came a sigh. I was startled again, but I somehow grew
more collect.ed, and a feeling of pity arose in my breast for the
afflicted spirit. There however he stood, still gazing at what
he held, and just as I was becoming sufficiently calm to look
at him without trembling, he gave another sigh deeper than
before, he pressed something to his lips, and then covered his
face with his hands as if completely overcome by an emotion of
the heaviest grief.
I now ventured to raise my head a little, in order to get a
more distinct view of the more than shadowy form, and while
in this position I imagined I heard the stifled sobs which
seemed to tell of a burdened conscience, or of a bleeding heart.
What could have disturbed his rest ] What restitution had he
come back to make 1 Had he neglected any of his clerical
duties, had he refused the last rites of the church to some dying
penitent, had he prohibited a place of interment in consecrated
ground to the body of one who had died in doubt, or to that of
some wretched suicide who had rushed with blood-stained hand
unprepared into the presence of his Maker, or had he declined
to say the last prayer over the grave of some rejected unbap-
tized foundling. What cross had he refused to take up ] What
could have sent him here t Had he, like too many others of
the clergy, been worldly, or ambitious, or tyrannical ] Or, worse
than all, had he been so unfaithful to his clerical vows — his
vows of celibacy— that the grave should, as it were, have
opened wide and sent him forth a restless ghostly wanderer
visible to mortal eyes "J
Vague ideas of this kind crossed my mind. I liad often
been told that unfaithful priests were held more accountable
I than ordinary mortals, and that their sufferings in purgatory
46
Family Creeds.
lit mn:
were ten times more severe than the punishment inflicted on
common sinners. Was the poor spirit's heavy anguish an evi-
dence of his great remorse 1 If tears and sobs were any proof
of contrition, here indeed was true repentance. But could it
avail him now ] Could he derive any benefit from this post-
humous atonement ? The Protestant's stern reply might be
that, according to the Sacred Word, his period of probation
had passed ; that no pleading petition could now reach the
heavenly throne ; that time for him was no more, and that after
death came judgment. The Catholic on the contrary would assert,
that all the faithful who had departed free from the pollution
of mortal sin, could pass through a purification of fire and
become fit for heaven ; for, according to the teaching of his
Church, he could believe that purgatory was " a place or state
of punishment where some souls sufler for a time before they
can go to heaven."
Any way, at the moment one might be inclined to believe that
the Catholic doctrine was the more benevolent, and that in
course of time even the soul of this dejected priest might enter
the mansions of glory. The Protestant may feel the greatest
intensity of grief, and may weep over the remains of his dear-
est friend ; but his lip^ are sealed, he prays no more for him
whose pulse has ceased forever, and whose eyes are closed in
death. If he who has just departed has not " made his calling
and election sure," his surviving friends of the reformed faith
can pray no more, or hope no more for him, or believe that
Divine mercy can, in his case, be further extended. God's
power, by this conviction, is in a manner limited ; there are
no more offers of mercy or reconciliation, and when death
comes the tree lies where it falls, and all is finished with the
impenitent. The Catholic, on the other hand, though taught to
believe that none can be saved who die outside of the pale of
A Startling Discovery.
47
the True Church, can yet pray for the repose of the soul of
certain of those wlio have died within its bosom ', he can in
addition direct his appeal to numerous heavenly intercessors^
he can draw on that great fund which contains pious works of
supererogation, and if his heart yearns for the deliverance of
the soul of his wife or his child from further purgatorial suf-
ferings, if he have but sufficient means, the most powerful aid of
the Church can be evoked. By special application and the pay-
nieut of the usual fee, the priest can be attired in his canoni-
cals, the taper lighted, the bell rung, and mass can be celebrated
at one altar, or a thousand altars, until the afflicted but believ-
ing survivor is fully assured that the ponderous gates of the
lesser Avernus are opened wide to set free his beloved ones,
aud that they securely hold the great passport of the Church to
Paradise.
While still closely watching every motion of my supernatural
visitor, his sobs became more audible and his sighs more fre-
(luent. My pity had in a manner almost overcome my fear,
and I began to imagine that he was more like a poor troubled
mortal than one who, as it were, had escaped from the tomb,
if ho standing there before me in such tribulation knew any-
thing of my presence he seemed to disregard it altogether, and
to give fuller vent to his feelings. I now felt a a inclination to
sit up in the bed, and just as I was about to do so I heard the
latch of the door turn. The spirit must have heard it also. He
scorned startled ; he glanced at me and looked hastily towards
the (nitrance, I then saw him hurriedly shut a little box-like
jtlaco or aperture in the wall -something which T had never
l)of()re noticed — the door- way in the partitioii was noiselessly
closiid again, and before I could look around, or utter a word,
the priest had diHapj)eared.
1 was sitting up when Nelly Carberry entere<l the room ; she
48
Family Creeds.
f;
{:', ■ ..|'|i
III
came straight over to my bed. She had seen nothing of what
had disconcerted me, but was evidently under the impression
that my sleep had been greatly troubled, that I had had no rest,
or that I had an attack of some kind and had made eflforts to
ii&v • ir hear me.
" Dear boy," said she, rather afraid that I was suffering
severely, "what's the matter 1 Shall I call your ma 1 I heard
you walking about and sobbing ; you must be very unwell 1"
" "^^-^ 've^Jy," said I at once, " I am not sick, Jo not call ma,
or jList' ; b •• nv oi>e ; I am quite well now. I suppose I must
have Lai sOiUt k;nd of a frightful dream and made a noise. You
know T h'ive oi\ "id them — that is all. You see I am quite
well," i re;>. vt'd, c ;ou8 to convince her. "You may stay
here it you like *ud s-o ior yourself, for I shall soon go to sleep
again."
As it was I did not care to have Nelly leave me alone, I was
nervous and, without letting her see that I was anxious for her
company, I wished her to remain. I now knew for certain
that she had seen nothing of the apparition, and that she did
not even suspect the real cause of my wakefulness. Had she
had the least idea that any person or thing of a strange kind,
either natural or supernatural, had been so close to her, or to
me, she would, I am confident, have alarmed the whole house ;
for, judging by what I knew of her, she was a very timid girl,
and she had a more firm belief in ghostly appearances than I
ever liad. I therefore discreetly kept my mind to myself, and told
her nothing about what I had seen. Indeed, I had determined
to tell no person. I did not want my mother to show any
more anxious concern as to the state of my health ; I did not
desire to have Ellen ridicule me again ; nor, above all, did I
want little Jane to imagine that I was so timid or so credulous
as jO fancy that my own shadow was a hobgoblin — I would
i
A Startling Discovery.
49
fain be a hero in her estimation. On her account I tried to
feel indifferent as to what I had seen, and, strange to sayj when
broad daylight made its appearance I had almost persuaded
myself that my eyes had again deceived me.
Though I cautioned Nelly Carberry to keep the matter a
secret, yet she must have said something to my mother respect-
ing my supposed illness. I intended to ask that Nelly might
be allowed — for the sake of company — to shep in the big room,
and I was planning to myself how I should introduce the par-
ticular subject, when happily I was saved from a partial
confession of fear by being told that an apartment adjoining
my mother's down stairs, was being prepared for me. Some
reason, which I cannot now remember, was given for this ; in-
deed I was not over particular in making inquiries, nor did I
hint the slightest objection, and though I affected to be indif-
ferent about the change, I was secretly rejoiced ; for I hoped
to be able in time to forget the dead priest, to enjoy my night's
rest again, and keep from all the knowledge of anything I
knew of the ghostly visitor.
The next day I feigned to be a little weary — too tired to take
our usual long walk. In truth I was not quite so well as I
had been the day before ; I had not got over the effects of an
almost sleepless night. This might have been a sufficient excuse
to keep me in-doors if I had dared to mention it. However I
wanted to be alone. My mother would have remained, but I
persuaded her and the girls to pay a promised visit to a friend,
and while out they were to make arrangements for another
little excursion. Ellen told me I was lazy, Jane pouted a little,
but after a while my excuses prevailed and I was left alone.
Well, off they went. I might say that I had the whole place to
myself, for Nelly Carberry was busy in the kitchen, and I had
possession of every key in the house, but I only cared to have
50
Family Creeds.
liiii
one. I had determined to make a careful search ; now was my
opportunity ; and the key that I then clutched with nervous
fingers was that which opened and locked my late dormitory —
the big room.
When I locked the door inside — something I had never done
before — though it was a fine day and the sunlight streaming in
through the windows, I somehow felt afraid. I had spent
many and many a day in that room, often for hours without a
companion, but never before had the same feeling. I had come
here, alone and unknown to all, to make a search ; and now,
scarcely beyond the middle of bright noon-day, I almost dreaded
to be by myself in an apartment that I had been familiar
with from infancy. I expected every moment to hear some
solemn whisper, or be touched by some icy hand. I looked
about me with a kind of apprehension — at the centre-piece in
the ceiling, at the long row of windows, at the quaint carv-
ing here and there, and at the strange devices surrounding the
altar recess. My bed had been already removed, and I stood
in the vacant place to have a view from the same point, as near
as possible, of the very spot where I .saw the apparition. I
tried even then to convince myself that there might be some
crack in the wall, some discoloration, or, it might be, some
hanging cobweb, which, acting in a peculiar manner on the
retina, might produce the outlines of a priest and lead my im-
agination to see him bend, or to hear him sigh. I had been
told that it was very possible to be misled in such a way. But
there was nothing to be seen that could deceive the eye ; not
the faintest trace of anything on wall or ceiling, or anywhere
else, that by any eftbrt of the will I could conjure up such an
afilicted shade as that which had so recently stood here in th<'
clear moonlight. I tried to feel collected and to reassure my-
self, yet as I approached the recess a feeling of awe came ov(m-
A Startling Discovery.
51
me. I actually trembled as if I had become suddenly very
cold, and, as I looked up, I imagined that the two little plaster-
of-paris angels, with outstretched wings, that knelt close to the
cross inserted over the centre of the archway, frowned upon
me as I drew near, as if with the intention of waving me off,
or of forbidding me from trespassing on holy ground,
I did however trespass ; I had resolution enough for that. I
never in my life was so determined ; still I was by no means
froe from fear, but I wanted to satisfy a feeling of the
greatest curiosity. I wanted if possible to make a discovery,
and no remonstrance of any kind would at the time have pre-
vented me. I stood in the recess, on the very spot where the
sobbing ghost had revealed his distress. I looked cautiously
here and there ; first at the floor — no trace of any footmark
whatever — then at the side partition — here it was where the
priest-spirit had entered — every thing seemed secure ; and
though I pressed my hand against the old carved oaken boards,
and even ventured to thump a little on them, they appeared
perfectly solid and secure ; there being no difference that
I could find between that part of the partition and any
other part ; no hollow sound came, and after a most minute
and patient examination, I could discover neither keyhole,
nor latch, nor spring, nor contrivance of any kind, whereby
anything more material than a veritable spirit could find
entrance.
[ felt discomfited ; my fear rather increased, and I began to
regret that I had attempted any such search as I had just made.
My natural inquisitiveness had now had its proper deserts. I
had dared to doubt, had actually begun to be skeptical. I
wanted to be wiser and more astute than others. I had on in-
sufficient evidence recklessly ventured to encourage a disbelief
in the legends and traditions which had been handed down,
iKi^i
52
Family Creeds.
11"
V' '■
111
5i'
SSlliS
•i:
generation after generation, and which still had the firm belief
of persons much older than I was, and much wiser than I ever
could expect to be. Then I had just been shown my folly. I
began to think that I had been guilty of great presumption.
Had I not been so over-curious, had I not gone so far, I might
perhaps have still doubted, and have still hoped that some
reasonable explanation might be given for such ghostly appear-
ances. As it was, the foundation for any further doubt seemed
to have been removed, I had made no discovery, and though
lurking suspicions should yet remain ever so strong, I must still
be partially a dupe to delusions which I could not explain
away.
However I did not like to be baffled too readily. Should I
give up because my first attempt had not been successful 1 I
knew not why it was but I had a strong impression that
what I had seen and heard the night before was nothing super-
natural. The more I thought about it the more material and
less spiritual I was forced to consider the appearance that I
had seen here, and I thought what a triumph it would be if I
could make the least discovery to prove that my suspicions were
not altogether unfounded. I wished to be able to satisfy even
Nelly, that many of the popular ghost-stories she had so often
frightened me with were unreliable and could be explained
away ; and that not only she, but hundreds of others were
regularly deceived by their own credulity.
I recommenced my search, I tried the partition again, I
pressed against it with all my might and pounded on it until I
became afraid that the noise would be heard all over the house ;
but the result was the same — ^no discovery. How was it pos-
sible, thought I, that priest, or man, or spirit, or whatever it was,
could have entered here and have disappeared again so readily 1
I had heard that spirits could intrude through a keyhole, or
A Sfdrtling Discover ij.
53
even through a stone wall, but the one I had seen had evidently
required entrance and exit through a door-way — and this was
in fact the real cause of my skepticism — hut where was the
door ] Nowhere. Could I have been mistaken, or was it after
all but a dream 1 I felt partially bewildered, and stood for over
a minute to collect my wandering ideas.
"But stay," thought I, "did he not put sonuithing in here?"
J had almost forgotten the little place or opening in the wall that
the spirit had hurriedly reached at before its departui'e. It was
altogether higher than I could touch, but I could notice nothing
ill particular from where I stood. There was a small niche on
each side of the recess. These were the only openings that were
to be seen, and a saint or other little image of some kind —
long since removed — had probably occupied one, or both of
these places, little ecclesiastical ornaments such as those which
can be found in great numbers in some Protestant, as well as
in most Catholic churches. I drew over a chair and stood upon
that. I looked and searched all over. There was no opening of
any kind to be .seen in the wall but the niche, and that was
vacant. I was about to step down, disappointed again, when
I chanced to observe that the little black marble base or pedes-
tal within the niche, upon which the image had once been, was
not level ; it was partly raised like the cover of a small box. I
touched it, and it opened wider. I could perceive a little cav-
ity, one which with proper precaution might have remained
forever unnoticed. I thrust in two or three fingers and took out
a picture, an exquisitely enamelled portrait. I hurried over
to the window so as to get the benefit of the full light, and the
sunbeams fell on it — How beautiful ! — but there, alas, was the
youth and bloom of womanhood in the black drapery of the
Church ! It was the picture of a nun with a sad expression on
the young face. But stay, were not the features familiar 1 X
54
Family Creeds.
scanned thorn closer. I held the picture far off, then closer —
Amazing! — Surely this could not be! — Impossible! — There must
be some wild dreaming or some mistake. There is a difference,
perhaps the change of time, but still a startling resemblance —
Could this ever have been the likeness of my mother 1
Uiiltl
m
CHAPTER VI.
A DKKADFUL H H R 1) E N.
IF tluTP are .sorrf)WH which make existence an affliction, there
are secrets wliich make life too great a burden. The con-
ffjihiient which forbids th(^ Usast <Usciosure, is the ch)ud which, to
ii «,'reater or h)ss (\\t(ait, may dim every hope of the future.
Tht-n^ are persons whose corrupt motives, preten .ons and
(lt'.si;,'ns, render secnicy a necessity ; and many of the
prominent actors on tlie stage of life appear before the world
in characters altogetlnsr differtMit from those bestowed on them
liy nature. What masquerading and disguising we see around
us, what efforts some of our so-called heroes dre forced to make
t(t hide the defects, or the rottcnnes.s, or the inicjuity which
tluiy fear must sooner or later be discovered ! Some have
secrets upon which their life may depend ; others have those
which alone have given them a spurious popularity. Oh what
a tumbling down from great heights there would be were the
liosoms of many of our supposed eminent men laid bare ; and
what confusion and humiliation would fall upon those who are
their servile worshippers. Pretenders are most numerous
among those aiming for prominent positions ; and such persons
can too often be found acting the part of the patriot, the states-
man, the legislator, and the preacher ; and the little secrets
relating to their shifts, their stratagems, their cunning, and
tlieir meanness, in order to insure recognition, are the thorns
r
1 •!
II
1
it'
56
Family Creeds.
which keep them ill at ease, and make the coveted situation, at
times, V)ut one of torment. Concealment is the germ of dis-
simulation. How many lives are made miserable by the privity
which must not be imparted ! Nature may have secrets that can
never be discovered ; but man should have none that dare not
be revealed. No woe can be more terrible than that which
turns the heart into stone, and makes it the sepulchre of some
dreadful mystery.
But now, I had a secret, the first I ever had which might
really be called such. I had that hidden within my lireast
which kept me restless and suspicious, and which I dared iiot
reveal to any human being, not even to my mother. Though
my disposition was naturally confiding, I became reticent, I
felt distrustful of everybody and could not tell her, the dear
parent who should have known my thoughts, anything of the
burden that was on my mind. If the man whose hand is red
with the blood of his fellow, who fears the felon's doom, but
who has as yet escaped detection, if this man has his days of
dread and his nighls of terror, I, with a secret which I ima-
gined was just as dreadful, and which led to such peculiar
associations, had my sleepless hours, or slumbers that brought
me but dismal dreams.
If the plotter, the betrayer, or the ungrateful, whose vileness
was yet unknown, had his qualms, his fears, and his self-re-
proach, I certainly had mine. I felt as if I were a criminal,
or as though I had been guilty of some dreadful act that I
wished to keep from the knowledge of all.
Many a time when my mother turned her calm eyes on me,
I would blush and feel as if she was trying to peer into my
heart in order to discover the very secret that had so often
hurried its pulsations. No doubt she soon perceived that I was
not so animated as usual, and her anxious look — really caused
A Dreadful Burden.
67
by her uneasiness as to the state of mv health — frequently led me
to suppose that she knew I was hiding from her that which I
ought to have at once made known. If my sister upbraided
me for my almost sudden desire for retirement, I fancied that
every word she said had a double meaning, and that she well
knew why it was that I wished so much to be alone; and when
little Jane chided me for my apparent indifference to her, and
for the strange and unaccountable humors that kept me moody
and uncommunicative, I thought she must be on the point of
guessing the reason of my inattention. My nature seemed
changed. I sometimes wondered at myself. I who had been
so open and unreserved, and so fond of the society of those
around me, and to whom I was so much attached, now said but
little, and rather kept aloof from all. Sometimes, when I was
expected to accompany Ellen and Jane in a ramble — a recrea-
tion once so attractive — I would disappoint them and wander
off by myself, looking out dreamily at the sea or at the misty dis-
tance ; and I would sit in one spot for an hour or longer won-
dering — wondering at the apparition 1 had lately seen, wondering
at what I had discovered, and wondering whether the portrait
of the nun, with the meek, sad face, had ever been the likeness
of my mother.
Nearly three weeks had passed since I had become possessed of
that which caused me so much uneasiness. I had often been
told that if a nun should leave her convent even to get married
she would be disgraced. My secret was therefore a constant
torment, and I would have readily given the wealth of the
world if I could have approached my mother in my own old
way — in the way in which I once took such delight — -and asked
her for an explanation of the mystery-— asked her if she had
e\ er fled from a convent and broken her religious vows. But
the very idea was dreadful. She who ought to be the first to
6
58
Family Creeds,
have my confidence was now, beyond all others, the one from
whom I desired to withhold it What a singular estrange-
ment ! To whom should I go if not to her ! I was so troubled
and harassed that I became languid again, my appetite failed,
and it was a source of grief to me to see my mother manifest
such deep concern as to my failing Ijealth. My sister^ I saw,
was also uneasy about me ; and the change from my once genial
Bianner was so perceptible, that little Jane would look at me
with brimful eyes and become greatly aflFected. Their anticipa-
tions regarding me were evidently of the gloomiest character.
But what could I do 1 How was I to get rid of my secret 1
Young as I was I really dreaded an explanation lest it should
in sc 'iS'; way involve my mother. I longed to relieve those so
dear to me from anxiety on my account. Had I had but a
veritable midnight ghost to deal with I might have tried to ex-
plain it away ; but that which I now had was something en-
tirely different ; it was something tangible — that which could
be felt and seen ; for had I not looked at it a hundred times
and tested its positive reality. There in my own room — not in
the big room up stairs — hidden away from all but myself, was
the portrait. Even the apparition which it had so affected knew
nothing now of its whereabouts. A real spirit might perhaps have
discovered it, but as the portrait remained with me, I took this
fact to be a kind of test which inclined me to believe that
something more material than a fading ghost had no doubt
already missed the picture which had caused the grief I had
witnessed. Yes, the beautiful portrait was still in my keeping ;
no midnight search hatl been lately made for it by anything
supernatural. I kept it hidden, and, like some my.stical gem,
it seemed to have a fascinating influence which sooner or later
must prove fatal to its possessor. Were not its effects on me
already apparent 1
A Dreadful Burden.
69
Every night and morning since I first held it in the full light
— and I was unhappy from that moment — I stole a look at the
nun's face. The likeness at times was startling ! and evei'y
morning after my first salutation I glanced furtively at my
mother's features only to havfe my suspicions more and more
confirmed. Once or twice, in a kind of desperation, I took out
the beautiful portrait with the intention of flinging it as far as
I could into the sea, but when I stood alone upon the shore the
timid eyesof the picture seemed to plead with me, the wind seemed
to rebuke me, and the waves to rush farther up on the strand as if
to warn me away. Oh, how could I do it ! Even without these
forbiddings my heart would surely fail ; for at the last moment
my hand would refuse to loosen its grasp, and I would be forced
to return with that which was the cause of all my trouble.
After this I thought of making a confidant of Nelly Car-
berry. In our familiar intercourse I know she told me more
relating to herself than she would have told to anyone else, and
as she knew something of my mother's history, I trusted that
she might be able to explain the mystery ; but when the
moment came I could confide nothing, and I shrank away from
her as I had from all others. As a last resolve, however, I de-
termined to await the return from the city of an old domestic,
a kind of general serving-man who had lived with us longer
than I could remember, who in fact was looked on as one of
the family, and who I supposed knew all about our family
affairs for generations. He was one in whom I must tru.st; in-
deed I might safely tell him anything ; for I came to the conclu-
sion that if I did not very soon repose confidence in some
person I should become almost distracted. I therefore longed
for his return ; he should hear my story, and 1 should show him
the picture ; but in the meantime my secret must remain with
me, burdensome and oppressive as ever.
f?;
\i i
;t'!
60
FcrniUy Greeds.
I f 1::
Jij;<|iji.ii
I
One day after this I sat alone in the big room trying to read.
I held the book before me, but my eye ran down the page with-
out the least knowledge of its contents ; I was rather brooding
as usual. I now visited this apartment oftener than formerly,
in the faint but vain hope that even in the broad daylight the
spectre-priest might come to seek for that which he had prob-
ably missed from the receptacle, in which he no doubt thought
he had safely deposited it. I had a strong impression that he
would make an effort to recover it again, and that in his
anxiety he would leave his retirement, or his resting place, or
his grave, and trespass here — even at the risk of discovery — to
gaze once more, if possible, on the beloved picture. He came
not however ; or at least he never came while I was there, or,
it might be, while the sunlight streamed into the room ; he
might have perhaps stolen in again with the moonbeams, and
have sighed again in the silence of night, and have disappeared
again before dawn. He might have done so, for I certainly
would not have been there at such an hour to watch his move-
ments, as nothing could tempt me to remain, once more, a
moment in that particular room after dark.
Any way, though not too courageous, but rather a little
timid, I often went there during daylight, and when others
were within the sound of my voice. Time after time, sadly
puzzled, I would search for what I fancied must be a private
entrance, and this day again, being very earnest, and in no
particular danger of being interrupted, I laid my book aside
and examined the partition as closely as I could ; but as usual
I had to give over without making any discovery,
1 was standing in the recess looking up at the vacant niche
considering whether anything else might be hidden within it,
for I had not examined it since I drew out the picture, when I
was suddenly but softly touched on the shoulder. I instinc-
■It
A Dreadful Burden.
61
tively shrank back. Was I not alone ! I partlj looked
around and a momentary terror seized me, for there at my very
side and on the very spot once trodden by the spectral priest
stood the black-draped figure of the nun !
My sight grew dim. I thought I should have fallen. I
turned away in sore dread. My knees trembled, and just as I
was about to sink to the floor, I heard an angelic voice. I
found sufficient courage to look up, and oh ! how great was my
relief when I saw that it was only my mother.
She had entered the room so softly that I did not hear her
footsteps. She often wore a dark dress, and this day she had
on one of that kind. Besides this she had carelessly thrown a
kind of black scarf over her head, and while in this garb, my
imagination, as well as my fear, betrayed me into the belief that
she was the veritable nun.
" ma," said I scarcely above a whisper, and while still
trembling, " how like you are to the picture ! "
'* To what picture, dear 1"
" To the picture in my room." I now felt that I had almost
involuntarily let out my secret, and the words had been scarcely
uttered before I regretted having spoken them.
" My dear, my dear," she replied. " I wish I could be more
like that sacred picture in every respect. Oh what beauty in-
deed it would be to be in the least degree like the Mother of
God, the ever-blessed Mary, the Queen of Heaven, who so loves
all, that hjr potent intercessions, for us poor sinners, to her di-
vine Son, are made unceasingly, and will continue to be made
for the faithful for ever, and ever, and ever."
I saw in a moment that I had but just escaped and that my
secret was still safe. The picture she alluded to was one of the
"Virgin," which in her tender and motherly piety she had
placed at the head of my bed as a kind of protection even for
62
Family Creeds.
ill
III
Iff
im
her heretic child. As it was I felt greatly relieved and breathed
more freely, and I became as reluctant as before to impart any
information concerning that other picture which was, I might
say, constantly in my view.
" But my dear child," continued she with a feeling of alarm,
" you look frightened. What is the matter 1 You are getting
very nervous, and I see that you are every day losing strength.
O my dear," said she kissing me tenderly, " what would I not
give to see you restored to health, and what happiness it would
be to me to know that the holy, immaculate Mary could regard
you as one of her own children."
Before I could speak another ^vord I had to sit on the nearest
chair. I had nearly betrayed myself in what I had already
said, and I grew at once more cautious. I felt confused just as
if I had been detected in the commission of some improper act.
My breathing became heavy, and, as I leant my head against
her bosom she must have heard my heart beating wildly.
" I did not hear you enter the room ma," said I faintly, " and
you know I am sometimes easily startled."
" Too much so, John, too much so. My dear, you are greatly
changed, I wish I could relieve you. See how your heart flut-
ters" — her hand was pressed ove** it — "and your once red
cheek is now so pale, and your poor eyes look so sad. I wish
Shawn was with us again ; you always liked his company ; and
you are his favorite. We are all greatly troubled about you.
Ellen and Jane talk about you nearly all the time, and they are
quite lonely now. You are very much altered. Tell me where
your pain is, dear, the doctor cannot let us know. Tell me the
cause of this distressing change."
No doubt she asked the questions without expecting any-
thing like a correct answer, or any answer at all from me, but
disconcerted and almost guilty as I felt at the moment, I
A Dreadful Burden,
68
and
but
It, I
expected that her next query would relate to my torturing
secret.
" I have no pain, ma, not the least. I wish Shawn was here
to take me over to the island. I would like to sit with him on
the rocks again, and watch the sea as we used to do. I shall
get well when he comes." I made no other reply.
She led me towards the window, and, when seated, drew me
close to her. She looked at me affectionately and after a pause
said, " My dear child I have something to say to you, some-
thing very important, and I have been anxious for a long time
to speak to you on a matter dearest to my heart. We are alone
now and I must delay it no longer."
She remained silent for a few moments as if to collect her
thoughts, and I looked up into her clear eyes which were aglow
with sincerity and tenderness.
" My dear boy the subject which I am going to mention, is
one which my duty not only as a mother but as a Christian
woman forbids me to delay any longer ; it has been on my
mind for years — from the time when you lay a baby in your
cradle. And more than once, when I feared for your life. Oh
how terrible the thought was that if you had been taken from
us you might have been lost to us forever — lost to me both
here, and, dreadful to think of, perhaps even in the gi*eat here-
after ! Your health is very uncertain, and it almost maddens
me to be forced to believe that if you were cut off as you now
are — outside of the true fold — your future condition would
no doubt be most deplorable. I must therefore speak. The
subject is of all others the most momentous. We should
think alike on that ; you are now old enough to understand
its great significance, and to feel that you are a responsible
being and will be held accountable like all others. I shall
hide nothing from you. I desire that we shall travel the
H' 1 1;
1
P'P
li
i.||;
64
Family Creeds.
same road to eternity, and that there shall be nothing secret
between us.
She paused again. I saw her anxious expression. I scarcely
knew the meaning of all she said but I had an impression that
she was going to reveal something long kept to herself. " Now
it is coming," thought T. I turned from the light to hide my
face. " She must have found it out, she must have discovered
something and is going to tell me all." My lips seemed cold,
my mouth felt parched, and I began to regret that I had kept
my secret from her so long ; now she will know everything,
and reproach me for my want of candour.
She took my hand and held it in hers, and after having
looked at me wistfully for a while, she said, scarcely above
a whisper, "John, John, my dear child, you are a
Protestant !"
"Am I, ma?" said I, hesitating a Httle. "And what are
you 1"
"A Catholic, dear ; a member of the Holy Roman and
Apostolic Church, out of which none can be saved."
As yet I scarcely could understand her meaning. Almost
from my very infancy I used to hear people speak of Catholics
and Protestants ; some in approval of the one, or in dislike of
the other. Indeed I had often heard my father speak against
the Church of Rome, but his declamation seemed to have had
but little effect at home. I had a kind of idea that what was
called religion was in some way or other a prolific source of
contention ; for Catholics and Protestants appeared to agree on
most other subjects. That was always an exception. Those
of both creeds had alike been kind to me, and I drew no dis-
tinction which could lead me to look on one more favorably
than on the other ; and so far as I understood what religion
was I might have been of any creed without knowing the reason
A Dreadful Burden.
65
why. I remember I used to pray, but my simple prayers were
a curious medley. Those which my mother taught me — and
which I generally used — were mingled invocations to saints and
angels, and to the Virgin ; and those which I learned from my
aunt — my father's sister, who sometimes came to see us, and
who was rigid in her belief — were directed to God alone ; I dare
not lisp to any other heavenly influence. I said my aunt was
rigid, for her views of eternal punishment, and what she told
me of the wretched condition of the unconverted, and the great
difficulty in escaping from perdition, sometimes really alarmed
me ; and her teaching led me to imagine that the Divine Being
was very stern and exacting, and at that time he was one in
whom I verily stood in great dread. Any way, though my
prayers to any power had no particular meaning for me, and
though I knew little or nothing as to the import of the words I
used, yet I liked my mother's prayers the best, and had I to
choose any religion, I should of course be then of the creed that
she professed.
" But why am I a Protestant, ma 1" continued I, curious as
to her explanation.
" Because you were baptized in that faith," she replied.
" And are you a Catholic, because you were baptized, as you
call it, a Catholic V
" I suppose so," answered my mother after a little hesitation ;
" but now I know that that is the true faith."
*' And I'd be a Catholic, too, if I had been baptized one, would
I, ma]"
" You would, my dear ; and it would have been a happy day
for you and for me also."
" Are pa and William Protestants for the same reason 1 are
they ma V
" Yes dear, it must be on that account that your father and
66
Family Creeds.
!IK1
your brother are Protestants. Such they were baptized, and
such they have as yet remained."
"And you, and Ellen, and little Jane, are all Catholics 1"
" We are, my dear."
•* Could any one be baptized over again, uial"
" Yes, if a person desired to change his faith."
" Then, if I want(^d to be a Catholic, could I be baptized
oner
" You could child. You could be made a Catholic, a member
of the true Church, in a single hour."
" Then, ma, I want to be a Catholic, I want to be what you,
and Ellen, and — and little Jane are."
" Oh, thank God, thank God !"
She had scarcely made these hurried exclamations before she
pressed me tenderly to her breast and kissed me repeatedly, —
" Oh, thank God, dear child, that he has put this desire into
your heart ! My constant prayer to his blessed mother has
been at last answered."
" But, ma," said I again, "wouldn't you like that pa, and
William, as well as I, should also become Catholics 1"
" I would, my dear, I would. I have offered many a prayer
for their conversion, and I still hope. But the longer one
delays from embracing the true faith the more difficult it is to
overcome unholy prejudices against it. You have often no
doubt heard your father speak slightingly of my religion, and I
have seldom replied lest he should become more hostile or in-
different to the truth. Morning, noon and night I shall con-
tinue my prayers for him and your brother. But, my dear,"
said she, lowering her voice, " we must not let your pa know
anything of what we intend doing with regard to you. You
must not speak to him or to your aunt Crtherine on the subject
of religion. It might undo us. Much as it is against my
A Dreadful Burden.
67
nature to dissemble, or to do in secret that which ought to l)o
done openly, I have for your sake to dissemble now with him.
It pains me to do so ; even sometimes I think it wrong ; yet I
feel that in a matter of such vast importance as your conversion,
or the conversion of any human soul, there can he little or no
wrong in working for such an end ; there cannot I think be any
sin in the adoption of such methods as we may find necessary
to bring poor stray sheep into the fold. But I know your
father well, John. Were he even to suspect what our inten-
tions now are, were your aunt to hear anything of it and inform
him, his anger would be terrible, and he might separate ua
forever.
and
rayer
one
is to
n no
mdl
ir in-
con-
^ear,"
:now
You
libject
It my
;■ I'
f : 1^ I
- 2
i' ''V
11
CHAPTER VII.
SHAWN IJAWN.
I HAVE now to speak of one of the truest, one of the best,
and one of the most noble creatures it has ever been my
good fortune to meet. We had an old serving man, or rather
an old follower, whose name in Irish was Shane, or Shawn
Bawn — Shawn was the familiar name by which he was always
known — ^and he was one whom I must ever remember with feel-
ings of gratitude and affection. He had been engaged by my
father years before I was born, and I believe my mother knew
him from the time she was a girl. Any way, Shawn having
been well liked and well treated, he became perfectly satisfied
with his situation, and it seemed to be tacitly understood by
him as well as by my parents that the engagement was to be
perpetual.
My father placed the greatest reliance on him for his well-
proved fidelity, and my mother became very much attached to
him for his kind, gentle disposition and goodness of heart ; in
fact I knew that it was her impression that his equal for genuine
nobleness could not be found on earth, and that his sup '•m.
could be found only among the saints in heaven. Shawi j
the one with us who looked after things generally ; he went on
various little errands, and was exclusively entrusted with those
of business importance ; besides this he did many little odd jobs
about the place, and, unless at rare intervals, he was, as long
Shawn Bawn.
69
tdto
in
luine
as I can remember, the one who generally accompanied me in
my juvenile rambles. He had the interest of our family so
much at heart, and so disinterested was he in our behalf, that
he was treated by us all more like a relative than a poor depend-
ant. Though he had a wife and children, yet he spent nearly all
his time with us ; and I know for a certainty that almost every
shilling he received was sent to them. They lived in a very
humble place in the suburbs of the city and he went to see them
once a week, generally on Saturday evening, returning to us —
home, as he called it — on Monday morning ; and it made no
uifl'orence whether we were at our house in town, or at our
place in Cove, where we went he evidently thought it his duty
to follow.
Strange to say that though Shawn was in one sense l)ut a
poor, illiterate Irish peasant — neither able to read nor write —
yet he was a man of wonderful powers of mind, his forethought
and discrimination were surprising, and his intuition almost
unerring. This was generally admitted, for all seemed to defer
to him ; even my father when in his most impetuous state
would listen to what he might say, and in important as well as
in trifling matters his advice was often asked and as often
followed. Still while Shawn, if he chose, might have been a
kind of dictator among us — as too many pampered domestics
come to be — he was far otherwise, he was very unobtrusive
and in most respects as simple and submissive as a child.
le most careless observer could scarcely pass Shawn Bawn
jut noticing that he was different from most other men,
'I 1*6 was something so peculiar in his manner, and so expres-
sive in his mild, benevolent, thoughtful face, that a feeling
stronger than ordinary respect was sure to follow. In personal
appearance i ilways looked the same to me, and I sometimes
used to fan' iiat he never grew any older. He was a man
\ \
70
Family Greeds.
probably between fifty and sixty years of age, not tall but of a
medium height, being spare and sinewy in form. His sage-like
face inclined to be oval, his complexion brown or dark, his
features singularly pleasing and regular, his eyes black, and his
hair, once perhaps of the raven color, had now its plentiful
intermixture of gray. He generally was close-shaved, which I
fancied gave his face at times a kind of clerical cast ; yet as he
went along, rather stooped in form and with eyes bent to the
ground, there was on the whole something of a resigned care-
worn look about him which awoke your commiseration.
Ah me, what a large pert of my heart had this poor unassum-
ing man ! I was always one of his greatest favorites. When
I was scarcely able to walk he used to carry me about on his
back ; and in course of time when I was old enough to trot
along by his side, he would take me to such pleasant places.
He never appeared to be so well satisfied as when we were away
alone where nature was most lavish of her charms ; for he had
a great love for the wild and beautiful. He would shew me
mountain slopes, and great rug{;ed rocks ; he would point out
some bold cliff or some hoary castle ; he would trace winding
rivers, winding far away among distant hills ; he would lead mo
to where there were green fields and feeding cattle ; he would
take me to quiet, shaded vales, where we could hear littl'j mur-
muring streams, or we would wander away uiitil we came to
some beautiful lake studded with islands ; and often he would
bring me to some height from which we had an extensive view,
and from which we could see hill, and vale, and river, and stream,
ami look down upon the wide, wide sea, as if the whole world
was beneath us.
And then what lessons of wisdom I had from his lips ; when-
ever we went out he was able to interest me until our return.
There was scarcely a spot having any historical associations.
Shawn Baion.
71
im,
irld
len-
Im.
ms,
but what he was able to give the principal events connected
with it — events which perhaps had taken place centuries before
— just as well, and far more impressively than if they had been
read to me out of a book.
He could give me the names of leading men who had lived and
died in certain neighborhoods ; of the owners of great estates,
and their dissolute heirs expectant ; of oppressive landlords and
clergy, and of many of the despoiled tenantry who had been
driven to vagrancy, or to foreign lands, because they had been
unable, or unwilling to pay exorbitant rents, or the scandalous
imposition then known as tithes ; and he could point to cairns
in lonely spots where unfeeling middle-men and inhuman agents
had been waylaid and had forfeited their lives. He could give
me the history of every old church, every old castle, and every
old ruin in a whole parish; and sometimes we would enter an
old graveyard, and though he could not read the name, or the
text, or the eulogy on a single tomb, yet he could tell me who
lay here or there, how avarice or ambition had hurried one man
out of existence, or how poverty and hardship had cut short the
(lays of another. And then he would moralize, in his own
simple way, on the prominent follies of mankind, and show how
that after their various intrigues, and struggles, and trials,
death had placed them all here on a level, and that here as they
lay in the silence and night of the grave, there could be no
further distinction between the nobleman and the beggar, or
between the oppressor and the oppressed.
Shawn could also entertain me in other ways. He could tell
me something about flowers, and plants, and trees ; about the
habits of the birds that flew around us, and of the little wild
animals that we met on our excursions. He could tell me
when to expect a change of weather, and when it was going to
be fine or stormy ; why the clouds looked red or black or
m-^
}' i.
72
Family Creeds.
:!■ n
w
like molten gold ; and why the rainbow came with its beautiful
colors. He could tell me about fishes great and small ; of how
the waves had washed away the land, and cut their way through
solid rocks, and burrowed out great caves, and raised high
cliffs ; and then he could point out treacherous reefs and dan-
gerous shoals, and give me the names of ships that were cast
away along the coast years before I was born.
Such was the companion, the guide, and the instructor I had
in Shawn Bawn, As I have said before, he could neither read
nor write ; and as far as ordinary learning went he was perfectly
illiterate, yet the wonderful powers of his mind led him to
observe and to investigate. He would learn from a child, he
would make discoveries where others saw but blank barrenness,
and, as his memory was very retentive, the result was that little
by little his knowledge of many things became extensive, and
his store of information surprising. He was poor, having
neither land nor house nor anything laid by to meet a season of
adversity ; he had nothing but the trifling wages that were paid
him weekly, and such little gifts as he might receive from time
to time. With this humble store he seemed perfectly content.
He tried to feel satisfied with the pittance that was sufficient to
provide for the daily wants of himself and those depending on
him, yet even out of this he managed to save something for the
poor, as none could be more charitable than he ; and if he ever
wished for more, if he ever yearned for the wealth or possessions
that were entirely beyond his reach, it would be for the simple
purpose of relieving the wants of others ; for the prevailing dis-
tress of the many around him seemed to be his greatest affliction.
He was humble and unobtrusive to a remarkable degree, yet he
was possessed of great natural dignity, and while he cheerfully
performed even the menial duties pertaining to his situation,
nothing could induce him to do an improper act to satisfy any
Shaivn Batvn.
73
one ; for there was not the least trace of servility in his dis-
position. Shawn told me many things, he had a way of telling
them peculiarly his own, and he could keep me listening to him
hour after hour. His method was agreeably discursive, yet,
strange to say, he seemed disinclined to speak on the subject of
religion, he rather avoided all reference to creeds, and it was a
long time before I knew much or anything of his opinion in this
respect. What he mostly told me was useful and entertaining.
He never dealt in fairy tales, or in stories about ogerish dwarfs
or of savage giants, or in fictions of the supernatural ; and while
Nelly Carberry could both amuse and terrify me with dark
mysteries, and with her wild myths, and weird phantoms, and
could relate all of what ghosts and witches ever said, or did, or
could do, and could give me many other evidences of the super-
stition that clouded her own mind, Shawn Bawn could interest
me in a far gx-eater degree, and still present nothing for my
amusement, or consideration, or instruction, but — facts.
I was delighted to hear that Shawn was in Cove. He arrived
during the time that I and my mother were conversing in the
big room, and perhaps prevented further conversation on relig-
ous subjects. He had been detained in the city by my father,
and subsequently by sickness in his own family. It was a long
time since he and I had been separated for such a period, for
he had not been with us since I had* been taken ill in town.
The last time he and I were out together was at the execution
of the poor "White Boy" at Gallows Green — a scene that I shall
never forget. The moment I heard he was in the house I left
my mother and hurried down to meet him, and I tliink I was
never more rejoiced than when I held his knees in my firm
embrace and looked up into his honest face with feelings of
actual exultation.
" O Shawn, how glad, how glad I am to see you again !"
6
•: Ml
■'I, llll
I
p^^w
74
Family Creeds.
Young and old addressed him as "Shawn," in fact I could not
call him by a more formal name or address him any other way,
though he was old enough to be my grandfather ; and he never
took it as any mark of disrespect from one so young.
" Well, alanna, shure I'm as glad as you are, God knows I
am, an' I'm glad to see you look so well ; for the last time I
saw you, you were as white as a sheet."
Shawn was of course greatly pleased to be with us again.
Without exaggeration I can say that the sound of his voice was
then to me the most inspiring music ; and when he spoke to me,
as he did at the time, with more than his ordinary affection, he
generally commenced by calling me ^'alanna," the Irish, I
believe, for "my child."
" O Shawn, I'm so very glad, I wanted to see you so much. I
often asked for you, and they always told me that you'd be
here soon ; and then, after waiting and waiting, I sometimes
thought you'd never come again. But you are here and I'm
really so happy ; and now that you're back we must go out
together again, we must go out to-morrow and have a long,
long walk, and I have so much to tell you, and something that
I would not tell to any one else," — this was a kind of indirect
hint at my secret — " and you'll have so much to tell me — won't
you ] Ma says I'm sick, but I'll soon get well again — I'm better
now, and to-morrow I'll be as strong as ever. 0, Shawn, I am
so glad ; and the weather is going to be so fine and sunshiny."
It is needless to say that I was in a very happy mood ; rather
indeed in a joyous state of exci+ement. I could have gone on
and talked, and talked almost i> oherently of what we should
do, and where we shoulil go to, without giving him a moment's
time for reply. For as he stood before me, patiently listening
to my rambling flow of words, his kind old familiar face was
lit up by his own peculiar smile, a smile that was then like a
Shawn Bawn.
76
am
iny."
Ither
on
juld
pnt's
hing
Iwas
ce a
bright lamp which sent long flashing rays far into the futur-j,
enabling my fancy to see nothing between the angels of light
but little luminous pictures of happiness.
All saw very plainly that Shawn's appearance had already
produced a great change in me. I seemed to have got rid of
my gloom and languor ; I felt like myself agai ., and I antici-
pated getting rid of a burden that had really oppressed me very
much ; in fact I already fancied that I had got rid of the most
galling part of the load I had carried so long, for the very fact
that I knew I now had some one near in whom I could confide
was an easement which I felt at once, and I also had the per-
fect assurance that I might open my mind to the fullest extent
to Shawn, and that he was one who would never betray my
confidence.
I sat by Shawn while he was eating his supper in the kitchen.
I could not keep away from him. My mother was greatly
pleased to see me so much better, and, unlike the girls, was no
way jealous of my attachment. I scarcely noticed any one else,
and kept talking away all the time, while Shawn with the same
smile listened to all I had to say. Of course I made inquiries
about his wife Peggy, who had been sick ; about his two little
boys who helped their mother and worked out every day when
they could get anything to do. I asked about my father, and
about Mr. Casey ; what tops, or balls, or kites my brother had,
and whom he played with after he had come out of school. I
told him something about my mother, and Ellen, and little Jane,
and about the pleasant walks wc had had ; and, again, how I
and all of us in the house had longed for his coming. I could
have talked all night, or at least I would have been willing to
do so, and, though I dared not as yet introduce a certain sub-
ject, I introduced any and every other matter I could think of
which I thought would be interesting to Shawn.
if
I
tp'
76
Family Creeds.
U
I had already remained up much later than my usual time.
While I spoke I felt that my tongue was beginning to fail ; and
the effort to keep my eyes open must have been quite observ-
able. I had been several times urged to retire but felt gieatly
disinclined to do so. I was loth even then to part with Shawn,
but to satisfy me he came with me to my room, and after I had
got into my bed I held him by the coat lest he should go away
too soon. Comparatively happy as I then was I needed not
one of Nelly Carberry's vdld stories as a soporific. I tried hard
to keep awake ; but the little angels that my mother often told
me of must have been near me or over me fluttering their wings,
for a soft sound came like the murmur of the summer wind
through the leaves ; or was it the distant lulling melody of the
same sweet voices that had often brov^ht me slumber before ;
or was it Shawn Bawn whispering me away to the land of
dreams. My hand at last loosened its grasp ; I knew not that
I was left alone. I slept that night better than I had for a
long time, and the beautiful scenes that I witnessed during
those hours of repose, were such, as I had been told, might
be found only within the bright regions of heaven.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CONVICT SHIP,
A LITTLE after daylight next morning I awoke quite re-
freshed, but early as it was my mother rapped at the
door while I was dressing. She knew that I would be going
out with Shawn after breakfast, and she wanted to speak to
me before I saw any one else. She closed the door and said
not a word until after she had bent revei'ently to the little pic-
ture of the Virgin that was hung at the head of the bed ; the
picture to which she fancied I had recently likened her.
" My dear," said she, " Shawn brought me a letter stating
that your pa, and William, and perhaps you aunt, would be
here on Saturday evening ; I suppose he told you. I also ex-
pected your uncle from Mallow [my mother's brother, the
priest], but he wrote to say that he could not come. The Catho-
lic clergy, unlike the clergy of the new faith, have always a
great deal to do, and your uncle's duties have lately been very
severe. There has been a gi'eat deal of sickness among the
poor of his parish, and he dares not, and would not leave so
long as he was required to administer the last sacraments of
the Church to the dying. Our priests are self-sacrificing, they
visit the afflicted no matter how infectious or pestilential may
be the disease ; in this respect they surpass all others in true
apostolic heroism. Anyway while his holy calling obliges him
SI
Pf
78
Family Creeds.
to witness wretchedness, to become familiar with the most ag-
gravated scenes of distress, and to whisper words of hope and
comfort to the faithful in their last moments, he is sure of his
grand reward in the last great day. But, my dear child, as he
cannot come — for I intended that he sliould baptize and admit
you into the Church of God — there is fortunately another
through whom we can obtain the special blessing. Although
we can rely on our clergy to the fullest extent in matters of
this kind, yet I would prefer some particular friend to prepare
you for the baptismal benediction. The rite must be adminis-
tered with the greatest secrecy. You are aware of the reason
why this should be ; your father must know nothing of it, and,
as I want the ceremony performed to-morrow — the day before
he comes — I shall call upon a clergyman with whom I have
been intimately acquainted for many years. He has been
away in foreign lands — in France and Italy I believe — for a
long time, and returned but five or six weeks ago. I have seen
him only twice since he came back, but I shall call on him to-
day and try and have your baptism take place on Friday (to-
morrow evening), we shall have only two or three persons present
besides ourselves, and all will be over before your father gets
here on Saturday."
'* Very well, ma, as you like. But shall we not have Shawn,
and little Jane present, as well as Ellen and yourself. I
should like to have them 1 Shawn and Jane you know — that's
all."
'* Oh yes, Shawn, of course ! But, my dear, I have certain
reasons for saying that I would prefer not to have Jane pre-
sent at the ceremony. These reasons I shall likely explain
some other time. The baptism must be particularly private. I
may as well say at once, that Jane being very young might
think it would be a pleasant surprise to tell her mother or her
The Convict ^Ship.
79
It
father that you had become a Catholic, and in a momentary im-
pulse he might, in one of his arguments between himself and
your father, retort and say to him, that even his own children
were leaving the State Church. No, my dear, it is better not
to have Jane present. She of course will be much pleased to
find out hereafter that you belong to the Catholic faith, but it
will not do at present to let her know anything of it ; you
must not say a word of it to her on any account. We must
be very careful. I have thought the matter over, and it is best
to have only Shawn, and Nelly Carberry, besides your sister
and myself. All will be over in less than an hour, and then I
shall be so happy."
I have to admit that I was greatly disappointed by her re-
fusal to allow little Jane to be one of the witnesses of my ad-
mission into the same church of which she was a member.
Indeed I had a notion that Jane would be my godmother, and the
idea of forming a kind of relationship to her even in this respect,
as well as to Shawn, who I thought was to be asked to be my
godfather, was very pleasing. But when I was told that I
needed no sponsors, that I was now old enough to answer for
myself, I became quite indifferent as to my entrance into the
new fold. The attraction which my fancy had thrown around
the ceremony had already disappeared ; and were it not that I
felt that it was the earnest desire of my mother to have me kneel
at the same altar with her, I should have preferred to remain
in my original belief.
My mother soon perceived that I was dissatisfied. She spoke
to me in her own gentle way, scarcely upbraiding me for my
lukewarmness. But I could not oflFer the least resistance, and
I was soon ready to comply with her wishes. She kissed me
and pressed me tenderly to her bosom, and told me that I might
tell Shawn of what was to take place and invite him to be with
80
Family Creeds.
u& I was of course glad to have this privilege. As the morn-
ing was beautiful I felt stronger, and soon became cheerful and
in the best of spirits, so after having swallowed a hasty break-
fast, Shawn and I left the house together and were once more
out and away.
We sat upon an elevated spot beyond the church, from which
we had a magnificent view. It was a retired place in the midst
of shrubbery and fine old trees, and the sunlit scenery around
was very attractive ; the distance having mellowed away much
that on closer observation might have been perhaps repulsive.
I often noticed that Shawn liad the faculty of choosing the best
resorts, and to-day we had, I might say, the town and the har-
bor at our feet — the world, as it were, in miniature. We could
see the residences of the wealthy, and the humble homos of the
poor ; great warehou* s and manufactories ; the business places
of merchafits, and the shops of traders and mechanics. We
could see churches with towering steeples ; gloomy prisons sur-
rounded with massive walls ; the chilling parish poor-house, the
last retreat of the unfortunate ; and then beyond was a line
of forts to keep enemies at a distance, and perhaps to keep down
insurrection at home. There were more vessels in the harbor
than I think I had ever seen before. Some had but just amved
and were furling sails, or letting go anchors, others were pre-
paring for their loiig voyage, while the long line of smoke from
great steam-ships about to leave port seemed to darken the air ;
numerous small boats were flitting to and fro, and there ap-
peared to be an unusual bustle and huriy on shore.
As we looked seaward we could mark the shadow of spread-
ing canvas gliding upon the waves ; and far, far out, what
might be taken to be but foam, or spray, or mere specks of
light, would now and then disappear from view, as if Old Ocean
had allured the daring, confident mariner beyond a certain
The Convict Ship.
81
tjoundary, and then, seizing on its lawful prize, engulphed both
him and his venture.
" That's a big ship down there, Shawn. People are coining
and going, and a good many are remaining on board. See 1
there's one sailing out, and people on the deck are waving
handkerchiefs, and those in the boats close by are doing the
same. There must be a great number — how small they appear
from here ! And look ! there's one, two, three other ships of
the same kind ; they are busy taking boxes and things on
board, and I think I can see women and children, as well as
men, on every one of them."
*' Yes child," said Shawn, "Those is what they calls emygrunt
vessels. They're takin' thim poor craythurs aboord, that couldn't
live at home here in Ireland, away to furrin countries. Ocli,
God help thim ! They had hardship here, aiul there's lots o'
hardship afore 'em. There's husban's, an' wives, an' fathers, an'
sons, an' mothers, an' daughters, an' ould, ould friends, partin'
there afore us that 'ill niver meet again. Isn't it hard for thim to
leave the ould land, an' the ould fire.side, and to drop the last tear
on the grave in the ould churchyard 1 Och fareer garish /*
Many have gone a'ready, an' more 'ill follow, but few 'ill iver
come back." '
Shawn was in one of his usual reflective moods, there was
an air of sadness in his words, and, while in this state, he some-
times used exclamations in Irish which probably had a deeper
meaning for himself.
" What are all those people in that other large ship for,
Shawn? What a crowd ! — and they're all in red like soldiers."*
"Yis, thim is all sojers — every one. That's what they calls
a throop-ship. They're takin' thim poor fellows off to furrin
* Bitter misfortune.
82
Family Creeds.
ill !
f
w
landtt, luaylK) to tight an' kill other Hojers that they niver had a
quarrel wid ; or inayby to fight wid a worse inimy — the fever or
the pistilence — that has brought many a strong man low down.
Och, there's civilization for you, as they calls it ! They're takin'
'em off, an' the plough an' the spade may rust, an' the land be
untilled, maybe, that they may do the work of the tyrant in some
other field. Oyea, what a way to delude men to death's doore
wid flags fly in', an' dhrums beatin', an' music play in' — hidin'
the skull an' cross bones — ^until they walk into the very grave !
An' thin the more bloody it is, the more glory, as they calls
it, the dead sojer has. Oh, mille gloria I if the grave is the
poor sojer's glory they'll hav' 'em in plinty ; for graves they're
sure to find, but not among these ould hills ; but their bones
will be scattered here an' there upon other hills, an' the raven,
an' the vulture, will pick 'em clane."
I had always heard Shawn denounce war in his own way ;
he thought it a great iniquity. He looked upon soldiers as
he would upon slaves ; and I feel almost certain that if he
met a recruiting sergeant displaying ribbons and bright shil-
lings, he would warn the tempted peasant, or poor laborer, to
beware of the treacherous man-trap then in his way. Re-
cruits would not have been very numerous if Shawn could
have prevented it.
"Well, there's another vessel off alone at a distance near
that fort ; there is no other ship near it. See, some of them on
board are dressed in red, but the most of them in a kind of
gray. The sailors are now letting down the sails, and the ves-
sel begins to move on its way out, but I see no one near in
boats or on shore to wave an adieu. None but the sailors are
stirring on deck. The other people, the passengers I suppose
— perhaps they are invalids — keep unusually still. Can that
be an hospital-ship ] "
The Convict Ship.
83
Shawn Keenieil to be thinking for a few moments before he
made a reply.
*' Yis, you might wt-ll cull it a hoHpital-ship — that's the right
name for it after all. Thim in red is the guards, an' thim in
gray (men, an' God help uh ! women too), is every one of 'em
Hick an' diseased, an' afflicted so bad as not to be fit to live
among others— physic will niver cure 'em. They're all outcasts
— lepers — yes lepers — that's it. The judge an' the jury, an'
the whole cooi^s have said so, an' the law says that many of
'em are even dead a'reody ; an' now they're takin' 'em away,
away to a distant land to bury 'em forever. Wisha, many of
'em wouldn't care to be buried at once in the deep say ! Some
of 'em is so bad that they'll niver get well ; some of 'em will
weep day an' night, an' night an' day, an' wrinkles an' gray
hairs will come long afore their time ; an' some whose hearts is
stony an' dead, don't care what comes an' will niver shed an-
other tear. Och, wirra, wirra, the shadow of misfortune is over
some from their very cradles ! "
" Poor people ! I'm very sorry for them, Shawn. I suppose
some of them would do better and be very good if they had a
chance 'i "
" Little chance for thim now, alanna ! Few will pity an'
none will pardon, an' none will offer to make crutches for broken
laws. But from the time that most of those poor convicts was
childer, what have they learnt but evil 1 Too many of 'em
born to misery, without house or home, without a sure meal or
sufficient rags to cover them ; only too often seein' the rich who
had nearly all to themselves, still plundering the poor, an' the poor
gettin' still poorer. Naythur judge nor jury took their timpta-
tions into account, though bringin' 'em madness or dispair. Want
of work, an' hunger, an' maybe the dhrink, has left most o'
them where they are. Yet there's some among them who never
^
^1*
I'M
ifi
1%
• \Li
:p
84
Family Greeds.
Ul
stole a turnip or a loaf o' bread, or struck down an oppressor,
but they cried out against bad laws, an' '^ad laws called thim
rebels an' made thim felons as corrupt as the rest ; an' they're
all thv3re thrown together in a heap one to infect the other.
They'll go out on the ocean away from here without hearing a
single farewell ; they'll be no one ntjar to lift a hand to say
goodbye, or God bless you ; for most of those you see are in
chains ari' fetters ; and that's a convict-ship about to sail away
with its cargo oi sin an' sorrow."
We remained silent for some time until the black prison-ship
had drifted out of the harbor. It seemed to lessen its distance
from the shore with a kind of funereal motion, as if rjeluctant to
depari/ Shawn's ri^flections at the time must have been like my
own. His face was hidden in his hands as if disinclined to look
any longer at the distant object. Though I was very young I
could not help meditating on his words and commiserating my
fellow creatures who were 'inder sentence of barashment. I
pitied them from my heart. And as I saw them on their lonely
way, apparently without a single relative or friend to watch
their departure, with a heaving bosom, I jumped up, and stand-
ing by Shawn's side, I kept waving my cap until my arm grew
tired. Perhaps that little friendly signal was never seen }>y
any one of those for whom it was intended, or, it might be,
that some tearful eye, turned towards heaven for comfort, had
caught its faint shadow in the clear air, and, like the dim, dis-
tant wing of the dove hovering over the ark upon the bleak
waters, it might have brought the first germ of hop.^ to some
poor castaway of misfortune.
But now they were getting far out upon the waves, and
houses, and rocks, pnd trees, and many old familiar land marks
must have already di.sappeared. Though the sunlight could
still be seen on the fluttering sails of the vessel, I could not
av(
po(
din
it r
bir
The Convict Ship.
85
avoid thinking that there were shadows around many of the
poor fluttering hearts then borne away ; and that many eyes
dimmed with tears of sorrow and repentance as they looked,
it might be for the last time, upon the fading land of their
birth.
^^K
^-^^1
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S:^*.?'
3
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k
U';S
CHAPTER IX.
AN EXPLANATION, AND A UKLIEK.
AFTER we had sat for a time longer in silence I thought it
was best to say something to Shawn about that which con-
cerned me so much. We were alone, as 1 had so often wished
to be, and I now had with me the only friend to whom 1 could
freely apeak of that which had for sonje time been so oppressive.
Yet strange to say I had already begun to hesitate. I had been
actually deliberating whether it was better to keep my secret a
little longer and wait until some special occasion should draw
it forth without any needed effort on my part. We often wish
for opportunities, but frequently when they come unexpectedly
or after long seeking, we feel disinclined to take advantage of the
desired chance ; we procrastinate, and the opportunity is let
slip, it is lost for the time, and too often lost perhaps for ever.
I thought of this at the moment, but still my resolution began
to flag. 1 knew that whatever Shawn told mo would be the
truth, and 1 feared that his explanation should be such as to make
me discontented or unhappy for years. Would it be wisdom
to seek for information that could do me no good, or for know-
ledge that would perhaps only reveal a past weakness of one to
whom I owed so much. How often tlo we close our eyes, and
stop our ears, and turn away, lest we should see or hear, or
discover anything that might exhibit a blemish or imperfection
An Explaruttion, and a lielief.
87
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in the idol of the heart. Were it not that I loved ray mother
so well I could have been more indifferent an to what Shawn
possibly had to reveal, but I was afraid that in explaining my
mystfsry he would have to say something detracting to the
brightness and purity which I fancied belonged to her alone.
As it was I had never heard much, in fact scarcely anything,
of my mother's early history. Indeed it had never occurred to
me to make the least incjuiry concerning her. I thought, as
most other boys think, that nii/ mother was the most amiable,
the most beautiful, and the most virtuous woman living. She
had no doubt been a pretty, innocent girl, with blushing cheeks
and long brown curls, fond of dolls and little pets like other
children. She had, 1 believed, })een for a time at a fashionable
bo rding school, and had learned a little French, got to know
st.'uething of German, and knew something of philosophy; had
become skilled to a very passable extent in music ; could play
waltzes and operatic pieces on the piano, and could sing well,
with rare expression and excjuisite feeling. Much care had
evidently been taken with her religious education ; and, better
than all, she bad acquired a good knowledge of her own lan-
guage, and of several important matters which had become use-
ful in after life. And then, when she had grown up to be a
l)eautiful young lady, she had no doubt fascinated my father,
and he, like a sensible man, had made her his wife.
This was the inclination of my ideas concerning my mother
before I l»ul discovered the portrait. Pcrplexc^l and toniunited
as I afterwards was, I tried to account for her being clothed in
a nun's dress, or what appeared to be sucli. She must, I thought,
have been partly educated in a convent, and the rules of the
institution perhaps recjuinsd that a garb of this knul should be
worn by lady boarders under tuition. She liad proV)ably been
religiously romantic, like many other young ladies, and auuci-
IT
'I
88
Family Creeds.
pating conventual life, had donned the sombre habit of a recluse
in order to have her portrait taken as one of the pious sis erhood.
But why should she have already anticipated the forlornness
and hopelessness of those who foolishly leave the sweetest com-
forts and blessings of life, by wearing that sad expression ; for
the face of the portrait was sadness itself. I tried to account
for these, but, after all, every ingenious supposition was unsatis-
factory. And then, again, v hy was it that that ghost or spectre-
priest, or whatever he was, took such an interest in her ] Why
was it that he had gazed so intently at the mute face 1 Why
had he kissed the portrait, and sighed antl wept like any living
mortal in the agonies of despair 1 There was something in this
which I could not understand, and it was the explaixation of
that something which I now almost dreaded.
In this extremity I' thought it best to introduce another sub-
ject, :^o that after having discussed that, our speech could flow
on, and ripple as it were around the rock which seemed to
obstruct further progress, — " Shawn, what are you ] "
" What am I," returned he, with the least look of surprise ;
" Well, child, only a poor, ignorant man."
*' Oh no, you are not. But that's not what I mean. What
religion are you 1 "
" What religion ? Musha," replied he, after a pause, " I .sup-
pose I'm something like the rest — yes, I suppose so."
** Of course you are, o:i..wn. Wern't you born and baptized
a Catholic ] "
" Faith, maybe I was, an' maybe I wasn't," said he reflect-
ively. "r> what do I know about it, alanna? — 'twould l)e
hard for !•.'- o tell."
"Well, you know every one must U'long to some religion,
Shawn, 'ma says so : and she says that you are a Catholic,
because you were baptized a Cathnlic. '
An Explanation, and a Relief.
89
" Och shure, av I was baptized a Turk that wouldn't make
nie one, av I didn't believe in the Turks. An' I don't know
yet what religion manes or what's the use av id unless to keep
a body fightin' and disputin' about nothin' or about somethin'
that nobody knows any thin' about."
" But, Shawn, I can tell you what religion means. It means
— it means — it means- -that we're all very wicked, you
know."
Keally, I was puzzled myself at the moment to tell what it
did mean ; but this was the best impromptu explanation I could
give.
" Oh, av coorse, wicked enough I suppose, an' there's plinty o'
room in us all for improvement ; I know that. Yes, child maybe
we're all very wicked," continued Shawn very slowly, " but the
' wickedest people I know av is thim that is bothered wid so much
religion ; an' faith 7. think, from what I've seen, the less a body
has av it the better for all sides. They say it's the only thing
to save the sowl. VVisha maybe it is, av there's a sowl to save,
but while it's been dooin' that, it's often an' often dhriven the
heart cbne out av minny a man, an' made him a Turk and a
savage to thim that hev inny other kind av^ religion than hid
own "
" Indeed, I don't know, Shawn," said I, still puzzled ; but
ma says th",t unless we have religion we cannot get to heaven ;
and that there is but one true Church, and that is the Catholic
Church. Sht says ihat pa, and William, and I are Protest-
ants — am I a Protestant, Shawn 1 "
" Av coorse you are, avick ; but you should know best. Iv
christenin' made you one, you were christened, fur I saw thim
doin' it. There was yer father, an' yer Aunt Kitty, an' a man
wid a book, an' a bowl o' wather. They said you was goin' io
die. an' when they flung that over you, och mono7H ! " you
t^
90
Family Greeds.
didn't exactly spake out, you said what you could loud enough
in yer own way to njake 'em believe that there was more life in
you than they expected at inny rate — Oyea ! I'm sure I'll
remimber that screech av yours fur niinny a long day yit."
" Now Shawn," said I, rather confidentially, " I want to tell
you something. Ma says I don't Ix^long to the true Church,
and that I can't be saved unless I do. And O, Shawn, you
don't know how she frets, and prays, and cries for me on that
account. She says that if I died now, that I could not go to
heaven, and that she could not even pray for my soul. She wants
me now to be baj>tized again, and to be a Catholic like herself."
Shawn looked at me for a moment or two with a scrutiniz-
ing eye, — " She wants you to be baptized, avick, does she 1" and
then he added rather emphatically, "an' what would yer father
think o' that, child ?"
" I'm sure I don't know, Shawn," replied I, in a hesitating
way ; " but ma says I must not tell — only, you know, I may
tell you."
As Shawn sat by me he clasped his knees and looked more
thoughtful than before. After having remaired silent for nearly
a minute he f-i>oke with unusual calmness, and said, "Well,
alamm, yer moiher is a good woman — one av the best ; an' her
advice is goua, and she wouldn't willingly desave ; but she's
desavin'yer father now — the only way sh^ would iver desave him
— an' she's givin' you ad vice that he wouldn't give you — an' she
knows that an', after all, she thinks she's right in desavin'.
There its for you ! Och, avirk rnachree, this is only another proof
fur me av what religion can do wid blind, blind believers ! Her
intention is good, but she's even desavin' herself, an' her religion
makes her think there's no harm in doin' a little wrong fur
your sake — a wrong that ytn' father might iii\'er forget or niver
forgive."
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An Explanation, and a Relief.
91
le's
Indeed from Shawn's very impressive remarks I had begun
to think that tliis matter of re-baptism was something which
would possibly be more serious in its consequences to us all
than I had allowed myself to imagine. I was, above all things
willing to gratify my mother ; but what if my compliance
i'esulted in causing a serious disagreement between my parents 1
Still I could not look at the matter in so grave a light as Shawn
seemed to view it, and I thought I should make a plea for her
motives.
" But perhaps she is right, Shawn, after all. She knows
what is best for me surely ; and I'd be willing to do anything
to please her. If I were baptized ever so often I don't think it
would make me change my mind a bit ; and pa need not know
anything about it. I don't think that religion would cause ma
to do anything which she really thought to be wrong."
" No, child, av there was inny rale good in it, it oughtn't.
But wirra, wirra, what strife an' misery, an' misfortune it has
brought here around us in ivery town an' county all through
this country as long as I kin remember ! No doubt yer mother
thinks she's right, an' she wants to do what she thinks is best
fur you ; but shure yer father is a judge av sich things too,
an' his religion makes him think the other way. Lor' save us !
what wont religion make min an' wimindo. Shure I've seen it
ivir since I was a little gossoon."
It seemed to me that Shawn had singular ideas about relig-
ion, but much as I thought of his opinion on nearly all other
matters, I of course preferred to believe that my mother was
right, and that I ought to comply with her request. I was also
under the impression that in course of time —perhaps betoro my
change of creed had reached his ears — that my tather would
think as she tlid, and that we would all be Catholics. Besides,
was not my mother most exemplary — kind, and good, and
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92
Family Creeds.
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amiable in every respect, simply because she was all the time
so religious ; while my father, who nev(!r exhibited much piety,
was hasty, and was, according to my immature judgment, only
religious when he was arguing with his partner, Mr. Casey, or,
while in angry mood, telling my mother that the Pope was the
" man of sin."
" Shawn," said I at last, " I don't know much about these
things, and I fear I'm not soon going to be much the wiser.
It's no matter to me what religici I am, its all the same, only
that I would like to please ma'. She said I might tell you, and
81 I have, and I now want you, and she wants you, to come
with us to-morrow and see me baptized a Catholic. We want
you to be present. I thought to have you for a god-father, but
ma says that I'm old enough to answer for myself and that I
won't want one now ; any way you must be there, Shawn."
"Well, child," said Shawn, "you know that I'd do a good
deal, almost anythin', fur you or yer mother — you know I'd go
far to sarve you both, I'd travel miles an' miles, an' suffer
hunger and thirst, an' hate, an' cowld, av id would do ye any
good — but I can't do that. I saw you christened once, an' I
don't want to see it agin. No, no ; how could I look up in yer
father's face — the man that would thrust me a'most with his
life — after doin' that. No, avick, all the goold in airth, an'
all the pearls and diamonds in the bottom o' the say, wouldn't
tempt me to desave him that far — an' I niver could — an' I
won't."
I must admit that I was rather taken aback by Shawn's
determined refusal ; for he must have had powerful reasons of
his own to keep him from being with us. I felt at once that it
would be useless to try and prevail on him to be a witness
of my new baptism. Besides, I had sense enough to see that
it would be placing him in a false position with ray father,
An Explanation, and a Relief.
98
I of
it
JSS
Ut
who had such implicit confidence in his integrity. I also felt
that my motlier would be disappointed, but that she would bo
generous enough to make allowance for his honest scruples, and
would not renew the request. At any rate, I knew that she
could rely upon hi^ keeping the matter secret, and that come
what would, no matter how serious the event might prove for
her domestic happiness, no matter if every earthly hope of suc-
cess depended on the result, she would never rest content until
I was made a nismber of the True Church and enrolled among
the faithful. Turning to Shawn again I said, " I know that
ma' would not ask you to do anything fchat she thought was not
right. She thought it would be no harm for you to be present,
that you as a Catholic would be rather pleased and would not
object, but as you won't come be sure for her sake and never
say a word to pa' about it."
" Take care of that yourself, child," said Shawn impressively,
" take care of that. If he hears of it, it might be a day of sor-
row for your poor mother."
Shawn remained silent for a time as if in deep thought, and
then he slowly added, " There'll be throuble in this yit. Sooner
or later 'twill be known — and thin "
He did not finish the sentence, but his suppression of perhaps
ominous words which were upon his tongue left a very dis-
agreeable impression on my mind, and to rid myself of this I
commenced at once,
" Shawn, did you ever see a ghost ? "
" A ghost ] " replied he, turning to look at me with some sur-
prise at such a question, " a ghost, alanna 1 Arrah which kind
av a ghost 1"
"Oh, a regular ghost — a real dead ghost, you know."
"A' dead ghost 1" said he with a kind of incredulous smile,
" well, maybe I did, and maybe 1 didn't. I've seen miny a live
94
Family Creeds.
one. Shuro there's plinty livin' now that is only their own
ghosts — the ghosts av what they once was. Did you iver see
one, avick V
" Really I don't know, but I think I saw something very
like one."
" P'raps 'twas one av Nelly Carberry's ghosts. She has 'em
you know at her linger inds ; inny way on the tip of her
tongue."
" I know she has, Shawn. If I only believed half what she
told me about them I could fancy that spirits were behind us,
and before us, and all around about us, and that the very air
was filled with them. Oh, such frightful stories as .she used to
tell me ! Many an hour 1 lay in bed trembling when I ought
to have been asleep ; and then when I slept they came to me in
my dreams."
" Inny way, 'tis well you don't b'lieve half she towld you.
Av you doubt lialf, you may soon doubt the whole. To be able
to doubt at all where so miny b'lieve is no bad sign ; fur doubt
is the first step out av delusion. Av there's ghosts in the air
let 'em stay there, that's the right place for 'em, an' thim that's
always a dhreamin' about 'em is the most likely to come across
sich shadows in their dhrames ; an' faith it's my opinion they'll
niver be seen inny where else,"
" But, Shawn, there must be spirits. I don't care so much
for what Nelly says, but ma tells me that dead people can come
back, and so does my aunt, and so does everybody. Ma says
there was a time when the dead got up from their graves
and walked about so that they could be seen ; and my aunt once
read for me how the witch of Endor raised Samuel from his
tomb, and she told me that religion teaches many such things."
"So it does, so it does, but yit it may not be all ixactly
thrue. There's plinty even doubts religion itself. One b'lieves
An Explanation, and a Relief.
95
■s
one thing, an' another h'licvcs another. Some b'lieves in
Luther, an' some in the Pope, an' some in nothin' at all. Some
won't b'lieve in hell, Home won't h'lieve in purgatory, some
won't b'lieve in sayin' a prayer, an' some says that you may
b'lieve as much as you likt; an' yit not be able to raise the dead,
or to walk upon wather barrin' 'twas well frozen, or to —
wisha, the Lord knows what, fur I don't. Av there's anything
to bewildher a poor craythur in this world or anywhere else,
shure its religion ; an' what an uproar there's about it intirely,
an' what scribblin' and debatin' an' tightin' there's among the
whole av 'em, clargy an' all, about their popes an' their bishops,
an' their churches, an' their angels an' saints, and their ghosts,
a?i' their witches — musha you might as well b'lieve all that
Nelly Carberry tells you at wance, fur maybe she has as good
grounds fur b'lievin' all that she b'lieves as they have."
*' If she saw what I saw, Shawn, I'm sure she'd always believe
in real ghosts."
" What did you see, then ^ Tell us what it was."
" Well, I saw a priest or a spirit when I was in bed up in
the big room. I saw him more than once. I saw him two
different nights."
" Did you see him when you wur asleep ] Was it in your
dhrame you saw him 1 P'raps 'twas the ghost uv the dead
priest that I took you tu see long ago in the big church in
town."
" No, Shawn," said I, remembering the circumstance ; " that
priest was lying dead in his coffin with wax candles burning
around him, in the middle of thp noon-day, and there were
people looking at him and crying ; but the one I saw in the
big room came in the middle of the night, he stood in the
moonlight and he was looking at something, and crying him-
self."
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Fa/mily Creeds.
"an'
" An' you saw that more'n wance V inquired Shawn ;
are you shure that you wur not asleep T
" As sure as that I'm not asleep now. When 1 saw it the
first time I told them all about it in the house, but after a
while they said it was a deception — my ma said so too ; but
when I saw it again plainer than ever I kept it to myself with
what I afterwards found ; and, O Shawn, how I longed for
you to come so that I could tell you about it, for keeping it so
long to myself made me quite sick.^'
He turned and looked at me closely. I was perfectly calm,
and I perceived that he was prepared to place some reliance on
my story. In a few minutes I told him of what I had seen,
how I was frightened the first time I had seen the apparition,
and almost terrified the next time. I described the priest —
slight in form, having a tonsure, past the middle age, and
wearing a soutaine; of how he had sighed and* wept while
looking at something which he held in his hand ; of his sudden
exit when Nelly Carberry came to the door, and finally of my
search and discovery the next day, and of the anxiety which,
since that time, was to me so distressing.
Shawn sat in deep cogitation — my tale had evidently set him
thinking, for he was plainly impressed with the truth of what
I had stated. At last he said :
" That was no dead ghost you saw. I think I've seen that
priest's face myself ; aye more'n wance or twice or a dozen
times ; an' I think I know how he got in an' how he went
out."
I now nervously drew forth the little portrait. "There,
Shawn," said I, " is what I have discovered." And I think my
voice must have trembled a little when I asked him in a sub-
dued tone, " Can you tell me whose face that is V
He gazed at it for a few moments, then he looked inquiringly
An Explanation, and a Relief.
97
at me. " I know it, alanna," said he in his tenderest manner,
an' I now see why it troubled you so much. But its not her's,"
(he must have read my very thoughts), " its the picthur uv
one* that's gone — 'tis not her's, alanna. Tliat's the face uv
yer mother's sister that died afore you was born."
y
CHAPTER X.
AN UNSAFE GUIDE
MY mother was delighted when we got home that evening
to see that I was so much improved. My mind had
certainly been greatly relieved in one respect, and I returned
her embrace with a more impulsive feeling than ordinary. I
felt once more that she was all that a mother could be, and
that if it were possible to increase my love for ner I should do
80 in order to compensate, or atone, for any doubt that I had
even for a moment ever allowed myself to ent^tain as to her
goodness or purity. Of course she made inquiries as to where
we had been, and I told her that we had sat on the hill for
some time watching the ships coming in and going out, and
that we had visited two or three other pleasant places, and
that, as of old, I had enjoyed Shawn's conversation and society
very much. I was careful, however, to give no hint relating
to the subject which had been the most engrossing, and I
thought it best to delay a little longer saying anything as to
Shawn's refusal to be present at the ceremony of my baptism
on the next day.
They had been busy in the house during our absence. My
father, and brother, and other visitors were expected on Satur-
day, and a great deal of cleaning up, and polishing, and putting
things in order had been done. The girls had gone out early
An Unsafe Guide.
99
I
to
ism
ty
ir-
in the day, and only Ellen had returned. I was disappointed
to learn that little Jane would not be back perhaps for a day
or two, anyway not before the arrival of our expected visitors.
She had been pressed to remain with a lady who resided a mile
or so distant from our place, and as my sister had been made
aware of the necessity for Jane's absence, she induced her to
stay away until house- cleaning was over — this I suppose was
the excuse — and that she and I should call for her probably
before Sunday.
After tea my mother took me with her on a tour of inspec-
tion. £very room had been overhauled and put in extra
order, and mine in particular had a few extra pictures and
decoi-ations. The pictures were mostly of saints in various
pious attitudes, placed there one might fancy so that I could
receive their mute congratulations, and that they could watch
over and protect me after I had received due admission into
the fold, and become a member of the hoiy Roman Catholic
and Apostolic Church. A feeling akin to that which would in-
duce my mother to decorate my sister's chamber were she about
to become a bride, had in all probability led her to make these
little extra additions to my room —they had been placed there
by her own hand — for was I not already on the eve of my
espousal of the True Faith 1 Anyway she was quite safe in doing
so, as it was not at all likely that my father when he came
would look into my apartment. Even if he did, he would scarcely
notice what had been done, or object to the pictures ; for rigid
as he sometimes was in his own religious feelings, he never
that I knew of objected to my mother having such emblems of
devotion in her own room, or would never allude in an offen-
sive way to her church or its peculiar discipline, unless angered
by religious debate, or something else.
We had been nearly all over the house before we entered
ll
ft,i
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100
Family Creeds.
the big room. I had scarcely put my foot inside the door lie-
fore I was startled by the gloomy appearance of the apartment.
Though the evening was far advanced, and the shadows deep-
ening around, it was yet sufficiently light to permit the deep red
blush to be seen still lingering on the hills, as if the fading dAy
was reluctant to depart, or yield to the approaching solemnity
of night. But the room was gloom itself. The window-blinds
were closely drawn, the air was almost chilly, and a feeling of
sadness seemed to take possession of us as we stood there alone.
I held my mother's hand, she seemed to be in a very serious
mood, and as I looked towards the recess, I was almost startled
again when I discovered that it was draped in black, that a
small altar covered with the same melancholy color had been
erected where an altar had stood years before ; the edges of the
dark altar-cloth being trimmed or bound with i white band,
forming a contrast which made you think at once of death.
On the back centre of the altar there was a silver crucifix, on
each side of this there were three long silver candlesticks, and
there were other articles thereon suitable and necessary for re-
ligious purposes.
Though the eye is generally attracted by brightness, yet
there are times when the vision has an unnatural inclination to-
wards gloom. When the heart is full of joy its effulgence is
seen in the countenance, and the eye will delight in brilliancy,
but when all is clouded with sadness, and when hope no longer
dwells in the breast, then dazzling light seems but a mockery,
and we turn away to seek in the shade for something more in
correspondence with our own sombre feelings.
As it was, I was already sufficiently depressed to look upon
the altar and its surroundings with a kind of complacency. There
was a suitability in them with the emotions which influenced me
at the moment, and which soon subsided into a calm solemnity.
An Unsafe Guide.
101
re-
yet
to-
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ger
in
ine
We stood looking at the apparently funereal arrangements that
had been made. What could these meani My mother re-
mained silent I looked up and her eyes were sad and down-
cast. Her thoughts were most likely with the past, and memory
was perhaps busy bringing back to view incidents connected
with some life which had been blotted out from the firmament
of existence, but which had left, it might be, the shadow of its
cares, its sorrows, or its misfortunes to return annually in the
circuit of her years ; and that its spreading gloom had already
reached her. I felt no inclination to disturb her ; my thoughts
were no doubt flowing along the same current as her own. At
last she said :
" John, you are no doubt surprised at what you see, but I
will tell you the reason of this." She gave a deep sigh and
then there was another pause. " To-morrow my dear will be
the twelfth anniversary of poor A unt Mary's death, and at the
particular request of a friend of hers, as well as to gratify a
strong desire of my own, we are going to have a mass for the
repose of her soul celebrated here in the morning. You will
attend, and immediately afterwards your baptism shall take
place. We had the altar erected here to-day ; the clergyman
who is to officiate assisted us, it can easily be removed again,
and the room will appear as usual."
She seemed to be deeply interested in this matter, which she
appeared to consider as one of the greatest importance ; and as
her allusion to my baptism reminded me of Shawn's objection
to be present, I thought that this was as good an opportunity as
I could have to tell her of it. My mother noticed that I ap-
peared disinclined to remain any longer in the room. It was
growing dark, and I someway preferred at the time to be in any
other place. Before we left the room she bent her head and
muttered a prayer and then devoutly crossed herself. We went
f
102
Family Creeds.
out, and when she locked the door we stood together looking
from a bank window from which we could see the garden. It
was almost night, one or two little stars could be dimly seen,
and my mother appeared to watch one of these as if it were a
celestial oasis, a momentary resting-place for her thoughts while
on their way to penetrate further into the great desert-like
futurity far, far beyond. No doubt she had just been dwelling
sadly on the past, and an excursion towards the realms of hope
would give her a fairer and more encouraging aspect of human
existence.
" Ma," said I, " see, there is Shawn pacing up and down that
walk in the garden. How glad I am that he is with us again.
I don't know what we should do without him."
I often noticed that at times Shawn had a great desire to
be alone, particularly about eventide. He would then become
reflective, and his mental commentaries on human affairs,
and his thoughts on his own peculiar position, and on that
of others in a like condition, would, I often fancied, if written
out, and printed, and read, afford rich suggestions for the
philosophical optimists, or pessimists, who are in deep specu-
lation as to whether things might be worse or better than
they now are ; and would also furnish rare texts for the
comfortable clergy who preach that content with our lot —
no matter how wretched — and with the seeming disposition
of human affairs by Providence, is the duty of all.
" Shawn is a wonderful man," said my mother, returning
from her astral exciirsion, " a faithful creature, one of the best,
who, if I am not greatly mistaken, would have made his mark
in the world if he had only been educated. There is as much
good in Shawn as in any man I ever knew ; I have tried him a
hundred times and have never yet been once deceived."
" I think he knows more than any other man, except pa ; and
An Unsafe Guide.
103
I'm sure he knowH nearly as much about many things as pa
does. But, ma, Shawn tells me there is one thing he knows
nothing about, and that's religion ; he told me many a time
that he doesn't really know the use of it."
" I am sorry for that, my dear," said my mother, a little sur-
prised. "Without religious information, and religious influ-
ences, all other knowledge would be of little or no service in
the long run ; it would I fear be only too often a drawback.
However, I have seldom spoken to Shawn on the subject ; like
most others he has scarcely given the matter any consideration.
I only know that he is a Catholic, which is a great thing for
him, yet I fear that he is very remiss in his duties as a Chris-
tian — very careless, like too many. It won't be always so I hope.
Religion affords the greatest comfort to the poor."
" Shawn will never be religious, ma ; I know he won't from
what he says ; that is, he doesn't care for going to the chapel
or to mass. But he's religious in other ways ; for I know he is
very charitable. I have often seen him give halfpence to the
poor when he had only few halfpence for himself. Isn't that
the best kind of religion, ma 1 Shawn says it is."
" Then he's deceived, my dear," said my mother with a little
warmth. " Unless he hears the Church, his charity is good for
nothing. People round about us that don't belong to the true
faith are charitable, and the heathens are charitable, but good
works, to be accounted worthy in the sight of Heaven, must
flow through the true Church ; none others can be acceptable,
they will profit him or them nothing."
I must admit that this theory which my mother tried to
make impressive, was rather in conflict with my sense of
natural justice ; but I tried to persuade myself that she knew
best, and was right ; still I would have had much difficulty in
coming to the conclusion that Shawn was wrong. Anyway, I
104
Family Creeda.
could make nothing of it ; the matter was ho perplexing, or bo
profound, that it left me entirely beyond my depth.
" But why was Shawn left bo ignorant one way, mat" Haid I,
quite incapable of discuBHing the subject of natural goodneas.
" Why wasn't he taught to read and vrrite as I have been 1
Whose fault was that 1 It wasn't hiH, for I am sure nothing
has troubled him so much as not to be able to read a book.
He is always glad to have me or anyone else read to him — my
aunt reads the Bible for him whenever she comes — and he told
me many a time that there were plenty left like him, and that
he was more ashamed of his ignorance than of his poverty.
He has often and often said that there was too much religion
in the M'orld, and too little useful knowledge and common sense.
I don't think Shawn is a Catholic, ma ; he's nothing." .
" He was baptized a Catholic, my dear, and that's enough for
one like him. The Almighty will overlook his ignorance.
Want of education is no fault of his. Indeed I can't say who
is to blame. I suppose his parents were too poor to send him
to school ; besides I suppose he has had to work for a living
ever since he was a little boy. But better for him to be an
humble Catholic not able to tell one letter from another, than
to be a learned professor, yet a despiser of the true faith.
Bible reading will do him no good."
" Poor Shawn !" said I. " What a pity ! He would have
been such a fine scholar if he could only read and had plenty
of books ; he would be so pleased to be able to teach others,
particularly poor people. He knows a good deal as it is, for
he told me ever so many things that I did not know before,
and he has such a way of finding out things. I would have
taught him to spell and read, but he says that its too late now,
and he always wants me to read to him instead ; he will listen
to any one. When my Aunt Kitty comes she always brings
An UnMbfe Guide.
105
liave
Uty
[ers,
for
>re.
hor little Bible and nhe reads that for him, and would for Nelly
CHrl>erry, too, if who would listen."
" Nelly is like myself," stiid my mother, '* she would rather
n^od h(^r prayer book. Lon^ ago your aunt used to bring me
tracts, and Protestant publications, but it was of no use, my
conscience! forl>ade me to look at them ; 'twould l)o l»ettor for
Shawn if ho ha<l never heard a text from your aunt's Bible."
" Ho has a wonderful memory and rememl)ers almost every-
thing told him. My pa once said to him that ho would make
a great naturalist, that is, I suppose, one fond of making dis
coveriea Once, when Shawn and I wens up on the top of a
very high hill, ho broke a stone, and showed mo shells, like
little cockle shells, in it ; and thcro were bits of *>roken claws
like shrimp's claws, and what looked like the ribs and Imnes of
little tish there also, and he asked me how these came to be in
the stone. At first I said I didn't know, but then I remem-
bered what I hoard pa once sjvy, and I told him that I supposed
they were brought there somehow at the time of the great
deluge. But Shawn only smiled at this explanation, for ho
said thei-e never vas such a thing or could be such a thing as a
flood sutticicnt to cover the whole earth at one time, and that
it was no more to be l)elieved than that God had once come
down to confuse the workmen lest they should build the tower
of Babel as high as Heaven itself. Oh I can't rememl)er the
number of things he told me. No matter where he goes ho is
always finding out something. But, ma, I'm quite certain he
is not a Catholic or anything else ; for he told me he did not
believe in baptism ; that if he was baptized a Turk that that
would not make him one. No, no ; Shawn is nothing."
I perceived at once that my mother seemed very much sur-
prised at what I told her as to Shawn's opinion on religious
subjects ; and she also appeared greatly concerned as to the
8
106
Family Creeds.
eiTect Huoh teaching might have on me ; her mind was evidently
troubled.
" Well, child," said she, spoaking deliberately after having
remained thoughtful for some time, "if I hatl had the least
idea that Shawn could possibly revile religion in your presence
I should soon have put a stop to it If I had known anything
of this before, I would not have allowed you to hear so much
from the lips of a man whose remarkH or whose teaching might
have turned you aside from all truth. You have \teen in great
danger child. Instruction like that, if I dare call it instruc-
tion, has led many to doubt, and thou to perdition. I am
amazed to hear so much against one in whom I trusted so much.
I thought vou had a safe, innocent guide and companion in
Shawn. Alas, poor man ! who has \teen so prudent and sensible
in so many other ways. Oh, my dear child, how sorry I
am for this ! How has it escaped me so long ? I never doubted
him, I never dreamt that an old and tried servant like Shawn
should ever lose my confidence, or that I should dread, as I do
now, to have him under the same roof with my child. What
misery it might have brought me ! My duty is plain, but oh
how painful ! What a cross I shall be forced to take up ! I
would frame some excuse if Shawn had stolen my purse. If
he should pload, as too many have had to plead, the temptation
of terrible want, I could forgive all. But how can we over-
look a resolute departure from truth 1 Poor man, poor man,
who could have expected this from Shawn 1"
My mother was very much affected ; her feelings for and
against our faithful old servant were in sad conflict at the
moment ; as for mine they were indescribable. The very idea
of Shawn being under such a load of censure, and the chance
of my being separated from him was almost overwhelming.
•• Yes, John," continued my mother, " my duty is plain. I
An Unmfe Guide.
107
Lnd
the
lea
ice
muHt toll your father, and wo must protect you from the con-
tamination of untruths against religion more carefully than we
should try to protect you were you exposed to the contagion of
some dreadful bodily disorder. The evils are not to be com-
pared. Poor man ! it is sad to think that after so many years
we have now to avoid him ; how distressing to think of it !
But, child, these are degenerate days ; the mockery of almost
everything sacred seems to be on the lips of all. The proud
man would deny the existence of Gotl ; the man of wealth is
defiant of Providence. The mechanic is flippant with argumente
against religion ; even the laborer in tlie tield can repeat con-
flicting texts. I have heard of all this. The beggar on the
highway, the ballad singer in the streets, street vendors and
hucksters, and the very school l)oys as they sliout and scuffle,
liave something pert and disrespectful to say against our
churches and our priests, against creeds and doctrines, even
against religion itself. Oh, my dear, how the times are changed,
how opinion has varied ! Naked skepticism is stalking through
the land, and I must shield you from its dread approach. Ood
forbid that you should ever become a mocker of that which is
most sacred ! Alas, poor Shawn ! Your humble poverty, your
want of learning, and your ignorance of many things, might
have been blessings in disguise, but the knowledge of evil
which the serpent has stealthily brought you may bo your
eternal ruin. Poor, poor Shawn !"
My mother sighed heavily and remained silent for a few
moments, while I, with commingled feelings of regret, of sorrow,
and of fear, was unable to say a word in defence of one for
whom at the moment I felt quite willing to die. My heart felt
08 if ready to burst
" But urgent, however, as this matter is," resumed my mother,
" and strict and plain as my duty must be, I shall do nothing
108
Family Creeds.
(:'
I
i
hastily, I must see Shawn myself. You are young and may
posHibly have misumlerHtooil him. I shall <|uestion him closely,
and his implies shall determine whether I .shall speak to your
father about it or not. Though he and I unfortunat<;ly differ
widely yet as to points of faith an<l doctrine, still he, and I, and
those of every creed from Quakers to the wildest Methodists ;
from the aJvocates of the blackest Protestantism to the faithful
of our own Church, are all prompt to unite in a denunciation of
unbelief. T know your father well ; ready as he is to Gtigraa-
tize the Holy (Church of Rome in his angry moments, he will
even in his most calm and reasonable mood be more intolerant
towards skepticism than I could ever be. Yes, I shall first
speak to Shawn ; and if I find that his once pure and simple
mind has }>ecome polluttnl, then my course is clear. Painful as
the duty may be as far as relates to him, and to you, and to us
all, you and he must be separated forever ; or perhaps at least
for years until you are old enough and sufficiently grounded
and instructed in religious knowledge to be able to refute the
sophistical arguments of any scofler you may chance to meet. As
it is, Shawn must not be present to witness your baptism to-
morrow, we shall be better without him."
If 1 had ever seen my dear mother in a perturl)etl state it
must have been at that particular time. Were it any other
woman I should say that she was in an unamiable mood ; and
then afterwards when I told her that Shawn h»ul already
refused to be present at the ceremony of my admission into the
Church of Home, her agitation seemed to iucrease, and her
resolution to become more determined. I soon perceivetl this,
and I felt very sorry for having mentioned anything of Shawn's
refusal ; but my regret was of little avail. The color in her cheek
heightened, and for a few moments she appeared to be flushed
with indignation ; but it was only for a few moments. Presently
An Unsafe Guide.
109
slie grtiw oiliner, her woutetl placid maniior njturiied, a slmtle of
sadncHS paHHcd over her face, and T knew that her sorrow for
Shawn was then of a more latter kind than it would have been
were she sttinding upon the very edge of his grave.
Poor Shawn ! How many times during my trouV>led sl(;ep
that night did he come to me in my dreams. How many times
while I lay awake did 1 try to fancy that all this unexpected
trouble was but a dixjam. Poor Shawn ! What had he done to
me or to any one t^lse to awaken or excite such resentment in
one of the tenderest of human breasts? My friend, my guide,
my companion, and my kind instructor had just been held out be-
fore me as one sulliciently vih; and corru})t to be shunned. His
faithfulness, his honesty, his humanity and his morality could now
be of little avail, they seemcnl to have Ijeen accounteil as but dross
and rubbish ; while his wavering belief or his want of faith in
sacred mysteries, or in the incomprehensible, or his conscientious
refusal to believe what he could not undei-stand, was set down
against him as a crime, which, in the eyes of my mother
— who in no other way could possibly do an injustice — was
worse than felony, Alas ! what cloud had come over her nund,
what evidence of real guilt had she received, how came her
judgment to be so distorted 1 But the cloud was there, and
religious pn^judice was her false witnciss ; and the distortion of
her judgment was appannit, and her sent<Mice wiis resuly to \)e
pronounced. Though terril»ly unjust iis all this might seem to
l>e, I was even then uncertain asto wlu^ther my mother couhl be
unfairly influenced against our old friend. In anguish and in
douV)t I felt unable to plead with hvr in his lu'lialf, and while
tears stmnl in my eyes, my lips were involuntarily framing the
words — poor Shawn.
I'
CHAPTER XI.
MY CHANGE OP FAITH.
BEFORE I got up next morning the rain was battering
against the window panes, and the wind grew so lusty in
its endeavors to find an entrance into my room that it caused the
long branch of a tree standing at some distance to tap, or rather
to rap, against the glass as if determined to wake me up. And
when I did awake and look out no sight could be more dreary.
The sea was hidden, the hills had fled away, the distant moun-
tain was removed — the mist and the fog had performed these
miracles. Objects scarcely fifty yards distant were almost
invisible ; they appeared to be but mere shadows ; and then, as
the wind rushed about here and there, they seemed to tremble
at its approach, as though dreading a blast of annihilation.
On calm nights when the moon shone I could see from the
same window her bright l)eams upon the waters, and could almost
hear the spreading of the wearied waves, fringed with light,
along the shore ; and on clear calm mornings I could see little
billows in the distance playing as it were along the strand with
the early sunbeams. But now how gloomy ! No sounds but
those of the rushing wind and the pelting rain, and nothing visi-
ble but what one might take to be but the spectral appearances
or the misty forms of things that once were. What a difierenee
from the beauty and brightness that could have been surveyed
My Change of Faith.
Ill
around only on the previous morning. As I looked at the
depressing scene, the contrast with what it hat? so lately l>een
was no more remarkable than the contrast in my own feelings.
At sunrise, the day before, as I looked from the same window,
the landscape was most attractive ; I could not fancy even
Heaven more beautiful. Hope then with me was in the ascend-
ant ; my heart was full of joy, and ray anticipations were
most agreeable. Now I felt almost in a state of despondency,
and the future looked nearly as bleak, as clouded, and as dismal,
as the sky upon which I had turned my gaze.
In her most religious moments — and many would perhaps
say that my mother was afflicted with a superabundance of
religious sentiment — she used to tell me that this world was
but a di-eary waste, a place of temptation and trial. My Metho-
dist aunt used to call it " a howling wilderness," and say that its
treacherous attractions were ilefiling and sinful. Many and
many a time she cautioned me against the vanities of human
life, wai'ning mo that the wealth, the honors, and the emolu-
ments of earth, for which the majority of mankind were so eager,
were debasing, and only too often the cause of an estrangement
from Heaven and the loss of priceless souls. 8he often told me
that our natui*al affections were sinful, "/hen so strong or so
deeply rooted as to conflict with our spiritual desires, or to
lessen our inclinations for celestial bliss ; and that our friend-
ship, and our love, and our hopes, and our fears, should all be
held subservient to the demands of religion, and entirely sup-
pressed or abandoned when we discovered that they had the
slightest tendency to make us forgetfid of God.
Gloomy as I felt this morning, I could not, however, coincide
with my mother as to her views of human existence, or as to the
suppression of those f(«lings and emotions which in the aggre-
gate bring more happiness than sorrow to every life. Troubled
'
112
Family Creeds.
as I felt about Shawn, I could not give him up, or view him in
the light that my mother might view him, or judge him as she
was inclined to judge. Notwithstanding what she had said, I
could not discover, so far as I was then capable of understand-
ing, that Shawn had ever said one word against any correct prin-
ciple, or expressed any dangerous opinions hostile to humanity,
or had done any act of which I could not fully approve. Even
at that early and impressible period of my life, my belief was
demanded for much which my reason had at once rejected, and
I could not smother that innate feeling of confidence and
respect I had for one who was the first to lead me out of the
labyrinth of doubt and perplexity in which I had found myself
Though I had almost unbounded confi-
too often involved.
dence in the opinions and decisions of my mother, yet in this
matter, in which Shawn was so deeply concerned, I was some -
way forced to conclude that she was perhaps wrong. What !
my kind old friend to be avoided as an evil companion, and his
suggestions and advice to be held as dangerous or contaminat-
ing ! No, I could not feel this way towards him ; in so doing
I would be unfaithful to correct principle ; for in all my inter-
course with Shawn every word and every act of his bore un-
tloubted evidence of his strict regard for justice and truth.
Gloomy as things now appeared, I could not give up
the world or view it from the same stand-point that my
mother mostly viewed it. Shrouded as its beauties now were
from my eyes, my mental aspect of the creation was still
glorious. And though I was then, as it were, under lowering
clouds and in the i:.idst of doubt and depression, I could after
all see the least gleam of hope ; and that little ray was suffi-
cient to bid me have some trust in the future. Give up the
workn Impossible! It seemcLl to me that life was given in
order that I should enjoy existence physically and intellect-
al
nl
My Change of Faith.
113
ually ; that sight was given that I might delight m the iHiauties
of creption. I hatl a heart, and its most loving and impulsive
throbs were for creatures of th(! earth ; I had emotions and
affections which had the tendc^rest longings for those around
me. Heaven was no doul>t suldiiiu! and beautiful. Saints,
and angels, and archangtjls, were for a certainty grand and
glorious beings. JJut what was th(! unknown heaven to the
little paradise I had here 1 And what were tlu* strange celes-
tial inhabitants, praising, or singing, or smiling, or austere, to
the relatives or friends, to the faces and bosoms, to the voices
and hearts, of those who were already so near and dear to me.
Give up the world ] No. ({iv<j up my mother for the fairest
madonna] Give up my sister for the brightest angel? Give
up little Jane for the most b(!autiful seraph? I could not do
so. I could not take up such a cross. I could not forget my
father, or my brol/her, or Shawn ; or overlook the ties of con-
sanguinity or friendship to secure an int<!rcoursc with any
even in a more exalted sphere. No, my Heaven was already
here, and — though the pious may consider it a proof of natural
degeneracy — I wanted as yet no closer communication with
either saints, or angels, or the elect, than I had even now
among those whom I had found to bt; th(! blessed of the earth;
among those whom my heart had already canonized.
To di*aw near tlu; celestial region as my dear mother, and
my aunt, and other religious persons would hav(; me approach it,
only made the repxited narrow way more gloomy and rc^pulsive j
and even supfirnal glory itself to 1k^ rather unattractive. Many
will have hap})iness to be ever far far olf, something beyond
(5ur present reach, or that which Ix'longs only to the future.
The tales of the gorgeous scenery of distant lands may create
discontent in the minds of many of the imaginative*, and l(;ad
them to long for the mountain peak, or wild ravine, or giddy
114
Family Creeds.
lit '1 I
cliff, or thundering cataract of the exulting foreigner ; and
while yearning for these, tliey may close their eyes to the
natural l>eauty around them, or become indifferent to the pe/-
ceptible yet c|uieter landscapes of their native country, and
thereby wantonly deprive themselves of much enjoyment. The
distant stars in the blue firmament may excite our wonder and
admiration — they are objects of grandeur and tittc'd for the
vast regions of space — but while gazing occasionally on these,
we should never look with contempt on the little lights that
serve to illumine our way, and to cheer the spot of earth which
we may chjince to occupy.
These were the thoughts that occurred during the half-hour
or so that I stood at the window, and on tlu; whole my reverie
after all was rather agi-eeable. Though the clouds still lowered,
and the rain poured down, and the wind rushed about, and the
weather remained dreary, yet I could be comparatively cheer-
ful were it not for my sympathy for Shawn. The moment 1
considered his position, that moment I became again depressed.
Still, though dispirited as I was on his account, I formed the
resolution of saying something in his favor. If I could not
succeed in satisfying my mother, I should try my father, and I
should enlist my sister, and my brother, and Jane in his behalf ;
and if all failed I felt, that come what would, nothing should
alienate me from him who had such a claim on my highest
regards.
While thinking of this and of other matters, I had for the
time quite forgotten what had been arranged to take place that
morning. Mass was to be celebrated at eight o'clock, and
after that I was to be made a Catholic. I must say that when
consideration came, I was, like many who have promised their
hand or made vows rather hastily, now very reluctant to be
led to the altar ; for the one which I was to approach was not
al
tl
My Change of Faith.
115
Ihe
at
u
a thing of the imagination, or a figurative altar, but it was
that lighted and decorated erection belonging to the Church of
Rome, before which I was to disavow an old creetl and
adopt a new belief. Truly I wished at the moment that my
mother had never pressed me to consent to change my faith.
I felt quite indifferent myself as to whether I was called a
Protestant or a Catholic. I knew little as to the nature or
true meaning of religion, certainly little or nothing as to the
real cause of religious disputes ; and I had scarcely the slight-
est predilection for one creed more than for another. Tlie
profession I was now about to make was one to gratify my
mother ; but what if in so doing I was treating my father's
desires concerning me with the greatest disregard. I knew
well, particularly from what I had lately been told, that his
intention was, that I, as well as my brother, should be brought
up as members of the Church of England, and now, heedless of
these purposes — and conflicting with the most solemn arrange-
ments made ■>efore I was born — I had agreed to become a
member of the Church of Rome. My disobedience to him, as
well as my mother's pious deception, might be kept from him
for a time. Who could say how long 1 But, should it come to
his knowledge, I could not help feeling that it would most
likely be as Shawn had partly predicted — a wrong that he
might never forget or never forgive. Impressed with this idea,
I felt as if I had a premonition of danger, and I grew a little
nervous. I was really more concerned for my mother than I
was for myself. I was a boy and could brave it out some way,
or become a Protestant again if necessary ; but she was sensi-
tive, and would feel the shock of my father's anger or indigna-
tion ; she would droop, and might be made unhappy for life.
Still feeling that while she would deplore such a result, I well
knew that she would be willing to make any sacrifice for her
Ij
116
Fa/m/Uy Creeds.
faith, and that no niattor what earthly hliHS waH to ho forfeited,
with the Bpirit of a martyr she would cling to her Church even
if every other hope were lost to her forever. How could I
therefore help feeling miserable ? I however hurried my pre-
parations, my mother promis(Kl to call me early, the time was
now nearly up, and when she came, Kuiiling and f»,pparently
very happy, she led me away, and aH we went along I scarcely
spoke a wortl, hut had doleful forelKxHngs and that peculiar
sinking of heart which a poor condemned criminal must have
on his way to execution. I was ftl)Out to take up a heavy
cross.
The house was very qui(;t this morning ; the wind and the
rain could Ik5 heard outside, but witliin all seemed to be un-
usually calm. I was in my mother's apartment. We knelt,
and she made a kind of preparatory prayer for me ; it was one
of her intercessory invocations to the Blessed Virgin. — My
poor mother ' How her tender heart must have long yearnotl
for my deliverance from a scliismatical creed ! She gave me a
few instructions — which I forgot as soon as I heard — as to
what I should answer or say if interrogated by tlie clergyman,
and when we were ready to go, she handed me a gold coin
which I was to present as my first oft'ering to the Church.
" I shall give this also, ma," said I ; "it is the picture of a
saint or angel which ought to be on the altar with the pictures
of the other saints, this day above all others. Sec — how beau-
tiful!"
I handled her the portmit and watched her face closely. She
looked at it for a moment or two, I saw her lip trend)le a little,
then tears filleil her eyes and she seemed in a state of abstrac-
tion. She looked at the little picture with a kind of pitiful
gaze, and in a short time muttered a prayer for the repose of the
departed soul, and then said, " Poor, poor Mary ! "
My Change of Faith.
117
^£ a
ires
tau-
Uie
tie,
rac-
Iful
bhe
" Do you know who this Ih, child 1 " said she, tunun;; t^ iiio
and hohling the poi'trait partly l>efoi'(> mo.
" I thought at firat it was you, ma," I replied ; ** now I know
that it is the likeness of my Aunt Mary."
'• Where did you get this? — How long have yon had iti"
asked she, referring to the miniature.
" I found it in the l»ig room. It was partly hidden in a little
place in tlm wall in thc^ recess — T can show you wh('ro it
was."
She .seemed .surprise<l, and asked, " Who told you it was your
Aunt Mary ] "
" Shawn."
'* Did you show it to any one else 1 "
" No ; only to you, ma. I would have shown it to you
before only that ." I was not willing to finish the sentence ;
I di«l not want to explain, neither did I wish to say how long
I had had it. She noticed my hesitation, but did not press me
further.
" We shall place it on the altar, my dear," said she, putting
the portrait in her bosom. " It is a saintly picture which will
infuse devotion into another heart besides my own — poor
Mary," 8ai<l she again, sadly, " God be merciful to your soul ! "
We entered the big room ; it was to me more gloomy than it
appeai*ed on the preceding evening. The shadow of my own dreaiy
thoughts seemed to lie there before me. The window-blinds
were down, and though there were lighted candles on the altar,
I thought they made the place look only more solemn and
funereal. My sister and Nelly Carberry knelt before the altar
reading their prayer books ; besides these there were four or five
women whom I did not recognize — only one of th^se seemed to
take any notice of us — repeating prayers and counting beads,
and bent down in the very humblest attitude of devotion. All
118
Family Creeds.
present were dressed in black. I could hear these women sigh
at intervals, and then the wind outside sighed as if in response.
One might imagine at the moment that departed spirits were
awaiting around and soliciting the final prayer which would
liberate them from their purgatorial prison forever. My mother
and I knelt at one side, further from the altar than the others.
She was praying fervently. I had made the sign of the cross —
a preliminary to religious duties with which I had lung been
made familiar — and was trying to repeat a prayer which my
mother had taught me ; it was one to the Virgin, and now I
could scarcely remember more than three words of it. It com-
menced " Hail, holy queen ! " I muttered this, appellation over
and over, but could not get on, and while I knelt there chilly
and uncomfortable, a little bell tinkled, I looked up and a
priest in black vestments stood before the altar ; his back was
to us, he was saying Latin prayers, and a boy near him dressed
in white responded in the same tongue.
I had attended church and had heard mass said before to-
day. My mother had taken me privately more than once to
the great church near our house, mostly, if not always, on week
days. It would have been too greats a risk to have taken me
on Sundays, for my father was then generally at home. To-day
the priest seemed unusually solemn in his manner ; indeed I
thought I had heard him sigh more than once, and when he
repeated the prayer used in masses for the dead commencing,
" Memento etiam Domine," and ending with the words, " et dor-
miunt in aonimo pacis" he and others in the room were visibly
affected, and I know that my mother's eyes were filled with
teal's at the time, and afterwards very often during the service.
This mass, as I then understood, was offered up in behalf of my
Aunt Mary, in the hope that Cbd woidd relent a little to shorten
her sufferings, or exempt her from further purgatorial penalties.
My Change of Faith.
119
I also remember that tears fell on the little l)Ook — " The Key
of Heaven " — I was holding, while I trie<l to read the prayers
which my mother had pointed out ; part of one ended thus,
" As there may l)e many of my friends, relatives, or ancestors,
tonnented in these intense flames, who were the instruments of
thy providence in Ix^stowing on me existence, education and
innumeiable other blessings, grant that I may bo the means of
obtaining for them a spec^ly release from their excessive sufler-
ings, and a free admission to thy eternal joys, through," *fec. Part
of another was, " Alas ! while myriads of blessetl spirits see,
love, and enjoy Thee incessantly, — while they ui-e inebriated
with the plenty of thy house — the souls of these thy servants
are perhaps b\irning in flames, plunged in darkness, and far
removetl from the light of heaven. O, Thou who art infinite in
mercy be not deaf to my supplications for their speedy relief !
O blessed angels and saints vouchsafe to join me in making
intercession for my Aunt Mary, and obtain for her admittance
into your happy society." There were several other prayers of
this kind to l)e read, and none could repeat them more fervently
than I did.
Ah me ! though I had never seen my poor Aunt Mary, how
deeply I felt this day for her supposed torments, and how wil-
lingly would I have taken her place in order that the heavens
might be opened to receive her forever. I knew scarcely any-
thing of her history ; I knew nothing of any great sin that she
had committed. She had no doubt sinned to some extent like
other mortals ; for I had been frequently told that we are all
shapen in iniquity, and conceived in sin ; and that every one
coming into the world is born under condemnation for the
original ti-ansgression of our first parents. — No ; she with the
poor pleading face that I had seen in the portrait, could never
have committed any sin deserving of condemnation; her suffer-
120
FarniUy Creeds.
ingH would \)o but temporary, an<l thon sho would Ixi oxaltod
witli tlio rcHUwiiUHl to tho roaliiiH of et<>rnal glory.
I do not Im^Hovo that 1 raiwMl my head oven onc« <luring tho
hour or ho that it took to colohrato tho niaHH. I think T inuHt have
lMM!n knooling niOHt of tin? tinio, for though othorH Htcxxl, and sat,
and knelt at int<trvalH, F felt someway disinclined toalU^my posi-
tion, tiresome as I had found it. At last, a short time In^font
tho scu'vice was ended, I stood up. Just then the clergyman's
face was turned towanls us as with outstretchtnl hands he
rttpeated the lust " Dominiis vohiscum" and, though vol^c^^l as
he was in his black vestments, I knew him again, and with
palpitating heai-t I onccs more recogniziul the pah^, sad count«ni-
ance of the spectre priest.
My mother felt me trembling at her side ; my face must have
iKJCome pallid, for a sudden fear and weakness came over me. I
was almost powerless, and it was useh^ss to try and resist the
feeling tliat oppressed me at the time. She was alarmed and
led mo aside to a seat near tho window. She sprinkled my
forehead — in the hurry, holy water hiul I believe l)een used ;
the efficacy of the remedy had be<in p(;rhaps considered greater
by her on that account — I leant my head against her breast and
in a minute or two 1 gr(!W more collected. A short time after-
wards most of those present had left the room, and when I
opened my eyes again I saw the priest approaching us. His
outward vestment or chasuble was off, but I thought he looked
as ghostly as ever in his long alb^ with the black stole crossed
upon his breast. He made some inquiiy about me, and then,
with serious face, he looked steadily at mine — still a sorrowful
look — but I partly turned my head aside to avoid what might
be a searching gaze, and awaited my baptism.
I knew but little of what followed ; for the next half-hour I
was like the principal actor in a troubled dream. I scarcely
My (Jlianye uj' Faith,
121
know how I liocniiKt a ( -atholic. Souuttliin^ wan Htiiil to mo ; 1
said Hoiiu'thiii;^ in return iiu-rtily rcpiiiitinj,' tlir nra^HHiiry form
of worils UH Hu;^^<'«U!il l»y my mother. Slir kissed me wlieii tho
ceremony was over, so did my sister and Nelly (-;ul)erry. Tho
priest took my hand. I was, in sjtite of all I eoulddo, in tevror
during' the moment he held It ; iind then I shud<h'red as 1
handwd him the oll'erin;^ tli(> ,iL;old cuin whirii my molliei had
^iven me. I saw him shudder in r>-Uirn svlu n she liand(!d 'dm
the portrait ; and while he leant ni^ainst the tdfar hxtking
mournfully at the sainted faee of iJie ]>ieture, I Inirrieil out of
the room feelin<; that though I had nut rid of tiu secret which
[ had kept from my mother, site, or the priest, hu<l one hidden
from me ; and 1 had a mort' (lan<;;ci'ous one now to hide from
my father.
^^^iP^
CHAPTER Xll.
AN EARLY BETllOTIIAL,
ri
I AROSE early tho next day ; it was bright and beautiful.
The sky was as clear and as l)lue as I had ever seen it. A
single goMen cloudlet seemed to have sought repose upon the
broad back of a distant hill, and it lay there apparently in
smiling slumber like some bright fleecy wanderer of the air
confident in the protecting care of some sullen giant. The lark
could be heard on high as if heralding the early sunbeams, antl
the soft song of the thrush in the neighljoring grove reached
the ear, making the most pleasing melotly. The very flowers
in their renewed beauty and glittering wealth of dew, appeared
to hold up their heads after their long hours of tribulation in
in the storm ; those sweet meek emblems of innocence and
evanescence (how like the kind and gentle in huuian form !)
seemed oidy desirous of making the most of their short stay on
earth by rendering the air around them to be but fragrance and
purity.
What a delightful change ! Forgetful of the glooui of yester-
day, of my baptism, and even of the priest himself, I felt ex-
ceediu'dy happy, and I stood at the window feasting my (jyes
on fresh beauty, and inhaling the invigorating redolence that
had escaped from the virgin blushes of the dawn. I felt that 1
had almost regained my wonted cheerfulness, and 1 began to
An Early Betrothd.
123
think that my fears concerning Hhawn wore rather groundless,
and that now, as 1 was a member of my moth(T's Church, she
would overlook what he had said to nie on religious subjijcts.
Yes, the change every way seemed to give me i)leasure ; every-
thing I looked at around the place seemed Itright ;ind joyous. The
old house itself, that had withstood many a fierce blast, was
now all aglow in the early sunlight. Within, every apartment
appeared to have been lit up by the rosy Iteams of morning,
as if to signal the adviMit of happiness. Tiu' altar had b(!en
removed, the sunlight stri'anuHl in the windows, th(^ gloom had
disappeared, and the big room hail once mon; resununl its usual
appearance. Little Jane had nsturned. She came back the
evening before, shortly after the rain had ceas<.'d, and though
she did not know 1 was a Catholic, I felt additional pleasure
in feeling that 1 was some way drawn a little closer to her,
on account of knowing that I couhl claim to be a mend)er of
the (Jhurch to which she belonged. 1 never saw my motlu^r
look more happy than when 1 entered the breakfast -room that
morning.
She saw with satisfaction that ther(! was not tlie slightest
trace or ettect of the agitation that had so disconcerted me the
day .bi.'fore ; in fact she said 1 never looki'd Ijetter. Every one
present was as .smiling as the sunlight that made tlu; furniture
in the room look new and poli.shed ; and the things on tht; table
appt'ared to shine with a brilliancy I had never notici^d until
then; and when Nelly Carl)erry came in witji the toast and
other eataV)h^s, then; was such a peculiar ex{>ression of satisfac-
tion in her face that it atibrded me a pleasure to watch her
movements as she waited at the table. Of course it never
occurretl to me to consider the cause of the jjratitied feelin<'
observable in tht^ manner of my mother and Nelly, any more
than it did for me to consider the cause in the change of the
124
Family Creeds.
weather from being cold and dreary to that of being bright and
warm. Our conversation while at breakfast was of the most
enlivening kind. My mother told us anecdotes of her school-days,
and of pleasant persons and places she had once known and visit-
ed ; and while she entertained us this way she was sure to try and
convey instruction. And then Ellen and Jane chatted and
laughed about one thing or another ; besides Jane gave us a
rather humorous account of her visit on the preceding day, and
of how she made a mistake by takuig a deaf old lady she had
met at dinner to be a person who had once been at her father's,
and whom, rumor at one time said, he had been engaged to
marry.
Breakfast was scarcely over before we heard the i^eport of
heavy guns near and at a distance ; and then we heard the sound
of music. We all ran to the window. The guard-ship — the
Seinirmnis- — had tired a salute, and we could see a large frigate
in full sail and covered all over with flags entering the harbor,
while a number of yachts were flitting to and fro in every
direction. The sight was, I think, one of the grandest I ever
witnessed. How we wished that pa, and William and my
aunt were with us to witness this naval display ; but they
were not to be down until the arrival of the evening boat from
the city. My mother said that, as everything was prepared for
their reception, and as there was nothing of any importance to
keep her or my sister in the house, we should have a holiday
and stay out until evening, and then be at the landing when the
steamer came with our friends. This was a joyous privilege ;
we could go to many pleasant places, and have delightful
rambles, and we all hurried to get ready.
I was not long making my preparations, and I to'^'' the
opportunity, while the others were not present, to go to my
mother's room and speak to her about Shawn. Of course I
An Early Betrothal.
125
my
se I
pleaded for him and begged her not to show him any mark of
her displeasure ; and above all things not to complain of him
to my father. She heard quietly what I hatl to say, and then
replied with more seriousness of manner than I expec^^d : " I
have been thinking since about what you have t)ld me of
Shawn. It has, my dear, grieved me very much, bu i I cannot
as yet altogether forget his goodness and faithfulness to us, and
particularly his kindness and attachment to you. Ii is a most
serious matter to deal with, so serious, that I am certain were
your father to know what I know, at least were he to know
all you have told me, he would I dare say discharge Shawn at
once. Our holy Churcii will not to. irate the discussion of
sacred things by laymen ; even by the most intelligent. Ilor
one of our Popes has decreed as nearly as I can rememl)er in
these words : ' We forbid all lay persons to discuss matters of
faith, under the pain of excommunication.'* Our frail reason
is totally insufficient to deal with holy mysteries. One of our
most eminent men, Pascal, says 'The principles of theology
are above nature and reason,' and he further says, * If your
religion be false, you risk nothing in believing it true ; if it be
true, you risk all in believing it false.' — Reason ! To reason
on such a subject as the mysteries of religion is madness ; even
that poor unfortunate apostate, Luther, boldly declared that
' Reason is the bride of the devil ;' and, with regard to lt)elief
in Christianity, distinguished Protestant ministers have pro-
claimed against the admission of a single doubt. For instance,
Dr. Chalmers wrote * It behoves us to make an entire and
unconditional surrender of our minds to all the duty and to all
the information which the Bible sets before us ;' and Dr. Arnold
said, that whenever doubts arose in his mind in regard to dog-
mas of the established church his method was ' to pause in his
* Decretal of Pope Alexander IV.
126
Family Creeds.
m
%
HtSp
inquiries ' and ' to put down objections by main force.' I have
heard your father quote these expressions of Protestant minis-
ters, [Hittel Vol. I., pp. 258-9] and many others of similar kind,
sufficiently often to know tliat ho would not toleraU; such dis-
cussion as would end in skepticism ; and when educated men
make such acknowledgements, and are so guarded, how foolisli
it is for a poor ignorant nian like Hhawn to presume to ju<lge
of what is, or is not, worthy of our belief.
" But I shall do nothing hastily. For your sake, my dear, I
ghall say nothing of it at present to your father. I shall, how-
ever, take an opportunity of speaking to Shawn, and of proving
to him, as far as I am able, that the views he holds concerning
religion are most dangerous. As I said betore, no matter ho"«v
honest, or how faithful, or how much attached to us, or to ycu,
Bhawn may be, so long as lie is ignorant and pervei'se with
regard to sacred subjects, so long as he endeavors to infect
others with the poison of the most sacrilegious opinions, so
long shall I consider him unfit society for my children, or for
any one whose salvation might be endangered by his reflections
on religion. I had long wondered why it was that your brother
exhibited so much inditterence to devotional duties. I have
heard him treat the most reverent questions with levity, and I
was greatly perplexed to tind out how his mind had become
tainted with skepticism. He, a mere boy, was in his laughing
manner always reasoning and subjecting holy mysteries and
truths, far beyond our comprehension, to the test of reason.
He was for doubting this authority, and for explaining away
that, until I knew not what to think. Now I have good reason
to believe that his intimacy with Shawn has brought him to
this condition. How deplorable tlierefore it is to think that it
is far more easy to leave a false impression on the mind of the
young than to remove it afterwards ! Yes, Shawn is the
An Early Betrothal.
127
cause, and do you not 8po liow nocossary it is that his evil
influence, at least over the younf(, should he circuniscrihed and
counteracted.
" As for you, my <lcar child, you are now conipai^atively safe.
You are now, thank find, within the fold ; you have taken up
the cross, and as T have a strong impression that my prayers have
been heard for your conversion, J fe(!l that they will also be heard
for your continuance in the faith. No, my dear, I have now but
littlfi fear on your account ; my jt^ivat regret at present is that I
cannot as yet take you openly with me to church. We must still
keep what has been done a secret from you fatlu^r ; but when
you kneel in a Protestant place of worship you can otft^r your
prayers to the blessed Mary, and to the saints, as well as if
you were before the altar ; and the Heavenly Mother will hear
you, ray child, and your prayers will be accepted. This is a pious
necessity, and our holy Church, ever ready to accommodate
itself to certain circumstances, has provided for such require-
ments. As peculiar means are counted lawful to counteract
the designs of the enemy, we know that our Holy Father has
power to grant dispensations to do that which, at first viiiw,
may seem irregular or improper. But where the interests of
the Faith arc concerned extraordiimry (efforts have to be made,
and are so made without incurring liability as for actual sin.
For instance, those eminent clergy, the Jesuit Fathers, deem
no personal sacrilice too great to extend the powei* and authority
of his Holiness. It is said that they mingle in ordinary society
as painters, poets, musicians and teachers, and whil© disguising
their real n.ames as well as their real opinions as to matters of
faith, and even occasionally uttering mild sentiments against
their own Church, they drop a few words here and there as
occasion may offer, words which engender doubt, and which
finally lead many to an abandonment of the so-called reformed
r
128
Family Creeds.
>i' I
Pi
|!-'-'';
^h
religion. And inoni than this, thcso solf-donying nion actually
become priests or worshippers in heathen temples, and I have
heard and helieve that they become pastors, and influential
pastors too, of I'rotestant cliurclK^s.* It is said that they may
be found enrolled as members in nearly every Pagan, or Mo-
hammedan, or Christian denomination. They bow before false
gods while mocking them in their hearts, or planning their
overthrow ; they ent(^r Protestant ])ulj)its, and preach Pro-
testant doctrines which are gi'adually diluted almost to the
consistency of our own ; and they introduce forms, and cere-
monies, and pictures, and statues, and even the crucifix itself,
into Protestant churches, to make their hearers familiar with
such. Toleration of tlu; ancicnit or primitive C'hurch is then
advocated, and rancorous feelinj; against the authority c' che
Pope is pronounced uncharitable, until in the course of time
the pastor, prompted, as it were, by his more extended reading
and inquiry, and urged on by his conscientious .scruples, feels
it incumbent on him as a lover of truth, and as an upholder of
rightful authority to apply for Jidmission into the True Church,
and when its doors are thrown open l)y his entreaty, he humbly
enters, many of his congregation follow, and the majority of
those who Iiesitate remain only nominal Protestants and con-
tinue in a state of uncertainty c>ver after.
" Those are some of the nu^thods which our holy Church has
been forced to adopt in consequence of the grait sin of the
Reformation ; a sin for which saints have suffered on earth,
* KxTiiACT iiioM Tino JiriJUiTs' Oath.— "I do further pvoiniBe and declare,
that notwithstiindiim I am dispensed tvith to assume any religion heretical, tor
nropaga^ion of the Mother Church's interest, to keep secret and private nil
ag'ints' counf-ols, as they eui-ust me and rot to divulge, directly or indirectly,
'<y Tford, writinf! or circutnstiiuce whatsoever, but to execute all which shall be
iMoposed, Kiven in charge, or discovered unto me, by you ray ghostly father, or
bj any one of this Couvent. All of .which I do swear by ths blessed
TrUii by," &c., &c., &c.—Dowlin(t'8 History, p. P05.
An Early Betrothal.
129
has
the
and an<;els have wopt in Heavnn. But, my dear, the Lord is
powerful and will not forget His pciople. For wise purposes
He has permitted His Church to he maligned and persecuted,
hut the time is close at hand when it will ai'ise once more in
its primitive grandeur, and when the nations of the world —
when principalities and powers, and all from the highest to the
most humVde — shall how down before our Holy Father and
acknowledge that h<^ alone is the vicar of Ohrist upon earth."
Of course I was in a manner astonished at these admissions of
my poor mother; admissions made with a firm belief in the purity
of the means adopted. Young as I was [ could not but feel that
there was soniethuig very singular in this license to dissemble,
which she in all sincerity considered not only prudent but inno-
cent on the part of the authorities of the (-atholic Church. — I
was in doubt. How could I pronounce against that which she
evidently approved of j It might after all be right, even
though in actual conflict with my sense of what seemed proper.
I did not care to speculate on the question. I took it for
granted that her view was Itest as to what the Church should
do under the circumstanc(^s, and I was now (juite willing to
acquiesce; more particularly as she seemed inclined to overlook,
at least for a time, the indiscretion of my poor friend Shawn.
I had a chance to have a few words with my old friend Ijefore
we went out. Poor unsuspecting Shawn ! He little thought
that the greatest trouble on my mind could then be about him ;
greater perhaps than he ever imagined there coidd be any
reason for. He saw however that I appeared in good spirits,
and when I expressed my regret that he-was not to accompany us,
he only smiled and replied that he and I should have another
pleasant ramble before the time came for our return to the city.
We left the house together ; my mother and Ellen led the
way, while Jane and I loitered a sliort distance behind them.
130
Family Creeds.
I 111
It 1
- K'
i
' !'i
%
1
' 1
S
1 i
■ i 'i
We walked huIo by sido and hold a littU; Itaskot botwoen us ;
for Jane, unlike perhaps most of hov age, was very industrious
and brouj^ht her knittin<; or scnvin^^ with her to employ lier
time. Poor happy litth? dreamer ! Slu; pro])ably had never
thought of the laborious em])l()yment which Time forces on too
many of her own age and. sex; or of how many thousand of the
unfortunate arc doomed, like Sisyphus, ever, and ever, and
ever, to roll the huge stone of care up the hill ; the time nearly
of their whole lives being wasted and made miserabh; in useless
and incessant efforts to pass the summit of the mountain of
difficulties before them. 1 tohl her tiiat her work would not
be needed. I think she thought so herself, but still she would
have it with her. We chatted away as usual, antl made inno-
cent observations as to the past, present, and the future, and
I said how. delightful it would lie were .she and I always
to be together — wondering whether we could possibly ever be
separated.
"Why, you silly fellow," said she archly, "for what reason
should we be separated or stay in tlitferent places? We can live
along with each other as otluT people do. We could be part-
ners like your pa and mine, couldn't we 'i "
" Of course we could," I replied, highly pleased ; but then
after a moment's consideration I added, "but partners, you
know, don't always live in the same house. Your pa's house
and my pa's are not even in the same street."
" In fact they are not," said she, a little perplexed by the
reflection ; " but I have it now — couldn't we get married like
other people ? "
" Well, 1 dechire," said I, delighted, "I never thought of
that ! To be sure we could — that's just the very thing."
" And then," said she, " wouldn't we bo man and wife like
big gi'own up people ? "
An Early Betrothal,
131
the
ike
" Yes, yes," said I, quite (uiraptured with the idea ; " tliat's
th(; thing ! I'd he the hushaud, and you'd he tlie wife,
and "
"And we would always live in the same house, in the very
same house," said she, a little excited, "and in the very same
street ? "
'* Oh, yes," I continued hastily, " and wo would see each
other every day — nc^arly all tlu! timci — every, every day !"
" And Ellen, and your lua, could he with us," said she, almost
hreathless, " and Nelly too."
" Yes, and your pa, and mine, and Shawn," T added, hur-
riedly. '* Oh, won't that he fine ! And you can have your
flower-pots, and a long swing between two trees, and we shall
make a nice little garden, and we can dig it and Hx it ourselves
with shells and gravel walks."
" And we shall have a lot of pictures in all the rooms," .said
she, with continued eagerness. " I have ever so many saints an«l
angels to hang up ; some have only heads and wings, and some
have none at all. There's St. Patrick behind pa's de.sk in the
office, with a beard, and with his long hat, and his green cloak,
and his long crook, tramping on the big snak(!s that are trying
to bite his legs."
" And I can get St. George to put alongside of him," .said T,
interrupting her. " St. George is now by himself in our garret
at home, upon a big grey hor.se, and he's killing a horrid fiery
dragon, with his big teeth and great mouth wide open."
In our innocent excitement we were not at the moment very
particular as to the arrangement of our words, and our blunders
will, no doubt, be excused. Older per.sons in our situation
would most likely have said something far more nonsensical and
ridiculous. Any way, Jane and I, as we went slowly along in
the sunshine, were busy making many household arrangements,
Pi ■ !
rf
132
Family Creeds.
,l! 1
and we had matters pretty well settled when she became sud-
denly hileixt and stood still.
" Oh, why did I forget 1 " said she, looking at me rather
sadly.
" Forget what ?" said I, a little surprised — " But you haven't
— I've got it," and I drew from my pocket a piece of cake and
a little roll of Berlin wool that she had left on the table in her
hurry out. She smiled at my mistake and said she wished that
that was all. ** What can it be, then," I asked ; " is it any-
thing else 1 "
" I forgot what I have often heard pa say," she replied ; "that
man and wife should always be of the same leligion. Our
Church says so, too."
" Well, of course," said I at once, " you and I are the
same."
" Oh no, John, we are not the same; for you are a Protestant,
and I am a Catholic."
" No, I'm a Catholic too. I was ," I hesitated just in
time. In fact I was on the point of telling her what had
taken place in the big room the day l)efore. " I was only bap-
tized a Protestant, but," urged I, "couldn't I be christened
over again and be a Catholic as you are ? "
"No, no, that wouldn't do at all," said she, rather emphatic-
ally. "You must never be a Catholic. If you were to change
that way, every one would call you a turn-coat and despise
you — I almost believe I would think less of you myself. And
people would call you bad names, and wouldn't believe a word
you said ; but would say that you were bought or bribed to
turn."
" Oh, nonsense ! " said I, hastily ; " People wouldn't bother
their heads about what I was."
"Yea, but they would," she replied. " If you did something
..i'
All Early BetrotfuU.
133
else vory bad, many would pity you or forgive you ; but all
think it diHgi'aceful to be a turn-coat. Y'ou have heard about .
Father Burk that turned and waH made a Protestant minister,
and a1)out Parson Smith that turned and was made a priest ;
and of how they wrote against each other in the papers, and
hated each other ; and how every one else hated them, and
called them dirty apostates. No, it would never do for you to
change your n^ligion. But I'll t<jll you," said slio, lowering her
voice a little, " how we can manage it — I shall become a Pro-
t(!stant ! 1 shall, 1 shall, I shall," reiterated she on perceiving
that I looked at her greatly surprised, " 1 shall become a Pro-
testant, for you know they seldom blame a woman for being
what her husband is — most women change that way — while a
man is almost always despised for giving up to his wife."
What could 1 say in reply f I dared not explain. Then I
was on the point of confiding in her and revealing my fresh
secret ; then I hesitated again lest somehow the story of my
baptism should reach my father's ears, and my poor mother
perhaps become a sufterer in consetjuence ; and thinking again
of Shawn's fears I deemed it but wisdom to wait in expectation
of at least some more suitable opportunity to tell her all.
Oh, what pleasant places wc went to that day ! What bliss-
ful hours we spent in the soft sunshine and in the delightful
shade ! In fact every spot we visited seemed enchanted. The
natural beauties we then witnessed will ever remain a sweet
picture in my memory. How a happy serenity of mind makes
the most ordinary objects seem attractive ; we look, as it were,
through a spiritual lens that restores to earth the fancied pris-
tine glories of Paradise. I looked at everything around with
glowing eyes that would at the time have seen beauty even in
deformity. It seemed as if the glorious arch, the mystic spirit
of the summer cloud, were no longer to appear as the hallowed
''
■III
1 1
134
Family Creeds.
token of |m'«c(! Haid to havo IxMin jnad<5 iM^twetfii Clod and man,
^>ut that tho ^'()rg(«)UH colors of th«! rainbow — no longer to Ik!
kept solely for tUe sky — won; now mingling with the Hunlight
and scattered far and wid(» over the whole (tarth. The sun-
beaniH, with magic touch, luul painted the httavens hlue, and the
niountains purple, and the hills gnion, and the rocks red, and
tlu! wattsrs bright ; and then the fields were spread out in their
magnificence of verdure, inviting flocks and herds j and trees
rose up crowned with the richest foliage;, and with shining leaves
that whispered loving secrets to the winged creatures of the
air ; and russ<;t mossy banks nestling here and th(?re in shaehid
places s<H!med to ofi'er us spots on which to recline or slumlier.
Wo remained, and for hours we sat, and sang, and talkt^l, and
rand)led, us if life were to be but one continucid holiday, and
tlu! far, far off' future but the shining portal to Heaven.
We ha<l all our plijasant dreams that day, and 1 think Jane
and I ha<l more ft^licity in w(;aving our golden threads of fancy,
than many have had in the fairest visions of hope, or in tin;
dreams they dreamt during their Svliule existcnice.
>^.^
.^"^'*'^^^J^f'
^trC^^iiikJ^TV^blfi)
('iiAi"i'i-:i{ xiii.
HARMONY AND JKALoUiSV
WK wcr(! at tlir landini,' hcfon^ the Itoiit toiu'licd th(! wliarf.
\Vt! wcru (l«>li,';lit('(l to sec my t'litlici', my :iuiil ( 'atlu'riiK*,
and niyln'othcron hoard; and Jani! was(M|ually ph-ascd tose*; lusr
fatluT. Mr. Casoy's stout form was easily rccoi^iiizcd ; \xv stood
near my aunt l)o\viii,i; to us ami w.-tviii!^ his hand ; and William
looked quite sailor-like, wearing' a hhu! jacket and a glazed cap,
and to app«!ar inor(! in cliarueter he ij;ot up a little way in the
rigging so as to attruet our attention. 1 eould not fail to ad-
mire him at the time. His smiling faee, liis red clieeks, and
his Itrown hair, anrl his wild liut good-natured frt-aks — as if to
astonish us — made him conspicuous, and I must confess thaU I
felt a somewhat peculiar feeling when Jane said he was really
a handsome fellow.
We got home Ijefore six, and as the (evening was very fine,
we had tea outside, in the summer-hou.se. 1 never enjoyed a
H'past so much as I did then. If cluMjrfulne.ss is almost (Mpial
to hunger in making one relish a nujai, we liad suHicient of it
at the time to make even tlu; plainest mess of pottagt* most
palatable. Everyone seemed to be in the happiest mood, and
I am sure that I never before saw my aunt in such good spirits;
she appeared to take pleasure; in leading oH' in jokes and laugh-
ter. Humorous as my father could often be, she surpassed
mmim
■
136
Family Creeds.
li. ; II
li
ii' ' liii
ill:!
I h
I'M
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him entirely on that occasion. An old maiden lady, a Miss
Burnett, had called to spend the eveninj^ with usj and as Mr.
Casey was a good natured man and a widower, my aunt made
a special attack on him, reproving him for his apparent indif-
ference to a renewal of nuptial blessedness, and warmly recom-
mending her friend Miss Burnett as worthy of his earnest
consideration. While poor Miss Burnett was supposed to
blush^ — ^she must have done so — Mr. (Jasey drew his hand across
his forehead, patted his round and partly-bald head, and of course
accepted the badinage and my aunt's left-handed compliments
in his usual genial manntir. My father also seemed to take a
wicked pleasure in urging her on and enjoying his partner's
discomfiture, until my mother at last had to exclaim : " Oh
Kate, Kate, Kate, have pity on tlu; poor man and let him
alone." A general laugh then followed, and my aunt turned
her j'tteution to some one else. Demure;, and almost sad, as I
had seen her at times under a peculiar influence — indeed rather
too frequently — she now appeared as livtsly and ii»ditt*erent as
if she considered herself free from any further accountability
resulting, against the whole human race, from the frailty of our
mother Eve, or from the fall of our great progenitor in the
garden of Paradise.
We went out into our own garden after tea. My aunt, still
mischievously inclined, managed to place old Miss Bui.iett in
care of Mr. Casey, and of course she did not refrain from mak-
ing sundry suggestive remarks as they walked together. Ellen
and William, and Jane and I, rambled around here and there.
We went into the orchard, and through leafy avenues covered
with grape vines, and among shrubs and flowers. Those who
saw us flitting about in our lightheartedness might be inclined
to say that we were tit companions for the fragrant, blushing,
things around us. My brother had so much to tell us in his
Harmony and Jealousy.
137
lively way that we had but to listen and then to laug' at what
he said. He had evidently made up his mind to monopolize
the conversation, and as he could mimic or burlesque, we were
greatly amused, and we listened to his stories until it was time
to go into the house.
I felt sorry to leave the garden. I could have remained
outside — with Jane — until midnight. The solemn grandeur of
the fading scenery around us made us grow silent, and scarcely
a word was said while we watched the hills shading into dim
outlines, and saw other objects disap})ear. We stood still, how-
ever, for a time longer. Now a faint gleam was seen in the
distance, and a cloud here and there shaped itself overhead
and fringed itself with brightness. And then came the moon
rising queenly, as it were, out of the sea, while the waves,
crowned with light, appeared to surround her as if she were a
goddess of the ocean, and to bow before her in adoration. I
know that it was with regret that we had to bid good night to
the flowers, and to leave them and the beautiful glittering
landscape to be gazed at, for many lingering houi-s, perhaps
only by the silent stars.
All was cheerfulness in the parlor. We had to play and 'to
sing. Everyone in the house was fond of niusic, none more so
than Shawn. I left the door partly open in order that he and
Nelly Carberry could hear us better. William and I had been
with him, and we put a chair for him near the door so that he
could sit and listen. We had flute and piano duetts. My father
played well on the flute and my mother generally accompanied
him, and as my bi-othcr could play a little on the violin we had
trios also. And then we had glees and (|uartettes, a few of
Moore's melodies, and two or three sentimental songs, that had
the efTc^^" of reminding some present of old times, and then we
had a few sweet airs from British authors, and classical pieces
10
mmmm
1:
tir;
!
1
1
1
li 1
'•■' 1
1
li :
138
Family Creeds.
from Verdi, and Balfe, and Auber, and Bellini, and Donizetti
and others, until the hearts and souls of all within hearing
seemed to have been much impressed by the harmony. After
this there was whist and some Irish whiskey punch — rather a
fair allowance. Of course only my father and Mr. Casey par-
took of the latter ; my father, I think, imbibed somewhat gen-
erously and his eye became exceedingly bright under some
influence, which very rarely operated on him. He soon grew
tired of whist — the game was altogether too quiet — he threw
the cards aside and stood up — I had never before seen him so
exhilarated — and then he sung us a song and gave us a recita-
tion from Shakespeare ; and moreover he declared his intention
of expressing his sentiments before us all. My mother, for
some reason, tried hard to prevail on him to sit down and say
nothing, but her eflbrts were useless, they only made him more
eager to speak.
" No," said he, turning from her with energy, " I shall not
allow this opportunity to pass, I must say what I have to say,
what it is my duty to say ; I must utter my sentiments freely
and unreservedly, or explode. Ally," said he, addressing my
mofher, while he stood particularly erect and with his head
well thrown back, *' you must listen, even if my words should
cause every drop of blood in your body to rise to your face.
Ally, I know your worth, and know what you have ever been
to me, constant, faithful, loving and true. There is not a par-
ticle of deception in your nature, not an atom, any one that
looks at your face must see that ; I say they must, for no one
of common sense can come to any other conclusion. I say
again that I know your worth, and no one dares to contradict
me. I've had now over twenty years' experience of you through
sunshine and through storm, and by — no, I won't swear — but
you're one of the best and the truest women I ever met; yes, I
Harmony and Jealousy.
139
will say it, the very truest. Though there are other ladies
present they won't feel slighted, and they won't deny it, and
if they do — well, I can't help it. But," continued he emphati-
cally, " I know I'm right, and I'd like to know who says I'm
wrong ; and look here, see her children," and he pointed to us
with a very triumphant air. " I'll make a sea captain of this
fellow," said he, laying his hand on my brother's shoulder;
" he already wears a blue jacket, and if he looks sharp he will
yet be an Admiral of the blue ; he's got it in him ; yes, of the
-red, white and blue; and now, I say, three cheers for these
glorious colors."
My mother made another effort to induce him to sit down,
but he only stepped back at her approach and gave her a con-
temptuous wave of his hand. *' And here's the girl," said he,
just touching my sister's cheek with the point of his finger,
" here's a girl with the very face of her mother, but whom she
can never excel ; she's one of the right stamp, and I know
what's in store for her." And here is little Jack," said he,
clapping me on the back, " here's little Jack, just entering his
teens, solid and sensible like his mother, and though he is still
delicate, he'll soon be all right. Jack will be a parson, or a
scientist — he can't be both, for tliey t(!ll me those fellows can
never agree — or a Christian statesman, for he's got piety and
brains, I tell you. I've left him almost, so far, to his mother
and to Shawn ; they have Ijotli taken good can^ to bring him
up in the fear of God, just as I'd have him ; besides, Shawn is
a genius, a natural born philosopher. — Where is Shawn ? Where
is he? there's not the like of him on earth. Shawn, I say!"
My father was hastily and unceremoniously about to leave the
room to look for Shawn, when, at a beck from me, he entered.
" Dan," said my father, with curled lip, and with a proud but
stern expression of face, addressing his partner and grasping
M
I , i
1
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1
h |f ' ■
m
'
i
i ■
140
Family Creeds.
Shawn by the shoulder, " Dan Casey, I say there's not the like
of this man on or upon the whole habitable globe. — Shawn, toss
oflFthat tumbler, come, finish my glass, 'twill do you good."
Shawn merely tasted it to please my father ; he held the
glass for a while and then stealthily tried to put it on the table.
" Aha !" said my father, detecting the movement, " you must
drink it ; you have always been too temperate ; you are, I
suppose, one of Father Mathew's disciples. I don't care, how-
ever, for what these temperance men say, they go too far, even
in opposition to the very command of the Scriptures, which in
more than a dozen places approves of good liquor, and if there's
a few texts against it what's the difference, one is just as good
as the other. Twenty years ago— and that doesn't seem very
long — every parson, priest, preacher and bishop in the land
would quote the text which says, ' Drink no longer water, but
use a little wine for thy stomach's sake,' in condemnation of
any intemperate zealot ; and Reverends, and Right Reverends,
would drink and be happy and not be afraid ; but now, Lord
bless us, when a race of fanatical yelpers, wiser than Paul him-
self, who go about courting popularity, find that the plain text
doesn't suit their new-fangled ideas, they will say it is a wrong
translation or that it has some other meaning, or they will
have it altered and revised to suit the occasion. I'm as good a
Christian as any of them, and [ have too much regard for the
old Book — and I despise any man that doesn't regard it — to be
tearing it to pieces to suit any or every so-called Reformer
that comes along — they are nearly all rank unbelievers. Well
Dan, as I was saying, here's old Shawn, a fine old Christian
fellow, that can see farther than half your learned professors,
a man that I have tried and trusted for years — and you .know
something of him as well as I do. Could it be possible to find
a more faithful man, or a more Christian man, in Ireland 1
Harmony and Jealousy.
141
how-
issors,
know
find
land?
No, nor in all Europe, Asia, Africa, or America — simply im-
possible, and I say it."
To this Mr. Casey readily assented, and my father continued :
'* I would trust you, Shawn, with wife and children, silver and
gold, goods and chattels ; I have trusted you with everything I
possess, and, up to this very identical moment, I have found
you a true, faithful man, a genuine trump. Sit down, Shawn,
sit down; you musn't budge out of this room ; by all that's just,
you're good enough company for the Lord-Lieutenant himself."
My father almost forced Shawn into a chair. The poor man
had of course to submit. He smiled and uttered a few words
which I did not catch, and then my father stood out before
him and made this appeal :
" Now, Shawn, you know me, and you know that brave,
sterling gentleman in that arm chair, my noble, old, and highly
respected partner, Daniel Casey. Is there another such man
in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland 1 I say
no. For honor, and integrity, and true principle, there's not
one of his name, or of any other name, to be compared to him.
Dan, my boy," continued my father, directing his observations
to his partner, and patting the bald head of Mr. Casey, "you're
a brick, every inch of you. John Fairband and Daniel Casey,
united we stand, divided we fall, that's it. Fairband and Casey,
that's the firm, a firm pretty well known and respected ; and
now I challenge contradiction, and I defy all the potentates
and powers of the wide earth to deny that the success of our
firm is almost entirely due to the splendid business habits and
astonishing foresight of yourself alone. No, don't say a word
against this; I say it and it is so. I put a trifle more money
in the business than you did, but you had brains, and far more
tact than I had, and any losses we suffered were more in con-
sequence of my recklessness than anything else. They say
rw^
*?
P
Si
II i I
ii
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i !!
IN
fill:
I i; 'i
IJ"
142
Family Creeds.
Irishmen are hot-headed and hasty, but Dan you're an Irish-
man ; an honor co the land you live in ; a rosy -faced, round-
headed, bald-pated Irishman that's worth ten hundred thousand
consequential cockneys. You're a cool Daniel, a calculating
Daniel, a statistical Daniel, a Daniel that can see at once
through the artifice of a Jew, the trick of a Yankee, and
thi'j igii i,r . specious approaches of any pretender, be he Eng-
lish, Irish, Scotch, Portuguese, or Egyptian, or anything else.
Daniel Casey, I say you're the Daniel of all Daniels, you're a
noble fellow and an Irishman, and I'd like, for youx" sake, to
be an I " ' ... :i'i.so. I once was foolish enough to have a
prejudice ai» 111 j y country but my own. That prejudice, I
admit, appears ooc,\:i nia'ly. But here I am now with an
Irish wife, '••'; with ' l)orn children, and with an Irish
partner — Dan, >jar <»-vr_ i -i *: self — and last, but not least,
here's my good old friend Shawn, from whom I have already
learned much about men and things which is well worth know-
ing. Still after all," continued my father, having paused for a
moment's reflection and being somewhat less excited, " the
country doesn't make the man, but man makes the country.
Some of the very finest parts of Europe are still populated by
inhabitants that are comparatively rude and uncivilized ; and
here I must acknowledge that, crude as the notion might have
been when it was first submitted, the idea of the alienating
tendency of nationality was first suggested to me by this very
unpretending Shawn, and it led me to conclude that, in reality,
a country must be jv.dged by its institutions, a people by their
intelligence, and an individual by his integrity. Any land
that is not generous to true liberty is at best nothing but a
moral wilderness. During long ages the idea of nationality
has been bolstered up by the high-sounding phrases of promi-
nent men, but what after all is this glittering idea 1 nothing more
Harmony and Jealousy.
143
tlian the flash of the weapon that has kept the races of man-
kind asunder and made them enemies. There are chai-aeteristic
features common to all men which prove that they are kindred,
and this fact should not be superseded by an over-sentimental
love of country. Nationality, I say, is only a delusion, one to
which, like too many others under certain influences, I some-
times submit — a proof that the delusion is dangerous. It is the
wedge which the oppressor and the aspiring have so far used
successfully to divide and govern."
Mr. Casey freely admitted this, and he stated that while at
one period of his life he had very biased opinions regarding the
people of other countries than his own, he felt gratified in being
able to state that even in England, which was said to be the
traditional oppressor of Ireland, he had found many warm
friends who were incapable of interference with the rights or
the liberties of others ; in fact some of the greatest advocates for
gennine freedom that he had ever met were Englishmen. A
man of any discernment need but travel very little to discover
excellencies in other countries which perhaps his own did not
possess. It was nothing to him where a man ^ihanced to be
born provided his heart was in the right place — that should be
the proof of his worthiness. He could in all sincerity recipro-
cate the compliments so lavishly used by his good-looking part-
ner, John Fairband. He considered himself most fortunate in
having formed a business connection with a person so strictly
honorable as he was, and that although they had occasional
slight dift'erences on some subjects — for who had not such at
times ; even man and wife must have their disputes ; in fact it
seemed to be a law of nature that there should be periodical
turmoils. Yet, on the whole, he was most happy in the alliance
he had formed with his friend Fairband, and he trusted that
that alliance would long continue.
w
1 ;j!t iii
1
144
Family Creeda.
" Yes, my brave old boy," said my father starting up impul-
sively, " that alliance shall never be broken — never ; but, Dan,
we shall yet have a closer one. See here," continued he, kiss-
ing little Jane who was near him, "look at this little beauty,
this blessed little picture of innocence, with flaxen ringlets and
cheeks like the veriest rosebuds, this little Irish gem bestowed
on us by honest Dan. Who would not be proud of such a sweet
little angel for a daughter *? Now, Dan, what say you? We must
have a closer tie between us — a kind pf family partnership. 1
want this pretty creature to be my daughter also. I have my
eye on her, and I shall yet want her as a mate for my admiral
there," and he pointed to my brother, "and now, Dan, know-
ing your goodness of heart I'm sure you won't refuse."
A hearty laugh followed this proposal. Mr. Casey of course
admitted that such a union wouM no doubt be an excellent
arrangement. He would only be too happy to consent to its
taking place when those most interested felt inclined.
I felt my heart beating wildly ; the color must have left my
cheek. I tried to smile, but the effort was a sad failure. I
looked at Jane. She was blushing, no doubt because she was
for the moment the object of such special notice, but in haste
I attributed her emotion to her feeling towards William, whom
now all of a sudden I could not avoid detesting, and I felt
myself madly jealous. I had just heard from my father's lips
that which I never expected to have heard from him. I would
a hundred times rather that he had had an angry dispute with
his partner about nationality, or religion, or anything else, than
that his heart should have become so softened as to almost urge
an alliance ; for might not the result of his outrageous proposal
be disastrous to my newly-cherished hopes. In fact I had
scarcely ever before heard him say so much at one time or
express himself so feelingly or rather so impulsively as to his
Harmony and Jealousy.
145
regard for others. On the contrary, he was too apt to try and
suppress anything emotional in his nature, and to appear cold
and unconcerned when in reality he was far otherwise.
He was just about to commence again at Mr. Casey for his
indifference to a second matrimonial engagement, when Miss
Burnett, evidently anxious to escape from another infliction,
arose to go home. My mother, judging from appearances that
it was better for her not to remain, did not press her visitor to
stay, and as she had but a short distance to go, I left the house
with Shawn — glad in fact to get away — to accompany Miss
Burnett. He had not far to travel to see her safely housed,
and on our return, having almost forgotten the cause of my
recent vexation, I expressed the gmtification I felt in seeing
my father and Mr. Casey on terms so excellent, and for the
genial feeling that had existed among all in the house during
the evening.
"That's jist as they should be, avick," replied Shawn, "an'
that's jist as they would be, an' as a'most iv'ry one else could
be, av other things didn't come in the way to put 'em asunder.
Your father has a'ready got one hand nearly out av the fet-
ters ; he may at times overlook where a man chanced to be
born, an' admit that an Irishman may be jist as good as an
Englishman ; he may do that, but his other hand is still iron-
bound, you can't get him to say that the Catholic tayches the
truth, or that the Protestant can be in error ; an' iv you want
to banish pace and goodwill between a man an' his wife, or
child, or partner, or any one else, jist tell your father or Daniel
Casey that his creed is false, an' you'll do it. Oyea ! shure I've
seen enough av it. There's men here around us, as there'.s
ivery place else — an' women, too — who could dispise friend or
brother, or even betray human nature herself, av you'd on'y
watch fur time and opportunity an' shout out one word —
146
Family Creeds.
•Religion' — an' that one word would set their brains on fire, an'
turn their hearts into stone, as it has a thousand times btjfore.
But you'll renumber that that word wasn't njintioned to-night,
an' for that very raison, may be, there was nothing but pace
and friendship at home."
ji
re, an
lefore.
night,
b pace
CHAPTER XIV.
SABBATH LECTURES.
WHENEVER my aunt Catherine paid us a visit, and this
was about once a month, she generally managed to be
with us for at least one Sunday ; and on that day she was, I
may say, nothing but the impersonation of religion itself. I often
noticed her strictness and reserve at such times, and imagined
that they must have made the Sabbath to her a kind of peni-
tential day, as solenni and gloomy in many respects as Good
Friday would be to a most devoted Catholic. From the man-
ner in which my aunt took me in hand during her stay, it
sometimes seemed to me as if she thought that extra exertions
were necessary in my case, to keep me from the contaminating
influence of popery. It was evident that she considered me in
a dangerous position. Was not my mother one of the strongest
believers in the Roman faith — one who mildly disregarded any
argument against her Church; were not my sister and Nelly
Car berry, and, for all my aunt knew to the contrary, Shawn
also, all of the same creed ; were not our visiting friends mostly
Catholics ; and did not my uncle, my mother's brother, the
priest, occasionally call to spend the day with us, and as my
father was seldom more than once a week at our home in Cove,
would it not, under such circumstances, be the easiest thing in
the world to have my mind tainted with popish notions unless
iiTTr-
i^ I':
'llli
il'!
148
Family Greeds.
unusual efforts were made by her to efface any impressions
which might have been made on me in favor of the ** Man of
Sin 1 " She had every confidence in the religious stability of
my father ; she felt that his religious opinions were fixed and
unalterable, and that I could be almost perfectly safe with him
as even my sole religious guardian ; but I am satisfied, however,
that my aunt always suspected ray mother oi proselytizing ten-
dencies ; at least she had a very strong impression that one
who was so ardent a Catholic as her sister-in-law, would never
rest until she had, at least, her children within the fold. My
brother she no doubt considered comparatively safe, as he was
at school in the city ; but in her opinion I was certainly in
danger, an^, like a good Protestant Christian woman, she con-
sidered it a duty of the first importance to keep me from being
led astray from the truth, or inveigled into error.
" Oh," she would say to me, " be careful of what they tell
you — don't believe a word they say about religion. Popery is
a false system and the Pope himself is the ' Man of Sin.' See,
I can prove it for you out of God's own Word;" and then she
would read out a text which to her was a perfect proof of what
she had assumed. " Just think of it, child, just think of these
poor deluded people praying to saints and angels, and to the
Virgin Mary, and then praying in an unknown tongue [she
would give me another text] and believing in images and in
relics, and in holy-water, and in crosses, and beads, and scapu-
laries, and wax candles, and other nonsense ; and then think
of them going to confession to a poor sinful creature like them-
selves, and believing that he has power to forgive them their
sins. I have but a very bad opinion of priests ; they are a set
of impostors who go about misleading poor ignorant peopk I
won't say that your uncle, your mother's brother, is a priest of
that kind ; but why doesn't he leave them ] And worse than
Sahhath Lectures.
149
ey tell
pery is
See,
3n she
what
these
o the
[she
nd in
capu-
think
them-
their
a set
L I
st of
than
all they beliove iii transubatantiation. Only fancy a man
taking a wafer, made of a little Hour and water, and then pray-
in/^' over it until he tells you it is God himself I I can't think
that there's a priest on earth who believes in such arrant folly.
Sure, my dear, tlie blackest idolatry that our missionaries in
barbarous lands have to contend with is not at all e(}ual to that.
When the poor heathen makes a god ha won't deny that it is
of wood or of stone, and though he will bow before it and pay
it offerings, he will even admit that its powers for goo<l or
evil are limited ; but when a Catholic priest makes a god — and
he may make half a dozen of them in the day— h(^ and his
people will not only bow before it, but will prostrate them-
selves in its worship, for it is according to him the very God
himself, though thousands of them may be made ^ priests in
all parts of the world — it may happen at the very same moment
— and afterwards packed away in little silver boxes until they
are required. What idolatry can surpass that 1 " My aunt
would fortify her argument with text after xt, until frequent
repetitions of them from time to time made me as familiar with
them as she was herself.
Ah me ! how I used to dread a Sunday with my aunt. She
had lived with us before she got married, and she used to havo
it all her own way as to my religious training, and since then
she evidently claimed a right to control me on that day j and her
discipline was certainly most wearying and despotic. My poor
mother, I knew, used to pity me, but then she dared not inter-
fere. Sunday was, at that unhappy time, neither to me a day
of rest nor of recreation. Oh, how I used to envy the poor
ragged little boys that I saw strolling through the fields or
playing about on the highways ! Instead of hailing the Sabbath
with delight, I used to be glad when it was over.
The first thing I had to do on Sunday morning, even before
i]
I
PI'
l,ii
h.
150
Family Creeds.
I took time to dress, was to read over the chapter of verses I
had to learn out of the Bible, to be repeated in the afternoon at
Sunday School. If the chapters were very short I generally
got two of them to learn, as I had seldom less than thirty
verses to commit to memory. In order to succeed in this I had
to study them over several times on Saturday, the last thing
on Saturday night before I went to bed, often in bed on Sun-
day morning, and then on until breakfast time ; leaving me
scarcely a minute to step outside to breathe the fresh morning
air. In this way I had to learn hundreds of incomprehen-
sible verses many of them similiar to those in Joshua, relat-
ing to *' Hapharaim, and Shihon, and Anaharath ;" " and
Kabbith, and Kishion, and Abez;" "and Remeth, and En-
gannim, and En-haddah, and Beth-pazzez." I had to study such
as these until my head ached and my heart grew sad. If I had
been required to learn a passage out of one of my story books,
I could feel an interest in reciting something about Robinson
Crusoe or any other legendary hero, but to be obliged to com-
mit whole chapters of the Bible, that I could scarcely under-
stand, or that sometimes led me to imagine God's peculiar
people to be savage and inhuman, or that the Almighty himself
was very stern and resentful, gave me a great dislike to the
allotted task ; and now, even to this day, I can scarcely look
over a Bible without feeling a depressing remembrance of what
its study once cost me.
Well, this Sunday in particular, my aunt, as if to make
amends for her rather unusual levity on the previous evening,
wore a saturnine txpression of face, and made me rehearse
before breakfast many chapters of the Old Testament in order
to be able to repeat to her a number of verses that 1 had almost
forgotten. She upbraided me for my neglect of this study, and
hinted that if I became indifferent to the " blessed Gospel," or
Sahhath Lectures.
161
make
uing,
earse
)rder
most
and
" or
allowed myself to be influenced by my mother, or any one else
in the house, against the reading and study of the Scriptures,
I should be sent away to school with William, and be kept more
among my Protestant friends. As for William himself he
was, she admitted, altogether beyond her control ; he was more
like a scoffer than a Christian — these were degenerate times ;
for scoffers, even among school-boys, were increasing — but she
thought that my father would have much to answer for if our
religious training was not more carefully attended to for the
future.
" Besides," said my Aunt, " you soem to spend most of your
time with Shawn. Now, though I have, as you know, read the
Bible to him many a time still I think my reading has had but
little effect ; for so far as I can see he seems as deluded and as
superstitious as ever. He is, like the rest of them, blind and
obstinate, verifying the Scripture, — * And for this cause God
shall send them strong delusion that they should believe a lie,'
' That seeing they may see and not perceive ; and hearing they
may not hear and not understand ; lest at any time they should
be converted and their sins be forgiven them.' Yes, poor man,
he's degraded by his creed like the rest of the Irish Romans."
" I can assure you, aunt," said I, growing interested in
Shawn's behalf and anxious to enlist her in his favor, " I can
assure you that your reading has had a great eff'ect with him ;
far more than you ever expected ; for he has asked me a hun-
dred questions about things in the Testament ; he understands
the meaning of much that you have read to him far better than
I do. He has got me to look over books for an explanation of
difficult passages, and now he is able to explain them to me
himself. One thing I know, aunt, you ii.eedn't be afraid to let
me be with Shawn for he's greatly changed, aiid I ai" certain
that he is no more a (yatbqlic than I am.'"
^ww
i»r
152
Family Creeds.
m\
m
I III
In a moment my aunt looked at me in a state of joyful ex-
citement, and brought her hands together with a loud clasp.
" Why bless the boy, is this so — is it true, is it true 1 "
''True," said I, "aunt." My face grew a little flushed, for
I had now discovered that I had, by a slip of the tongue, not
spoken the truth in saying that I was not a Catholic. " It's
quite true, for Shawn does not believe in the Pope."
A most gracious smile overspread my aunt's face and ban-
ished every trace of her sombre piety. ' She was really delighted,
and patted me on the head with tender familiarity. " I am so
pleased, so delighted to hear this," said she, " even one to be
rescued is a great satisfaction. If my humble efforts have
brought him out of the pit and the miry clay how great is my
reward ! What is he, John 1 Can't we get him to go to
meeting with us to-day — wouldn't he join a class ? "
I ventured to express a doubt. " Well," continued my aunt,
" he could go with your father and William to church ; that
would be something. What does he believe ? Where does he
want to go ? "
I hesitated to reply. I knew that my aunt wished to learn
from me what form of religion he was inclined to adopt ; and
what answer should I give 1 She noticed rny hesitation and
repeated her (juestion. " Well really, aunt," said I, giving my
reply rather reluctantly, " I don't think he believes anything
at present."
" Oh, nonsense ! " she exclaimed, a little petulantly. " He'd
be worse than a fool not to believe something ; of course he
would."
" Well," replied I, feeling that I was treading on slippery
ground, " he's not quite satisfied yet about many things in the
Bible, and he want's to make further inquiries ; that's all per-
haps."
i> ^1
Sabbath Lectures.
153
It's
learn
; and
In and
rthing
He'd
[•se he
jppery
in the
|1 per-
" What a simpleton ! " she again exclaimed, " what more
inquiries need he make 1 If the scales have fallen from his
eyes, he ought to know by this time that the Scriptures are
plain and easily understood, and that the wayfaring man,
though a fool, need not err therein. What does he want ex-
plained ] "
" I think he has some doubts," said I, rather timidly.
She reflected for a moment or two, and then said somewhat
complacently, " In fact he may possibly have some reason for
these. When we discover that we have been deceived in any
way by an old and long cherished friend, we are apt to be some-
times over-cautious and distrustful towards the new-comer ;
Shawn has just abandoned his old creed and is not too confi-
dent of the new one. But of what is he in doubt 1 " inquired
she.
*' Well," said I, not knowing but that she might be a little
skeptical on some points herself — as I had heard Shawn say
that many others were — ■" I think, aunt, he doubts the meaning
of some things in the Bible."
" Oh, I can understand that," she promptly answered. "You
know the meaning that we Protestants may give to a chapter
or text— which of course is the true meaning — will be made to
mean something else quite different by the Catholic priests ;
that's the way they build up their rotten system. In fact, I
am sorry to say, that there is far too much disputation and
wrangling this way even among Protestants ; I am often
ashamed of it. The Baptists will explain a text one way, and
the Presbyterians another, and the Methodists will differ from
both (though I think we're right), and then there are over twenty
other different sects with as many different interpretations of
passages which to me appear quite plain. Indeed, I know
godly men who I fear would banish the Scriptures, or tear
11
MMHI
154
Family Creeds.
181
$1
II'
fi
% -1
the best commentaries to leaves, if they chanced not to coincide
with their doctrinal views. Yet," she continued after a little
pause, " I must admit with regret that on some of these very
doctrinal points 1 feel a little astray myself, and am at times
really perplexed as to how things are to be understood."
Feeling somewhat assured by this admission, I told her
plainly that it was something more than the meaning he was
in doubt of — that there were statements in the Bible which he
did not believe.
" Not believe," said she with a look of amazement, and with
an inquiring air as if her ears had deceived her, " not believe,"
continued she more emphatically, "prny what are the state-
ments in God's holy word that he does not believe ] "
I now saw that my aunt was a little excited, still I thought
I would be safe in venturing an explanation ; for I had often
heard her boast that Protestants, and only these alone, allowed
a man to reason and to exercise his own judgment on all things,
especially on religious matters ; and that he had a right to ex-
press his opinion freely. " I think, aunt," said I, with a slight
entreaty in manner, " that Shawn does not yet — scarcely I
think yet — believe that a — that the Avorld was made in 'six
days ;' or that the whole earth was — was once drowned in a
flood ; or that a lot of animals ever went, that is ever went by
themselves into the — the ark to be saved ; or that Joshua —
Joshua, you know — ever made the sun stand still; or that Jonah
was ever swallowed by a whale — that is by a large whale ; or
that "
" Stop ! " she suddenly exclaimed, raising her open hand
above her head. Her look appeared to be one of horrified sur-
prise, ahd she seemed as if unable to ai-ticulate another word.
" The decitful, abominable old wretch ! He ought to be ,"
she uttered these words at last with bitter deliberation and
Sabbath Lectures.
155
'six
in a
|nt by
lua —
ionah
[hand
sur-
rord.
»
>
and
then ceased, as if her words were insufficient to express her
feelings. She seemed agitated, yet tried, I thought, to suppress
to some extent, the angry emotion tliat partly controlled her.
" And you've been day after day with this old — I won't say
what," she continued, looking at me with the sternest expres-
sion, "listening to his treason towards God, and, evidently,
with your mother's knowledge and permission. Pray does your
father know what kind of a creature he harbors under his
roof]"
" O aunt ! " said I, in my most conciliatory manner, " pity
poor Shawn. Ma knows that he has doubts and that he is not
a Catholic, and of course she is greatly displeased that he has
left his own faith. If you had not read so much to him, he
might not have so many doubts ; any way he might still be a
Catholic ; and perhaps you may yet be able to convince him
that every word in the Bible is true."
"True] Of course the Bible is true ; whoever would dare
to say the contrary should be . Any way, it is well known
that none but bad, vicious, unprincipled men will say that any-
thing therein — even a single text — is false ; and no one who
would make such an assertion should be trusted. 'Twould be
far better to be even a deluded papist than to be a sneering
infidel. You must have misunderstood Shawn, I scarcely think
that he would have run from one extreme to the other so
quickly. He is but a poor ignorant man, and very few indeed
but the so-called scientists and philosophers would be unscrupu-
lous enough to harbor such doubts."
I saw that my aunt was a little gratified to know that my
mother was aware that Shawn had left her Church, and this
had in a manner counteracted my aunt's resentment against
him. " I won't say," she continued, after a little reflection,
" that Shawn is yet actually vicious ; you must have misunder-
156
Family Greeds.
1
II ^^
stood him. I always took him to be simple-minded and honest,
but you know he could not be such very long if he entertained
doubts as to the truth of God's Word ; it would be virtually
impossible."
I can still remember this conversation. I felt much con-
cerned for poor Shawn, and little by little 1 got ray aunt per-
suaded to feel better inclined towards him ; and better still I
got her to promise that she would say nothing at present to my
father on the subject, under the assurance that I would try to
make Shawn as satisfied with my aunt's explanations of the
scriptural difficulties that had beset him, as, I wished her to
believe, and tried to believe, they v ore then to me.
During breakfast not much was ^aid at table ; perhaps too
much had been spoken the evening before. My aunt, though
rather moody, was somewhat dignified in her manner towards
my mother, and seemed to feel as if she had had a kind of
triumph over her. My father complained of a slight headache,
and while Mr. Casey was absorbed reading a newspaper, merely
sipping his coflFee and scarcely touching his toast, William and
the girls sat together at the opposite side of the table — for I
was kept close to my aunt — and were in deep confab and laugh-
ing as much as they dared to laugh in her presence on a Sun-
day morning. I could not help feeling a twinge of jealousy
again. I had almost made up my mind not to notice Jane
during the rest of the day, or at least to pretend to appear in-
different to her society, and, in this humor, after the meal was
over, I had to get ready to go to Methodist meeting with my
aunt. The first thing I had to do was, of course, to rehearse
my long chapters — what a depressing task ! — and while engaged
at this my mother stole towards me and managed unperceived
to whisper in my ear, " Remember, dear, to whom you pray
to-day ; remember the ever blessed Virgin to whom I have
my
Irse
ive
Sabbath Lectures.
157
commended you. She will hear you, and watch over you, and
•
protect you, and be with you even in the place where she is
unknown, and among those who treat her with contempt."
My mother, Mr. Casey, Ellen and Jane went off together to
hear mass at the cathedral. Ah, how I longed to be with them !
My father and William went to church ; and my aunt and I
departed by ourselves for the plain-looking Wesley an chapel —
very plain to what Wesley an *' churches " are at present — she
perhaps to pray for the conversion of deluded papists, and I to
take up my cross and to pray in secret to — the Virgin.
4
■i
!i' '/i
CHAPTER XV.
AN APPLE OF DISCORD.
AS we passed the large church which my father generally
attended I noticed a long row of stylish vehicles drawn
up before it. There were coaches in yellow, blue, green, and
dark brown panels ; and there wei'e phaetons, chaises, and gigs
of many colors, and all were polished and shining. Most of
the sleek fat horses attached to these luxurious conveyances
stood in drowsy magnificence under their costly harness and
fanciful trappings, while others, as if anxious to attract atten-
tion, pawed the flag- way under them, or, one would think,
kept tossing their heads with disdain at the meaner animals
of their own kind that chanced to pass along the public high-
way. The coachmen in rich liveries, and fat as their horses,
sat half asleep on their well-cushioned seats, or paced slowly
backwards and forwards by the side of their vehicles chatting
or joking with one another, or making themselves familiar with
any of the smartly-dressed female servants who might linger
outside the church door in order to secure an opportunity for
such intercourse, as well as to exhibit their comely forms in
perhaps the cast-off" silk dresses of some lady of the house.
" Aunt," said I, as we were passing the church, " are not all
these men breaking the Sabbath, though they are dressed in
their Sunday clothes ]"
An Apple of Discord.
159
"What men, child?" inquired my aunt; for she was going
along with a downcast expression as if deep in the mysteries of
some religious subject. •
" Those stout-looking, red-faced coachmen," I answered j
"Just hear how they laugh."
There was a loud laugh at something no doubt smartly said
by one of the maid servants who were near by. " Oh, these
men of course have to be with the carriages while their masters
are at service in the chui'ch. It wouldn't do for them to leave
the horses alone."
"But isn't that working, aunt?" I asked. "Don't these
men have to clean the horses and carriages before they come
out, and after they get back home again ? "
" No, they are got ready on Saturday, I think," said my aunt,
rather in doubt, "and there are other lower servants to clean
the horses and things if necessary when driven back. Any
way, you know, this is a work of necessity."
I was a little inquisitive, besides being a little annoyed at
being led off alone by my aunt ; and I also felt that while she
was ready to make an excuse for these people, she was quite
hard with others, an^ not exactly consistent with her general
professions as to Habbath-keeping.
"Then," said I, "these men are to mind the horses, and
other men left behind have to clean them and put away the
things and so cannot get out to church. Making a lire and
cooking the dinner is, I know, a work of necessity, but driving
about a grand coach on a Sunday, I think, is not. Couldn't
the rich people walk to church as well as we, and keep all these
men froni working to-day ?"
" They might, I suppose," said she, "but they won't. See
there's the rector's gig, and there's his man near the horse'i
head, waiting to drive his master home after he's done preach-
m !
n
}i I
'!
160
Family Creeds.
ing ; and I know that sometimes in the city, when the streets
are wet, the bishop is driven to the cathedral in his coach. In
fact, wet or dry, he generally prefers coaching it, and so do his
hearers ; those at least who can afford to keep servants in
livery. This is a matter, child, that can't be helped, it has
long been the custom, and if they do no worse than drive to
church they do well ; besides more persons find employment."
" But isn't Sunday employment of any kind Sunday labor ]
I've heard you say many a time that such labor is wrong ; that
a man, no matter how poor, should not labor for hire, or gain,
or reward of any kind on Sunday. Don't you remember, when
you were here before, we saw a poor old man with a little
basket picking up rags, and old nails, and other things here
and there in the street one Sunday, and you know you got
angry at him and told him he should be punished for Sab-
bath-breaking ; and when I pitied him — for he looked sick and
hungry — and offered him my penny, you wouldn't let me give
it to him, because you said he was doing wrong, and you made
me put it in the missionary box in the chapel. Now, listen,
aunt, you hear the organ. I heard my pa say that the organist
who is now playing in that church gets , oh, a great deal of
money every year for playing during service, and that he is at
the same time a Catholic, and also plays the organ sometimes in
the Catholic cathedral. Isn't that earning money on Sunday 1 "
My aunt, who used to like secular music before she became
very religious, stood for a few moments to listen. I could have
stood there much longer, as the performer was playing a volun-
tary of the most exquisite kind ; for in my confused, doubtful
state of mind at the time, if anything could have made me feel
really pious it would have been fine music. Indeed I have often
thought that a grand choral service has much to do with making
people religious ; and many ministers must think such a service
An Apple of Discord.
161
more effectual in this respect than their sermons, as the finest
operatic singers are often employed to sing in churclies. For
while most of a congregation might think prayers, and vain
repetitions, and sermons of even but fifteen or twenty minutes,
very long, they will pray, or praise, or worship, or listen for
hours, provided their worship can be translated to the heavenly
throne in music ; for that must be the language of the celestial
spheres.
" Oh," said my aunt, moving away again, " but that is Mr.
Schwartz, and you know he's oidy a German Catholic."
" I know that it is Mr. Schwartz," said I ; " for you remem-
ber he used to come to our house to give Ellen les.sons on the
piano, and he comes now sometimes to tune it, and when he
play.s I think I could listen to him all day. But there's no
difference between a German Catholic and any other Catholic,
is there, aunt ] "
" Not much, I suppose, if he's as bigoted as the Irish Catho-
lies ; but they tell me the Germans are more like Protestants
every way. If he plays for pay, its his profession, perhaps his
only way of making a living ; besides it's music in the service
of the Lord."
"Then aunt," said I, "if it's right for Mr. Schwartz to make
money the only way he can, even on Sunday, wasn't it right
enough for the poor apple woman to try and sell fruit on the
same day. It was her only way of making a living; for I'm sure
she wouldn't stand out so often in the wind, and rain, anfl cold
if she could help it ; but you know, aunt, that you said she
shouldn't be allowed to keep an apple-stand at the street corner
on Sunday."
" Well, she should not," she rather sullenly roj)lied ; " she
might do better ," and just then we entered the plain reli-
gious edifice known as the Methodist chapel.
162
Family Creeds.
The placo was well fillefl with decent-looking people, mostly, I
should think, of the working class ; and by a few who kept
small retail shops in the town. 1 scarcely noticed one of those
distinguished individuals among the hean^rs such as patronize
Methodism, and piety, and prayc^r-moetings at th(^ present day,
when Methodism itself almost scorns to be patronized, but
would prefer to be considered attractive to saints and sinners
alike, as being a kind of special agent, having at its command
potential secular as well as divine influence. The preacher was
one of the primitive style who was pfTJiaps doubtful as to the
legitimacy of any claim set up for him to the title of "rev-
erned," and who had not yet developed anything of the clerical
animus which might lead him to expect ever to be recognized
as a "mmister," any more than he would expect to have; the
meeting-house of his society calhid a " church," and to see it
crowned, or decorated, or made more conspicuous with a costly
tower or steeple. He was meek-looking in the pulpit, as the
itinerant preachers of that day generally were; sleek hair, sleek
close-shaven face, black or brown coat with standing collar and
half-quakerish cut, and with a plain black ribbon to the plain
silver watch which he scarcely ever exhibited before his hearers.
The members of the society at that time would have considered
it a great infringement of their rules to wear either gold or sil-
ver or costly array, and would have no more thought of present-
ing a favorite popular preacher with a costly gold watch and
massive gold chain, than they would have thought of erecting a
golden calf on the family altar. This would have been a con-
formity to the ways of the world which could not have beei
tolerated.
The man who has faith in his belief will be sincere in urging
it on others, and will not be inclined to encourage hypocrisy ;
and this man was sincere and energetic in warning sinners
1
An Apple of Discord.
163
against the wrath to como. His voice, which might be consid-
ered more powerful than his reasoning, proved not only the
depth of his true feeling, hut resounded all through the build-
ing, and to a considerable" distance from it outside; and after he
had spent about an hour in exhausting the subject of his text —
which I cannot now remember — he commenced with fresh vigor
and alluded to the famous religious discussion which was then
taking place in Dublin, T think, between "Pope and McGuire"
concerning the claims or pretensions of the ( Catholic Church,
and the preacher followed by dealing his mightiest blows
against the "Man of Sin;" and for some time longer he
exhibited the iniquities and the infamies of popery, proving, I
am sure, to his own satisfaction and to that of almost every one
present, that it was a system hostile to revealed truth, and to
the well-being of man ; and furthermore he attributed the woes
of Ireland to the prevalence of Romanism — it was he said a
curse to any country in which it predominated — and he asserted
that the agitation, the disturbances, the violence and the out-
rages that were almost daily and nightly taking place all over
the country were entirely due to the machinations of the rebel-
lious and unscrupulous priests of Rome.
The preacher had scarcely spoken these words before a stone
came crashing through one of the windows, rebounding from
the pulpit and striking some one of the congregation. Immedi-
ately after, another stone smashed a pane of glass close to
Jiere I was sitting and grazed the top of my forehead, slightly
utting the skin. The alarm of course was great ; there were
.creams, and some women were I think fainting, and a number
of men. rushed out to arrest the papist outlaws — for such they
were said to be — who were at once accused of this wanton
villainy. Rut it was too late. The chapel was near the corner
of a stn and there were narrow lanes near by, running off in
164
Family Creeds.
m
different directions, through which one might easily escape even
at noon-day. Two or three rough-looking men were seen turn-
ing down one of tliese, lanes, they were followed some distance
but they succeeded in making good their retreat. Some street
Ioi\:erers who no doubt had been attracted towards the chapel
by the preacher's stentorian voice, had heard his heavy denun-
ciations of popery, and took the not unusual method at the
time of retaliating by the most ready way at hand against
what was called the " long-faced swaddler and his groaning
congregation."
I and the other person who had been slightly hurt were the ob-
jects of much sympathetic attontion for a while, but when it was
discovered that I was scarcely injured, and that no other attack
was apprehended, my aunt led me o\it in order to return home.
She probably would have remained to attend class-meeting were
it not for what had happened, and I should therefore have had
to stay in the chapel for another hour or so longer. When we
got outsid'} the door I saw a woman looking at me very sharply
as if she was trying to recognize my featoi'es. At first I thought
it was but a mere matter of curiosity on her part, as I was one
of the persons reported to have been struck. I saw her speak
for a moment to my aunt, and when she drew closer to where
I stood, I fancied that I had seen her face before, and while
she still gazed at me on the wide stone door-step, I looked up
at her in turn and tried to remeralter where I could have met
her, when it suddenly occurred to me that she was one of the
strange women who were in the big room at the time of my
baptism by the spectre-priest — this was what he was still to my
mind. I noticed this woman in particular that day, for she
was the only person among the strangers present that seemed
to take any interest in my mother or myself during the cere-
mony, and, now that I recollected the circumstance, I was very
An Apple of Discord.
165
much surprised to see her in such a place as a Methodist chapel
(she was probably astonished to see me there too), and to find
that she was evidently well acquainted with my aunt; and before
they parted that day I heard her say that as she had to leave
home the next morning early, to be away for a week or longer,
she would not be able to see my aunt until her return, or until
my aunt paid us another visit at Cove, and before she took her
leave she stooped and said in a kind of half- whisper, but which
was distinct enough to roach my ear, " and then I shall have a
little news for you."
Few persons would like to be kept in suspense for a week
before they could hear that which they were most eager to
learn ; a week of such uncertainty would be a week of anxiety.
Even the criminal whose sentence is deferred after his convic-
tion, and who knows that punishment of some kind awaits him,
counts the hours gloomy and the days dreary, and the nights
wretched, that must elapse while in sad speculation, or in tor-
turing apprcliension, as to the kind or the extent of the legal
infliction to which he may be obliged to submit ; and it is (juite
probable that many a culprit would prefer to hear his sentence
pronounced, and to know the worst immediately after his trial,
than to be kept in harassing suspense as to the future. It is
too frequently asserted, and I think with great injubtice, that
women grow more nervous and restless during })eriods of c'elay
and uncertainty than men — their reckless accusers have much
to answer for — -but if women under such circumstances were to
be judged according to the impatience exhibited by my aunt on
this occasion, it might be said with some show of reason, that
this assertion against the ladies was not altogether too strong.
My aunt was certainly very eager to know all, then and there,
of what this "news" was ; her friend could not say anything at
that time. They must have a quiet evening together, and then
f
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166
Family Creeds.
she should hear all. My aunt tried very hard to have her friend
delay her departure for another day. She almost entreated her
to remain, but when she found all unavailing, and that she
would have to try and exist another week, at least, in total
ignorance of what was to be communicated, she turned abruptly
away and walked along, the picture of discontent ; and, so far
as I could judge, in anything but an amiable mood, or in what
was said to be a Christian spirit.
I must confess that on my way home I felt a little uneasy
about this recognition, and what this news was likely to convey;
whether it would affect my mother, or Shawn, or myself, or any
one in the house. I felt unaccountably suspicious of this
woman that had looked so sharply at me, and that had made
such a promise to my aunt, but I made no inquiry and said
nothing to my aunt about it. I walked on almost mechanically
and took hardly any notice of coaches, or carriages, or horse-
men, or foot-men, or apple-women, or any thing else, but was
busied with thoughts that brought me, someway, more anxiety
for my mother than for myself. What could all this mean 1
Why was that woman in the big room, and how did she obtain
admittance on that occasion which we thought was to be so pri-
vate? Why was she at the Methodist chapel, and how was it
that she was apparently so well acquainted with my aunt, and
evidently in her confidence 1 It was a mystery to me, and
though I could not venture to speak to my aunt on the subject,
I would have given anything I had for a satisfactory explana-
tion. Being doubtful however of obtaining the information I
required, I decided to make my mother aware of the circum-
stance on my return, in order that she might give it suitable
consideration, and if possible be prepared for any result.
My father and William had hui'iied home from church and
entered the house almost out of breath. Though I was found
An Apple of Discoi'd.
167
to be alive and well my father became almost exasperated when
he saw my scratched forehead, and thought of my narrow
escape ; for certainly had the heavy stone that had touched me
been one inch more towards my temple, the blow would prob-
ably have been fatal to me. On their way from church they
had heard the most exaggerated accounts of the attack on the
Methodist chapel, and that, though the number of injured per-
sons were yet unknown — some were said to be dying — my
father had been told by certain excited persons, that I was borne
out of the chapel fainting, the blood streaming from my wound,
and that in all probability I could not survive the injury. My
mother, Mr. Casey, and the girls entered the house soon after
and were greatly excited, at least ray mother and the girls were
very much alarmed. They had heard in the street rumors of the
disturbance, my poor mother was in a terrible state of anxiety
until she saw me ; and I noticed with peculiar satisfaction that
little Jane's eyes looked red, as if she had been crying. At that
moment my heart was wonderfully lightened. I forgot all about
the dread secret I was keeping from my father, and which gave
me so much concern lest it should ever be made known to him ;
every trace of jealousy disappeared, and for the remainder of
the day I became more than reconciled to Jane, and I forgot,
or at least I was totally disinclined, to show the least resent-
ment towards my brother William.
By an unfortunate coincidence, the subject of the religious
discussion between Pope and McGuire had also been mentioned
that Sunday in other places of worship in the town as well
as in the Methodist chapel. It might be said to have been
the text of the sermons delivered in the Catholic cathedral and
in the church where my father usually attended. In fact, this
great theological debate was considered one of very great
importance. It was the leading topic day after day in the
i
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168
Family Greeds.
public papers, people spoke of their clerical champions at street
corners and it had the effect of reviving in the minds of both
Catholics and Protestants the old feelings of religious antago-
nism which for short periods might occasionally have been
allowed to slumber. The priest in the cathedral spoke of the
ancient faith — the true apostolic faith of Ireland— of the intol-
erance that had assailed it ; of the brutal persecution of the
faithful by an alien race ; of the sacrifices that had been made
for their Church by the poor oppressed people of Erin ; of the
determination of the clergy and people of the Green Isle to
resist to the very utmost every Saxon interference with their
ancient rights and })rivileges; and, above all, of their firm reso-
lution to counteract the viper-like approaches of the host of
mercenary hirelings of the pampered State Church, which not
only extorted tithes from the Catholic peasantry, but also
claimed to bo the exponent of that medley of novel creeds called
Protestantism — that seething mass of corruption — in any and
every effort they dared to make in order to alienate, or pro-
selytise, or tamper with the faith of the humble Catholic poor,
by means of soup, or sausages, or tracts, or three-penny loaves.
No ; the true Irish Catholic, no matter how destitute, would
rather starve on the public highway than become the victim of
sanctimonious villainy that would rob him of his soul, and
exclude him from Heaven ; and in conclusion the faithful were
urged to invoke the aid of the Virgin in behalf of the Rev. Mr.
McGuire, the champion of their Church, in his eflforts to refute
the specious arguments of his opponent and to cause him
speedily to retire from the arena oi -liacussion in utter shame
and confusion.
The clergyman in the Established Church alluded to the
debate as one of vast importance at the present time, leading
many to investigate more closely the aims and pretentions of a
An Apftle of Discord.
169
corrupt system of religion, which, when its vicious sway was
predominant, closed the Bible to man, erected the hideous
Inquisition, and caused only social and moral devastation
throughout Christendom ; and which had already done so much
to degrade the great majority of the people of Ireland. That
fearful ecclesiastical monster, the Roman Church, should ever-
more be kept in chains. The priests governeu the poor credu-
lous masses under their control with almost omnipotent sway,
and what was the result 1 The consequence was, that while the
Protestant population of the country lived for the most part in
comparative prosperity and content, and in obedience to the
laws, the Catholics were trained by their priests to look upon
the lawful authorities as being only aliens and intruders, and
it cost His Majesty's Government more to keep down insur-
rection in this unhappy country than it did to preserve life and
property in any other part of the Empire.
Much more was added, and of course both Catholics and
Protestants left their respective places of worship with embit-
tered feelmgs towards one another. How could it have been
otherwise? The religious teachers in whom they trusted had
undoubtedly exaggerated actual fact.s — and these were unhap-
pily bad enough — and had made appeals of so inflammatory a
nature, that many on both sides imagined their own excited
feelings to be the promptings of that mistaken spirit which was
anything but the spirit of pity or forbearance.
After the first angry outburst made by my father on his
return from Church we saw no more of him until dinner time.
During the interval he must have vented his spleen against
everything Catholic — Pope, priests, and people — in his usual
unreasonable manner privately before my mother ; for when I
saw her afterwards I noticed at once that, the effects of her
mental distress were sorrowfully apparent in her face ; she had
12
170
Family Greeds.
it-
almost always to bear the brunt of his indignation against her
religion when he became excited. During dinner, though he
and most present made an eflfort not to introduce the unpleas-
ant subject relating to the great religious discussion, I observed
his stern manner and his cold civility to Mr, Casey, but when
my aunt unfortunately alluded again to the attack on the
Methodist chapel, and to my narrow escape, insisting that exemp-
lary punishment should follow such scandalous rioting, my
father, in spite of his eflForts to restrain himself, made some
hasty reply in support of her opinions. It was evident that
Mr. Casey found it difficult to keep from making an angry
retort, but he spoke a few words, bitter enough in their way,
which I think satisfied us all that were he any where else at
the time than at my father's table, his words would have been
loud spoken ani'l defiant enough to bring on something more
serious than an ordinary estrangement between him and my
father.
How wretched we all felt while partaking of a meal rendered
innutritions by unhappy emotions, and how diflferent were our
feelings to what they had been on the previous evening. The
girls and William and I hurried away from the table as soon
as we could ; we seemed to have been equally depressed.
I cannot say whether the unpleasant subject was renewed
after we had left the apartment ; my aunt would scarcely have
remained silent. There were very probably disagreeable
inuendoes, or an approach to an altercation of some kind ;
for when my mother followed us, she told us with tears in her
eyes that Mr. Casey, though intending to stay with us a day or
two, had determined to take his departure and return to the
city by the evening boat.
William and I went to the wharf to see Mr. Casey off. My
father did not accompany us. I cannot say whether or not
An Apple of Discord.
171
he even took the ordinary leave of his partner. How my heart
sank when Mr. Casey told us that Jane would leave us within
two or three days ; he would have taken her away that evening
were it not for the entreaty of my mother to have her remain ;
and when I saw him waving us an adieu from the deck of the
steamer, and going • back alone, I thought of Shawn's words
about the discord or the enmity that Religion could create, and
I wished that Christians in Ireland could be as tolerant regard-
ing creeds and religions, and forms of worship, as heathens and
pagans are said to have been before they had heard of the
"Gospel Story," or before Christian missionaries had ever visited
foreign lands.
ble
td;
ler
or
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lot
CHAPTER XVI.
THE PICTURE IN THE CLOUDS.
II
i
WHAT a solitary Sunday evening we had after Mr. Casey's
departure ! Jane, poor thing, though scarcely under-
standing the cause of our trouble, knew that she was soon to
leave us and was greatly downcast. My dear mother retired
to her own room — probably to weep. My father left the house
and went off somewhere alone, and my aunt went to evening
meeting. She would have taken me with her at any other
time, but after what had occurred at the Methodist chapel that
morning she perhaps thought it best to allow me to remain at
home, and I was really thankful that she had shown me so much
consideration ; at least I gave her the credit of having done so.
I think I never saw William so reserved. I thought it scarcely
possible that he could lose so readily his sprightliness of man-
ner and become so thoughtful, as if he anticipated trouble. Like
Shawn, he no doubt believed that nothing caused so much dis-
sension and bitterness as disputes on religious subjects. About
dusk in the evening he and I sat outside with Shawn, who of
course had heard of what had happened that morning, and
knew why it was that Mr. Casey had left us, and in a little
time, when William joined the girls who were alone in one of
the rooms, I told Shawn about my aunt's female acquaintance
that she had spoken to outside the chapel door, of what she had
The Picture in the Clouds.
173
yet to tell her on her return in a week or so, and of how I had
recognized her as being one of the strange women who were
present in the hig room at the time of my baptism. I gave
him the best description of her tliat I could, and then waited
to hear his opinion.
He remained thoughtful, more so, I think, than I had ever
seen him before. Upon his grave face there came a serious
disturbed expression that almost alarmed me. " O Shawn,"
said I, suddenly clasping his hand, " tell me, tell mo what you
think 1 It must be something dreadful, you look so grieved."
"There's too much rayson fur it, nlanna" replied he with
unusual solemnity of manner. *' I know the 'ooman yer aunt
met ; it must be Nancy Ferrin, one that goes sewin' and
mendin' from house to house ; one of these shaiiachies that's
fur iver coUogiiein', an' story tellin', an' tattlin', an' breedin'
throuble betune friends an' neighbors. Yis, 'tis the prayin',
wanderin' Nancy Ferrin."
" Well, and what else 1 " said I, eagerly, to Shawn, finding
that he hesitated to go on ; " Who is she 1 "
" What else, avick V continued he. " She's one of thim poor,
thin, raw-boned, unmarried craythurs that's very religious
a' Sundays, that tayches in Sunday School, that hates the
papists an' prays for their convarshun, that collects money fur
wanderin' missioners, an' that goes from doore to doore a' Sun-
day mornin's wid texts av Scriptur', an' tracts. I saw her once
at yer aunt's house, an' I noticed her here one day talk in' to
yer aunt whin yer mother was in town — 'tis the very one.
Shure she's not a bit o' feeling in her heart fur a papist, nor fur
hardly iny one else, an' she'd do yer aunt's biddin', an' be a
treacherous spy on yer mother — an' that's what she's been —
an' she found manes to git into the big room an' saw what took
place there, an' she'll tell all in a week, or sooner if she can,
hi'.
m
174
Family Greeds.
an* 'twill come to yer father's ears, an' after ' aat there 'ill be
a storm an' maybe a sad partin' among "the whole av us —
Oyea ! "
I spent a restless night. I lay awake for hours thinking of
what had passed during a period of scarcely over twenty-four
hours. What a happy little company we formed in the pai'lor
on Saturday night ; how wretched we all felt about the same
time on Sunday ! Visions of hope and happiness so suddenly
blasted, partings to come, and the probability of a dreary
future ; for was not Jane about to leave us. Still, though at
any other time the idea of this particular parting might be
almost unbearable, it was already overshadowed by my anxiety
on account of my mother. The conversation I had had with
Shawn troubled me very much, as from all I could learn from
him this Nancy Ferrin was so given to tattle that it was quite
unsafe to confide any matter to her which you wished to keep
private. It had been asserted that if you wished to publish
any scandal for the benefit of the whole community, all you had
to do was to impart it confidentially, as it were, to her, and it
was certain to reach the ears of all. She knew the history of
nearly every family in town, and gossiping individuals who
were craving to know something of the family history of those
around them — particularly the domestic affairs of those above
them in social position — had only to invite the garrulous Nancy
to spend the evening, and, while the kettle was boiling, to say
something about preachers, or preachers' wives, or chapel-meet-
ings, or missionaries, and then quietly to change the conver-
sation to home affairs, to learn all that she had to impart as
important secrets.
My aunt must of course have been well acquainted with the
pious Miss Ferrin's peculiarities, and having already had a hint
that Nancy had news for her, I began to fear that she might
The Picture in the Clouds.
175
continue with us until her friend's return, even if it were to be
for two weeks instead of one. It had been my aunt's intention
to go back to the city with my fatlier and Mr. Casey, but as
he had left us so unexpectedly, and as my father" might be in
no hurry to meet him again after the unpleasantness that had
occurred, there was a probability that both he and my aunt
would remain at Cove until Miss Ferrin had returned, burdened
with a secret, which, when revealed over a quiet cup of tea,
might be fatal to the future domestic happiness of my mother,
and which would convict me of the greatest duplicity towards
my father. Oh, how I dreaded the very name of this pious
detective. Even Nelly Carberry had heard of her, for when I
asked Nelly, with apparent unconcern, if she knew anything
of Nancy Ferrin, " To be sure I do," she replied at once, " she
spends the half of her time going about from, house to house col-
lecting scandal — and money for missionaries ; that's what she
does ; and Shawn can tell you more about her than I can."
For some reason, my father and my aunt kept together in one
of the rooms during the forenoon on Monday. She was rather
parsimonious at times, and accused my mother of being extrava-
gant. Had they been consulting on family matters one would
think that she ought to have been with them ; but her presence
seemed not to have been required. As it was, I could not avoid
suspecting my aunt of having some design in view. Where
religious matters were concerned she appeared to have a pecu-
liar influence over my father, and he generally agreed with her,
and submitted to her directions in this respect. My mother
knew this to be the case, and felt that it would be quite useless
to interfere between them, or offer any opposition with regard to
suggestions my aunt would make concerning the religious train-
ing or education of my brother or myself. I had often heard
my aunt say, that my father had done very wrong in even per-
■
ill
Mil
i!
I! '.
I' !
i
176
FaTnily Creeds.
mitting my sister to lye a Catholic, that even now he should
forbid her ever again to enter a popish place of worship. He
should exercise his authority, and make her » Protestant. That
it was a crime to allow such an ante-marital arrangement, as
had been made as to the religion of his daughter, to exist,
thereby imperilling the happiness of what she called " a pre-
cious soul," and although, on some account, she was never partial
towards my sister, I think she could have been even affectionate
to her had Ellen been brought up a Methodist, and been able to
repeat a hundred texts, and a hundnul verses of Wesley's hymns
in the Sunday-school class, controlled, regulated and enlightened
by the devoted Nancy Ferrin. Indeed, I had many a time
heard my aunt assert, in the presence of my parents, that no
matrimonial union between a Catholic and a Protestant could
expect to bring a blessing ; such unions had been a prolific
cause of discord, and that that which created discord could not
in the long run be anything else than sinful. She would even
go further, and declare that ordinary business partnerships
between Catholics and Protestants — such as existed between
my father and Mr. Casey — were also wrong ; and although
admitting that a Protestant might not be far astray in purchas-
ing his bread or his boots from a Catholic tradesman, yet, on
the whole, judging by what she did herself, she thought it would
be better, for instance, for a Wesleyan to deal exclusively with
a Methodist baker, or butcher, or tailor, than to patronize
others outside the household of faith.
Ah me ! how much I have learned since as to the numbers
that are guided by such absurd preferences. While the business
of many a worthy man is allowed to languish, or while his fair
claims are rejected because he is unable to subscribe conscien-
tiously to Catholic or Protestant articles of religious faith, or
to the political creed of those in power, the religious or political
The Picture in the Clouds.
177
charlatAn rnakt^s his Hervile profession and becomes a man of
wealth. Bankers as well as bakers, pedagogues and place-
hunters, and above all politicians, seem to understand and to
practise a judicious mode of conformity to the creed, political
or religious, of the majority, or of the influential ; and they are
willing, either by a toleration almost eijual to profession, or by
the laudation or adoption of even a vicious principle, to cleave
to that side which has the greatest number, in order to gain their
point. As to the success as well as to the discredit arising from
such subserviency, the many undeserving men patronized or
thrust into office or placed into positions, gn^at or humble, is an
evidence of how effectually the time-server, either in religion
or politics, can serve his own purposes and can become wealthy,
or attain elevation or distinction, while the more able or the
more honorable man has to remain humble or unknown.
While my father was engaged with my aunt I took the
opportunity of speaking tt my mother, and, in as few words as
possible, conveyed to her the knowledge I had of Miss Ferrin
and of her probable intentions on her return. I said I felt
almost positive that the important news which she had promised
to give my aunt must be that relating to my baptism in the
big room. My mother, though greatly surprised at this infor-
mation, received it calmly. She had an impression, she said,
that sooner or later it would reach the ears of my father, and
she tried to have herself prepared for the worst. She felt that
she had done nothing wrong in performing this sacred duty on
my behalf, that it was a most important obligation to try and
place me within the ark of safety, and that she would gladly
have had my brother also present were she satisfied that he
would have regarded her wishes as I had ; and though she
had taken up her cross and suflered much on account of her
religious belief, and had much domestic unhappiness from the
w
rir'
13
178
Family Creeds.
^ame cause, yet she could willingly leave us all and die in peace
were she fully assured that my father, as ^'ell as all others near
and dear to her, had btsen received, as I had been, within the
bosom of the Catholic Church.
Having said this, she wept sorely, more out of real sorrow for
my father's persistence in what she deemed a fatal error, than
in anticipation of anything likely to happen from any disclosure
which might be made by Nancy Ferrin. In aiding ray escape
from an heretical creed she had, she said, the comfort of an
approving conscience, and she felt that even if persecution of
any kind followed, she and I would be under the protecting
oare o^ the Mother of God. All would be for the best.
Ho-' many thousands in the most perplexed and harassing
circumstances, or in the midst of dire distress, have looked up
to the clouded heavens for hope, and when even the imagina-
tion had failed to catch the faintest gleam from the leaden sky
— when' all seemed dark and blank — the doubtful, throbbing
heart would still try to feel confident while forcing the lips to
mutter, "It may be all for the best." And when the almost
despairing soul is ready to plunge into a gulf of despondency,
this secret utterance of latent faith is heard as if it were the
whisper of some guardian angel. My dear mother, who believed
that a protecting spirit was ever near her, seemed to grow hope-
ful, while watching even its fancied shadow, and to feel reas-
sured by the words she hud just used ; they were to her like a
prayer that was certain to be answered, and that, come what
would, the wordn of that very prayer should shine out in letters
of light to let her see that — all should ])0 for the best.
That evening I became aware, to some extent, why it was that
my father and my aunt had been in consultation. It happened
that I v/as the principal subject of their conference; for my
father informed me, when we were alone, that he and my aunt
The Picture in the Clouds.
179
i;
had come to the conchision that I was now well enough to be
sent to school. He had not yet decided where to place me ; Ym
intended, he said, to return on Saturday, and by that time he
should perhaps be able to tell me how I was to be disposed of.
He and my aunt would leave in the morning for the city ; in
the meantime I vas to make such preparations as I could, and
he would direct my mother to have everything ready, as he pur-
posed to take me away with him next week.
This arrangement, quite unexpected by her, was a fresh afflic-
tion which she felt to be peculiarly severe at the time. But
what could she do but submit again — every act of her married
life had evidently been an act of submission. Were she to ofter
any opposition, it would only make my father, or rather my
aun Catherine, more determined to have me sent away, lest
the supposed pernicious effect of my mother's religious teaching
should, in the long run, b.^ almost a calamity. She truly sus-
pected the cause of my father's decision respecting myself, and
then, when she came to consider cahnly how excited he proV>ably
would become should he learn our great secret through Nancy
Ferrin, she admitted it wouUl after all l)e better that j. should
1)e away until the storm or the hurricane of his wrath had first
been spent on her devoted head, and until she had had an
opportunity of pleading in my behalf and of trying to prevent
his anger or his fury from hardening into tierce or bitter enmity
against me for ever. In all this she seemed to think but little
how it was to result to herself.
My father and my aunt left us in the morning. Willium
and tho girls and I went to see them ofl". The day was chilly
and misty, and we were glad to return to th(! house. Even if
the weather had been Inmutiful, I was in no mood for an excur-
sion ; neither did any one else in the house care for leaving it ;
all appeared L'. ' .g depressed. I felt g»'eat loneliness of heart,
.ir-^V
180
fl '!
Family Creeds.
:i
for in less than a week I should have to leave my dear mother,
and my sister, and Shawn, and Nelly Carberry, and the old
house that I loved so much ; even the big room, in spite of the
spectre-priest, and tb^ rather unpleasant associations lately
connected with it, seemed to have for me its wonted attractions
as of old. William would very likely leave home with me, and
we might probably be sent to the same school. I must leave
these, and then I should have to part with another, with little
Jane, one of the dearest friends I ever had. How could I
leave my mother or Jane and he ever happy again until we
were once more together ! And when was that likely to be 1
Late occurrences seemed to loom up like mountains of difficulties
before us. Sad as the thought was of being separated from my
mother and my other friends, there was no doubt in my mind
but that I should be able to see them from time to time ; but
when again should we have Jane with us 1 She had now been
nearly six months a constant inmate, and during most of that
time I had been her daily associate. Only two or three days
ago she had almost ridiculed the idea of our ever being sepa-
rated, and, in our inexperience of the trials of life, we hod
agreed to be always together ; but now, even in less than an-
other day, there was to be a separation which might be for
an interminable period, and which in all probability would
make my future life, be it short or long, one of the dreariest
imaginable.
Poor Jane appeared to be suftering herself from such reflec-
tions. I saw her lips tremble, and her eyes fill, whenever we
alluded to her dej)arture, and, as these allusions were of the
most regretful kind, that peculiar languor and lowness of spirits
which mostly precedes a parting of very intimate Tricnds aflected
us all. William tried, in his usual way, vo be cheerful, and my
sister, who was really more aflected than I had ever before seen
« I
The Picture in the Clouds.
181
her, made repeated efforts to be lively, but all to no purpose.
The hours passed slowly away, and as I turned occasionally to
look at Jane, I could notice that she would gaze anxiously at
one and then at another, as if to satisfy her longing eyes, the
same as she would, had she been expecting never to see us
again. I had not the heart to be jealous so far during that
day. I saw her look repeatedly at my brother ; the shade of
sadness in his young face made him look more interesting, but
my heart someway told me that it was only a sister's look she
gave him, nothing more ; for when she turned her eyes on me,
which she did very often, I noticed a tenderness in them which,
at that particular time, I tried to believe was an indication of
something stronger than a sister's aflfection. It might have
been a very silly notion of mine, but, nevertheless, young as I
V IS, the notion impressed me, and it was my greatest happiness
tuen to indulge it.
We had an early tea that evening, for the weather had cleared
up and we were anxious to go out once more together. While
we sat at table, William tried to amuse us by telling us some
of his school stories, and afterwards he looked at the grounds
in our tea-cups and pretended to tell our fortunes. Jane was
to be married to a rich sea-faring man or traveller. Did he
mean himself] How soon I could be jealous again! Ellen
Avas to become a nun. This .she said never would be, and .she
called him a false prophet. I was to be a preacher, and should
cross the sea as a missionary. When I say Jane's eyes turned
inquiringly on mine, I repudiated my brother's skill as an
oracle, and declared I should never enter a pulpit. " Pulpit
or not, then," said he, "you will be a missionary — [cannot
say of what kind." And Nelly Carberry, who was present, and
who poured out some tea for herself, was to be married to a
sailor within a year.
HI
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182
Family Creeds.
i'
11 a
The girls laughed, and we all congratulated Nelly. It was
the first laugh we had had that day ; and, to prolong the
diversion from gloomy thoughts, I suggested that Nelly, who was
better skilled in this method of foretelling than any one present,
should look into my brother's cup and tell his fortune. Nelly,
smiling, took the cup and turned it in hand two or three times;
not satisfied apparently with what had been revealed, she turned
the cup again and again, and remained silently gazing into it,
so long, indeed, that she seemed to forget that there was any
one present, A serious expression grew upon her face, she
seemed nervous, and as I had no faith, even then, in this par-
ticular kind of nonsense, which I knew had imposed much on
her credulity, I almost startled her by crying out suddenly —
" What do you see, Nelly ? " She did not reply at once, and I
repeated my question. " I can't tell you," she replied, in rather
a feeble voice, " I'll never tell."
" Oh bother ! " said I, in a light kind of way ; for I wished
to reassure my motlier, who seemed to have been impressed by
Nelly's manner more than any one else present, "you have
nothing to tell that we are afi^aid of. If you fancy you can
see shrouds and coffins, or skulls and bones, it is only fancy.
Neither you nor any one else can tell by looking at the stars,
or by looking into cups, or by pretending to deal with spirits,
what may be in the future ; it is all only silly guess work — just
what Shawn says of rov m that is called prophecy. Come, tell
us, Nelly, why you iook so very grave — there's nothing in it."
" I see neithi^r skulls nor bones, nor anything of that kind,"
said she. • '11 looking into the cup ; " but what I see here now
I shall i' I tell."
Just then my brother made a sudden dash across the table as
if to snatch the cup from her. She held it tightly, and before
he could twist it out of her hand, she thrust her fore-finger into
The Picture in the Clovds.
183
it, and disarranged the fancied map of futurity formed by the
tea-grounds.
We laughed again at Nelly's dexterity and at William's dis-
comfiture. He laughed as heartily as we did, but Nelly's face
was unusually grave ; and my mother did not even smile. She
appeared to be like one who had a belief in this kind of revela-
tion, and who had, years and years ago, tried this method of
foretelling, and that time had to some extent proved its truth.
In a few minutes we forgot for the present all about the
predictions, and we left the house to ascend the hill beyond the
cathedral and to look down upon the harbor and its surround-
ing scenery. My mother and William and Ellen walked
together, and Jane and I followed. Ah me, though the even-
ing sun was still shining on the waters, and the deep blush in
the west was like the roseate entrance to Paradise, there seemed
after all to be a shade of sadness upon every object on which
we looked, as if even the inanimate trees, and houses, and hills,
felt that we had come out to take a parting lool:, r.ud tliai, ere
another sun-set, we — that is, Jane and I — shov.ld not l)e here
together to see them. I had this impression, and my heart was
so full that I could scarcely speak. We wal", ^d on slowly, and in
the stillness of the hour, I could hear my brother's voice and liis
occasional laugh, as if he were tryi'ig to make my mother feel
how little he thought of Nelly Carberry's fortune-telling, and
that he was anxious to show how little apprehensive he was as
to anything in the future regarding himself or any of the
family ; and then, when there came a hush, the farewell notes
of some lonely bird, heard at intervals, was a kind of melancholy
warbling in unison with my own feelings. Jane spoke at last,
and said :
" When shall we be here again 1 Oh, I am so sorry T have to
go away ! "
"i !
184
Family Creeds.
'* We thought only the other day," said I, "that we should
always be together. You said we should, but how soon we have
to part."
" We were both mistaken," she added; " but you will be sent
away, maybe far away, and you will see strange people, and
maybe you will soon forget me."
"I shall never forget you, Jane, ' said I, "so long as I live;
but if half of what Nelly Carberry told us this evening turns out
to be true, you will get married to some one else."
" No, I shall not, John," she replied; "though your pa said I
should have William — and I must say that I like him very
much — I shall keep my word and marry you iirst."
" Fir.st ! " How the word grated on my ear ! Still I knew
that Jane, in her simplicity, knew nothing of what such an
expression might be made to convey beyond her own innocent
meaning. However, this, "first," and the last — her admission
of how much she liked my brother — fully awoke my dormant
jealousy, and I Ijegan to feel wretched again.
" But you will go away," she continued, " and may not come
back until you are a great big man ; and then, maybe, you won't
know me."
" I shall know you, and speak to you, and ask you to remem-
ber your proi' ise," said I, looking fondly at her; and then I gave
her every assurance T could of my constancy while I should
be at school or anywhere else until we met again — even if it
were for years.
Indeed, within the last two or three days, since she had
learned that we were all to be separated, 1 had an impression
that she appeared more mature and thoughtful, and 1 imagined
that the first traces of care could be seen on her innocent jrirl-
ish face ; as if she had but just had her earliest glimpse of the
mutability and uncertainty of human aflairs.
Tlie Picture in the Clouds.
185
We walked hand in hand a short distance farther, until my
mother told iis it was time to return. But the evening now
seemed so still, so beautiful, and yet so sad, that we all, I
think, felt disinclined to leave the spot which was now so
attractive. We still lingered, looking at the magnificent sun-
set. The heavens seemed all aglow in the red light, and Jane,
having pointed upwards, called my attention to a beautiful
cloud picture. In the distance there appeared to be a shining
river winding among hills, and then flowing slowly onwards
through fertile valleys, with tree shadows visible on its margin ;
then it reached a placid lake, Avhose bright ."Surface was studded
with numerous little islands which were crowned with foliage of
rainbow hues, flinging long lines of coloring here and there
across the transparent water. Afar there loomed up a shaded
mountain, still and solemn in the day's decline. And then,
when the ruddy light faded into dimness, we could notice what
looked like little boats leaving the twilight shore and moving
out across the hazy liquid sui'face as if to reach the spot where
the last lingering sunbeam had disappeared. To us it was like
a supernal vision ; and now we all seemed loth to leave this
Patmos-like place, as if expecting some revelation. But we had
nothing further. We waited in the calm night, until river, and
lake, and island were lost to view ; we waited until the dark
mountain was removed ; we waited until the stars came out,
and until the heaven of our imagination had faded entirely
away.
18
CHAPTER XVII.
PLOTTING AND TATTOOING.
t
R!
N!'
I LEFT the house by the dawn. I went out under a clouded
sky, for I wanted to V)e alone, and, as I thought that there
was no human being from whom I could now expect sympathy,
I did not ask even Shawn to accompany me. I could not stay to
see Jane depart. I could not offer her my hand and sa} ** fare-
well " without thinking of what a terrible meaning that word,
might convey and bursting into tears, and I could not bear to
have others, were it even ray mother or my sister, and above all
my brother — whom I was at present desirous of avoiding — to
witness an emotion which miglit betray the real state of my
feelings. Of course I knew that inquiries would be made for
me, and I felt that Jane would be greatly disappointed in not
being able to see me before she went away, but I told Nelly
Carberry to make some excuse so as to relieve them from any
uneasiness at my absence, and I trustt^d to be able to have some
opportunity by letter or otherwise of offei'ing an explanation
or an apology to Jane for my seeming coldness or indiffer-
ence at the very time when I should be expected to exhibit
anything but apathy at her departure.
The boat for the city was to leave at nine o'clock in the
morning. My mother and my sister were to accompany Jane
a few miles up the river, as far as Monkstown, and William
Plotting and Tattooing.
187
I, clouded
hat there
ympathy,
ot stay to
sa) "fare-
;hat word
lot bear to
ll above all
(iding — to
,te of my
made for
,ted in not
|told Nelly
from any
have some
ixplanation
ir indiffer-
to exhibit
llock in the
ipany Jane
,d William
went for a few hours' visit across to the island. I sat for hours
alone, like one in despair, looking down moodily upon the waters
that were to bear away from us all the little companion who
had already added so much to my happiness. I thought of her
tender care during my illness, and of her kind, gentle, and sis-
terly attention to me at all times, and of how dreary the whole
world, as well as my own heart, must be without her presence.
At last I saw the steamer move away. I dared not wave my cap
or make the Iciist signal, but I watched the boat, as if with the
most stolid indifference, until she rounded a point and became
lost to view ; and then, ^ hen I could see nothing but the long,
dark line of smoke that she left behind, my breathing became
heavy, my eyes filled with tears, and there alone, with none near
me and none to see me, I wept, I think, as I never wept before.
I was glad to meet Shawn again. He seemed to detect that
I was in very low spirits, though I am sure he knew nothing
of the real cause. He made an endeavor, in his own way, to
cheer me up and make me feel more hopeful. In my ordinary
troubles I had always made a confidant of him, but now, as I
could not tell him the real cause of my depression, he of course
assumed it to have arisen from other late occurrences, and per-
haps solely in consequence of the certainty of our soon being
separated ; and what he then said to me related entirely to
these matters.
After having conversed for some time, I reminded him that
he had made a promise to tell me' something about my Aunt
Mary, and in order to while away the hours until my mother's
return, and as this might be the most favorable opportunity we
should have for a long time, he readily agreed to give me some-
thing of her history. We retired to a quiet place overlooking
the harbor, and though I cannot now give his own words, his
relation was substantially as follows.
»)1
I '
ill
188
Family Creeds.
m
Monkstown is a picturesque village, or rather a pleasant
watering-place, situated on the west side of the Lee, not far
from Cove. The scenery on both sides of the river from this
little resort to the city of Cork, is said to be as beautiful as any
to be found in Ireland. Even some of the many once disdain-
ful Englishmen, who could see nothing worthy of any particular
admiration in anything Irish, had been forced to admit, with
other strangers, that Nature here has been most lavish of her
charms, and that to the eye of the poet or the painter, the sue-
cession of exquisite landscapes that can be seen from the har-
bor to the city is pregnant with inspiration.
The Kittson family was one of the most respectable in that
old neighborhood. For more than a century some of its mem-
bers had been included among the leading men of the place ; and
if one of the principal family failings — judging from a strictly
Protestant point of view — was, that it remained "Catholic,"
this alleged blemish was mostly overlooked from the fact, that
old and young of the same family connection were accounted
the most hospitable, as well as the most charitable, in the parish ;
and that while the men of that name were able, sturdy, resolute
and dignitied, its female members were perhaps the most beau-
tiful and accomplished, and the admitted exemplars of every
womanly virtue.
Shandon Villa was one of the most pleasant and conspicuous
residences in Monkstown. It was situated on elevated ground,
sufficiently high to enable its inmates to overlook the estuary of
the Lee and to see large ships at anchor, or smaller vessels pass
up to the city; and ships and craft of almost every kind
course downwards towards the sea. There were flower-beds!
and a lawn in front of the house, and behind there was aiij
extensive orchard ; and there was a conservatory filled with
more than the usual variety of rare plants. Taking the place I
Plotting and Tattooing.
189
pleasant
^ not far
roni this
ul as any
B disdain-
pavticular
\init, with
ish of her
jr, the sue-
av the har-
a\)le in that
of its mem-
e place ; and
jm a strictly
i "Catholic,"
}xe fact, that
ve accounted
iu the parish ;
ardy, resolute
he most beau-
Aars of every
and its surroundings, it was on the whole as pretty a picture of
a little rural paradise as one might reasonably require. The
owner of the villa at that time was John Kittson, the father of
my Aunt Mary. He was a magistrate for the County — one of
the lately appointed Catholic Justices who, since the passage of
" Catholic emancipation" had been favored by an elevation to
the Bench — but knowing little alnjut law, never having had a
suit with any one, he never sat on a " case " or imposed a fine,
and the only magisterial duties he ever performed were to
attend occasionally a petty sessions, or a meeting of Justices —
more in order to try and serve others, or to lighten the burdens
of the poor, than to exhibit authority — and to sign J. P. afttn*
liis name to such decisions or documents as met his approval.
As Mr. Kittson had a handsome income, ho was enabled to
welcome many friends, and he was hospitable almost to extrava-
gance. His entertainments, though not what could be called
costly, were frequent, for scarcely a day passed without one or
more guests being seen at his board. He cared not for race or
for country, his visitors were of a varied class, and priests, par-
sons, lawyers, and officers of the army and the navy, let them
he English, Irish, or Scotch, or of any other nation, were sure
to meet with a ready welcome, and his greatest happiness
seemed to consist in making all feel thoroughly at home. Mrs.
Kittson was fully as hospitable as her husband, and though the
potations of the host and his guests — clerical as well as lay —
might sometimes be esteemed rather heavy, yet it must be
remembered that forty or fifty years ago, before ever Father
Mathew established a temperance society, whiskey punch was
accounted the proper, harmless, and necessary beverage which
should be liberally imbibed, between the hours of ten p.m. and
two a.m., in an Irish gentleman's house, and Mrs. Kittson,
having a full knowledge of this social custom, and being per-
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Family Creeds.
haps impressed to some extent in favor of its necessity, seldom
gave her husband more than a mild reproval, finding it requis-
ite, in a measure, to overlook the occasional irregularities
which might arise from a practice tolerated in the best Irish
society, and which after all was esteemed not only a benevolent
usage but, on the whole, almost religious ; a practice too, which
while sanctioned in a certain degree by the presence of the
clergy, must, she also thought, have been commended by them
in a quiet way, as giving to strangers the best and most legiti-
mate evidence of what a whole-souled Irish welcome could be ;
and that which a priest of her Church could approve of, even
in this respect, was not only a law unto her as hostess, but
also to the host himself.
Notwithstanding that Mrs. Kittson and her husband were
highly esteemed, and that an invitation to their hospitable home
could not be overlooked, yet the principal attraction of Shan-
don VilK to most of the younger visitors was their beautiful
daughter Mary. She was then in the bloom of womanhood,
the eldest of three children, my uncle William being her junior
by about two years, and my mother being still younger. Many
were of course prepared to pay Mary Kittson great attention,
and more than one was becoming almost devoted to her, but
among her admirers no person was so much struck by her
charms as Henry Ambrose, the only son of a very particular
old friend of Mr. Kittson, who lived but a few miles distant.
This young man was a person of fine appearance and of a joy-
ous disposition. He was highly educated and possessed of great
natural abilities. His worldly prospects were very good, and
better than all, at least in the estimation of Mary's parents, he
was of a good old Catholic family, and this alone, to a mother
anxious to find a suitable companion for her daughter, was the
most powerful recommendation in his favor. Henry and Mary
Plotting and Tattooing.
191
Beemed to have been adapted for each other by nature, their
ideas on most subjects seemed to have been cast in the same
mould, and as their feelfags of affection were undoubtedly
mutual, in due time it came to be understood by nearly all that
Henry Ambrose was the accepted suitor of the beautiful Mary
Kittson, and few could doubt that the union of two such per-
sons could be anything else but eminently happy.
As for Mary Kittson herself, unlike most other young ladies
in her position, she exhiV>ited no inclination to appear as if it
were a matter of indifference to her whether Henry cared for
her or not, on the contrary she felt proud of his attachment
and never appeared so happy as when he was near her ; and it
was evident that on his part he thought life itself would be
bleak and worthless were he to be deprived of the object of his
strongest affections. Every moment he could spare was spent
in her society, and Mary ever greeted him with a voice which
he heard with delight and which he no doubt considered as
being equal to the most rapturous music. They could often be
seen together in quiet places at evening time. They walked,
arm in arm, through shaded lanes, or sat listening to the lulling
murmur of some clear running stream, and dreaming of a happy
future. They wandered with happy thoughts through fragrant
fields, or looked down from some green hill on the picture of
Paradise, which the earth, while decked in its summer flowers,
seemed to foim, never suspecting that any envious or malicious
being could enter that elysium of their hopes to try to rob them
of their promised hap{)iness.
Some months had already passed away during the period of
this delightful intercourse. All in the neighborhood seemed to
take it for granted that nothing but death could prevent the
union of the two young persons ; even the rumour went that a
day had already been fixed upon which the marriage ceremony
rTTT"
192
Family Creeds.
ii I
ill
was to take place, and thia came to be spoken of so often, and
among so many, that scarcely half-a-dozen people had any doubt
as to the certainty of the alliance which should be formed
between two of the most distinguished Catholic families of
Monkstown and its vicinity.
About this time another visitor came to Shandon Villa. He
was specially introduced and highly recommended to Mr. and
Mrs. Kittson for his great piety and distinguished learning.
It needed, however, no very formal introduction to win for
Father Gabriel the warmest welcome. He was one of the active,
industrious priests of the Society of Jesus, who evidently had
the motto of his order, " Jrf majoram Dei Gloriam" imprinted
on his heart, whose life had long been devoted to the service of
the Holy Father, and whose sole object in living seemed to be
to extend the power and influence of that g^oat spiritual Head
throughout the world. He also appeared especially desirous of
winning favorable opinions of the True Faith from among
those who were not known as Roman Catliolies, or at least from
those who had not been regularly baptized as members of the
Church of Rome. For he used to assert that the True Church
claimed all, and had a right to do so, let them be of what creed
they might. Those, he would say, who were nominally out of
the fold were only so through ignorance, or through circum-
stances over which they had had no control, and that none were
therefore ever rejected or abandoned by the supreme Bishop
but those who having once been made aware of their claim to
be included among the flock of Christ, pertinaciously rejected
their right to membership, or despised the authority of the
Holy Pontiff, or persecuted him or the faithful under his
excellent and legitimate domination who by divine right had a
claim over all.*
• •• The GathoUo Ctauroh teaohea that there is no salvation out of the True
Plotting and Tattooing.
193
out of the True
Father Gabriel soon won golden opinions. In manner he
was courteous and dignified ; in personal appearance dis-
tinguished and commanding. He was about the middle age
of human life ; he was tall, his head erect and partly bald. It
might have been that almost constant study had obligetl him to
wear spectacles, yet these seemed to add to the cast of his
ecclesiastical character ; and the intellectual expression of his
face was apparent at a glance. He had, however, strange gray
eyes, which at times grew rather cold and stern, especially dur-
ing discussions on theological subjects which he seemed willing
to encourage occasionally, and though while engaged in a debate
he would become a little impatient and rather arrogant in asser-
tion, still on the whole he was considered an affable gentleman, who
claimed to be very impartial and tolerant, and who was capable
of winning the confidence of most persons. Added to this, his
varied attainments gave him a kind of authority. All readily
deferred to him as being a man of great talents. Even the
haughty aristocrat, or the self-suflicient, who might fancy him-
self superior to others by right of birth or position, often be-
comes, as it were, instinctively respectful, or almost submissive,
in the presence of one possessed of great gifts or of great natural
Church which ia the Catholic Church, therefore there is no salvation outside
the Catholic Church. That ia what we Catholica teach and profeaa. But there
are many that belong to the Catholic Church without knowing ii. For inatance
here ia a good honeat Presbyterian ; he thinks he is right. He haa no doubt on
aaubjeotinobserviug the law of Qod. He confeaaes that if he knew he waa
wrong he would abandon hia errora ; he would embrace the truth. Now that
man belonga in aoul to the Church— the man is before God a Catholic although
externally he is not united with the Church. He is a real Christian, for, as I said
before, if he knew his error he would abandou it and he would embrace the truth,
no matter what it should cost him. Such a man we look upon as beiongiug in soul
to the Church, and we hope such a man God will save. But if a man knows he
is wrong and yet is not willing to abandon his errors, what right has he to be
saved ?" (Extract from a sermon entitled, " The Catholic Church alone True
—The Church, not the Bible, the Rule of Faith," preached in Brooklyn, N.Y , by
the " Great Jesuit," the Rev. Father Damen. Republished from the IiHth World
by the Montreal Tru» Witne»$, June 27th, 1S73.)
fra
^rr
!i
194
Family Creeds.
geniua Nothing seems to reduce personal vanity to its actual
value, or to show the comparative worthlessness of too many of
our social artificial distinctions more readily than their contrast
with the mental excellence of high intellectual endowments often
possessed by men of even low caste. Though some will pay an
outward obeisance to the spurious or the pretentious, yet due
respect is ever felt for that which is innate over that which is
accidental ; the pure, natural gem has a worth far beyond that
of the factitious bauble. Still there can be detraction ; for
jealousy alone can affect to see no brightness in a star, or feel no
warmth in a sunbeam.
Father Gabriel had power over others in consequence of his
very extensive knowledge. He could converse fluently in sev-
eral languages. He knew Latin, and Greek, ar d Hebrew ; he
could hear the dyii}g confession of. an Italian brigand, and
promise him the pardon and consolation of the Church . in his
native tongue ; he could recite Spanish verses to a Castillian
maiuen '^ he could repeat choice quotations from Shakspeare in
English, or give selections even from Voltaire in French ; he
could edify the German with some of the finest passages of
Goethe or Schiller, and astonish wild tribes by inspirational
utterances in their strange vernacular. He was a philosopher,
a metaphysician, and he seemed perfectly at home in scientific
matters. He was a skilled musician ; he delighted in the fine
arts, and was altogether a rare virtuoso. He was not one of
the dillettante, or a mere dabbler in poetry, or painting, or
elegant literature, but he was, or seemed to be, profoundly
learned. As for history, he had it at his finger ends, and, there-
fore, with a memory that never failed, but was like a fountain
of knowledge ever flowing over, he could in a peculiar way turn
in a moment the argument of an adversary aside, brush away
his fortress of cobwebs, and, almost without an apparent effort,
!' I
Plotting and Tattooing.
195
confuse or dismay an opponent, and then stand before all tri-
umphant, exhibiting the fair proportions of his ideal of truth,
and contrasting it with the deformity of the error which he
seemed to have exposed.
Over certain minds such a man has great control. Mrs.
Kittson, who was a most devoted believer in the supereminence
of her religious creed, and who fancied that a Catholic priest
was a kind of superior being, regarded her clerical guest as if
he were already a saint, and she treated him with a veneration
that might almost be called superstitious. Mr. Kittson, who
had also a great and profound respect for the clergy of his
Church, and who in an especial manner considered the priests
of the order of Jesus as being the foremost champions of the
Catholic faith, submitted to Father Gabriel in nearly every
particular ; and it was soon apparent that the priest's influ-
ence at Shandon Villa was almost unbounded.
Another visitor soon came. This was a Spanish gentleman
named Jose Reig, a widower, and a very particular friend of
Father Gabriel, who generally addressed him as Don Jose.
The Don quickly became a favorite, at least with the host and
hostess. He was a brown-faced little man, with smooth, black hair,
and with still darker eyes, which had a kind of peering expres-
sion, as if they wanted to pierce you through and through. Ho
seemed to have a proneness for discovery, as if he had a mis-
sion to search and find out the secrets of others. He could
glance at one furtively and askant, leading a person to feel that
the Don had his suspicions and was about to report to the
Inquisitor-General. Anyway, the new-comer, though very
peculiar in manner, could be exceedingly bland at times. He
was reputed wealthy, and very pious, so much so indeed as to
lead some of the knowing ones to assert that he was neither
more nor less than a lay brother of the same plotting and
Family Creeds.
1' :i
iMii|!ill
ii!
i !■
, II
i!!
■I I:
i!|ii
'
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i i: ;
designing oixler to which Father Gabriel belonged ; an order
which, it is alleged, are capable of avowing any principles, or
of making the most unnatural sacrifice to benefit their great
spiritual prince, the vice-geront of Christ.
Be this as it may, the priest and he were on terms of the
greatest friendship. The Don was not only the friend of the
priest, but also one of the most self-sacrificing friends of the
Church. His munificence was said to be almost unbounded ; a
great portion of his wealth being annually placed at the dis-
posal of his Holiness for the propagation of the true faith. By
genuine Catholics, such as Mr. and Mrs. Kittson, the Don
could not therefore fail to be reganled as one of the most esti-
mable characters, and every wjiy worthy of very distinguished
attentiou.
It is said that after a man has been thoroughly tattooed, the
forms of anchors, of crosscvs, or of crowns ; of saints, of angels,
or of fiends, pricked into his skin, are indelible and can never
be eradicated. It may take days or weeks to complete the
operation, which in most cases is very painful. It is almost
always performed in youth, the patient being generally a volun-
tary sufferer. Though the figures or symbols may at first
appear unsightly or repulsive, yet, in course of time, he who
has submitted to the operation becomes familiarized to the
marks which he bears, and the form of the dragon or twisted
snake, upon his arm or his breast is afterwards exhibited as a
token of distinction.
There is also another mode of tattooing whereby only the
moral features of a man are impregnated and stained. And
while the first form is more generally resorted to by barbarians
in the South Sea Islands, the other is practised among certain
oivilized people. The Jesuits, a learned Christian brotherhood,
are the greatest adepts in existence at this. Their mode is to
Plotting and Tattooing,
197
tattoo the heart of living man, thoroughly changing his dis-
position and affections, imprinting their own distorted symbols
of right or wrong, and making him — who might otherwise grow
up comely, guileless, and innocent — to degenerate into a wily
casuist, subtle, unfeeling, and remorHeless.
The art of tattooing is un ancient practice which was followed
by most nations ; and though the Jews were forbidden to dis-
figure their bwlies in this way — " Ye shall not make any cut-
tings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you,"
Lev. xix. 28 — yet, at the present day, religious teachers, as well
as others, seem to consider the art indispensable to their suc-
cess, even while many of them scorn to be identified in any
manner with the Jesuitical brotherhood. The art has now been
brouglit to perfection. Avoiding the old painful process, anaes-
thetics are used with the young and susceptible, and while
these are in a semi-unconscious state, the professor gradually
imprints his own peculiar symbols upon the head or on the'
heart, and when the patient awakes, as from a pleasing dream,
he is led to believe that the marks which are apparent, or the
inclinations which control him, are simply his own improved
natural developments. The men of fixed ideas, the non-pro-
gressive, the plodders along old muddy broken-down thorough-
fares, the men who sit stupified in the sunlight, and who blink
at the feeblest ray that may chance to illumine their mental
gloom, are the very men who were the most thoroughly tattooed
in their early days.
nw
I : w
CHAPTER XVIII.
DELUSIONS AND DECEIT.
II
I
EVERY man deals with some delusion as if it were a reality.
The most clear-sighted who has all confidence in his own
unaided vision may, nevertheless, have some mist before his
eyes which he cannot see, and he may have walked along all
his life time in a shadow without ever once suspecting that it
was not the clearest sunshine. The isthmus which fancifully
connects the material world with some vast cloud-continent
beyond is a mirage near which so many fondly linger, as if
looking midway from the seen to the unseen, or wavering in
doubt as to the proper choice between that which is real and
that which is imaginary.
Delusions affect families, communities, and nations, as well
as individuals. We have families full of silly pretension as to
their lineage, which boast of their "blue blood" derived per-
haps solely from some progenitor who wab a successful knave,
and then, overlooking their ignoble origin, foolishly fancy them-
selves superior to those around them. We have communities —
especially the religious ones — which claim authority to dictate
to all others, exhibiting contempt, or even hatred for those who
dare to differ from them ; and imagining that some ecclesiasti-
cal structure which they may have raised is founded on a rock
of truth, while in reality it is but a glittering vanity elevated
Delii9ion8 and Deceit.
199
upon a mountain of error. And thore are nations which vaunt
of their liberty, their wealth, their power and their civilization,
while they may have partial laws, despotic rulers, unjust dis-
tinctions and privileges, and a large ignorant pauper popula-
tion; and while professing to uphold freedom and humanity,
may connive at oppression, and be barbarous in resentment.
Men in fact can be seen in every direction dallying with delu-
sions and following shadows. Tliere are none so positive as
those who arc but half right ; and, with this possession, it is
almost impossible to convince them that they are wholly wrong.
Upon half-righteousness has been established wholesale iniquity ;
and as the fanatical are but midway between virtue and vice,
the world has had to suffer bitterly from the wild excesses of
zealots.
No delusions impose upon mankind to such an extent as
those which arise from extraordinary religious fervor ; and
whole communities may be thereby affected. The Jesuits, per-
haps above all others, offer an example of what uncontrolled
enthusiasm can lead co, for in satisfying their religious yearn-
ing they suppress almost every human impulse, and, are fully
of the belief, that in order to do their duty and fulfil certain
(extraordinary religious vows, they must subdue natural affec-
tions, they must cheerfully take up the cross laid before them,
leave parents, brethren and friends, with the greatest indiffer-
ence, and, without the slightest murmur, go to the remotest
part of the earth aa teachers or missionaries. No other society,
secular or religious, demands such prompt obedience and has
such mute submission. No dread of personal suffering must
alarm them, and no thought of self must ever interfere to pre-
vent a ready compliance with the demands of a superior. And
yet, though feared and distrusted by Catholic and Protestant
alike, these men persist in their teaching and continue on their
;i '
< i;M
I. .;
,1-1
"r i
I'll !
lili
i;
200
Family Creeds.
way under the impression that they are in the path of divine
duty and upholders of the most sacred truth ; and while nations,
communities, and individuals reproach them for being wily and
deceitful, and despise them, as well as the Dominicans, for
being the Thugs and Fakirs of Christianity, onward still they
go in their appointed way, like a moral pestilence from land to
land, never suspecting that they are deluded, or that they are
or have been in any respect the cmissarios of evil.
Tlie name of Jesuit, like that of Jew, is by many accounted
as a term of reproach. The Jews have been despised for their
alleged greed, ^he Jesuits have beer, denounced for their plotting
propensities and deceit ; their history being one of the most re-
markable paradoxes connected with true ethical science or moral
philosophy. To do evil that good may come seems to have been
one of their most established niaxims, and, unless the revela-
tions made even by Catholics concerning them are not the
veriest fabrications, this maxim must be the key to most
of the perfidious actions of this celebrated society ; and the
paradox is further illustrated by the union of great learning,
great superstition, and great despotism in the same treacherous
and intolerant body.
Among the prominent accusations brought against the
Jesuits, they are charged with -the most profound duplicity, it
has been made clear that while professing one code they have
practised another ; and it is alleged that, in addition to their
public and avowed objects and constitutions, there exists for
the guidance of their hidden actions, and for the private direc-
tion of th« thoroughly iniated, a secret code entitled, " Monita
Secreta," and the notoriety they have gained for designing and
r^t'ermeddling in religious and social, as well as in political
matters, has drawn upon them the suspicion and frequently the
antipathy of different governments. Paschal, a distinguished
Deltbsions and Deceit.
201
! divine
nations,
wily and
jana, for
utiU they
n land to
they are
accounted
1 for their
ir plotting
le most re-
ce or moral
5 have been
the revela-
ro not the
.y to most
y ; and the
it learning,
treacherous
Catholic writer, exposed and ridiculed their dangerous casuistry
and disregard of principle in his Provincial Letters ; the Jan-
senists, a Catholic society, were their bitter opponents ; and
Catholic as well as Protostant nations have been obliged to
suppress and often to expel a religious body of men whose great
learning and abilities were too often used to incite discontent
and rebellion against the very rulers that had offered them
shelter and protection. More than once the outcry against them
became very great, so strong in 1773 that even Pope Clement
XIV. had to suppress the society in Rome, in the Papal States,
and "in all the States of Christendom." In many countries
they subsequently managed to get re-established, and in many
th».'y still hold good their position ; but subjected, as they de-
servedly have been, to expulsion — what they claim to have been
persecution — and more cautious as they may now for a time be,
their aims are still the same, and unless carefully watched
they would dethrone Liberty and make mankind the veriest
slaves of a corrupt and intolerant system.
Those who love freedom of opinion and who detest religious
despotism in every form must ever be on the alert, for if there
are Protestant as well as Catholic popes, there are also Protest-
ant Jesuits who, to a certain extent, are as designing and as
dangerous against free thought and free speech as those who
claim to be the genuine successors of Ignatius Loyola.
The unsuspicious nature of Mary Kittson never led her to
imagine that she was dealing with anyone less guileless than her-
.self, or that Father Gabriel could ever desire to interfere in the
least degree with anything relating to her, or with any family
arrangements in which she was pri.icipally concerned. She
was gratified with the fatherly attentions which he had paid
her, and, like her parents, she felt much inclined to be influ-
enced by his advice. She was also pleased 9tti the many flatter ■<
14
an
i
i: J t
ft!
202
Family Creeds.
ing compliments which Don Jose knew so well how to offer.
He seemed to be a well-skilled, polishetl courtier, and one who
in affairs of the heart might be a dangerous rival at least in his
own country where his avowals in pure Castillian could be so
persuasive among dark-eyed Spanish ladies. The Don could
make his approaches gradually. He had already said many
sweet things to Mary, which she had merely laughed at as being
nothing more than refined expressions of his regard uttered in the
warm idiomatic phrases of his country ; but as soon as she dis-
covered that he was inclined to underrate Henry Ambrose, and
that the repeated expressions as to the opulence and high social
position of which she was said to be deserving, had a deeper and
more significant meanmg, and that he was making advances
almost stealthily and unobsterved, she was startled at the dis-
covery, and at once took precautions to be more guarded and
watchful.
It is thought by many that there are certain minds which
possess some mysterious power of forecasting future events, or
of obtaining glimpses of that wl ich is yet to take place.
Whether the knowledge comes in fitful dreams, or through
some occult agency revealing itself in impressions, still, whether
it be a mental delusion or not, the impression will exist, and
expectation, hoping or fearing, often awaits either the happi-
ness or the misery that is really anticipated. Mary Kittson,
for the first time in her life, was seriously troubled. She saw
a cloud in the distance, and its appearance was ominous. She
was surrounded by influences that she could scarcely under-
stand, and, then, when she naturally confided in her mother
and looked to her for some cheering explanation, she was
amazed to find that there was no word of censure for Don Jose,
but, on the contrary, that her mother evidently seemed very
much pleased that he had paid her daughter so much attention,
Delusions and Deceit.
203
I offar.
te who
in his
1 be BO
1 could
many
kS being
din the
she dis-
ose, and
;h social
jper and
advances
the dis-
cded and
and that she was even further disposed to think that the Don
was every way superior to Henry Ambrose.
Mary's heart ahnost failed her. What could have brought
about such a state of things ] She must see Henry at once ;
yet he had been unaccountably absent for several days and she
had had no word of explanation from him. The c<iuse of his
delay was another source of great uneasiness ; and her mother
who would but lately have been so ready to complain of any
such apparent neglect, was now quite reticent on the subject.
Besides this, her father, who at first seemed indifferent as to the
advances made by the Don, now seconded her mother's views
in relation to him, and it became painfully certain to Mary
that her parents were singularly favorable to a stranger and
almost hostile to one who had but recently V)een so high in their
estimation and who had gained her earliest afl'ections.
Only a short period before this, any wish of hers would be
readidly consulted, and her mother especially would have done
much to gratify the desires of a favorite daughter and to secure
her happiness. But now, when her most cherished hopes were
endangered, when no appeal was of any avail, and when no
pleading seemed to have any effect on that mother's strange
determination, she felt that unless some potent influence could
be used in her favor, her future life would be one of the most
desolate and unhappy imaginable. In her depressed .^tate she
tried to account for this mysterious diificulty, but she was un-
able to find any solution. What was the cause of this unaccount-
able change in her parents, a change almost as sudden as it was
unexpected, and what should she do under such circumstances]
Among many of the first Irish families, as it is among some
others, it is counted a most daring and inexcusable defiance of
parental authority to oppose the wishes of a father as to a
matrimonial connection, and when both parents are united in
51
la-
111? 'II
m I 'i'll'ii!'
1
t
.1
1''
1
iji
II ,
i '
204
Family Creeds.
r» N
opinion as to the suitor who should be favored, any periistent
choice in opposition to their views is regarded, at least by the
parents, as a terrible breach of filial obedience which is sufl&cient
to be followed by some heavy misfortune. While therefore in
a state of the greatest perplexity, she sought the advice of the
priest. Since Father Gabriel had become their guest, or rather
Qne of the family — indeed in one sense it might be said that he
was the principal of the household — he had not only been con-
sulted on all occasions, but had actually become the father
confessor for all under the roof of Shandon Villa. To him, then,
Mary went. It is presumed that, long before this. Father
Gabriel well knew the strong feelings of her heart and on whom
her afiections had been placed. He had but just returned from
a visit to Henry's parents, he had frequently visited them of
late, and when Mary addressed him on a subject so important
to her, he appeared to listen with a placid face and with a
calmness of manner that gave her confidence in his impartiality,
and encouragement as to the result of his influence, should he
use it with her parents in her behalf. She also felt that a few
words from Father Gabriel in the ear of Don Jose would be
sufficient to deter him from again addressing her as he had
done, or from making any further attempts to prejudice her
parents against him to whom she had been affianced ; for she
suspected Don Jose alone as being the cause of her present
unhappiness.
When the priest heard what she had to say, he seemed to be
somewhat perplexed as to the course he should pursue. First
of all he said it was his duty to defend his friend Don Jose and
exonerate him from all blame ; for a more honorable or unde-
signing man never lived. He said this and much more in
defence of his friend, without however being able to remove the
suspicions which Mary still secretly entertained. Yes» the
Delusions aTid Deceit.
205
r'iistent
i by the
ufficient
efore in
e of the
>r rather
that he
>een con-
le father
Lm, then,
, Father
on whom
ned from
them of
mportant
d with a
)artiality,
ihould he
lat a few
ould be
,s he had
dice her
; for she
r present
led to be
le. First
Jose and
or unde-
more in
tmove the
JYes, the
worthy father seemed really perplexed ; he would do what he
possibly could; but yet, he said, it was a very serious matter to
be opposed to the wishes of a parent in such an important
transaction. No earthly being could take such interest in a
child as a parent would. It was but natural that they should
desire to see a daughter, particularly their favorite, as she was,
well settled in life, and it would only be reasonable to suppose
that they would be the best judges of the most suitable person
on whom to bestow her hand. We sometimes, he said, fancy
that our affections are very strong and unchangeable, instead of
tiiat they are frequently fickle and subject ns to the charge of
inconstancy. They were, he said, mostly only like a rope of
sand, and when duty or obligation required it, they could by a
little resolution be easily transferred. It often happened that
the objects of our first regard prove unworthy, and what a mis-
take — an error which might imperil the happiness of a life-
time — to be too confident that our love, or the love which
another may profess to have for us, is not a deceptive, im-
pulsive feeling. The greatest caution was necessary that we
should not be deceived oui*selves by youthful attachments ;
besides, if it was the holiest sacrifice to subdue these for the
service of God, next to this it was the holiest duty of a child to
submit to the wishes of a parent, and so far as he knew of her
excellent father and mother, they would be the last to urge her
to take any step, particularly in so serious a case as a marriage,
if they had the slightest doubt that it was not for her benefit.
However he would see what could be done. Perhaps her
parents would be more ready to yield to her than she seemed
willing to bend to them ; but if they persisted it was simply
her duty to obey. Obedience to parents, to superiors, or to
those placed in lawful authority over us, was the best proof of
true Christian humility ; the blessing of the Church always f ol-
ill:'
206
Family Creeds.
h ;^: if.!.
lowed such submission, while the contrary course might prove *
disastrous to all concerned.
Not only the priest's words but also his manner had a most
depressing eflfect upon Mary. She felt like one over whom some
calamity was impending. There was scarcely a hope held out
for her. From the spiritual father, from whom she expected
some happy assurance, there was nothing encouraging, and
nothing was so strongly urged as the duty of making a sacri-
fice which she well knew would be blighting to her earthly
happiness.
Father Gabriel, perceiving her reluctance even to think of
parting with the idol of her soul, grew rather impatient, and
tried again to impress on her mind the great and holy duty of
submission to a parent. Obedience in such a way was next com-
mendable to submission to the Church. We are all called upon to
lay some pearl of great price upon the altar of the Lord. To yield
up that which is but little value could scarcely be esteemed a
self-denial, but to present the dearest treasure of the heart, if
required, was an offering which would be most acceptable to God
and to His Church. Besides this, he would now suppose a case
for her consideration. Were the young man to whom she had,
it might be, thoughtlessly plighted herself, were he, for instance,
to become prepared to chasten carnal affections, to take up his
cross, to close his eyes to the glittering delusions of this world
and to offer himself to the Church ; were he to do this, not only
out of a proper regard for the wishes of his parents, but as a
sacred duty and in submission to a call from the Mother of
God ; and, persisted the priest, with some earnestness, were he
to bow like others to the heavenly vision, to dedicate himself to
the Church, and to offer himself for ordination, were he to do this,
would it be for a frail, erring mortal to try to interfere or dare
to allure him from the glorious mission. What inducement
Deltuaiona and Deceit.
207
could an unholy world offer to risk eternal condemnation by
attempting!; such sacrilege 1 And then, as if influenced by some
sacred emotion, the priest lowered his voice and said, that it
had now become a painful duty — many of which he had to per-
form as an humble servant of the Church — yes, it was his duty
to tell her plainly, that from what he could learn, and he had
had his information from those who could speak with authority,
that Henry Ambrose had changed his affections and would in
all probability offer himself for the priesthood.
Were the sun to disappear at once and leave the heavens in
darkness, were the moon to be blotted suddenly from the mid-
night sky, were the stars to fade away fotever, the world could
not appear more desolate or hopeless to Mary Kittson than life
now seemed to her. The dreadful import of the priest's words
left scarcely a doubi in her mind that all was lost. While
hardly permitting herself to suspect Father Gabriel of any
design, she felt that he must perhaps unwittingly have been
used by the Don as the principal instrument to carry out a base
intrigue ; and from that moment, though disinclined to speak as
freely as she desired, the name and the presence of the priest's
unscrupulous friend caused her to tremble with apprehension.
If she dared to hope at all it was tliat she might see Henry
and warn him against treachery, remind him of his pledge, and
assure him of her constancy. But how was she to see h'.m 1
Henry came not, and after many weary days and dreadful
nights had passed away it became apparent to all that the pale
cheek and languid expression of Mary Kittson were symptoms
that could not be mistaken ; and when her parents at last grew
alarmed as to her condition, they found that certain matters
had been already so arranged and matured as to shut out for-
ever the only chance of hope or restoration for their poor
stricken child.
.8
V 5
!:i; f
I!; i
CHAPTER XIX.
AN UNHOLY SACRIFICE.
FATHER GABRIEL, as a priest, was now more saint-like
than ever. Ha had many encouraging words for Mary's
parents, and he visited her daily with pious exhortations and
lessons on resignation, exhibiting the tenderest human sym-
pathy. She often searched his face as if in doubt even of him,
but when she found it beaming with kindness and pity, and
heard from his lips beautiful expressions regarding the future
happiness in store for the afflicted, she became more resigned
and felt in some degree that without the blessing and admoni-
tion of this spiritual friend her deprivation and loneliness of
heart would almost be insupportable. She had once or twice
secretly entrusted him with a letter which she enjoined him to
deliver with his own hands to Henry if possible, but after
having waited for the reply Jhat never came, she seemed to lose
all hope, and when the priest on his next visit found her weep-
ing on her knees before a crucifix — weeping as if her heart
would break, weeping for the beautiful things of life and for
the joys that were forever departed, — it was then that Father
Gabriel exhibited his power as a priest of God's True Church.
He knelt with her, and seemed to weep with her. He impor-
tuned her to alienate her heart from the world ; he pleaded
with her to place her affections on heaven, and finally, his
An Unholy Sacrifice.
209
gentle words of assurance were so powerful, so convincing, and
his paternal blessing so comforting, that Mary, in a kind of
ecstacy, told him that she was resigned, even happy, and quite
prepared to yield up to God that great treasure which had
made life once so delightful ; a sacrifice which she had no
doubt would make her future state more blissful and glorious.
Father Gabriel appeared to be much affected by this touch-
ing e^4dence of piety and submission. He assured her that her
holy detei'mination had already caused joy in heaven, and that
the Virgin Mother, accompanied by angels, would be ever near
to comfort and protect her. It was evident, he assured her,
that she was spiritually directed, and that now as she had wisely
decided to remain single, and to form no earthly alliance, but to
renounce the world and its vanities, she should at least try, like
the purest of her sex, and make her life useful, and set a holy
example to others ; an example such as one whom he should
now call her spiritual brother would shortly give. Henry
Ambrose, once perhaps her dearest friend, was now preparing
for ordination. He was doing this as much in submission to
the religious desires of his parents as to satisfy his own pious
inclinations — this he knew to be a fact. Yes, Father Gabriel
assured his spiritual daughter that ue was aware of this, and
that Henry was about to become a member of the holiest of all
fraternities. Would it not, then, be an encouragement to this
friend, a mark of her approval, and something under the cir-
cumstances most appropriate, were she to decide to enter a con-
vent, where, secluded from the contentions or allurements of a
wicked world, she could devote her life to the service of the
Holy Virgin, where, if disposed to invest the means at her
command to the greatest advantage, she could have the privilege
of laying upon the altar of the Lord for the benefit of His poor,
or for His exclusive service, the portion or even part of the
210
Fa/mily Creeds.
Il
i
1
1
1
i
■
)
i
same with which she was to be endowed as an earthly bride,
and where, as one of a saintly sisterhood, she could adorn the
Church of God and pray for the conversion of unbelieving
sinners.
Ah ! what a struggle there then came ! What a fluttering of
heart and faintness of spirit ! As a woman her affections were
strong, and though she had resolved to give up the world, she
was again irresolute. Then came another trial. Could she
give him Up, could she give all up forever 1 Oh forever 1 Could
• she, with her youth and her still beautiful form, turn a recluse
and enter a living tomb, or step into the grave now yawning
nearly at her feet ] Oh ! was there no one to pity, no one to
save her from this terrible despair 1 She shuddered as if con-
fronted with some ghastly object. She wept again, and through
her tears she could see green fields and flowers in the garden.
She could see the distant hills and trees, the blue sky and the
glorious sunlight. Could these be but beautiful delusions made
but to attract and deceive ? Were quiet and holy domestic en-
dearments, felicities that she never should enjoy 1 Was human
love an iniquity, and was her heart corrupt for having ever
entertained it ] Oh, what a struggle ! And while Mary still
wept as if bending over the grave of her fondest hopes, the
priest's calm voice was again heard. She paused to listen to
his gentle remonstrances, yet now his words dropped one by
one like tears upon her heart, and with the chilling sensation
of death. He grew more earnest and eloquent, then they came
as words of fire. The evanescent joys of earih were contrasted
with the everlasting delights of heaven where tears would be
wiped from every eye and where anthems of praise and exulta-
tion should ascend forever and ever. Would it now be wise,
he asked, to risk eternal bliss for a few transient years of happi-
ness in this world f
An Unholy Sacrifice.
211
e wise,
happi-
Again she became excited, again enthusiastic. Again she
became resolute, and then there was a welling of holy ecstacy,
and the priest who stood by her side, knowing that her linger-
ing affections might still cause her to waver, seized the oppor"
tunity to win her for the Church. By a mild, persistent manner,
peculiarly his own, he induced her to write a last letter to
Henry Ambrose. In that she stated that feeling her duty was
greater to God than to man, she had resolved to enter a con-
vent for life ; that she had come to this determination deliber-
ately, and after due reflection, it being her own free choice ;
that, as one who had once loved him and who still wished for
his happiness, she would strongly advise him to give up the
world and offer himself to the Lord as she had done ; and she
concluded by expressing the hope that she should live to hear
of his ordination, and that she should ever remain his spiritual
friend and sister. She further continued that she should ever
pray for his happiness, and beseech the Virgin that if they were
destined to meet no more on earth, they should meet and recog-
nize each other in the Kingdom of Heaven.
After having written this, she still held the letter, first looking
for a minute mounfully at the words, and then with amaze and
an almost frightened stare as if she had been but just signing her
own death warrant. Her hand trembled, and the paper was
blurred by the tears which fell again, by the tears which fell
fast upon the page beneath her eye, as if to blot out and cancel
the renunciation she had penned of her natural, proper, and
most useful position in society ; and, as if to make null and void
for ever a statement most repugnant to the fondest desires of her
heart, but against which her tongue was now unable to utter
the most feeble protest. Her hand still trembled, her eyes grew
dim, and before she fell back in her chair almost unconscious,
the letter dropped from her hand, and the priest, evidently on
212
Family Creeds.
the alert, hastily picked it up, left the room, and went at once,
as though he felt it his duty, to congratulate Mary's parents on
the result.
No one could bo more sympathizing or attentive to them
that evening than Father Gabriel. Though Mr. and Mrs.
Kittson esteemed him a spiritual benefactor and coveted
his blessing, yet their natural feelings prevailed, and they
almost felt a regret when they heard of Mary's final decision.
Still the priest wished to convince them that they were to be
envied in having a daughter so pious and dutiful, and what a
happiness at the close of life the reflection would be that a child
of theirs had given up all — her heart, her beauty, and, what was
of course a less consideration, her wealth — in order to be en-
rolled under the banner of the Sacred Heart, among the meek
virgins of the holy Church.
Mary's parents tried to assure themselves that the priest was
right, and to feel satisfied with what had just taken place, and
though they felt keenly for their daughter's apparent dejection,
they thought it would not only be very wrong, but extremely
sinful, to interfere with the fancied free choice which she had
made. As for Mary herself, though somewhat calmer, she sat,
poor patient thing, like one bewildered, or under the influence
of some strange, unpleasant dream. She made no complaint. She
listened like a child to what was said, but occasionally when some
sad, bleak thought would return, revealing her situation, her
eyes would fill with tears, and, like one gazing wistfully back
upon some fond receding shore gradually fading in the distance,
or as one looking mournfully at some shadowy image of the
memory, the image of something once beloved, she would bow
her head in silent anguish, and while pressing her wounded
heart she would be heard murmuring — a prayer for resig-
nation.
An Unholy Sacrifice.
213
Late that night, when all others had retired, Don Jos6 and
Father Gabriel sat together in an upper room of the villa.
They spoke in whispers. The priest related how he had tried
to carry out the plan to secure Mary and her fortune for hia
listening friend ; a fortune which he well knew would, thereby,
be subsequently devoted to the Church ; how he had unexpect-
edly failed because of the silly notions of that half love-sick girl ;
how he had been entrusted with letters from Mary to Henry,
and fiom Henry to Mary, which he had opened and read —
enabling him to counteract any opposing project — and which
letters he had never delivered ; and how he had, after some
difficulty, succeeded in inducing the parents of Henry Ambrose
to decide on almost compelling their only son to consent to take
orders as a priest. He then described minutely the stratagems to
which he had resorted in order to convince Henry that Mary
had decided upon a conventual life out of regard for the wishes
of her parents, as well as to satisfy her own pious longings ;
how Mary's parents were led to believe that to make choice of
the Don, and to bestow the hand of their daughter on him
would be greatly to her advantage ; and how, having failed in
this consummation, he had managed to secure her person, and,
he fully expected, her fortune, for the Church.
The Don, of course, was all along aware of what his friend
was doing. He and the priest had worked privately together
to bring about a certain result. If the Don could not succeed
in winning Mary's hand, Henry was to be sternly opposed —
even vilified — and, in some manner, to be set aside or made
away with if necessary ; but the easiest and the most plausible
plan would be the best, and, if at all possible, he was to be per-
suaded to become a priest; and then, it was supposed, that
Mary could be easily induced to enter a convent. To this end
the greatest deception and perversion of truth had to be prac-
^!:t
n
214
Family Creeds,
tised to inake the heartless plot successful. And the scheme
effected all that they had desired.
The Don shrugged his shoulders after he had heard the
priest's story, apparently indifferent as to the result so far as
he was concerned ; and within two days from that time he was
on his way to the Continent. Father 'Gabriel remained to
make further arrangements in order that there should be no.
failure in having his spiritual children placed safely within the
fold, and their fortunes secured for the Church. The young
persons were still kept apart ; their last interview had taken
place. In less than a month Henry Ambrose was on his way
to Rome, and Mary was a novitiate in a convcnit ; the priest
having already applied for a dispensation to hasten her full
admission as a nun.
It was a beautiful day, a veritable bridal day. The sun never
shone more brightly and his glorious V)eam8 were spread over
land and sea. The waves and the waters seemed to sparkle
with joy, and the flowers were still glistening with their weight
of dew. At an early hour devotees were seen moving towards
the Catholic Cathedral, and though the citizens of Cork had
frequent opportunities of witnessing great religious ceremonies,
yet the one that was to take place to-day was expected to be of
a kind so peculiar that great numbers of persons had been in-
duced to enter the church ; and fully an hour before the time
mentioned for the commencement of the services the large edi-
fice was almost completely filled. Marriage ceremonies are
always attractive, and young people in particular will seldom
fail to be present to see two persons stand before the altar and
hear them make vows before all, which, no matter how grossly
violated afterwards, are still held by the Catholic Church to be
indissoluble. But to-day, not only the young, but the aged,
the worn and the feeble were in attendance, besides those who
An Unholy Sacrifice.
215
ben in-
time
^e edi-
es are
Seldom
k,r and
rossly
to be
aged,
le who
were known to be very religiously inclined, and for whom on'.i-
nary matrimonial serviceH could have had no Hpecial interest
All were in waiting. Tlie high altar, richly <lecorated, was bril-
liantly lighted, and the moHt beautiful flowers could l>e seen in
profusion among the silver candelabra. Hcuit^ul within the
altar-rails were six or seven young ladies in britlal robes. Each,
with solemn expression of countenance, was reading some devo-
tioaal book. Not a blush or a smile came upon the face of any
of these to reveal even for a moment any pleasing thought
which might have entered her mind — any light reverie or fancy
which a bride might have who was expecting the brid(!groom —
each look, on the contrary, seemed to be downcast, and tlie
features of each young lady appeared to be Hxed in sad serenity.
Mary Kittson was one of the number. She was superbly
dressed in magnificent white' satin and almo.st enveloped in a
veil of costly lace. It was the very bridal dress made for her
intended marriage with Henry Ambrose. Her sweet face was
deadly pale, and her soft tresses fell upon her white shoulders,
now white and cold as the purest marble ; and for some rea.son
all eyes appeared to be centred on her.
The bishop and the clergy soon entered, preceded and followed
by a procession of boys in albs. Besides lights, flowers, pictures
and statuary, the clerical vestments glittering with spangles
and gold lace, the silver censers, and other consecrated para-
phernalia made the religious pomp on this occasion particularly
attractive. Now the organ was heard, and nearly all in the
church stood up, while the bishop and his attendants advanced
and bowed before the altar to mutter a few introductory
prayers. Then there was more bowing and praying, and after
some peculiar genuflexions and further religious exercises, the
bishop was attired in his full episcopal robes ; maniple, stole
and chasuble being of the most gorgeous description ; his mitre,
216
Family Creeds.
. I
I >
h I
and even his shoes or slippers, shining with costly gems. Thus
arrayed, and bearing his ornamental crosier, he became seated in
his episcopal chair or throne at one side of the altar, and
the novices knelt before him, Mary Kittson being nearly in
the centre and immediately in front of her high spiritual
functionary.
His Lordship then delivered a long address in relation to the
holy vow they were about to take. He congratuated them on
the spiritual efficiency which they had attained, and he com-
mended their example to others. He added that their resolu-
tion to exclude themselves from a sinful world would be a
source of great happiness ; that though they might be scoffed
at, or subjected to the affected pity of the iiTcligious, yet they
would find greater fortitude in every trial, and that in the
retreat they were about to enter they would have a sanctuary
where they would find a peace of mind which the world could
not give. Each novice then repeated the obligation of per-
petual chastity. When this was concluded, a priest came and
divested Mary of her rich veil; he took away her earrings, her
necklace, her brooch, and eveiy other ornament which she had
been permitted to wear for the last time. Her silken hair was
then cut close to her head and thrown aside, she was habited in
the black garb of a nun, and when she bent her head to receive
the crown of virginity from the bishop, the anthem '* Veni
Sponsi Christi " was sung by the choir. The final ceremony
was the anathema, and while another priest was reading the
sanctified maledictions of the Church against such as should
prove false to their vows, Mary fell at the feet of the bishop,
and was taken fainting from the church and borne away to her
lonely cell in the cloistered prison of her convent.
On the evening of that day the sun sank below the horizon
with the most glorious surroundings. The earth in the fading
An Unlioly Sacrifice.
217
lonzon
fading
red light looked like the abode of innocent beings, and appeared
to be the home of the blest, whei'e sorrow or suffering never
came ; where tyranny could not exist, and where neither potent-
ate nor priest could ever teach or practise deception. But
Mary saw not the beautiful vision, she heard not the lulling whis-
per of the evening air. Her eyes were still closed, she saw not
the gloom around her, nor the ghost-like nuns who stood by her
hard bed. She heard not tlie drawing of their beads, nor the
muttered paters or aves that were vainly repeated for her bene-
fit. Her lips moved, and the mother abbess, who was present,
stooped to hear her words. She whispered " Henry," and the
startled nuns pi'ayed more fervently that the unholy passion,
which they feared still lingered in her breast, might be banished
from her heart forever.
A few months after this, when the slight fall of snow lay like
a shroud upon the earth, when the trees stood bare and leafless
in the melancholy wind, and when the robins sought shelter in
the ivy or under the eaves, or lintels of the church, there was to
be another ceremony in the same cathedral where Mary had
but so lately repeated her last formal vows. The edifice was
draped in black, and furnished with various mournful emblems
of death ; and though the altar had numerous lights, they were
only in sad contrast with the pall-like covering by which it was
nearly hidden. A coffin lay near the altar-railing. It contained
the body of a dead nun, and Mary Kittson's poor wan face could
be seen therein, her eyes closed for ever in the last deep sleep.
A solemn high mass was being said for t)ie repose of the soul
of the departed sister, and though many present enviotl her the
happy exit she was supposed to have had from a world of care
and affliction, yet remorse must, at last, have touched the hearts
of Mary's parents, for, gazing on their lost child, they wept as
if they could not be comforted, and as if they now felt assured
15
hi
Hi '.
f
1
■ ''I
il I
St;-
1" 1
218
Family Creeds.
that neither prayers, nor tears, nor offerings, nor sacrifices, nor
the whole faith of the Church could triumph over the great de-
spoiler, ever more awaken the sleeper, or reanimate her that
was dead.
The last funeral anthem was now heard, and its sad strains
came like a wail upon the ears of the bereaved. At intervals
their sobs could be heard, but no sobbing was more pitiful, and
no tears fell faster than those of the young man wearing the
student's garb of a foreign religious seminary. With pallid
cheek and quivering lip he stood at a distance from the bier
upon which new lay all that had once made life dear to him.
He watched the calm face of the dead as if still expecting some
fond recognition. But when no greeting smile came back to
light away the gloom, which had settled for ever upon the
features of her he had loved, he wept more bitterly and had the
sympathy and the tears of those who knew the history of his
early soitow. It was Henry Ambrose who had received per-
mission to leave Rome in order to hurry and see his mother
who was thought to be beyond recovery from a dangerous attack,
and he arrived at his old home scarcely an hour after Mary's
premature decease. He was one of the chief mourners at her
funeral, he aided in the last rites at her grave, and when the
moon shone down that night upon the wintery scene in the
cemetery, he returned there alone to kneel upon the fresh
mound, and to drop a last tear upon her solitary place of rest.
CHAPTER XX.
THE SECRET PASSAGE.
THIS was Shawn's mournful story of the life of my Aunt
Mary, and many times during its recital I could not
refrain from tears. When he ceased to speak we sat silent for
a time unable to resume conversation, but when I thought of
the iniquity that had been practised to carry out a scheme which
had been so wicked and disastrous, I was amazed to think
that any class of persons, particularly those of the priesthood,
claiming to be actuated by religious motives, could be guilty of
the heartless treachery which had been used against my moth-
er's sister and her too credulous and confiding parents and
friends. When the clergy for so bad a purpose could deliber-
ately deceive and injure innocent members of their own flock,
what would they not be willing to do to those of an alien creed]
I had often before heard of Jesuits, but liad never had a posi-
tive evidence of their vileness until tiiis relating to my poor per-
secuted aunt. I felt almost incensed against all belonging to an
order of priebts that in my opinion was now more than infamous.
I doubted the integrity of popes, bishops and priests; and even
of ministers of every rank and denomination. I doubted the
efficacy of religion itself while it was possible for so hideous
a system as Jesuitism to spring out of it. I doubted what was
called piety, or holiness, as well as sacred creeds and beliefs of
r
m
220
Family Creeds.
every kind ; and from much that I had already witnessed, I
thought the world would be far better had revelation or relig-
ion never been presented to man for his benefit or bewilder-
ment ; and I was almost ready to upbraid God himself for his
imagined permission of so great a wrong, and for not at once
annihilating its perpetrators.
In a little time, Shawn noticing how I was affected turned
my attention to other matters, as if unwilling to allow my mind
to become too much oppressed by wliat he had related. He
seemed to take it for granted that as human affairs were now
ordered, that so long as forward unworthy men wormed them-
selves into power, that so long as people submitted to be over-
awed by the pretensions of any class claiming to be the vicars
or delegates of a Supreme Being, or the legitimate successors of
any who had sufficient effrontery to demand or usurp authority,
that so long as people choose to be deferential and servile to
men in high power who had in a thousand way.s proved them-
selves as weak and as fallible as others, so long should
deceit be practised and tyranny exercised. Yet he often
expressed a hope in the future. In his own peculiar phrase-
ology he used to say, that the time was not far distant when all
of every degree should become more intelligent, and when the
exercise of reason and common sense should enable men to
separate the chaff from the wheat, to dissolve the union between
pretension and ability, and be to all the basis of intelligent
belief. That the stolid faith — the glamour of frenzied votaries
— should no longer be "the substance of things hoped for," but
that thai only which was clearly seen, proved and understood
should be accepted as the rational foundation of faith. And,
further, he would assert, that when the laws or forces of nature
which men had shaped into omnipotent overruling beings,
became better known, superstition should fade away, and that
The Secret Passage.
221
visionary creations such as banshees, ghosts and fairies, that to
a most degrading extent had peopled and governed the minds
of persons like Nelly Carberry, should disappear like the dream
that becomes unreal and evanescent in awakening from heavy
sleep.
These ideas were given by Shawn in his own simple way, and
they seemed to have the stamp of truth. Touched as I then
was by. what I had just heard of the pitiful story of my aunt's
sufferings, and what I could call to mind respecting all I had
heard in relation to the hatred of sects and the wicked unfeel-
ing conduct of many religious people, I felt a strong impression
that Shawn's reflections were just and his deductions reliable.
" Speaking of ghosts and Nelly Carberry now reminds me
that you said you would show me how the ghost or spectre-
priest got into the big room, and afterwards got out of it. This
is something I want to find out ; for I told you how I went
there alone to try and discover the secret, and how disappointed
I felt in having to leave the room no wiser than when I entered.
After a strict search, the only satisfaction I had was in finding
the portrait which you said was painted in the convent by a
nun a few days before my aunt died. You will show me this
to-day, I may never again have such an opportunity."
"Well, alan7ia" replied Shawn, " 'tis no great saycrit to keep
now. The time was wauce when it id be danger or death itself
to others to show the way to a stranger. In thim days a priest
daren't be seen in all Ireland ; av he was found he'd be hung
as round as a hoop. The government had their spies here an'
there— an' they were no omad/iaivns — on the look-out for priests ;
but still they came, an' they found their way into churches and
convints, an' sometimes into houses, through ways underground,
an' other ways. Thim wor dreadful days in this country ! But
now, as you know, priests and parsons are a'most on the same
222
Family Creeds.
. ....
footin* — one houlds his head up as high as the other. Well
tho' there wasn't much need av thim underground hallagha in
my day, still the clargy kept the matter unbeknown — they had no
great trust in Protestants or sasaenachs — an' few wor the wiser.
But some one had to be tould, an' years ago, whin I was a little
gorsoon, I was trusted an' taken through minny a time by a
very ould man and shown the way ladeing to the church. I know
it yit, an' I remimber that a priest wonc't got into throuble av
sum kind wid the law, an' was going to be taken before a judge
or a coort av he was caught. We wint down in the hole
togither. I hild one ind av a rope, an' he hild the other ; an'
we groped away in the dark ontil we cum out there beyant,
an' thin he got into a ship that was waitin', an' he sailed away
to France."
Shawn pointed to a spot on the side of the hill, not a great
distance from where we now sat, and said that the opening
must be still somewhere down there, but that as he had not
been in or near it for many years, it might not be readily dis-
covered. However, as he had no objection that I should see
the place, and feeling that my curiosity was excited, and that I
would not heedlessly make the entrance known to any one else,
he led the way, and we soon reached a little pathway which
sloped along the side of the hill. When we got rather more
than half way down, we came to a ravine or large gap. Here
we left the pathway and crossed a rivulet, then we turned to
our right up the hollow, gradually ascending in the direction of
the Catholic cathedral. We had to push and force our way in
- nny plac3s through bushes and brambles, and we stumbled
.•«-7 T^odly over loose stones that lay thick upon the ground. I
as Boil! a short distance behind Shawn. He had not got many
; irf i up the gap before he stood still, and he told me to remain
where I was. The bushes here were so thick a
high
The Secret Passage.
223
an
bled
lid. I
many
3main
hat I
could not see him ; nor could I see the harbor below us. In a
short time I heard Shawn removing stones and cracking the
branches of some bush or small tree that stood in his way. He
then called me, and, somewhat perplexed, he was trying to find
an opening in what looked to me like a massive piece of moss-
covered red rock that was almost completely "hidden in the tall
faggots or brambles that grew close around. In a little time
he drew me towards him and pointed to the rough and nearly
indistinct form of a small cross cut upon a slightly projecting
stone, being part of that which he now told me was a wall. It
would be difficult for any one else to make such a discovery, for
every*crack and fissure appeared to be filled with a rank growth
of moss or fungi, which made the wall itself look more like a
piece of solid rock than the work of man. Removing a pile of
stones which lay beneath the mark or cross, what appeared to
be the outlet of a drain was uncovered. We stood quite still
before this for' a minute or two. Shawn in the meantime lis-
tened attentively, and then looked cautiously around as if dread-
ing discovery. In old times, no doubt, when the life of a priest
or his guide depended on secrecy, such precautions might have
been necessary, but now when there was nothing to guard
against except the prying curiosity of some wanderer, Shawn
seemed to act instinctively as guides did of old when govern-
ment spies were suspected of lying in wait close by, as well as
in the most remote and out of the way places.
For about ten feet in length the opening was nearly circular
and scarcely more than a foot-and-a-half in diameter. Shawn
entered first. He stretched himself on the damp ground and
drew himself in as best he could. I followed soon after, and
got along with little difficulty. Almost suddenly I missed him !
I had got to the end of the narrow way and could go no further,
I was then startled. Something grasped me by the back of the
224 *
Family Greeds.
'I!
m !.
W I
5ii
lis
neck, but in a moment I heard Shawn's whisper telling me to
stand up. He helped to raise me, and by taking but one step
upwards I found myself in a kind of walled cell about six feet
long and three feet wide, and I think sufficiently high to allow
a man to stand erect. The place was nearly as dark as night.
Shawn grasped myjiand, and turned at right angles into a narrow
archway scarcely two feet wide, and so low that he had to stoop
as he drew me along. Our progress was rather slow. The dark-
ness was complete. Not a word was spoken, and when as I thought
we were about half-an-hour groping our way I began to feel afraid ;
still for some reason I dared not speak. Though I had full
trust in my guide, yet I was now heartily sorry that I ha^ ever
urged him to show me such a place, for to me its darkness and
gloom were now almost terrible. Shawn seemed to be aware
of my condition and he hurried on, and in less than a minute
afterwards I was fortunately relieved by our getting to a stair-
way, or rather to about a dozen stone steps. These we care-
fully ascended, and he released me from his hold. I heard him
feeling for something. His open hand seemed to be drawn
slowly up and down a wall, then I heard what might be a door
slide or roll aside, we stepped into a small recess and the door
was slidden back. I heard his hand drawn along the wall
again. Almost immediately a door flew open, my eyes were
nearly blinded by a sudden rush of light, and we were safe in
the sacristy of the cathedral.
My surprise and gratification were of course very great, and
I was exceedingly glad to be above gi'ound again. We were
both covered with dust and cobwebs, and presented a singular
appearance. He told me not to mind this, for we had, he said ,
another passage to go through to get to our destination. I was
rather disconcerted at this, but as we had got safely thus far I
felt sufficient courage to submit to a further entombment in
The Secret Passage.
225
.'ere
in
and
irl
in
order to have the mystery fully explained. Besides we were
prisoners where we were, for the vestry was securely locked,
and we could not get into the body of the church, and Shawn
was unwilling that we should be discovered here by any person.
Without much delay we crossed the large apartment. Shawn
opened what appeared to be a closet door. We went in, he
closed it again, and once more all . was darkness. After a few
efforts there was another sliding ^ound, and I felt a rush of cold
air. We descended a few steps and were then in another
walled passage, but it was wider and higher than the one
through which we had passed to the church. We experienced
no difficulty in making our way, and in less than five minutes
we reached one more flight of steps. When we got to the top
of these something was turned or pushed aside so lightly by
Shawn that I could scarcely hear it move, and we entered a
small room dimly lighted by little openings on one side near
the ceiling. Shawn, having whispered me to keep very quiet,
went to a spot where there was another opening lower down ;
it was no larger than a very small key-hole. He placed his
eye to this for a moment, no doubt as a precaution to see if any
one was near, then he took a step or two aside and, before I
had time to think of what he was doing, a door sprung open
without the slighest noise; we went forward and found our-
selves in the big room.
"Well, you know where you are now," said Shawn brushing
my clothes with his hand, and picking off the cobwebs.
" I do indeed," I replied, delighted at the discovery, " this
is our own big room, and there's where the ghost came in and
went out again so silently."
" Yis," said Shawn, "an' that very ghost is the livin' Hinry
Ambrose, the viry same young man that was siperated from
yer aunt Mary by thim Jaysuists — God help us !"
[If
r I
Pi If
i^ '^1
in ^i
226
Family Creeds.
" Poor Fatlier Ambrose ! He is not young now, Shawn, but
old-looking, and faded, and sorrowful — Poor Father Ambrose !
I wish 1 had known him sooner. I pity him Shawn, and won't
be afraid of him any more."
"You needn't, a^awwa," continued Shawn, "fur he'd not hurt
a hair av yer head. There's nothin' bad in his heart, there's
been nothin' there fur years but son-ow that no prayin' or fast-
in' kin remove ; an' shure they'll niver be innything else there.
After yer aunt's death he wus made a priest, an' thin he came
back to take lave av his friends, an' after that he wint away,
or was sint away — the Lord knows which — to furrin' <^ountries,
I suppose, to try and convart poor haythins, that's maybe far
better off than his own countrymin at home. He's back on'y
a short time. Before he first wint away he said a mass for yer
aunt's sowl in this viry room — I was here at the time — an'
maybe it was thin that he left her pictur in that little hole.
For some ray son maybe he didn't want to take it with him,
and thin whin he come back shure I suppose the poor creatur
wantid to see her face agin, an' he stole in this way by moon-
light whin you saw him like a ghost. Oyea ! God help him,
I'm afeard he'll soon be that or somethin' else. What's the
world to him now ] Shure he's not the on'y one that the men
in black manage to lave as lone an' as sad as he is."
While I felt as sorry as ever for poor Father Ambrose, I
could not resist the desire to search once more in order to find
the door by which we had just entered the room. I thought I
could not be deceived this time. Still after the closest exam-
ination I was baffled again, and I was almost annoyed at the
result. There appeared to be no opening whatever in the oaken
partition, and at last I had to ask Shawn to show me how we
had found an entrance.
He told me it was quite simple, the only difficulty being, as
The Secret Passage.
227
)se, I
find
Ightl
txam-
U the
Uken
we
g'
as
usual, to know how the thing was done. He then bid me watch
him closely. By merely touching, in a certain way, a spring
which looked like an ordinary knot in the centre of an oak
board, part of the pannelled partition gave way noiselessly with
the greatest ease ; it opened like a door and closed to again
without the slighest sound that I could detect. A most ingeni-
ous piece of work had been executed here, and it served an
important purpose ; for as Shawn had truly said, the time was
when Protestant bigotry was so furious that no Catholic priest
dared to be found in Ireland but at the imminent risk of his
life. Certain priests did not however hesitate to incur this
danger; they took up the cross laid in their way, and went to
meet their people and perform religious duties in private. Many
came for this purpose, and many escaped, but some were de-
tected, and he who was so unfortunate as to be laid hold of had
either to forfeit his life, or suffer grievously for his temerity.
Therefore for the escape and security mostly of such persons,
underground passages were made to and from churches and
other religious buildings. And a writer, speaking of the man-
ner in which proscribed Jesuit priests managed to enter into
England and Ireland, and remain there for a longer or shorter
time, even while the penal laws were in force against them,
says — " They often resorted to the most singular disguises, and
generally bore false names; and several of the old Roman Catho-
lic mansions still shew the ' Priest-Hole,' which was contrived
as a place of retreat for them in case of sudden emergency."*
Our house being near the church, many a priest who dared not
wqrship in the ecclesiastical structure, officiated before a tem-
porary altar in some other place, or said mass here for devotees
in private ; and if there was an alarm he escaped by the
' Priest-Hole ' in the big room.
* " Chambers' Encyclopeedia."
2£8
Family Creeds.
L.I
,i- ul
"You said you were in the room long ago, when Father
Ambrose HrHt said nuiHs in it for my Aunt Mary's soul. I wish
you had been hen? lately when he nsjxiated the c(!remony ; for
I suppose he must have believed that she was still in purgatory,
or else he would not have come yc^ars afterwards in black vest-
ments to offer a sacrifice again in her behalf. How long must
such services continue 1 Has the priest no means of hnding
out whether his praycirs have been answered, and the soul that
he yearns for released 1 Yes, Shawn, I wish you had been here
at this last service; my baptism might not then have taken
place, for you would have seen Nancy Ferrin and put us
on our guard. O, Shawn, what shall we do 1 My greatest fear
now is that that woman will tell my Aunt Catherine all about
it, and you know she will (juickly tell my father ; and then my
poor mother will of course be the greatest sufferer."
"Well, alanna," replied Shawn, "as I tould yer before, I
wouldn't come here to decave yer father fur all the airth. Father
Ambrose, poor man, says mass for yer Aunt Mary's sowl with
an honist purpose, but he knows no better nor ourselves how
long it will take to git her out of purgatory, av there's sich a
place — an' I don't think there is. Shure that's the trade av
the Church. They'll say mass after mass fur popes, an' bishops,
an' nuns, as well as fur the poorest sinner that kin offer thim
half-a-crown for the ciremony. Faith they'll keep at that just
as long as you like, fur, betune ourselves, its not the worst
payin' bisniss. But though I wouldn't come here myself, av I
knew as much thin as I do now I'd take good care that Nancy
Ferrin wouldn't be wid yes at that last christenin'. Arrah,
but wait a bit. I've been thinkin' av this, an' av I can't make
Nancy hould her tongue no one kin. — Whisper, avickf I could
tell you something av I liked."
He paused and gave me a kind of knowing look. " Oh do
Tfie Seci'et Passage.
229
do
tell 1110, Shawn," I hastily uttered ; " tell rae anything to satisfy
nie that hIio won't be able to hurt my luother."
' Well aisy, aisy, alanna" said Shawn with assunuMl calin-
ness ; " now, lit nie see." lie stoopeil over, and in a kind of
half-whisper said, " now av I tell you a bit av a sacrit will you
keep it safe an' sound all to yerself I"
I gave Shawn every assurance to this tjtlinct.
"Now, thin, I'll trust you— I haven't much to say, but its
this. Long ago, when Nancy found her.self gettin', what some
called, ould an' stale, sh(! became all in a hurry viry religious,
an', by the same token, herself an' a sartin praychir — the man
that she said that convarted lier-used, they say, to be collo-
guin' togither, an', so got as thick as you like. An' people began
to talk an' talk — an' maybe there was rayaon for that same.
Well, in coorse av time, shure things came to a beautiful pass
with Nance, an' she found it convaynint, maybe on account of
the quare looks av things, to take a short journiy ; an' I know
where she wint to to keep out av the way, an' so does Peggy,
my wife, an' another that's dead. Nancy furgits this now — oh,
faith maybe she does — an' maybe she thinks I know nothing
at all at all ; but, nahochlish, av I don't remind her av this
little matter you may call me what you like — an' I'll do that
same afore she has a chance to see yer Aunt Kate agin. Now
cheer up, avick, an' see av I don't do this thing to perfiction —
av I don't my name isn't Shawn Bawu !"
It was evening. I heard my mother's voice again. She and
my sister had just come back after having parted with Jane at
Monkstown. A feeling of loneliness now returned. I thought
it was an age since she had left us, and after what had happened
I asked myself when she would visit us again, and if she ever
came should I be here to meet her. I thought of this, of the
sad story of my poor Aunt Mary, and of our adventure through
^
230
Family Creeds.
the dark underground passage that led us home again. The
day so far had been one of the most eventful of my life, and
though I felt depressed yet I was comforted by the assurance
that we had a friend in Shawn who would frustrate the mis-
chievous designs of Nancy Ferrin.
\::\
CHAPTER XXI.
MY AUNTS HOUSE,
MY father returned on Saturday, and with him came my
aunt. I must say that I was sorry to see her again so
soon, not b^ause I would probably have another dreary Sun-
day in her company, but because I felt that she came to carry
out the project of having me sent away from home. My
mother rightly judging that this was the object of my aunt's
early return tried to hide her feelings as much as possible,
though I knew she must have been sadly troubled. The Sab-
bath came, and to my joyful surprise I had not to repeat a
chapter or even a verse of the Bible. I was not asked a single
question in ray catechism, I was neither cautioned nor reproved,
but, without the least preliminary lecture, I was simply allowed
to do as I liked. This circumstance was so remarkable, and so
contrary to my experience, that I really began to indulge a
hope that my future religious training would not be so severe
or so repugnant to my feelings.
My father stayed at home while my mother and my sister
were at church. I was left with William, and was delighted
to be allowed to go with him in a boat to the island. My
aunt unexpectedly remained oat all day ; she did not get back
until after meeting-time late in the evening. We of course
thought she had been paying a visit to some of her Methodist
»
WT'
i I
-', I
■ . I
232
Family Creeds.
friends. She looked I fancied dissatisfied, and was rather de-
mure and reserved, and having complained of a headache she
went early to bed. Shawn for some reason disappeared the day
before ; he either went up to his family in the city, or, as I was
inclined to suspect, on a search after Nancy Ferrin ; but as he
said nothing to me or to any one else about it I was unable to
say which course he had taken. On Monday morning however
he presented himself, and as soon as he got an opportunity of
speaking to me alone, he told me that after much delay he had
only had a chance for about five minutes conversation with his
old acquaintance, Nancy, and that at first she affected not to
have the least knowledge of that which he wished her to bring
to her memory. She was not at her boarding place when he
first called ; they could not inform him where she ha(^l gone to,
but he was told that she was expected back by a certain hour
the next evening in order to be able to attend meeting. He
went again -long before the time mentioned, and while on the
watch for her outside, what must have been his surprise and
consternation to see her coming on alone followed at a quick
pace by some person evidently anxious to overtake her, and
then to discover that that person was my aunt ; but then not
wishing to be observed by her, he had to stand still and see
them enter the house together.
Judging, no doubt, correctly as to my aunt's motive for a
meeting with Miss Ferrin, he now saw that his only chanoe
was to hurry forward and drop a word in her ear before she
had time to communicate anything. She had scarcely time to
take off her bonnet. A message came that a person wished to
see her at the door for a minute on urgent business. Shawn
was there to receive her, he made but little delay, and before
he turned away from the surprised spinster, he had her positive
assurance that she would be silent on a certain subject.
My Aunt's House.
233
We left for the city on Tuesday morning. Oh what a part-
ing with my dear mother and my sister ! I shall never forget
it, or cease to remember all that was then said by one of the
tenderest of parents. What a tie was sundered when I had to
leave Shawn ; he was the last to let go my hand. Great tears
stood in his eyes, still he dared not even mutter farewell. Had
one such word escaped his lips at the time, the pent-up torrent
would have burst through and overwhelmed him — poor Shawn !
And there was Nelly Carberry, Nelly that had so often sung
and whispered me to sleep. She held me at first as if she never
intended to let me go, and then at last when she had to release
me from her strong embrace, she stood weeping aloud on the
door-step until I was out of sight. I have often thought since
that all that is most tender and humane in our nature is most
clearly exhibited in the parting hour. When far out on the
water, I looked back repeatedly to watch the roof and gables of
our dear old house as they stood marked clearly against the
blue sky ; I could see tlie glare upon the windows of the big
room, and then my heart sank, and I felt inexpressibly sad ;
for I thought I should never see that pleasant home again.
My aunt and I were now away together, and when she saw
how I was affected she reproached me rather petulantly for
being so sorry at parting. She was peevish with me at a time
when I thought she ought to have been sympathetic. She
spoke but little to me on our way, her mind seemed to be pre-
occupied, and to my surprise she ne\er once mentioned the sub-
ject of religion or alluded to a single popish infamy or delusion.
I was to stay at her house in the city for a few days, until
it would be convenient for my fathci- to accompany me to the
private school to which I was to be sent. William and he
would follow us by the end of the week, but it was not yet
decided whether my brother and I were to be sent to the same
16
234
Family Creeds.
I. ■
W'
I f ■"
academy. He was intended for the sea ; I for a very different
calling.
The first stage of my journey from home was over. I was
at my aunt's. Her resources, or rather those of Mr. Thomas
Sharp, her husband, were, I understood, rather limited. They
lived, however, in a three-storied house in front of the river.
It was a house which might be made comfortable enough had
it been properly cared for, but as my aunt had not* a turn for
housekeeping, it seemed to me that everything in the place
was in disorder ; no two pieces of furniture being alike or of a
similiar make. The moveables were a medley from auction
rooms j a richly carved table or chair being put side by side
with those of the plainest modern manufacture. The par-
lour carpet struck me as being very odd-looking, it was com-
posed of two different kinds of that material, half the width
on one side being a double-ply web of a dark-brown color, and
the other half being of grey tapestry, with a large patterii or
figure, perhaps meant for a flower, scattered here and there,
but which looked to me like a distribution of faded cabbage
leaves. The pictures were a curious collection, large and small,
oval, square, and oblong ; steel engravings, lithographs, and
common wood-prints, the latter being highly colored, the most
conspicuous hues being dark blue, yellow, and deep red ; the
frames being as ill assorted as the sketches they were intended
to ornament.
I must say that the selections on the whole would not, I am
sure, have been attractive to my aunt, or received by her were
it not that most of them were Scriptural illustrations and this
alone gave them a fictitious value in her eyes which they would
not otherwise have possessed. Little as I knew of drawing or
painting, the tine plates and pictures we had at home, gave me
a kind of taste for what was correct in this line ; but being in
My Aunt' 8 House.
235
were
id this
1 would
ang or
ive me
iing in
doubt of my judgment I used to gaze in wonder at these
representations.
The smallest pictures were those in the oval gilt frames,
and were mostly engravings — cut out of the Methodist Magazine
— of prominent preachers ; John and Charles Wesley, each in
gown and bands, having a distinguished place over a row of
lesser divines. The Scriptural scenes were numerous. In one,
Satan was seen perched upon a pinnacle of the temple exhibit-
ing the kingdoms of the world as a temptation to the mighty
personage beside him. There was a large wood-print of Christ
walking on the water and in the act of lifting the sinking Peter
when his faith had failed him in an attempt to tread upon the
sea ; there was another of Joshua in a long blue overcoat, com-
manding the sun and the moon to stand still ; and there was
one showing the Israelites in the act of crossing the Red Sea
dry shod, while a vast wall of water stood up perpendicularly on
each side. Some of the commanders, exhibited in this print,
woi'e turbans and long gowns, but I thought it very odd to see
others of them wearing cocked hats and breeches. There were
a vast number of spears and swords to be seen in the long array,
but, now that I remember, it must have been a singular ana-
chronism to depict some of these ancient chosen warriors with
belts and pistols. One very conspicious engraving however
was that of King William crossing the Boyne. Mr. Sharp, my
uncle, was an Orangeman, and of course his best room would
not be completely ornamented without the presence of this
illustrious monarch. But something still more attractive was,
I think, the large gilt-edged family Bible, which lay clasped and
elevated on the centre-table.
Distributed here and there, among pictures, engravings,
and other ornamentations, were numerous printed texts of
Scripture and pious aphorisms, such as — '* Fear God," " God is
i
si
236
Family Creeds.
t n
1 1
i
1
i
m
I ii
I •:
Love," «' Faith First," "Take up your Cross," " Pray without
ceasing," " Sinner Repent," " Beware of Unbelief," " Come to
Jesus," *' Who bears the Cross shall wear the Crown," etc
Indeed not only in this best room but in every other apart-
ment in the h'^r e, up stairs and down stairs, such texts could
be seen p^vstod v r faatened up in every available spot, convey-
ing warnings to the unbcUever and unrepentant — the very
walls were eloquent to the eye — and my aunt felt a peculiar
pride when these mnte monitors became attractive to her visi-
tors ; thus Ui. wiV f "i.!^ them an evidence of her abiding faith,
and of the other c;u 11:.. v'i.rtu2S — Hope and Charity — by which
she was actuated.
I had visited .,,j a ^.nt's i many times before this, but I
suppose I was too young t^- :ia c '^hat I then saw make the
impression they did at present. I have reason to believe that
my father often rendered her pecuniary and other assistance,
and, at my mother's suggestion, tried to have the house kept
more orderly, but in spite of this the place had a shabby appear-
ance. My aunt, however, seemed to care but little for these
things. Household affairs were a vexation, and had a tendency
to draw her attention from that which was of far more impor-
tance. Life was short and eternity long. Prayer-meetings,
class-met) uhigs, missionary-meetings and the ordinary services
of the sanctuaiT should not be neglected for low worldly
matters. Some could readily divide their affections between
domestic and religious duties — she could not. The Lord would
regulate her worldly affairs for her ; and in this reliance she
let everything in her own house remain at odds and ends and
wrong side foremost.
Incongruous as were many of the things collected and placed
side by side in almost every room, nothing could show a more
marked contrast than the personal appearance and mental pecu-
My Aunt'8 House.
237
liarities of husband and wife. My aunt, somewhat like my
father, was tall and slight, and of a quick, nervous disposition.
Mr. Sharp was the opposite — low-sized, stout, and sluggish.
He had fair hair, full heavy eyes, paleish flabby cheeks, and
was slow in speech and movement. One was a Methodist, th*
other a Presbyterian, they had therefore many religious dis-
putes; they contended about other matters, and there was
scarcely any concurrence of opinion on ordinary aftairs. My
father and his partner. Mi*. Casey, though difierent in outward
form could yet agree about business transactions, but there was
seldom such accord between my aunt and her husband. If he
raised an objection she stamped and defied. Tliere was to be
bu^ one ruler in that house. Mr. Sharp — who on rare occasions
could be stubborn and determined — generally submitted, and my
aunt had her own way. In addition to these singular contrasts,
my aunt, having no children, had a favorite parrot which had
been taught, perhaps by some former owner, to swear mildly ;
yet its flippant imprecations did not seem to disturb the
serenity of its pious mistress. There was a dog and a cat
that quarrelled whenever they chanced to meet ; and there was
a red-haired girl, named Susan, in the kitchen — a poor, patient,
hard-working drudge — whom my aunt was almost always scold-
ing for her indolence. So far for my aunt's family — I say my
aunt's ; for already it looked to me as if she alone had full con-
trol in the premises ; and I had an instinctive feeling that I
must be very obedient, and submit in all humility to her dictates
while I remained under her roof.
On the day of our arrival, my aunt, after having given the
rooms a hasty visit, and taken a cursory look at things about
the place, descended to the kitchen and gave the girl the requi-
site scolding. The dog and the cat quarrelled nearly all the
time my aunt was engaged at this duty ; and the parrot, in
238
Family Creeds.
I •: i t
'I
IS.
f II
I I
his great wire cage, kept stepping restlessly from side to side
a ad repeating : " Dem me eyes ; dem my eyes ; dem my eyes ; "
*' What the devil are you at 1 what the devil are you at 1 what
the devil are you att" " You be blowed ; you be blowed ; you.
be blowed." After the cessation of this domestic storm my
aunt went out, to be absent several hours. She was one of the
collectors for a missionary society, and had, she said, to make
her returns that day. Mr. Sharp, who was a kind of under
clerk in some public office, would not be bick until evening,
and as I had the place almost to myself — with a peremptory
caution not to leave the house — I spent much of my time going
from room to room and taking an ocular inventory of the curi-
ous things I saw, and of their still more odd and singular
arrangement.
Not accustomed to be left so long alone, I stole down after
this to the kitchen, and Susan, the girl, received me with all
the warmth of an old acquaintance. Of course I had never
seen her before, but she was truly delighted to have any one
come and speak to her as I had. At first, one might think
she was cross looking, but I soon discovered that she was one
of the most kind and tender-hearted creatures I had ever met.
She made me sit by the fire, and I watched her while she
worked. She appeared to be very diligent and remarkably
clean ; in fact, I saw at once that the kitchen was, in some
respects, the most tidy and comfortable part of the house.
Still, as I afterwards discovered, she could not satisfy ray aunt,
who, I am sorry to say, made the servitude of this poor, patient
creature particularly harassing and oppressive. She chatted
pleasantly to me until she hurried through her work, and then
she came and sat by me with all the familiarity of Nelly Car-
berry. I soon told her my story about my mother and Ellen ;
of how sorry I was when Jane left us, and how grieved I was
My Aunt's House.
239
to part with them, as well as with Nelly, and Shawn, and our
pleasant old house at Cove. Now I was going to be sent away
somewhere to school, and that perhaps it might be a long long
time before I should be allowed to see them again, and when I
finished thus far my eyes were filled with tears, for she was
the only person to whom I really opened my heart since I left
home.
My recital affected her. What a singular expression there
appeared on that worn-looking face ! She looked cross, almost
fierce, while her bosom must have been throbbing with the
tenderest emotions. What dissembling there seemed to be
between the stern, ill-favoured countenance and the very gen-
tlest of human hearts ! Poor girl ! Her finest and most sym-
pathetic feelings were masked by an uncomeliness that might
be repulsive to many, or that would, perhaps, cause her to be
shunned, or even despised, by those who were mostly led by
appearances. But now, in my eyes, she was more than comely.
There must have been some little opening in thfe black cloud
through which I could detect the beautiful azure beyond. A
momentary glimpse was sufficient to satisfy me. And then her
voice — while she told me, in a few simple words, all she knew of
her own history — so soft, and, at times, so plaintive, was like
the pleasant murmuring of a stream, and kept me listening.
She knew nothing of a father or mother, or of a relative of any
kind. She was very young when my aunt got her — I think
she said " bought her " at a foundling institution, but when or
where she could not say. She must have believed that she had
been bought, for was she not even now a slave— a slave with-
out hope — one of the wrong color, for whom civilization would
not grow indignant or attempt a rescue? She remembered
having had to part with other children which were in the same
place, but she was not sorry at the time for the change, as none
IfT"
■■■
240
Family Creeds.
of them liked her, but used, she said, sometimes to get angry
and call her ugly, and hurt her. She could not read. '* Missus,"
as she called my aunt, had sent her two or three times to a
Sunday School, but she could learn nothing there, for many of
the children called her squint-eyed, and grinned at her, and
teased her on every opportunity ; and as the teachers, for some
reason, were not partial to her, they paid her but little atten-
tion. She tried, she said, to be good and kind, but nobody
seemed to like her. She worked very hard for my aunt, but
she was as cross to her as any one else, and she scarcely ever
let her go outside the house.
Poor simple girl, how I pitied her sad condition, for I already
felt that she had nothing to hope for, and but little relief to
expect from a life of drudgery and oppression ; and, desirous of
saying something to cheer her, I spoke a few encouraging words
and she seemed delighted to hear me.
" 0, Master John," said she, snatching my hand and holding
it tightly to her breast, " Master John, what a dear, good, good
little creature you are. Oh, if every one was like you, and
would speak to me like you, how different I would be. You
are so like Mrs. Reardon and Bertha, and you know me just
like them. Oh how I wish you could be here all the time, how
happy I would be. Oh you dear little fellow !"
Much as I sympathized with poor Susan, I am now ashamed
to say I drew back more than once when I thought that in one
of her impulsive moments she was going to kiss me — I really
dreaded the touch of her lips. She must have noticed this,
but it did not seem hurt ; she had been too much accustomed to
slights all her life to mind this one from me. She only drew
a little closer and ran her fingers through my hair, and passed
her rough hand several times across my forehead. After a
while I asked her who Mrs. Reardon and Bertha were, and was
My Aunt's House.
241
vngry
8SU8,"
J to a
my of
r, and
r some
atten-
iiobody
nt, but
ly ever
already
relief to
sirous of
^2 words
I holding
)od, good
ou, and
3. You
me just
ime, how
ashamed
told that Mrs. Reardou was a poor woman to whom my aunt
rented rooms in tlie garret, and that Bertha was her daughter.
Susan said they had been very good to her since they came,
just like what I was ; they helped to mend her clothes, but yet
that my aunt did not like her to go near them, but, said Susan
in a whisper, " We shall go together and see them some night
when you go up to bed."
We chatted some time longer, and the time passed pleasantly
by the fireside until my aunt's return.
What my aunt might have been among her pious friends
outside, — how humble, how patient, or how exemplary, — I can
only guess, but in her own house she seemed to lose heart —
except when she had company— and was neither cheerful nor
communicative, but, on the contrary, rather peevish and fault-
finding. Mr. Sharp was not a man of many words, and we had
dinner and tea almost in silence. The food being different in
kind, from what I got at home, I ate but little. After this, Mr.
Sharp went to smoke his pipe and my aunt sat sewing in
silence. There was no book that I cared to read — I dreaded
getting another chapter to learn — but to please her I read a
little in Bunyan, and afterwards a terrible page or two in a
book on future punishment. While I was looking at the
printed words my aunt left the room, and I heard her down in
the kitchen scolding Susan again. At an early hour we were
called to attend family prayer. Susan gave me one of her
dreary smiles when she entered the room ; such as it was, it
helped to cheer me. My aunt made a short prayer, as tame
and as matter of form as if she had learned it by heart or been
reading it out of a book. Mr. Sharp's invocation was slow,
long-drawn and very wearisome, and when this was ended I
was glad to say *' good night," and be led to my room by Susan.
When we got up stairs we heard voices in the garret, right
242
Family Creeds.
<,' I
over my room. " Listen !" said I to Susan. They were singing
a very soft, low melody — a little duett that reminded me of
home. They dared not raise their voices lest my aunt should
be disturbed, for she disliked to hear songs of any kind in her
own house, except hymns. Susan left me, and I think she
went up to see them, and maybe to tell them about me. I lis-
tened after I got into bed ; the murmuring sound was very
soothing to me at the time. I could only hear the chorus,
which was, I suppose, repeated at the end of every verse, and I
thought with more energy, and which, I had an impression,
had some strange, sad, or peculiar meaning. The words were
so singular that they made an impression on my memory, and I
remember them yet : —
You and I, you and I,
Side by side alone must stand ;
Few will pity, few will try
To reach ua out a helping hand ;
Scarcely elae than acorn will be
In thia cold world for you and me,
For you and me, for you and me.
I tried to keep awake to hear the song, and to catch the
other words if I could. In my efforts to do this the sound
seemed to die away, and while still listening I fell into a sound
sleep.
ft-'
1,1
w
CHAPTER XXII.
MY AUNT S POOR LODGERS.
I AWOKE early and lay awhile in bed, taking a survey of my
room. It was poorly furnished — very unlike the one I had
had at home. A small deal table, a couple of plain chairs, a
piece of rug at the bed side the only carpet, and a small looking-
glass, cracked in two or three places, against the wall. There
was one old faded wood print of Samson tj^n^ tire brands to
fox's tails (as per Scripture); but to make up f •■ other d^ticien-
cies, there wei-e several texts arranged around the walls, similar
to those I had seen in the lower rooms. As yet I heard no one
stirring over head in the garret. Had they been singing as they
were last night, I might have ventured to go up and peep at
them through the key hole, for I was already desirous of fomi-
ing their acquaintance.
When I went down stairs, my aunt was alone in the parlor
reading a note or letter. From where I stood in the hall I
could see her smile, and when I entered the room, she greeted
me with unusual cordiality. I had not seen her in so agreeable
a mood since the pleasant evening we passed at our house in
Cove, when my father was so hilarious and demonstrative.
She was going to have visitors that evening, and a particular
ac(i[uaintance from that place was coming to spend a few days
with her. She seemed in a bustling mood, and she hurried to
244
Family Creeda.
E «'■-
■ ; HI
II ; - I
the kitchen to make some extra preparations. I did not hear
her complain, when she was below with Susan.
She had, I thought, rather hurried morning prayers, and
during breakfast my aunt was lively, and had scarcely a word of
altercation with Mr. Sharp. He was going to ask a friend of
his to join the expected company, and though my aunt made
some objection on account of the "man's principles," yet for
once she gave way, and her husband's acquaintance — a fellow -
clerk, — was to be invited.
I have often thought that there should be some excuse made
for my aunt's peculiarities. She had no child of her own, and
some natures, without such an entwinement around the heart
grow cold, insensible, and almost hardened. If music has power
to soften the sternest expression into a smile, there is nothing
touches the soul of a mother, like the music of her child's voice.
Any latent feeling of tenderness that might have become frigid,
or congealed in my aunt's bosom, had, therefore, never yet been
thawed out, or melted into tears, by the influence of such har-
mony.
Shortly after breakfast, my aunt went out, and I was left
again with Susan, but with the former caution, that I must not
leave the house. This was quite unnecessary, for I took much
pleasure in Susan's company, besides I had made up my mind
to go and visit Mrs. Reardon, on the first opportunity. Susan
was again delighted to see me. She was eating at a little side
table in the kitchen, and I could not avoid noticing the poverty
of her meal. There was neither cloth nor plate. A stale piece
of brown bread, — hard as a crust, — a few potatoes in a little
wooden dish, some salt on a broken saucer, something like milk
and water in a bowl, and an old dinner knife, were all that lay
before her. I saw neither butter, r,ugar, fish nor meat. If it
had been a fast day, and she very pious, I might not have been
I ¥^
My AunCa Poor Lodgers.
245
surprised at the slender fare, but as she knew nothing of the
merit of fasting — that is to say, in a theological sense, — ^how
she was to work hard and live on such food as this, was to me
a mystery. I was almost ashamed to be a witness of her humili-
ation, for I felt it to be such ; but she, poor creature, seemed to
share no such feeling. She looked contented, or tried to be so,
perhaps under the conviction that she could not better her con-
dition, by making a complaint.
At last I managed to ask — '* Is this the kind of food you
always get Susan 1"
" Why yes, master John ; its what missus gives me every day."
" You get three meals I suppose 1 "
*' Oh yes, three meals every day except of a Sunday, and then
we only gets two — that is for myself you know. "
'* And why don't you get more- than two on a Sunday, Susan ]"
" Well, you know missus says I musn't work so hard then ;
we gets our breakfast about ten, — but we have no regular time
for meals, and then missus goes to meetin,' and when I do up the
house I looks out of one cf the windows up stairs, for an hour
or two — but I mostly goes to Mrg. Reardon's when she's in —
and then when missus comes back we gets dinner at four or
five, and then she goes to meotiu' again, and maybe doesn't
come back until bed time."
I was astonished to find from Susan, that she never got even
the smallest morsel of meat except at Christmas ; and on three
or four other festival days during the year, that she was some-
times — I shall say — indulged with a little fish or soup, but with
nothing else beyond what I had seen. She had but a very shad-
owy idea of what prayer meant, or why people went to church
or meeting ; and, though she had my aunt as an example, she
had, for some reason never been at such a place half-a-dozen
times in her life ; and worse than this, she exhibited almost
M'
fj:1
246
Family Creeds.
total indifference to any thing concerning religion, or she was
very ignorant as to its importance.
" Missus and master sometimes talks about that," she said,
" but when they do they always quarrels, and then you know
she scolds him like myself."
" Well, doesn't Mrs. Reardon ever go to meeting?"
Susan raised her hand as if to caution me, and then replied
almost in a whisper, " Yes, she and Bertha sometimes go to an-
other place. She told me cause she'd tell me anything, but she
wouldn't like to tell any one else."
" You wouldn't be afraid to tell me, Susan ; I think I shall like
Mrs. Reardon and Bertha, and shall not say anything about
them they would not like to have said."
*' I know that," replied Susan. " Its a great secret and missus
doesn't know it." She stooped and whispered, " They're Catho-
lics, I believe ; something I s'pose different from what we are ;
and if missus knowed it she'd turn them out; I'm sure she
would."
Without waiting for Susan, as this was to be a busy day with
her, I went softly upstairs —up to the garret landing — -and
stood listening outside for a moment or two. I wanted to be
sure that Mrs. Reardon was in, for there was a back entrance
by which they could get into or out of the house almost unper-
ceived, indeed it was the only passage they had permission to
use. I heard some one speak, and making no delay I knocked
gently at the door. It was opened, and not caring about an
invitation I walked in, and even deliberately closed the door
after me.
" I'm John Fairband, Mrs. Reardon ; Susan told me about
you, and I wanted to come and see you." I felt already ex-
ceedingly bashful.
" You are very welcome, my dear. Very welcome to our poor
My Aunt's Poor Lodgers.
247
room. We are very glad to have you come here; glad to see
any friend, particularly you. Why, what a fine boy ! Sit down
John ; sit down, my dear."
She led me to a seat, and I could not utter another word un-
til I had finished my gaze — a gaze of perfect surprise. She
smiled as she saw my look of astonishment, and then when
Bertha came near, smiling also, and stood by her side, I must
have looked as if I were amazed. How different from what I
had expected ! I felt the blood mount to my cheek, and I
would have hung my head, completely overcome, had I been
able to remove my eyes from the beautiful picture before me.
Mother and daughter ! Impossible ! They must be sisters, one
a few years older than the other. These were the only ideas that
entered my mind at that moment. I never saw human forms
more perfect — and \xp here in such a place ! But the garret
itself was now to me the most delightful part of the house, be-
cause these were here to adorn it — their very presence made it
so. The vision seemed to fill the place with a rich glow ;
everything around appeared resplendent, and without being able
to turn away my gaze I gradually drew up my hands and cov-
ered my face, as one would whose eyes had been dazzled by a
sudden and unexpected burst of sunlight. In less than a min-
ute my hands were gently drawn down, I could offer no resis-
tance, and I let them drop by my side ; and then I found my-
self seated between two angels, who now gazed at me in return.
At last I stammered out :
" Oh, I thought you were so different]"
They laughed, and the sound was like the vibration of rich
harmony. "What did you think we were?" asked the elder.
I hesitated and then replied, " Well, I thought you were
maybe, like Susan."
They laughed again, and Mrs, Rea,r4on 8a,id, ** Oh I wish
pir
i I
rii ji
In
'i i
f ■ 1
248
Family Creeds.
we were as good everywav as Susan, but we never can be, she
is so kind and so innocent."
And we are so glad you like her," said Bertha, the younger,
speaking for the first time, and with the most charming smile.
" I shall like her now better than ever, indeed I shall," I
continued.
" Because we like her, is it ?" archly asked Bertha.
I looked into her sweet, pleasant face before I replied, and said,
" Yes." I someway felt unable to say anything more at the time.
Mrs. Reardon could not be much more than thirty years
of age, perhaps two or three years older. She was rather
under medium height. Her hair was dark brown and wavy,
and was confined under a small, plain but very neat cap. Her
forehead was expansive, the eyebrows beautifully arched, the
eyes of the mildest blue, the nose straight and finely formed, the
cheeks wore the softest blush, and the mouth, lips and chin corres-
ponded to form, perhaps, the most lovely face I had evef looked
at. Still there were already traces of care and suffering to be no-
ticed — a little shadow seen lurking here and there in the bright-
ness of her countenance — as if she had some private sorrow,
or was passing through the vale of affliction ; and when si^e
spoke, generally lively at first, her voice would often become
unexpectedly sad or subdued before she said many words.
Bertha who was perhaps in or near her sixteenth year, bore a
remarkably close resemblance to her mother — as she must be
called. She was scarcely so fair in personal appearance, but
her youth and her lively disposition almost made up for this
deficiency. They were both plainly dressed ; ^they wore cotton
gowns of the cheapest description. I thought they could not
look betteB in anything else. They had no ornaments of
any kind except a little black cross fastened to a ribbon, which
was hung on Bertha's neck.
My Aunt* a Poor Lodger a.
249
be, she
oxinger,
g smile,
ihall," I
and said,
the time.
•ty years
IS rather
id wavy,
ap. Her
ched, the
irmed, the
tiin corres-
T&t looked
to be no -
he bright-
e sorrow,
when si^e
ill become
ly words,
ir, bore a
must be
■auce, but
for this
Dre cotton
could not
,ment8 of
lon, which
The room was rather bare of furniture — a little work table, a
large work basket, two chairs, a little covered stool, a larger
table at one side of the room, and a bed in a comer, were the
principal articles. There was no carpet, there were no pictures.
I think there was a miniature near the bed, no texts, but to
make up for the want of these, there were three or four flower-
pots, in a little window, which held geraniums or other plants
in full bloom ; and a small gray cat sat purring and blinking in
front of a scanty coal fire, in a most diminutive fire-place.
From the contents of the basket, and from what lay on the
work table, it struck me that they were dressmakers ; it was
to all appearance their only way of making out a poor living
— poor it must have been — for judging by the humble place
they occupied, and the evidences of decent poverty around, the
struggle for life must have been, for these poor creatures, diffi-
cult enough.
This was what I noticed in little more than a minute while
they sat looking at me. I now felt in some degree embarrassed,
and offered an excuse for my intrusion by saying, "I heard you
sing last night — we used to sing, you know, at home — and I
listened to you until I fell asleep. I liked your singing very
much and I wanted to come and see you, besides Susan said I
would be so pleased with you."
They seemed very much gratified, and I grew more at ease.
'' But you couldn't hear the words down in your room 1" in-
quired Mrs. Reardon.
" No, ,^ot quite all of them. I wanted to find out, but could
only hear the chorus, about " You and I, you and I, you and
I." It reminded me of something that I had heard before, and
I want you to sing the song again for me some evening while I
am here."
Mrs. Reardon blushed when I said this, and I think she
17
TW"
K '>■*
i! 1 I
iM
is ■ i ■ >
I
iifi
250
Furmly Cveeds.
lookied more beautiful than ever, Sbe said that as it pleased me
they would sing a nicer song for me ; and «he added the hope
that I would not be going away very soon, they would be glad
to have me 8tayy«t a long tima
*' I think I should like to remain viery much ; I would if I
could. I .should like to stay with you and Susan. You remind
me of my mother, and Bertha reminds me of — " I was going
to say Jane, but I hesitated, and I fear that my face must hav«
told them that I had a little secret " Oh, wouldn't it be fine,"
«aid I hurriedly trying to get out of the difficulty, ** wouldn't it
be fine if you could teach me, and then I needn't be sent away
anywhere else. I think I could laarn more from you than
from a master."
Mrs. Keardon- smiled and said she would be glad to teach
me if she was qualified ; it would be far more pleasant, and no
doubt a more profitable, occupation than sewing.
" And then you should get such a lot of money." I said this
as if it were really a matter of choice for her to decide; " and
you know," said I, confidentially, " I get a little pocket money,
I have some now, my ma gave me a whole pound note when I
was coming away, and Nellie Carberry gave me half-a-crown,
but don't tell my aunt, and I could give some to you, and to
Bertha and Susan."
Mother and daughter were greatly pleased with me. Bertha
took my hand, and Mrs. Reardon kiipsed me and said in a most
endearing way, "Oh poor, innocent boy, how little you yet
know of the world."
All at once I felt myself on the most familiar terms, and
asked, " How long have you been here with my aujit 1 Do
you like to live with her ? Is she kind, and does she often
come to see you 1 "
They both appeared emban-assed by my questions, but Mr&
My Aunt's Poon' Lodgers.
261
Reardon answered in a few moments, " We are not here many
months, John; we came to live here because it is cheaper than
where we formerly lived. We rent this upper room " — poor
lady, she did not like to call it a garret — " from your aunt be-
cause we cannot afford to pay the rent of a better place. But
this must answer — it will do well enough," said she, evidently
trying to make the best of it, or to persuade herself that it was
not so bad after all.
" Oh," said I, in unison with her idea, " its a beautiful place,
a real fine room. I could live here all the time ; I'm sure I
could."
She seemed to understand my motive for saying this, and
only shook her head slowly as if doubtful of my own belief in
the assertion.
*' Your aunt," continued she, "is kind enough in her way. If
we cannot pay her our rent regularly, she will wait a few days
by adding a trifle for her lenity, but trifles are sometimes large
sums to us. Without her, however, we should not perhaps be
entrusted with the goods we get to make up. Few know any-
thing of us, and she becomes responsible for the safe return of
the goods or dlresses — or at least she says she gets some one to
do so — but its no matter to us ; if this was not done we might
sit here and be idle ; and we have to pay something out of
what we make or earn for this security. Yet often by the time
these charges are paid we have but little left for ourselves."
When I heard this I thought my ears must have deceived
me. Was it really a fact that my aunt or any one else could
think of making a charge for so paltry a favor ; and now,
from what I had already seen and heard, I began to think my
aunt was very hard and unfeeling. " Could she really ask you
to pay money for doing an act of this kind I" I exclaimed.
" Oh, ma, you must tell him the reason," said Bertha.
I- ■!«:■
r K-
Wm'
ft;;
iiM
252
j
j i
I i
I I
! i
Family Creeds.
"I shall," replied Mrs. Reardon. " Your aunt told us that
any money she got this way was not for herself ; but as she is
a religious woman, and what she calls a * missionary collector,'
she seems to think it her duty to ask and accept money from
the poorest persons — and get it every way she can — to send the
gospel to heathen lands. "
" My aunt is wrong in doing that," I said at once. '* If
there were no poor people in the streets the money might be
sent to the heathen. I often heard my pa say that it was a
delusion — almost a crime — to send missionaries at great expense
to foreign countries — that the poor there were not so wretched
as our own — while there is so much distress and suffering at
home ; and ma, who is as charitable and religious as any one in
the world, says the same ; and that any money we can spare
should be given first to the poor who are at our doors."
" Your ma is, I think, quite right," said Mrs. Reardon.
" But," I continued, " do you think my aunt would ask you
to help to send away Methodist missionaries if they knew you
were a Catholic. Susan," said I, lowering my voice, " Susan,
you know, told me you were one; but that my aunt hates them."
" Your aunt does not know what we are," said Mrs. Reardon ;
" she never cared to ask me. I don't suppose it makes much dif-
ference to her where she gets the money so long as she gets it ;
but I should be sorry if she were to dislike us on account of
our religious opinions. We were brought up in the Catholic
Church, and therefore we believe in it."
"Just what Shawn used to say." I had an idea that every-
body knew Shawn. " He used to say that people were Protes-
tants, or Catholics, or any thing else, just as they were brought
up to believe, and that they can't help being such ; but that they
should not be blamed even if they found reason to change their
opinions afterwards. He thinks very relegious people are the
My. Awnt's Poor Lodgers.
253
us that
IS she is
)llector,'
ley from
send the
ce. " If
night be
it was a
b expense
wretched
Tering at
ay one in
;an spare
:don.
ask you
new you
" Susan,
,es them."
eardon ;
uch dif-
le gets it ;
count of
Catholic
lat every-
|e Protes-
brought
that they
ige their
are the
most prejudiced, and that ray aunt is what he calls 'bigoted;'
and I'm afraid she would dislike me too if she knew I was a
Catholic.
" And are you a Catholic 1" asked Bertha and her mother al-
most with one voice, "I am."'" They seemed pleased and sur-
prised at my acknowledgment, but I now felt that I had been
very incautious to admit so much ; yet as I did not like to tell
them that it was a great secret, I merely said that my father
was a Protestant, but that my mother, and sister, and myself,
were Catholics.
I then gave them a little sketch of my history similar to what
I had given Susan, and I know they were sorry when they heard
that I had only a few days to remain until I should be sent
away. I already began to feel much attached to them, and re-
gretted that I should soon be obliged to leave. They seemed to
have a great liking for me, and I was warmly invited to spend
as much of my time with them as I possibly could. Before I left
the room they recommenced their sewing, which must have been
constant and fatiguing, and as I looked on for some minutes as
these two kind creatures stooped over their hard task-work I
said : " You should not sew so much ; indeed you should not.
You ought to go out more every day, a pleasant walk by the
river would be so cheerful, and I will ask my aunt to let me go
with you. Ma used to tell us that whenever she sewed for a
long time at once it made her head ache and her eyes feel sore."
I had scarcely spoken these words when I heard a sigh. I
looked up ; Bertha's face was turned from me, and her mother's
eyes were already filled with tears. I could see the glitter of
those " pearls of sorrow " on her cheek, and I felt grieved, for
I feared that I had said something to hurt their feelings. Mrs.
Reardon put her handkerchief to her face, and when she re-
moved it a sad smile only remained to tell me that I had touched
l^^ i
':!V« ill
254
Family Creeds.
Bome tender chord. She replied with a subdued voice : " alas,
my dear, we must sew — our task is before us — we must sew,
for we cannot go out when we will. While the sun shines for
others we have to stay here in the shade. We must stoop at our
work whether our head aches, whether our hearts are sad, or
whether our eyes grow dim,"
f !
chaptp:r XXIII.
THE POOR. — PIOUS PASTIMES AND PBAYKR,
WHEN I left these kind friends I went to my own room. I
felt no inclination to go hack to Susan or to say a word
to any one else. What I had just seen and heard set me think-
ing, and I sat for an hour or longer on the side of my bed look-
ing vacantly at one spot on the floor, and trying to understand
why it was there was so much difference among people ; why so
many, who did not work, were wealthy and lived in fine houses,
had carriages, servants, comforts and luxuries in abundance,
and to whom every one seemed ready to bow and pay the greatest
respect, while men, women, and even children, who were obliged
to submit to very *severe and constant labour, had scarcely a
proper shelter from the weather, were poorly clad, had an in-
sufficiency of food, and who were almost generally considered
menials, if not inferior beings, by the wealthy. Why should
one class thus have every worldly comfort, and another class be
forced to submit to harassing deprivations 1 The natural rights
of the one I considered ought to be equal to those of the other,
and when I tried to account for the inequality between them I
was unable to come to any other conclusion than that it was
caused by some kind of injustice ; how, or in what way, it was
beyond me to determine. Circumstances seemed to be so formed
that certain persons would become rich and remain so, although
iM
i I
1 1
ii i ,
256
Family Creeds.
living in tho greatest extravagance, while the far larger nuniV)er
do what they could, would be miserably poor and dependent.
This appeared to have been the course of things as long as I
could remember, and though I had heard of the various efforts
of benevolent persons, and of what the clergy were trying to do,
yet it happened that nothing done towards the correction of this
state of things was yet sufficient, or that the proper remedy had
not yet been applied.
Dwelling on this subject it then occurred to me that the very
best people I ever knew were among those classed as "the
poor." There was Shawn, with his great natural ability, and
with his thoughtful inquiring mind, kept by circumstances,
which he could not have controlled, in comparative ignorance,
without a foot of land, or a house to put his head in, which he
could call his own ; a mere servile dependant without a shilling
beyond what was required for his daily wanes. There was the
kind and loving Nelly Carberry, a representative of the servant
class, who might perhaps feel no actual want while she had
health and domestic employment, but, let 'these uncertainties
fail her, and she would be left to rely upon the charity of a
sellish world ; then there was poor Susan, an innocent creature,
80 Junocent that I believe she never suspected any one of doing
her an intentional wrong, who scarcely thought herself deserv-
ing of anything more than the pittance she earned, who had a
heart that was one solid lump of goodness, but who was only a
wretched drudge — almost a slave — poorly fed, poorly clothed,
most unkindly treated, and, from all I could see, liable at v
moment to.be turned adrift to perish in the streets ; and th-
there were such persons as Mrs. Reardon and her daughter, esti-
mable individuals who had perhaps once been in good circum-
stances, who were evidently educated, if not accomplished, but
now reduced to a condition of respectable poverty which in
The Poor. — Piova Pastimrn and Pvaijer. 257
oiulent.
ig aH I
*, etforts
g to do,
ti of this
ledy had
the very
as "the
lity, and
nstaiices,
fnorance,
which he
i shilling
was the
|e servant
she had
Ttainties
■ity of a
[creature,
of doing
f deserv-
Iho had a
,s only a
clothed,
6 at a
,nd tl.
ter, esti
circum-
ihed, but
hich in
thoir case was most pitiable, and often felt more keenly than
that endured by the beggar wandering along the highway.
Ah ! alas, what of the Vjeggars ] — the beggars in the streets,
th«i homeless outcasts that are almost abandoned to starvation
— what of these ? And how many of such unfortunate creatures
do actually starve and die eveiy year for want of food 1 Oh
what a harassing thought this was to me ! As long as I could
remember I used to come across these. I could go scarcely a
dozen yards from our house without meeting some one with
sunken cheeks asking for bread, and when I gave to one,
others would follow soliciting the merest mouthful. They were
to be found almost everywhere ; even in the city, where they
were liable to be arrested and carried oti" to the poor-house.
They used to wait every day at our door for my mother, who
never sent them away without some relief. I never yet, like
some, had got so accustomed to beggars that I could pay no
heed to their cry. Their importunities always excited my pity ;
and I never was able to forget the scene I witnessed when the
poor old woman — whom I have mentioned before — was forced
into the poor-house wagon and borne away before my eye.s.
And then there was another class of beggars scarcely less to
be pitied. The men, women and children, that begged for work
or for something to do to enable them to buy "a bit of food ;"
the class who were as yet ashamed to beg for bread but who
wev villin'r to do the meanest service for the meanest recom-
|;> A What a sad state of things ! What a deplorable con-
tt of civilized society ! People wanting work and wanting
bri .id : Ah me, would it be always thus ] No wonder that
theives and pick-pockets should be so numerous ; no wonder
that robbers 'lould prowl along the highways ; no wonder that
women shoul ecpme degraded : no wonder that vice and crime
should pre^ and that violence and even murder should be so
li
1 1 1-
< II'
I !
258
Family Greeds.
common when human beings were urged on to infamy and mad-
dened and infuriated by deprivations and indignities from which
common brutes were mostly exempt ! and what were the princi-
pal remedi.es tried so far by high priests and legislators for such
existing evils — for such indifference to reproof, for such defiance
to legal threats, or for such outrageous violations of the law of
the land 1 The stinted charity of the churches, the poor-house
of the moral reformer, and the prison walls and elevated gal-
lows of parliament.
Alas, alas ! this was how matters stood, but to me at the time,
the mystery as to the origin of poA'erty, was as great as ever.
The best explanation I had ever had was from Shawn ; it was
something like this : There are twenty men on an island, and
twenty loaves are produced every day, quite sulficient for the
support of all if fairly distributed, every man having an equal
right to a loaf. One of the men, however, who is very strong,
rapacious, and violent, induces three or foui of like disposition
to join him, and then, disregarding the rights o£ their fellows,
they regularly seize the greater quantity of the bread, and the
subdued and terrified majority have to live as best they can on
the remainder, or die unless they become servile to those who
have defrauded them, and accept the merest crust as the reward
of their enforced obedience.
One or more of my aunt's visitors had arrived. I went down
stairs. I heard some one singing a hymn that I had often heard
in the Methodist chapel. The voice, a woman's, was strange to
me, and rather shrieky, very unlike the sweet, soft voices 1 had
heard the night before in Mrs. Reardon's room. I listened out-
side for a moment or two, curious to know who the person was,
when lo ! there stood in the parlor between me and one of the
front windows the lank, angular form of Miss Nancy Ferrin,
the lady above all other's whom I now mo:.o dreaded. She had
The Poor. — Pious Paatimea and Prayer. 259
mad-
vhich
rinci-
r such
fiance
iaw of
-house
;d gal-
e time,
8 ever,
it was
id, and
for the
n equal
strong,
losition
'ellows,
,nd the
can on
»se who
reward
it down
In heard
[ange to
in I had
led out-
jn was,
of ths
iFerrin,
Jhe had
her look partly turned towards me ; she was alone, for it seemed
that none other of the expected company had arrived, and I
heard my aunt down with Susan in the kitchen.
Miss Feri'in, though a leading church member, was dressed in
her best style, not in plain quakerish drab, but in a figured
something, which was very showy. Her scanty black hair was
set up in puffs; there were ribbons and bows among these, and a
large back-comb to keep some of them in place — all introduced, I
presume, for ornament as well as for use. A gilt chain hung
from her neck, to which was attached a brass locket. Some
yards of a bright red sash hung from her waist, and her long
thin shoes were partly hidden in the immense rosettes which
balanced themselves upon her unassuming instep.
This was the lady of my dreams, for I had often, of late,
dreamt of Nancy to the exclusion of my mother, or Nelly, or
of others I need not mention. She seemed to be greatly inter-
ested with whatever came within her reach. She lifted every
article that could conveniently be raised and examined, turned
it this way and that, looked at it on every side, and then laid it
down to lift something else. Even while she held a book, or a
box, or a shell, her eyes would be roving about the room in every
direction with a prying scrutiny far exceeding any inquisitive
curiosity that I might have exhibited on the day of my arrival.
She still sung ; she was evidently pleased with her voice or with
the subject of the hymn, yet she seemed to get annoyed at the
least interruption, for more than once when a buzzing fly passed
her and flew against the window pane, she would go over and at
once pursue it with her thin knobb/ fingers, and take appai"ent
pleasure in crushing it to death. I afterwards saw her look up
at the corners of the ceiling as if in quest of spiders for further
manipulation.
Not wishing to be then seen by Miss Ferrin during my aunt's
I' ' I
260
Family Creeds.
absence, or to encounter her during her present destructive
mood, I returned to my room to await the arrival of the other
expected friends.
I someway imagined that when my aunt's guests were
assembled we should have to spend a very dull evening, I had
an impression that they were all to be religious people, and
that their manner and conversation would be demure and seri-
ous. I was surprised, however, to remark a great difference
from what I had expected. Even strict class members of the
Methodist Society had begun to see that recreation was neces-
sary, and that innocent amusement might be indulged in ; and,
as if to make up for lost time, that a little harmless flirtation,
which was only natural, might not be objected to; it would re-
lieve religion of its more sombre aspect and make it far more
attractive to many.
There was the Reverend Mr. Banner, my aunt's favorite
preacher, — she called him "Brother Banner." He was young
and unmarried, for he had only been on a circuit about two
years;" and was yet destined, she thought, to become one of the
leading lights of the connection. There was Mrs. Harris, a
stout, jolly-looking Methodist matron — ^my aunt's class leader —
best known among church members as "Sister Harris," — with
her two marriageable daughters, and two young men who
accompanied them ; besides a young man and his sister who
had become members after a late protracted meeting, all
dressed in the height of fashion so far as their circumstances
would allow. There was Miss Ferrin, another " sister," of
course, and then there was Mr. Sharp, with his friend, a Mr.
Wells, who, although reputed a worldling, — that is to say one
who did not yet care to become a church member, or even an
ordinary believer, — was yet sufficiently interesting in looks and
manner to awaken the sympathy of Miss Nancy for his sad con-
The Poor. — Pious Pastimes and Prayer. 261
ictive
other
were
I had
e, and
d seri-
ference
of the
8 neces-
n; and,
irtation,
ould re-
iar more
favorite
.s young
tout two
le of the
;arris, a
[leader —
I" — with
len who
$ter who
ting,
all
istances
[ster," of
a Mr.
say one
I even an
Doks and
I sad con-
dition, and her anxiety for his conversion. It would be
delightful for her to be the humble instrument — under God —
of awakening one of his intelligent but careless and unconverted
creatures to a sense of his lost condition by nature. I cannot say
whether Miss Ferrin had ever seen Mr. Wells before, or whether
she knew he was married or single. She must have taken it for
granted that he was yet a bachelor, for she used many little
aits to make herself attractive in his eyes, no doubt for his
fnture welfare, and whenever he spoke to her she simpered in a
peculiar way, and would, I think, have blushed were it possible
for her to summon to her aid one of those evidences of maiden
coyness which had probably forsaken her cheek for ever.
I sat in a corner of the room by myself and remained com-
paratively unnoticed by any except Miss Nancy. She glanced
furtively at me two or three times, and then, as if I were not
worthy of further notice, turned away, probably to engage the
attention of Mr. Wells.
At an earlier hour than usual my aunt had a superb tea
ready for her friends. There was no room, I suppose, at the
table for me, and I was told I would get my tea in the kitchen
with Susan. During, the delivery of the formal "grace,"
uttered by ministerial lips, an observer might be led to imagine
that those about to partake of the good things spread before
them were under the impression that the business of eating and
drinking was one of the most solemn duties in which miserable
sinners could be engaged. But presto, what a change ! In a
moment after this the most vivacious conversation sprang up.
The young male members of the flock said smart things to the
maidens, and made desperate attempts at wit. Plates and
cups, and cakes and sweets, were passed backwards and for-
wards, and sideways and every other way which could give
proof of the assiduous attention of the very polite brethren ;
SHIWI
Njll'i
In
i
llii
llil:
' I H
IP
! ,1
I li
262
Family Creeds,
while the well-filled mouths of the preacher and Mrs. Harris
gave ample evidence that they, at least, did not consider there
was anything which might be attributed to natural depravity in
this kind of indulgence.
I must here acknowledge that before I went to get my tea
in the kitchen, I was guilty of a little act which my aunt would
no doubt call "exceedingly wicked," and a proof of what I
could be led to do in my unconverted state, had she detected
me in the act of transgression. After the tea things had been
removed from the table, I saw her put aside the sugar, butter,
cakes, and preserves, and then, while she was deluging the well-
drained tea-pot for the benefit of Susan and myself, I noticed
on a side table a large piece of currant bread which she had
overlooked, and impelled, I fear, by some natural failing, I
immediately thrust it under the side of my coat and walked
away with it.
Susan was not long making her little arrangements for our
tea. It was a new thing io have any one partake of a meal
with herj and she was greatly pleased with my company, I
waited until everything was ready. Not even on my account
had my aunt added anything extya to the ordinary kitchen fare
except a bit of butter about the size of a walnut, but I was scarcely
seated before I pulled out the currant bread and laid nearly the
whole of it close to Susan. Poor thing, how surprised she
looked. " Eat it," said I ; "eat it, Susan, quick ; I want to go
up to the parlor again." No doubt she thought that my aunt had
given it to me, and I was delight ^ to see her bite into the most
delicious piece of bread she had ever tasted.
"Good, isn't it]" said 1, smiling; "that's right, eat it up
quick."
" Oh ! master John," said she, taking a moment's breath,
"isn't it!"
The Poor. — Pious Pastimes and Prayer. 263
larris
there
dty in
my tea
, would
what I
[etected *
id been
butter,
he well-
noticed
she had
ailing, I
I walked
for our
Df a meal
sany. I
account
-hen fare
, scarcely
[early the
rised she
mt to go
I aunt had
the most
jat it up
Is breath,
" 'Tis," I replied, " but don't say anything to my aunt
«.bout it, and maybe I can get another piece."
I venture to say that Susan had never had such a meal
before. She would have given me most of the nice bread, but
I positively refused to touch a bit more than I had already
tiiken. i waited until every morsel of it was ucvoured and
then I ventured up to see what was going on, and as my aunt
in her hurry had not missed the piece of currant bread, I took
my place again in the corner.
The preacher had just commenced an address. The guests
sat around the room ; Miss Ferrin next to Mr. Wells. The
Rev. Mr. Banner was about thirty years of age, a low-set,
rather slovenly looking man, with an expression of meek cun-
ningness on his shaven face. He assured them, in a kind of
long-drawn, diffident voice, '* that it was a spe-ci-al privilege
— he pronounced the first syllable pry — to meet the brethren
that evening at the so-she-al board ; that it was a privilege to
meet where they had met ; that he had had many privileges ;
that through the kindness of many dear sisters in the Lord, he
was, he might say, beset with privileges, he humbly hoped not
to his disadvantage ; he humbly prayed that they might not be
besetments to affect his usefulness. As Christians we were all
privileged more or less — privileged to a much greater extent than
the people of the world — yea, were not our privileges abundant
— what was our plain duty then, but to use these privileges to the
glory of God ! " This was mostly the burden of his short remarks.
When he concluded, Miss Ferrin gave a long sigh, and some-
body said " A-men," in a very sepulchral voice ; all, however,
seemed to be edified and eager to take advantage of the privilege
of another pious flirtation, and as time was precious there was
no delay.
While some were eagerly engaged debating how they should
u ''^Mm
ni
,»;■>;
264
Fcmiily Creeds.
commence, one low-sized young man stood behind the door and
amused himself greatly by stealthily sticking pins into any one
who came near him, or within his reach, and as some unlucky indi-
vidual, smarting under moment" ^^y pain, rubbed his arm or his
shoulder, or some other part, there was a laugh, which all
seemed to enjoy. After this the ladies got together, and a
piece of ribbon made into a bow was fastened on the breast of
each, the color of no two pieces of ribbon being alike. Then
a little band-box was placed on the table, and every gentleman
was requested to turn aside his head, put his hand into the
band-box and draw from it a neck-tie. These were also of
different colors. He had first to pay a shilling for this privilege
— the money to be applied to the missionary fund — he had to
wear the neck-t'.e and keep company during the evening with
the lady, old or young, who wore a bow corresponding to the
color of the article he had drawn out, and a laugh would be
often caused at the ill assortment of couples. This kind of
lottery is yet a preliminary proceeding at what is called at
certain re-unions among the Methodists " neck-tic socials."
When the couples were thus formed, it chanced, much I think
to their mutual dissatisfaction, that Miss Ferrin and my aunt's
husband, Mr. Sharp, were to be associates for the evening.
Some kind of a game of forfeits was then to be played, and Mr.
Sharp being the oldest gentleman present, was, evidently much
against his will, obliged to sit on the floor with his eyes
bandaged and his knees drawn up. All in the room turned
their backs to him and stood around him in a circle. The
forfeits such as scissors, penknives, handkerchiefs, ribbons,
rings, and even locks of hair, were placed near his hand, lifted
one by one, set up at auction, and knocked down in the usual
way to the highest bidder. As no one could see the article
which was oflfered, the auctioneer not being permitted to describe
The Poor. — Pious Pastimes and Prayer. 265
arand
ay one
y indi-
or his
ich all
and a
reast of
Then
itleman
into the
also of
privilege
B had to
ing with
icr to the
wo\x\d be
kind of
called at
ials."
I think
ny aunt's
evening.
and Mr.
Ltly much
his eyes
m turned
lie. The
ribbons,
^nd, lifted
ihe usual
le article
o describe
it, the bidding was generally spirited, and the proceeds also
devoted to the missionary fimd.*
The last game, if such it can be called, was that of " volun-
teers." A temporary screen w&s put up in a comer, and
volunteers called for. Any lady who wished to serve the cause
went and stood behind the screen and named her own price for
allowing a gentleman the privilege of kissing her.f Every lady
in the room thought it her duty in turn to take up this cross
for the great object of missions. The youngest and best look-
ing, as a general thing, charged of counse the highest price —
this was any way a matter of option — some charged a shilling,
others but sixpence. I think every one of the ladies volun-
teered — my aunt even went — but no one that evening seemed
so startled when a call was made for volunteers as Miss Nancy
Ferrin; she affected to be almost shocked, and hesitated some
time before she went behind the screen. Her modest charge,
scarcely made audible, was however but sixpence, yet she was
rewarded by a visit from only the preacher and Mr. Sharp,
who I presume fancied it was incumbent on him to take up
another cross iiv order to fulfil his evening's engagement with
his bashful associate. |
There chanced to be no religious discussion that evening with
* Those who have attended " Socials" will admit that little, if any, exag-
geration has been used in this description.
t " Mr. Moody is laboring at Baltimore. Chief among the evils in the churches,
he said in a sermon last week, are church choirs— ungodly men and women
who happen to have good voices, and often drunken organists. Mr. Moody,
denounced the methods employed in raising money by church fairs. Lotteries,
voting, and raffles were encourged. The young men now, instead of going to a
low gambling den could go to God's church and gamble. Actually, at one
church fair, the sum of twenty-five cents was charged for the privilege of kiss-
ing the handsomest young woman in the church —presumably to help the work
of God."— Toronto Mail. '
t A Kev. friend informed the author that he saw a screen put up in the
vestry of a chiircb for sueh a purpose.
18
I I'.
■S' t:
266
Family Creeds.
ill
lii!
, 'i'i
I
m
M ii
regard to predestination, election, reprobation, eternal punish-
ment, or any other disputed point. The only objection raised
with regard to the proceedings was by my uncle's friend, Mr.
Wells, who was said to be a kind of free-thinker. He did not
approve of the manner in which the money thus collected was
to be appropriated for foreign missions; he said he would
willingly attend "necktie socials" every night in the week —
Sunday nights not excepted — provided the funds arising from
such pious pastime would be expended for the relief of the
suflFering poor at home.
The Rev. Mr. Banner, however, contended that as the money
belonged to the Lord, it could not be laid out to a better pur-
pose than by sending the gospel to the benighted heathen. It
would be better that a thousand mortal bodies should suffer for
want of food than that one precious immortal soul should, for
lack of knowledge, perish eternally.
At the request of Sister Harris, backed by her fair daughters,
it was arranged that next week's "social" should take place at
her house. A verse of a hymn was then sung, a short prayer
and the blessing followed, and nearly all present separated under
the impression that they had taken another step in religious
and intellectual advancement.
^XKoiSSK'
junish-
raised
id, Mr.
did not
bed was
would
week —
ng from
E of the
e money
tter pur-
,hen. It
suffer for
lould, for
aughters,
place at
t prayer
,ed under
religious
CHAPTER XXIV.
AN ATTACK AND A RESCUE.
BEFORE my aunt left her room next morning, Miss Ferrin
was nearly all over the house. I was awake early and
heard some one going like on tip-toe from one apartment to
another. I opened my door a little and saw her pass ; she
had the same prying look that I noticed the previous day. She
was pltiinly on a search, and would not have hesitated to
examine every pantry and cupboard in the house had they not
been securely locked — a habit of my aunt's, who would hardly
trust any one in her closets. Thus, apparently foiled, Nancy
went over to a window and began to amuse herself again by
singing hymns and killing flies.
In a minute or two I heard a great chattering. I peeped
again and saw Miss Nancy standing agape in front of the
parrot — she had not seen it until now — which appeared to be
much excited by her intrusion, and he turned around and back
again, taking a number of the most lively side-steps on his
perch. Miss Ferrin, half-frightened, stared at the apparition
as if she had just been detected in the act of taking off some-
thing that did not belong to her, and I was greatly amused to
see her grow almost alarmed when the bird with his loudest
voice commenced his accusation, " What the devil are you at?
What the devil are you at 1 What the devil are you at ?" "Get
268
Family Creeds.
C i,i
out, get out, get out," and the moment she a< tempted a reply
or explanation, the parrot expressed his scorn, " You be bio wed,
you be blowed, you be blowed." Just then my aunt entered.
She fondly rebuked her pet, and after giving him some food
and water, and listening a few minutes to his amiable prattle,
she led the disconcerted Nancy away.
I had the privilege of being allowed to sit at the breakfast
table with Miss Ferrin. She gave me another of her furtive
glances, and addressed a few words to me of no particular
importance. Were it not for Shawn I felt that she would have
taken pleasure in exposing my duplicity then and there. She
made a few inquiries of Mr. Sharp relating to his friend, Mr.
Wells, and mentioned her regi'et that so nice and respectable a
person should be a free-thinker.
" Pray don't mentit^ his name," said my aunt, half peevishly.
" I never saw one of his kind that hadn't a scowl upon his face
as if every one of them was already branded by some fiend
from the pit. Not one."
" O Kate," remonstrated Mr. Sharp, " you do the man great
injustice."
" Do I ? You know I don't. I told you more than fifty
times that that man was no companion for you or for any other
Christian person who had any regard for his good name. You
seem to care nothing for the scriptural cautions we have against
encouraging an intimacy with unbelievers. Not you, for you
already approve of some of his vile opinions, and from all I
can see it won't be very long until you are sunk as low as he is
himself."
" Well, Kate," urged the rather passive Mr. Sharp, " you are
really very uncharitable. Mr. Wells is — "
" Don't tell me what he is ! I say don't," said my aunt,
imperatively.
An Attack and a Rescue.
269
a reply
blowed,
mtered.
ne food
prattle,
reakfast
• furtive
articular
>uld have
sre. She
iend, Mr.
)ectable a
peevishly,
n his face
jme fiend
nan great
ihan fifty
[any other
le. You
ire against
I, for you
[ova. all I
as he is
I" you are
ly aunt,
" Well, you know he is one of the most charitable men in
tow:(i; all say that," pleaded Mr. Sharp.
" All 1 All do not, no, nor half a dozen besides yourself.
Charitable 1 His charity is a curse to them that receive it. Men
of his way of thinking hide their deceit and rotteimess behind
a cloak of charity — a mere flimsy rag. They go about to de-
ceive the unwary. I don't want the man here. Luck nor
grace won't follow from his visits, I won't have him. I'll see
to that. The caution is, 'receive him not into your house,
neither bid him God speed.' You have done both, you heed
not the warning ; but for the future if you will keep the society
of the wicked, it shan't be under my roof. — There."
Poor Mr. Sharp remained silent, but evidently not convinced
by her declamation.
Miss Ferrin, with a most languishing affectation of piety,
intimated that our pity should be extended to such persons not
yet brought from nature to grace. It was our duty to pray
for them ; and it was plain that she would be delighted could
she be appointed a missionary to her dear friend, Mr. Wells.
" Pray for them," said my aunt, scornfully. " You may as
well try to pray a hole through a stone wall as attempt to pray
them into a belief of our simple truths. It's bad enough to
have to deal with deluded Papists, and to be mixed up with
them in a family connection (here Miss Ferrin gave a side look
at me which was peculiarly significant), but I believe it's even
worse to deal with an unbelieving gang that are now getting
so numerous and so bold here and there, and everywhere else."
As Mr. Sharp had to go his office I left the room to the
ladies and paid another visit to the kitchen. Susan as usual
was glad to see me. Miss Ferrin had already been down with
her, and she wanted to know who the strange lady was.
" Missus' friend," she said, " looked at everything around, more
270
Family Creeds.
m
f'
1
1
ll
i
'"Mi
!
■
!
iM^'
''
1
ii
•
L.
'an missuH would herself ; she counted every pot and kittle in
the kitchen, an' then she wanted me to tell her who the people
up stairs was ; she heard them talking I b'leeve, an' then I told
her all about them."
From what I had already seen of Miss Nancy I was satisfied
that she would not be easy nntil she went up to see Mrs.
Reardon and Bertha, and not wishing that the visit should be
unexpected, I stole up stairs again, leaving my aunt and Miss
Ferrin still engaged in the parlor.
I found Bertha and her mother busy at work ; they had been
sewing since daylight and had to remain up the previous night
until it was very late. Mrs. Reardon looked rather poorly.
She complained of a bad headache and loss of appetite, but was
unable to take the rest which she so much needed, or the out-
door exercise which I had yesterday recommended. They were,
they said, obliged to have a new dress ready by noon for a young
lady who was going to attend a church fair, and who would
admit of no delay ; not even out of pity for them. Unless the
work was ready according to promise they would have to forfeit
one-third of the price they were to get for doing it, and as they
could not afford to lose so much they had to hurry in order to
try and accomplish the task for which they ought to have been
allowed more time, and much greater remuneration.
However they were glad to see me, and requested me to stay
a while ; the time, they said, did not pass so heavily when I was
with them. I tried to amuse them by giving an account of
what took place in the parlor the last evening, and of the man-
ner in which my aunt's pious friends had enjoyed themselves.
I told them about Miss Ferrin, and that they would soon have
a visit from her.
I had only finished the words when I heard a cat-like step
on the stairs, and in a moment or two afterwards some one
An Attack and a Rescue.
271
tie in
jeople
I told
.tisfied
3 Mrs.
uld be
1 Misa
id been
s night
poorly.
3Ut was
bhe out-
jy -were,
a young
) would
less the
forfeit
as they
irder to
i,ve been
to stay
kn I was
lount of
le man-
iselves.
Ion have
Ike step
Lme one
rapped and raised the door-latch almost at the same instant,
and without further ceremony in walked Miss Nancy Ferrin.
When she entered she seemed neither to recognize me nor
any one else. Her eyes first went around the room in every
direction — lest something shoidd suddenly escape or fly out of
the window — and then they fastened with a broad suspicious
stare upon the mild, pale face of Mrs. Reardon; then she
glanced at Bertha and me. — " Morning ma'am," said she, again
fixing her eyes sharply on the elder of the two ladies. She then
helped herself to a chair, without noticing Mrs. Reardon's reply,
and drew near the table.
" Busy, I see; busy," said she, taking a little time to examine
the material on the table ; " nothing like being busy — * How
doth the little busy bee, improve each shining hour,' — that's the
way; exactly so," and while she repeated this part of that
well-known verse in a kind of sing-song voice, her piercing look
was turned from mother to daug»iter. and then let rest on the
mother again.
Mrs. Reardon appeared to grow a little disconcerted under
the basilisk eye of her visitor. .
" Yes, you're very busy, continued Miss Nancy ; " nothing
like industry. Well, really, that's a nice piece of stuff," — again
she handled that on the table. " And so this is your business
now 1 I say now, for I think I've seen you before — don't know
me I suppose ] I work at this business occasionally myself,
and I once sewed for a day or two at a house where I think a
lady like you was employed as a kind of governess."
She waited for an answer, but poor Mrs. Reardon became
nervous and merely said, *' Indeed, I camiot now recollect."
" Oh, perhaps not-^I may be mistaken." She paused a little,
still keeping her wicked eye upon the intimidated woman.
" But, let me see," went on Miss Ferrin deliberately, " didn't a
p Ji .
ij I
■:'!)' )
m
W'U
j'^^^^^^^H '
i'f:
I'i '■'
sHHj
ijk::
'ip^^^Bi
1 ';■ ■■:
11 ■
, 6
272
Family Creeds.
lady very like you once live at Passage, and hadn't she a child
— fl daughter — bless me how she's grown ! — very like this young
lady?" and Nancy made a most formal bo to Bertha, who
deeply blushing now drew closer to her mother, who at this
moment became herself greatly disconcerted, and while in a
very depressed state could only say to her, " Really, madam,
you have got the advantage of me."
" Madam 1 Yes, yes, I see, I'm madam," retorted Nancy,
evidently amazed at being supposed old enough to pass for a
"madam." "You don't know me — of course not. You're
Mrs. Reardon now, but the name of the damsel I knew who
was so remarkably like you commenced M — a — r, Mar, — can't
you put the other three letters, my dearl" said she with an air
of mock sv ivity.
There was no reply to this impertinent question, and as Mrs.
Reardon was now scarcely able to sit up in her chair, I Avent
and stood close to her also, fearing she would drop to the floor.
" Cannot, can't 1 Well, that's strange ! How forgetful we
can be sometimes," said the impudent spinster. " Still you
know I may be mistaken — just possible — but, as you may not
know the remainder of the name, I will display my learning,
and spell it out for your benefit — t — i — n, tin, now put the
two together, the easiest thing in the world, and you have —
Martin."
Mrs. Reardon, now rather pale, had to lean her head on Ber-
tha's shdulc'.er. Her lips looked parched and her eyes were
partly closed. As it was I began to feel indignant at the bold-
ness and the extreme rudeness of the intruder. She must have
noticed this, for she immediately turned her a,ttention to me.
" And you here too, my pretty lad 1 Well I know you visit
strange pkv^es sometimes, places your father wouldn't suspect
you of entering ; and you can dandle a thing like that too,
An Attack and a Rescue.
273
occasionally," said she, pointing to tho little black cross on Ber-
tha's neck. "Take care, my blooming boy, that he doesn't find
you out some of these days."
Resentful as I almost felt I could make no reply. I did not
desire to say a word in reference to a subject which she must
have known I. did not wish to have introduced. She looked
again at Mrs. Reardon, and all at once affected to be very sorry
for having mentioned anything unpleasant. It was quite pro-
bable, she said, that she might have been mistaken, mistakes
av^ so easily made. With her — Mrs. Reardon's — permission,
she would however call again — they could talk the matter over
quietly. She should like to have a dress altered and to put a
trifle in her way, and give a further explanation if necessary;
and then, after having made a profound obeisance, the hateful
creature .ft the humble apartment.
How I pitied poor Mrs. Eeardon ! Bertha, in tears, was
clinging to her mother. They sat sobbing near each other as
if trying to hide the cause of their grief from every one else.
Did Bertha yet know of any such oause] Was this the f^^st
time that she had seen the shadow of some hidden sorrow of
her mother's 1 At that moment part of the verae I had heard
them sing came to my mind —
" Scarcely else than scorn will be,
In this cold world for you and me."
There seemed now to be some meaning in this. Could that in-
nocent girl give an explanation, or had she, like her mother, a
misgiving that the tattler and mischief-maker who had just left
thera would take a wretched pleasure in doing them some great
injury] "God help us, child! — God help you! — God help
me ! " was faintly ejaculated by Mrs. Reardon. Bertha still
wept a,nd sobbed, my own eyes were brimming over. What 1
had just heard and v.; essed pained me mof<t acutely ; but I
274
Family Creeds.
\, :!■ ^i;
:^
F
;'?■
I'' I'i'
I ini
m
I
could be of no service. I felt that I ought not to remain a
mere spectator of the distress which I could not alleviate ; I
went away unperceived and hastened down to tell Susan, in the
hope that she might do them some gentle service.
My aunt and Nancy F "rin went out again on some kind
of a missionary collecting tour. Miss Nancy delighted in pious
duties of this kind, for then she and other ladies had the privi-
lege of calling on persons, and at places, on whom or where it
might not be deemed proper to visit for any other purpose. I
heard her ask my aunt to go with her to Mr. Wells ; they could
drop a word in season, and the shilling or half-crown of an
unbeliever vjuld go as far to spread the joyful news as the
same amount from one of their own kind. But though my
aunt was aware that unbelievers were regularly solicited, and
that the weak-kneed among that class were, for the sake of
appearances or for some other reason, almost always ready to
give a donation for religious purposes, yet my aunt was consis-
tent in her refusal to call on Mr. Wells ; he was a free-thinker,
whose oath would not be taken in a court of law, and the fur-
ther she kept away from such a hateful crew the better. Had
she not Scriptural authority for shunning those who " loved
darkness rather than light."
Oh how I suffered while I sat alone in my room. I had a
foreboding that the heartless Miss Ferrin would never rest until
she had told some dreadful story about the poor harmless lodg-
ers in the garret, and that she would some way prejudice my
aunt against them. While Envy generally attacks that which
is superior to itself. Scandal can pick the bones of a king or
revel on the carcase of a beggar. The traducer who was now
among us, seemed, from all I could learn, to have been feasting
all her life on social rottenness. A flippant tongue freighted
with scandals was what had gained her access to manv a house-
An Attack and a Rescue.
275
lad a
intil
[odg-
my
lich
ting
ited
ise-
hold, and my aunt, no way superior to many other pious pr r-
sons, could at times be very much interested while listening to
the recitals of personal laxity or of family foibles, given of
course with the usual caution as to secrecy. I felt that we
\Tere now indebted for this unhappy visit of Nancy's to the
promise she had given my aunt to tell her some " news," and
1 had but little doubt that this news would have seriously
affected my mother were it not for Shawn's timely interference.
The discovery therefore of Mrs. Reardon and her daughter
seemed to be the very thing which was wanting to supply the
place of the malicious report which was at first intended to be
conveyed by Nancy Ferrin.
Susan, I fear, neglected her work that day in order to be a
TT'iistering angel to those who had affliction of heart. All
vLi) i! id to bestow were mostly but words of unaffected, tender-
iic^..> yet these might be called inspired ; foi at the moment of
delivery they seemed to rekindle hope in the despondent. The
formal promise of ostentatious philanthropy may be grateful to
the distressed, but the gentle whisper of Susan had some mysteri-
ous power which could enliven the sorrowful soul. Towering
on high the forest tree may be looked at as a thing of strength
and beauty, but, when it bends to the gale, the humble spread-
ing bush will give more shelter to the shorn lamb. The sym-
pathy of the poor and lowly is often far more touching than the
pity or benevolence of the great.
From the length of time that Susan passed with her friends
I was satisfied that she was doing all in her power to comfort
them. She had barely got back to the kitchen when my aunt
returned, who, as soon as she discovered that the house-work
had been partly slighted, commenced rating Susan again, and
finally threatened to turn her out of the house. As usual, the
poor girl made no reply. I tried to mak(! some excuse for her
276
Family Greeds.
rt ^'
I >
1}
M
!•
^5
and share the blame, but my aunt appeared to be very angry — I
feared for some other reason — and she paid no heed to me except
to insist pettishly that I should learn every verse in one of the
longest chapters of the Bible by Saturday night. This was
the first time since I left home that she had given me such a
task. She must have thought it a punishment — and it was —
but I had only to submit.
That evening, while Mr. Sharp was smoking his pipe and
quietly looking over a newspaper, I saw my aunt and Nancy
Ferrin go up stairs. For some unaccountable leason I sus-
pected at once that they were on the way to Mrs. Reardon's
room, and when I judged they had got to her door, I stepped
up lightly after them. The dress, which ought to have been
finished by noon, was yet lying on the table. Bertha's eyes
were still red, and her mother, with face pale as ever, was
reclining on a little couch in a corner. I stood just outside the
door unobserved ; in fact if I had gone straight into the room
my aunt would have hardly noticed me she appeared to be so
excited. She went over and stood in front of Mrs. Reardon
and gazed vindictively for a moment or two at her as if to col-
lect all that was harsh or unfeeling in her own nature that she
might give the prostrate woman her mightiest blow.
" Tell me," said she, in a loud angry voice, " tell me, you
infamous baggage, you prostituted wretch, tell me why you have
dared to enter my house under fa^r.e pretences and to impose on
me as you have done."
" I have not deceived yo»i,'' replied Mrs. Reardon, in a feeble
voice ; " you are mistaken. O, Mrs. Sharp, this is very unfeel-
ing!"
Bertha screariM. and ran to her mother, but the half-fainting
woman could make no further reply.
" Come, speak out : none of your acting," demanded my
An Attack and a Rescue.
277
ll)le
3el-
iiy
aunt, in a still louder voice, while the infamous Nancy stood
close at her elbow.
" O, Mrs. Sharp, pity !" said the now trembling Bertha; " my
ma has done no wrong, she is very sick indeed ; she will speak
to you when she gets a little better."
" She's an imposter," almost shouted my aunt, whose excite-
ment was now greatly increased. " She's an impostor, and you
are another — one of her own training. Good God ! just to
think that I should have a strumpet and her bastard for months
together here, even here under my very roof, and not to know it."
" O, Mrs. Sharp, O, Mrs. Sharp," cried Bertha, coming for-
ward with large tears rolling down her cheeks. " Oh pit;y my
ma, you see she's sick and you know we are very poor."
" Poor ? — its false. She earns her money easily and in a dif-
ferent wuy from what I ever expected. That vile street- walker
is not poor," shouted '.my aunt, and pointing contemptuously to
]^Irs. Beardon who still mute could only give her accuser a look
of mild reproach.
" Patience, dear Mrs. Sharp, patience," said Nancy Ferrin in
a lower voice, as if desirous of restraining my aunt ; '•' perhaps
the person can explain."
" I want no explanation, I will have none ! She's guilty ! —
she's 9^ infamous woman — I'm ashamed of what I have done.
I shall be di&graced for having o3ered such a wretch and her
hussy not oniy shelter but for having given her assistance and
actual encouragen^ent. But the ingrates shall stay no longer,
they shall march out of this at once."
" Do, Mrs. Sharp, do please have some pity," again entreated
the weeping Bertha. " What have we done ] — Oh, please have
some pity ! "
" My pity is that you shall pack up and leave here in less
than an hour," was my aunt's fierce reply.
It'
H:?
fi'
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m
278
Family Creeds.
"They shan't, by G — ," shouted a lusty voice right at my
ear. I was really startled. Miss Ferrin affected to be much
amazed, and my aunt turned a look of the greatest contempt
upon the unexpected intruder.
" They shan't budge one inch out of this house, by heavens,
if I know it," and a heavy fist came down with a sudden blow
on the table, startling the sick woman and making the very
room tremble.
Could it be possible ! Eight there was a man who was the
very last I should have expected to see om hear at such a time.
There stood Mr. Sharp so unlike his ordinary self ; he had heard
Bertha scream and had hurried up. There he stood defiantly,
with his hands clenched by his sides, his head erect, and resolu-
tion stamped on every feature. I could have hugged him at
the moment, he seemed to be such a perfect hero in my eyes,
and I think Susan, who had also followed us up, could have
done the same had she given way to her strongest impulse.
"They shan't leave this, I say," said he, in a voice loud
enough to be heard across the street, and looking with the greatest
determination into the eyes of his wife whom he had so often
allowed to control him. " I believe your abominable charge is
as untru(! as the huuroe from whence it came"~("Oh dear,"
suddenly exclaimed >fancy Ferrin, pressing her hand on her
breast over the spot where a heart should be), — " I believe it to
be false, but, even if there was the least truth in it, would that
be the way to treat one of the fallen, or one of the unfortunate
of your sex"? I am satisfied that nine-tenths of such poor
wanderers are urged on to infamy more by the heartless indif-
ference, or the lofty touch-me-not sentiment of women, than by
the treachery and depravity of men. What is your religion,
or your humanity, or your womanly feeling worth, if instead of
trying to reform, you persecute; if instead of showing pity, you
An Attack and a Rescue.
279
fge IS
lear,"
her
lit to
that
Inate
)Oor
uHf-
M l>y
^lon,
llof
jyou
reproach ; if instead of offering shelter, you cast the so-called
unclean thing from you ; and leave poor, weak, friendless women
to be shunned by her pharasaical sisters, to be inhumanly
treated as she wanders through the streets, and to be despised
by a selfish, unfeeling world. That's the way with most of your
ranting hypocrites. You are ashamed if not disgraced, you say,
because you have harbored these poor people, who, I believe,
are better at heart than thousands who make arrogant preten-
sions, but whose sins are yet unknown or hidden under an
ample cloak of sanctity. Well, then, I shall harbor these two
persons as long as I can pay the rent of this house, and so long
as I do, the house is mine, and I say again leave here they
shan't," and down again came his fist on the table.
I never saw my aunt so quickly or so thoroughly subdued.
She knew the man with whom she had to deal, and that he was
then in one of his rare fits of independence which could not be
trifled with.
" Please leave this room," said he to his wife, in a rather
imperative manner, opening the door wide at the same time ;
and, to my perfect astonishment, my aunt and her evil angel
walked out without saying another word.
i
"p.
CHAPTER XXV.
BIIOKKN VOWS.
'5 '■ .
■0 '
it
;1) ■
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I.
How many thousands have had to pass from the stage of life
without having once appeared i,n the character for which
they were most fitted, and whicli might have made them emi-
nent forever ! How many have to act a subordinate part,
while others, far less gifted, stand out conspicuously as princi-
pals ! What numljers have to live a lifetime without the
needed opportunity of proving what they are capable of doing
when the right impulse arouses the heart or the right trumpet
blast reaches the ear ! Who would have thought the quiet,
unassuming, and rather submissive Mr. Hharp capable of acting
such a heroic part as we had just witnessed, were it not for the
opportunity he had thus had of proving what was in him and
of exibiting the latent magnanimity of his nature ]
Ah me! how grateful I felt. This, I think, was the noblest
scene I had ever witnessed. I seldom called Mr. Hharp '* Uncle,"
now I would have been proud to call him " Father." He took
Bertha's hand and went and sat close to her mother, and then,
in the kindest manner, he gave them every assurance that they
should not again be disturbed. He said that as no ordinary
apology could atone for the outrage which had just been com-
mitted, they might remain where they were until doomsday ;
and, furthermore,' that from that day forward, not one penny of
Broken Vows.
881
rent shonltl be accepted from them by him, or by any one for
him. They must not, he insisted, hesitate to accept this triHing
privil(!ge, as in fact they were conferring a favor on him by
r(!maining in the house.
I saw no more of my annt nor of the dreaded Nancy for the
remainder of that day ; tliey mu.st liave shut themselves up
together for mutual consolation. Mr. Sharp hjft the house and
did not, I believe, return until late; at niglit. I spent an hour
or so with Susan. 'Hie poor fright(!n(!d girl really thought that
Nancy Ferrin was the worst })(;rson she had iwor met. She
wouhl have liked to make soh excuse for my aunt's conduct
towards her poor lodgt^rs, and to throw all the blame on the
intermeddling Nancy, who she thought was the originator of
the slander and the cause of the whole trouble.
Before dusk we went up again to see Mrs. Reardon and
B(irtha. Tlu^y wen* glad to see us, ]iertha ])articularly so.
Her mother greet(!d us with a sad smile. Sh(! seemed to be weak
and very much depressed. She sat languidly with folded hands,
looking thoughtfully at tlu; little fire which appeared to do its
utmost to throw a cluserful glow within its narrow limits and
as far around as possible. Susan and 1 aflected to be in good
spirits, and tried to cheer our friends, and I liave no doubt that
we succeeded better in this than any one else could have done
at the time.
There was scarcely any allusion made with reference to my
aunt, to Miss Ferrin, or to the disagreeable scene which we
had witnessed a few hours previously, but Bertha could not
refrain from expressing her warm regards for Mr. Sharp, and
though her mother did not say much, she (ividently f(3lt most
grateful for his interference and unexpecteil kindness.
We sat with them until it was late— long past my usual hour
for retiring. I was the principal speaker, and I think I be-
19
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282
Family Creech.
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came almoHt eloquent while telling them about what I had seen
at home, about my mother, and Ellen, and Nelly Carberry and
Shawn — for some strange reason I could not say anything about
Jane. In my desire to entertain them I related one of Nelly
(Jarberry's ghost stories, and then I told them what a disbe-
liever Shawn was in everything supernatural. I described my
brother William, what a fine-looking fellow ho was, how good-
natured and clover, how he was going to be sent to sea and to
be made a captain or an admiral; and then 1 gave them an
account of how Nelly could tell fortunes by looking at the
grounds remaining in the bottom of a tea-cup, how she had
proceeded to tell what William's fortune would be, how she had
become disconcerted at what she had seen in the cup, and of
how she had refused to reveal what she fancied she had dis-
covered regarding him or some one of the family.
On a former visit to Mrs. Reardon I noticed that Bertha
seemed to take an interest in hearing me speak of my brother,
but now when I mentioned the circumstance of Nelly's supposed
discovery in relation to his future, she really became concerned ;
her face wore a sad expression as if this had really affected her
to as great a degree as anything that had taken place among us
that day. She then made some inquiries about him — when was
he going to be sent away 1 — had he a desire to go to sea him-
self 1 — couldn't my father keep him at home and make him a
head clerk in his office 1 Poor Bertha ! she asked these and
many other similar questions which I was unable to answer ;
but in place of this^ I told her in a kind of confidential way
that I knew she would like William very much if she once met
him, that perhaps he might come here in a day or two with my
father, that if he came I would bring him up to see them.
**0h, not up here !" said Bertha, hurriedly, half ashamed and
blushing. "I would not for anything have him see us here."
Broken Voiv8.
283
** Why not here, my dearl" said Mrs. Rcjardoii. "We have
no other place. If William is like his brother we should be
glad to see him in this room or anywhere else we may he.
But," continued she with a sigh, " wo shall not be long here,
and we cannot tell yet where to find our next refuge."
Next morning I was delighted to hear that Nancy Ferrin was
going to cut short lusr visit with my aunt in order to spend a
day or two with another pic ph sister in town. My aunt waa
not quite so well pleased that her friend, from whom she had
expect<;d to hear a story — which slu; had at first fancied might
relate to my mother, or to something or som(;bo(ly in our family
— was going to leave her without unfolding any other dreadful
piece of news besides that which nuTcly related to the " common
seamstress " in the garret. Slu; was as indignant as she yet dared
to be against her husband for his unwarrantable interference
with her lodgers, and for his rude offensive treatment of her
visitor. Nancy Ferrin's further stay was rendered impossible
by Mr. Sharp's almost direct charge against her, but short as
that stay had already been it was sufficiently long to fill my
aunt's ear with a scandal which caused her to be incensed
against her harmless tenants, and, for the first time, to hear
artful insinuations even against the fidelity of her husVjand.
This is what Nancy Ferrin's short visit had so far accomplished.
Her mission here and there seemed to have been fulfilled by the
circulation of reports injurious to the character of some person
— man or woman — none could have l^een more unmerciful to
her own sex ; and now my aunt herself had to pay the penalty
for having made so much of one who had a tongue so vicious ;
for while she had listened to slanders which were directed
against others, she little expected that, at her time of life, any
person could torture her with jealousy or make her suspect
that the quiet domesticated Mr. Sharp could only be incited
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284
Family Creeds.
to do what he had lately done for Mrs. Keardon simply because
he had become entangled in the toils of that sorceress.
These were the seeds of discord scattered by the reckless
Nancy around my aunt's threshold. They unfortunately ge»*
minated, and like weeds maliciously sown among flowers they
sprang up and became rank and unsightly, hiding from view the
modest plants which had hitherto been so agreeable to the eye.
Nancy Ferrin had been dealing in scandals all her life, her evil
reports had spread far and wide and had made many a home
unhappy. Certain of her false statements had left an indelible
stain for the eyes of some ; while many of her detractions had
been conveyed in such a manner as to render it almost impos-
sible to have them ever explained away. Give False Rumor
a good start and lightning cannot overtake it.
After Miss Nancy Ferrin had taken her departure, my aunt,
not having as yet resumed dominion over her husband, of whom
she had now become dreadfully suspicious, had all at once made
a confidant of Susan. She really felt the need of a household spy.
She blamed herself for being out of the house so much, thereby
giving that wretched seamstress in the garret so many favour-
able opportunities of meeting her dupe. Notwithstanding what
had taken place she had made up her mind to get rid of her
lodgers as quickly as possible, but in the meantime she must
have some one on the look-out to prevent further intercourse
between the guilty parties — between her husband and the vile
woman who had led him astray.
Susan was of course greatly surprised at my aunt's unex-
pected kindness and familiarity, but she could not be made to
understand why it should be necessary to watch the comings
and goings of Mr. Sharp, whom she considered a very kind
and rather quiet man. He had been always good to her, he
had never scolded her, and the only trifle of money she had
Broken Vows.
285
ever received in all her life was from him. Besides that, she
had never seen him in Mrs. Reardon's room but once before,
and that was when some repairs were needed. However, she
had to satisfy my aunt by saying that she would keep a close
watch, and that if she saw Mr. Sharp visit Mrs. Reardon's room
again she would immediately report the circumstance.
In order to try and convince Susan that Mrs. Reardon was not
what she ought to be, she gave her a history of that person, a his-
tory, no doubt, greatly exaggerated by Nancy Ferrin's unscrupu-
lous distortion of facts ; but the truth, which I long afterwards
had from an unquestionable source, was as follows : A respect-
able shopkeeper, of the city, named Martin, was left a widower
with a daughter, an only child named Anna, who at the time
of her mother's death was about thirteen years of age. As
Mr. Martin was in comfortable circumstances and greatly at-
tached to his daughter, his whole attention was almost given to
her. His great desire was to be able to lay something by for
her benefit, to give her a good pious education, and afterwards
to see her well married and comfortably settled in life. In re-
turn, Anna was most devoted to her father, she was gentle and
obedient, and did everything in her power to make him as happy
as she possibly could.
Two years had passed since the death of her mother, and
Anna not only made wonderful progress in her studies, but be-
came quite womanly in her appearance, was reputed to be one
of the most beautiful girls in the whole city, and was already
sought after by persons much above her in social position.
More than one distinguished artist craved the favor of a sit-
ting so that her angelic features might be transferred to can-
vas ; and in the convent where she had been educated, one of
the loveliest portraits which adorned the walls of that religious
286
l^
b ■
Family Creeds.
li
I
m
retreat, wa4i> that of Saint Agatha, an almost exact copy of the
sweet face of Anna Martin.
Mr. Martin had an old friend named Ringdon, who had two
sons. As it is rather common with many of the better class of
Catholics in Ireland, and indeed what may be said to be more
frequent among the very lowest orders of that religion in the
same country, is the strong desire of parents, especially of
mothers, tc have a son of theirs made a priest, whether or not,
he may be, mentally or otherwise, qualified for such a position,
or whether he should object to such a calling, it will make but
little difference ; he has generally to submit — some parents have
succeeded in getting two sons ordained — and to secure this ob-
ject the greatest pecuniary sacrifices are made, and often a
family have to suflTer privations so that every shilling thus saved
may be appropriated for the education, outfit, or other e-^penses
required, in order that this pious paternal ambition should be
gratified. These humble efforts have been so successful that a
large number of the Catholic clergy of Ireland have frequently
been scornfully denominated the " peasant priests."
Well, Mr. Ringdon had, like many others, sent his son, his
first-bom, to the College at Rome. He had already been ab-
sent three years, and was soon expected home to fill a clerical
appointment in one of the city chapels. The youngei son was
intended for business, and as Mr. Martin thought he would
make a suitable companion for his daughter, he encouraged
their intercourse with a view to their engagement and subse-
quent marriage. Anna, wishing above all things to see her
father contented and happy, received her suitor's attentions with
some favor, and though she felt that he had not as yet abso.
lute possession of her heart, still she was willing to become
his wife in a few months, hoping that in time she could bestow
on him her full affections.
Broken Vowa.
287
The arrival of a newly ordained priest in the city caused no
little sensation among certain pious Catholics, not because such
arrivals had been few or far between, \mt chiefly on account
of the reputed learning and abilities of the Rev. John Ringdon
or " Father Ringdon," as he was more generally known. All
flocked to hear the great preacher; and afterwards, when the
time came, he was appointed to deliver the Lenten Sermons-
These were said to be magnificent efforts in defence of the doc-
trines of the Church, and his fame became so great that, night
after night, people of all persuasions came to listen to the na-
tural and educated orator, many more on account of his rich
copious language, of his well chosen words and classical sen-
tences, than of his explanations or defence of transubstantia-
tion, purgatory or penance ; of confession, absolution or invo-
cation ; of prayers for the dead, or of the universal authority
of the Pope and the priesthood, or of the amazing claim to in-
fallibility set up for the Vicar of Christ, the head of the Catho-
lic Church. Not only were the young preacher's words power-
fully attractive, but his appearance also won for him the affec-
tion of the greater number whom he addressed, and women
especially crowded around his confessional to receive his spiri-
tual advice and absolution.
Among the many who came for that purpose was Anna Martin.
She had been brought up with the strictest notion of her obliga-
tions in this respect. Young as she was, she had not, like others,
paid formal visits to the confessional once a yeat — the furthest
limits assigned by the Church for such duty — but particularly
since her mothy's death she had gone frequently, often once a
week, and now during this Lenten season she had regularly heard
the great preacher (whom she hadpreviously met. at her father's
house), had either become so delighted with his society, or so
religiously excited by his persuasite, words, that she had chosen
288
Family Creeds.
^n^l
him in preference to all others as her father confessor. From
a weekly Satui'day visit to the confessional of her old spiritual
adviser, she went ri(f^ almost every morning to the chapel to
whisper in Father, Bingdon's ear hor simple sins of omission
and commission, and to listen in return to his gentle voice of
comfort.
This continued for some time. People remarked her punc-
tuality, and praised her for the example she was showing to
others of her own age and sex who exhibited such indifference
to this great Catholic observance. Her father grew stiU prouder
of her beauty, of her virtue, of her obedience, but above all of
her faithful constancy to her Christian duties. The young man
who sought her hand was persuaded that such a wife as she
would make would be an especial blessing ; and his brother.
Father Ringdon, had been heard to say, that he though j her
already fit to be classed amongst the holiest of angels.
Soon after this it was observed that Anna never entered the
confessional until all others had been heard and had mostly
taken their depu,rture ; then, that she remained with her confessor
longer than usual, and that when all was over she generally
managed to have Father Ringdon accompany her home. Then
again, towards the commencement of Holy Week, it was re-
marked that while her visits to the chapel grew more seldom*
the priest did not discontinue his daily visits to her house, re-
maining for hours tcgether, even to the neglect of some of his
duties; and, what cavsed much disappointment, he pleaded severe
indisposition, an affection of the throat, for thf discontinuance
of his nightly sermons, and instead of going to the chapel to
listen to the priest who supplied his place, he would be found
enjoying the society of the beautiful Anna Martin, at her
father's house, by whose fireside he had now almost made his
home, and to which Mr. Martin had made him most welcome.
Broken Vows.
289
About this time it was noticed by some who called occasion-
ally to see Anna that she seemed very thoughtful, and fre-
quently rather absent-minded. She made vague inquiries and
gave singular replies during conversation, which was often quite
disconnected ; and, strange to say, she avoided, as much as pos-
sible, meeting the priest's brother to whom, it was known, she
was formally engaged, giving as an excuse that as Holy Week
had commenced she would prefer not to receive any visitor ex-
cept the priest himself. And then again, near the middle of
the same week, her father, having once hurriedly entered the
room, found her in tears, and though he felt somewhat surprised
at first, he made, however, no inquiry, attributing it to the fer-
vour of her religious feelings awakened during that particular
season.
Holy Thursday is one of the most particular days of Holy
Week. The altars of the Catholic Church — generally the small
side altars — are then most extravagantly decorated with addi-
tions of silver crucifixes, gold and silver plate, spangles and
sparkling gems, and pendant chains of the most precious metals.
Then there are added beautiful ornamentations — silken hang-
ings, folds of silken gauze- work, and festoons of the richest lace.
Wreaths of flowers are artistically introduced so as to produce
the greatest effect ; pictures of saints and angels are hung in
certain spaces ; and then when more than a hundred lighted
tapers, in chased silver candelabra, nearly surround all the
altar, the appearance of the wliole showy arrangement is
heightened ; and while the display may look garish and un-
meaning to many Protestants who go to see such sights out of
mere curiosity, it is singularly brilliant and attractive to
most Catholics, often greatly exciting the devotional impulses
of members of the Homish Church.
As these extra decorations are mostly designed and added by
290
Family Creeds.
Catholic lailies, it was thought very singular that Miss Martin
had not offered to assist in this pious pastimo. On one or two
former occasions she had made herself very useful in this res-
pect, and her admitted taste enabled her to give suggestions such
as made the altar which she desired to beautify remarkable
beyond most others for the chasteness of its embellishment. And
what was more extraordinary, neither was she nor Father
Kingdon seen in the chapel at any time on this particular
Holy Thursday.
Mr. Martin was one of the most constant church-goers in the
city. He had heard every one of the powerful appeals of
Father Ringdon — the young pillar of the Church, as many
called him. He had attended his chapel every night during
Lent, and when inqi'.iries were made about the absence of his
daughter, by having a ready excuse for the non-attendance of
his guest, the priest — all ardent Catholics find no difficulty in
overlooking the defaults of their clergy, and in making a plea
for their transgressions — he could easily give a reason why his
daughter remained away. He had left them both at home.
She could, he said, scarcely spend her time better than in the
society of one so eminent as her spiritual adviser — one whom
she would be soon able to & 11 "brother;" but as his health
would not at present permit him to be out at night, it was only
proper, under the circumstances, that she should remain with
him.
When Mr. Martin returned home a few hours later he found
things in a state of confusion. Young Ringdon, the priest's
brother, to whom his daughter was en'gaged, had just entered
the house before him and was quickly pacing up and down the
room in a state of great excitement. He seemed either unable
or unwilling for a time to make any reply to the inquiries
pressed upon him. Father Ringdon was not present, and when
Broken Vows.
291
at last Mr. Martin called aloud for his daughter, the young
man, with a look of despair, lianded him a note. It was in
Father Ringdon's writing, and was very brief. It informed all
concerned, that as he, the priest, could not live without Anna,
he had resolveil to al)andon the clerical profession and make
her his wife. For this purpose he had that evening induced her
to leave home — he took all the blame. They were now on
their way to France, and if he could not get a dispensation to
free him from his priestly vows and permit him to marry, he
would, in despite of all ecclpsiastical laws, become the husband
and protector of her who had foi^saken all for him.
CHAPTER XXVI.
NEITHER WIFE NOR WIDOW.
GOOD FRIDAY.— A melancholy day to many. Melan-
choly to the religious man who feels it necessary to mor-
tify the flesh by severe abstinence and by rigorous self-denial
in submission to the commands of the Church respecting this
great traditionary fast day, but truly melancholy to him whose
poverty and severe bodily privations rob him of all reverence
for clerical decrees, who must of necessity fast because of the
want of the commonest food, and who is obliged, in consequence
of certain old-time social regulations, which keep some rich
and others poor, to go about hungry on fifty other Fridays
during the year.
Good Friday. — A day of dainty fasting to wealthy penitents,
yet a day of fat feasting to men like Jonny Timms, the little
nailer of Cat-lane, whose Protestant principles were so strong,
and whose hostility to popery was so great, that on no other day
of the year — Christmas not excepted — could such a joint of
roast pork — for size and fatness — be found upon his table.
Jonny Timms — Protestant Jonny as he was mostly called — not
being overburdened with hard cash, could seldom afford to place
meat enough on his board even for the Sunday dinner of his
family, but no matter for that, fat pork — ^roast — he would have
on Good Friday should he be obliged to pledge his best coat, or
Neither Wife nor Widow.
293
his only blanket, for the money to buy it And, further,
though Jonny liked an occasional holiday — to enjoy a pot of
porter, or a game of ball — still he seemed determined to make
up for such lost time as well as he could by always working
harder on every Catholic day of obligation — of which there
were many — particularly on the day set down as being the
most solemn for penitential abstinence in the popish calendar ;
and though he could whistle a number of tunes while at his
work, yet those who passed his little forge on a Good Friday
could hear Jonny Timms whistle nothing but the " Protestant
Boys." Jonny has long since passed away. Though his once
glowing coals have become cinders, and his forge tumbled
down, yet his prejudices remain hot and sparkling as ever, and
other Jonnys have taken his place to whistle defiance to the
Pope and to eat meat on the great fast day.
Good Friday. — Gloom in the Catholic churches ; gloom in
the nave, but sunshine on the roof. Gloom in the aisles, but
sunlight in the streets. Gloom upon the denuded altars, but
brightness on the tree-tops. Religious gloom in monastery
cells and in the minds of ascetics, but outside. Nature, robed in
her blue sky, seemed to care not for the sickly shadows of
man's creation, but joyfully beckoned to the glowing hills,
laughed at the sparkling waters, listened to the singing birds,
and looked down smiling, like a fond mother, on the early
spring flowers ; and then she seemed as if standing with out-
spread arms on a mountain height breathing out perfume, and
crying out in ecstacy, *' Hail to the sunbeams ! All hail to the
glorious light of heaven 1 "
Still, on this particular Good Friday, there is more than the
ordinary gloom in the chapel within whose walls the warning
voice of a young priest had so lately resounded. The little side
altar which appeared so resplendent last night now seems to
J
9m
294
Family Creeds.
shrink from observation under its bare black pall — its scant
Good Friday covering — as if it were trembling with fear, or
shivering with cold, or, as though the dim light which is almost
reluctantly permitted to enter is yet strong enough to expose
the shame which has been cast around the place, and which is
but too perceptible on the faces of the officiating priests and of
the people who have resorted hither to witness their solemn
ceremonial. There is a reason for the shame which is apparent,
and there is another cause for mourning which is more depress-
ing than that which has made the day itself one for penance
and austerity. The priest has left his altar ; the shepherd has ^
left his flock ; and he who was the raiglitiest prophet has be-
come an idolater- -the worshipper of a living idol.
The departure of Father Ringdon was already known ; an
account of his alleged disgraceful act had appeared in the morn-
ing papers ; and as nothing can be a cause of greater shame or
mortification to a steadfast Catholic than gross misconduct
clearly proved against a pastor of his Church — so clearly proved
as to leave no chance for a trial of the usual attempts at excul-
pation — the sudden flight of the young priest with a female
member of his flock, was felt to be particularly scandalous.
Celibacy, though not having been always enforced by the Catho-
lic Church, has long been the rule for the Catholic clergy ; and
were a priest to take a wife at the present day, a natural, pru-
dent act — and there is no scriptural command againat it — he
would forthwith be excommunicated and his marriage pro-
nounced infamous.
It was then that certain Protestant publications came out with
renewed strength against auricular confession, pointing out the
danger attending the private visits of unmarried young women
to the confessional of ardent young priests ; and it was then that
even many sedate and sober-minded Catholics — wise after the
Neither Wife noi' Widow.
206
event— condemned Anna's father for having permitted her to
change her spiritual adviser of advanced years for a father con-
fessor who had but so lately arrived at manhood. Tlie clergy,
after all, were but men, and then numerous instances were given
where some of the wisest and holiest of God's servants — kings,
and priests, and prophets of the Lord — had fallen — alas from
what a height and to what a depth — when left to the wiles of
artful, designing women.
Time passed and nothing was heard from the fugitives. It
had been said that Mr. Martin had received a letter from his
daughter craving his forgiveness. But from the hour that he
had been fully assured of her deep disgrace he never more men-
tioned her name until he lay on his death-bed, about six months
only alter she had left her early home. The idea that ho could
be so deceived by a priest, and deserted by the daughter in
whom his heart had been centred, caused a shock from which
he felt he could never recover. The bare idea of her marriage
— if one there really had been — to a person in holy orders
brought on the most terrible depression. Such a marriage he
considered a greater outrage on maidenly propriety than com-
mon prostitution. Other Catholics, he well knew, would be-
lieve the same, and assert that any woman who could deliber-
ately seduce a priest from the allegiance due to the Church
was one who should be classed among the very lowest of her
sex ; he also knew that while there would be nothing but eter-
nal scorn for her, the hand of charity might at least be extended
to him. Therefore he was aware that whether there had been
a formal marriage or not it would be all the same to many ;
that no matter what sorrow or repentance followed from the
wretched act, pity or forgiveness would not be extended to her ;
she would be hated and shunned wherever she became known.
Day after day, dwelling on all this, the poor man became
296
Family Creeds.
m
r
almost reduced to a state of imbecility. At times he would
curse the false priest ; at times he would pray to Heaven for his
forgiveness. At times he would lock himself in a room and shun
every one ; and often he could be heard weeping until the night
was far spent. As he scarcely took any food he was soon re-
duced almost to a skeleton ; he became grey, stooped, and care-
worn, and it was evident that he was fast approaching his end.
One night he lay awake and appeared as if occasionally listen-
ing. He told those who sat with him that he heard footsteps,
then he sprang up as if some one had entered the room, and he
exclaimed " Anna, welco.ne home !" and then, while clasping
the fancied form, he sank slowly back and passed away with
his vision.
The priest's brother, to whom Anna Martin had been engaged,
feH such a degree of shame for the way he had been treat-ed,
both by his own brother and by her who Ijad promised to be-
come his wife, that he enlisted in a regiment ordered oflF on
foreign service, and was never heard of afterwards.
Ten years had sped away since the humiliation brought on
the church by Father Ringdon, and the circamstance was almost
forgotten. Many had died, many had emigrated, and compara-
tively few remained who cared to bring the matter again to
remembrance ; and priests and people once more extolled their
Church as being the sole exponent of virtue, purity and truth.
In the meantime the principal actors had been left to their own
resources. It was not long until the absconding priest found
himself surrounded by difficulties of the gravest character.
When he left Ireland the total amount at his command was
scarcely a hundred pounds, and she who had left her home to
be with him had little more than a hundred shillings. Nothing
came to her after her father's death, for he had bequeathed all
that he was possessed of, as a kind of sin-offering, to the convent
Neither Wife nor Widow.
297
in which his daughter had been educated, and to which she had
been such a reproach.
In Catholic France, where they remained nearly seven years,
Father Ringdon dared not admit that he was a priest. At first
he had some difficulty in finding employment. An engagement
as a teacher of English in a seminary was all they had to de-
pend on. This position he held until he was discovered by an
Irish priest who chanced to visit the institution, and his dis-
missal immediately followed. In three years from tliat time,
after many struggles, Anna was left a widow with her only
child Bertha. She had seen her husband — as this was what
she had ever claimed him to be — interred by strangers in Bel-
gium, and then she took her way to England where she remained
a few months, and then, warned by the necessity of increasing
her scanty resources, she thought it best to return to Ireland,
in the hope that she could find some person in the land of her
birth who would give her advice or assistance.
As she had scarcely an expectation that a Catholic would dare
to do anything for her, or for her daughter — who would be con-
sidered illegitimate,- -she made herself known to a pious Pro-
testant lady with whom she had been on terms of intimacy
many years before. This friend adviseil her to resume her
maiden name, and the better to escape recognition — as she was
much changed in personal appearance — that she should for the
future be known as Mrs. Martin. The lady had suifici'-ut in-
fluence to find her a situation as a visiting governess in a housQ
at Passage, where there were four or five children to instruct in
plain English branches. She remained here for some time, until
the family moved away ; then, having a strong desire to return to
her native city, she went back only to find herself treated with
more than scorn by the few to whom she had made herself
known.
SO
298
Family Creeds.
In this extremity she had to appeal again to Protestants ; it
was quite useless to approach persons of her own faith. A
letter from her friend at Passage obtained her employment as
a seamstress. She found it necessary to change her name again,
this time to Reardon, it being as near to that of the priest's as
she thought it prudent to adopt. Her circumstances, however,
became poorer by degrees, until at last, having become someway
acquainted with my aunt, she hired her garret and set up for
herself the humble business of a dressmaker.
As Nancy Ferrin had once been employed to sew for a day
or two in the same family at Passage where Anna had been en-
gaged after her widowhood, under the name of Mrs. Martin, the
vicious spinster had, by means peculiarly her own, heard some
vague report against her, and by her usual unscrupulous exag-
geration, had made it appear to my aunt that her lodger, Mrs.
Reardon, was under the so-called prptection of a person in the
city ; and not only that, but she had also led my aunt to suspect
for the first time the faithfulness of her husband, ^nd to believe
most foolishly that Mr. Sharp had certain private reasons of
his own for making such a show of resentment on behalf of his
special friend, Mrs. Reardon.
Saturday came at last It was a bright afternoon when my
father and William entered the room where my axmt had left
me sitting alone. I was the only one there to receive them,
and was glad they came. I heard from home again, and re-
ceived a few lines from my mother and Ellen. My father was
not expected until a later hour, and my aunt was out on one of
her collecting tours, as a final report of sums total begged and
squeezed out by her and others for missionary purposes was to
be read out at a great missionary meeting to be held on the
following Monday night ; and she was, I knew, very anxious
to have her name announced as being the one who had succeeded
Neithei' Wife nor Widow.
299
len my
lad left
them,
and re-
er was
one of
led and
was to
on the
Inxious
Iceeded
in collecting the largest amount for the benefit of the heathen.
William was in fine spirits, and looked better than ever. My
father had to go to his office, and my brother and I were left
to ourselves. I should like to have made some inquiries about
Jane, but I felt unable to speak to him on the subject. For
the last day or two since Nancy Ferrin's departure I felt dis-
pirited and someway did not like to intrude often on Mrs.
Reardon who was still poorly, but as I might possibly have to
leave them on Monday, I interested William so much by what
I said to him in their favour that he expressed a strong desire
to know them. We went first to see Susan in the kitchen. She
was delighted, and would have kept us talking, but as it was
Saturday, and knowing that She had a great deal of extra work
to do, I did not want her to get an extra scolding, so we went
oflf, promising to visit her again.
I told William to remain m my room while I went up to
tell Mrs. Reardon that we were coming together to cell on her.
She seemed improved, and Bertha blushed wlien she heard my
communication. In a minute or two I introduced William.
Though he was by no means forward, he was not so difiident as
many lads are, and he made hii/iself at home in a short time.
Mrs. Reardon was very much pleased with him, and, as for
Bertha, she seemed abashed, and she blushed deeply when he
took her hand ; and while he kept talking about one thing or
another, in his usual vivacious strain, I could see her steal
glances at him, and then, as often as he laughed, she seemed to
listen as if the sound of his voice was music. After this they
became the best of friends, and stood at a little window to-
gether, tlie light falling full upon their pleasant young faces.
Bertha seemed to forget every trouble while she wps shewing
him her geraniums and a little budding rose that had had her
particular care. •
~-»— -^m • 1 ■■J.— .
i*^
300
Family Creeds.
I sat at the table with Mrs. Reardon, who was again at her
usual work. I could not help telling her how much I disliked
Nancy Ferrin, and that I was surprised at my aunt for believ-
ing a word she said. I told her that Bhawn and Nelly Carberry
knew her well, and that she was one of the greatest tattlers in
existence, and that if Shawn only knew she wa.s here, and
what sh(i had done yesterday, he would soon make her repent
of it. When I mentioned Shawn's name again Mrs. Reardon
said that she now remembered a person called Shane Bawn
who used to deal with her father long ago, — this was the first
time she mentioned anything to me of her father. I was then
satisfied, allowing for the change that time must have made in
his looks, that Shawn was the idtnitical Shane whom she had
once known. I was glad of this, for though 1 could not com-
municate with him in the usual way by writing — as poor Shawn
could not read a line — I could manage to send him word by
AVilliam, so that he should iruerest himself in her behalf if
Nancy Ferrin ever again attempted to trouble her. We spent
an hour j)loasantly toj;ether, and we promised to call again next
evening when my aunt went to meeting.
On Monday morning I was told that my father and I would
leave Ireland that (nening. 1 was to be placed under the
tuition of his brother, an English vicar. The packet would
.sail for Bristol about six o'clock, and I was to get ready. Wil-
liam was not to accompany us. He was to be prepared for sea,
and sent for a few months to a nautical academy in the city ;
and Bertha as well as h^r mother seemed very much pleased to
learn that he would call and see them every week or so. I
promised to write, and asked them to let me hear from them in
return. I had hoped that my mother would have come to see
me otf. I wi shell if at all possible to make her acquainted with
Mrs. Reardon and Bertha, and to ask her as a great favor not
Neither Wife nor Widow.
301
would
lor the
would
Wil-
or sea,
e city ;
ased to
so, I
hem in
to see
d with
or not
to be prejudiced against them, but to try and assist them in
some way. However, as parting affected her very much, and
as it was piobable that my father did not wish her to leave
home to see me at that particular time, all I could do was to
write to her when I got settled at my uncle's in Bristol.
Fully an hour before it was time for us to leave, my aunt was
80 busy receiving visits from missionary sub-collectors that she
had scarcely a moment to speak to me or to any one else.
Bertha and her mother were much affected at our parting.
Poor Susan clung as tenderly to me as ever Nelly Carbprry had.
And that night, when we were tossed about in the Irish Chan-
nel, and even when I was sea-sick, I thought of the crowd that
was then probably assembled in my aunt's chapel, solely for the
purpose of trying to benefit the distant heathen, and of how
much more humane it would be for. my aunt and other religious
people not to look with such indifference on the poverty and
distress around them, but first to try and help the'thousands of
suffering poor at home before lavishing the. means, which could
be made so useful for such a purposes, on missionary enterprises
which were too often but of little credit to visionary propagan-
dists, and really barren of any perinaiieiit benefit to the Chris-
tian world.
<l:=^^i^^=MQS='^^^
CHAPTER XXVII.
MY TEACHERS AT
ST.
Philip's."
Wii <
ON our arrival at Bristol we were driven to a small neat-
looking house in one of the narrow winding streets of
that city. It must not tlierofor(? l)e taken for granted that it was
a disagreeable street to live in, for it was kept remarkably clean,
the other houses had a most respectable look, and as there was
a little gravelled enclosure, fenced by an iron railing, in front of
my uncle's ptace, with a tree at eacli side and a few others at
the back, it was thus far more like a dwelling near the suburbs
than one in the middle of a large town. For some reason ray
uncle had this residence called "St. Philip's;" and at one
side, about ten feet from the principal building, thei*e was a
smaller one which was called the "Oratory."
My uncle, the Rev. Thomas Fairband, was a perpetual curate,
or, I should say, a vicar with a fair income— perhaps three or
four hundred pounds a year — and he was reputed to be very
pious and charitable, permitting a immber of poor persons to
assemble close to the oratory every day at a certain hour for
the purpose of receiving small benefactions out of sums sup-
posed to have been collected by him for such Fus were in need.
He was also enabled to bestow gifts in the way of food and
clothing ; and poor children were often supplied with slices of
bread thinly buttered ; and though the recipients were limited
My Teachers at "St. Philip's:*
303
to persons of his own parish, and more particularly to members
of his own church, yet in severe cases he sometimes gave relief
to others.
In personal appearance he was very different from my
father. Ho was perhaps eight or ten years older, and was
really an old-looking man. He was not tall ; he was slight, an<l
stooped. His hair was thin and fast becoming gray. His
forehead was obli(iue, his eye-brows heavy, and his eyes were
rather deep sunken. His nose was long and pointed, his mouth
large, and his chin retreating. His thin, sallow face was closely
shaven, and his long neck was wound to its full length with a
white neck-cloth, not a particle of shirt-collar being visible.
He wore a long black coat and a peculiar kind of vest — there
Avas sometliing priestly in the cut of these — his low-crowned
hat with a broad brim turned well up at the sides, making this
more apparent — and with his downcast look and the formal
gravity of his countenance, he appeared to be — what he might
easily be taken for — a type of tlu^ ritualistic priest of Britain.
My uncle was a widower without children. His household
consisted of an old lady housekeeper, named Tracy ; Mr. Dennis
O'Callaghan, a late importation from Dublin, who was a kind of
sexton, churchwarcUui, and sub-deacon — an (ecclesiastical man-
of-all-work in my uncle's church ; an ordinary servant man,
and his wife who was the housemaid. I was now to be
included as one of the family, for, at the particular request of
my father, arrangements had been made whereby I was to be
placed under my uncle for an indefinite time to receive further
scholastic and religious instruction, and, I presume, to be
brought up a strict Protestant, with a proper contempt for the
superstitious doctrines and practices of the Roman Clhurch. My
father and his brother had not I think met for a long time pre-
vious to this, and I have reason to believe that it Was chiefly by
%4
:f
'If
m
W''!
M" J
¥ \
304
Family Creeds.
my aunt's suggestion it was decided I should bo. sent to Bristol.
She, having been constantly suspicious of my mother's control
over me, determined that I should if possible be kept away
from popish influences, of every kind and degree, until I was
sufficiently established in the faith to be beyond all chance of
contamination ; and to effect this it was therefore considered
that my uncle, a well-known clergyman of the Church of Eng-
land, in whose rigid principles my father had the greatest con-
fidence, would, above all others, be the proper person to
eradicate any erroneous idea concerning popery with which my
mind might have been imbued by my mother.
My uncle received me kindly, l)ut he scan^ely smiled when he
first addressed me. I was older looking than he expected. He
said he supposed that I knew my prayers and catechism well,
and he hoped I should be an apt scholar in the studies we shouUl
have to engage in. I replied that I shoulil do my best to merit
his approval ; and then nothing more was said to me regarding
prayers or studies during the short time my father remained
with us.
The room set apart for me was in the top story. I was glad
of this, for to my thinking it was one; of tlu^ most pleasjint in
the house. It was well lightcHl, and on clear days I could
get a glimpse of the <listant river, and .see the topmasts of the
numerous vessels in port ; still the view was not to be compared
to that which I had had from the windows of the dear old big
room at Cove. Most of the other apartments were gloomy
— my uncle's very much so — and the parlor was so darkened by
heavy curtains that it seemed to have been determined that no
ray of sunlight should enter to disturb its religious shading.
After the manner of Nancy Ferrin, I took a kind of survey of
the place the next day. The libi*ary was fairly stocked, mo.stly
with a miscellaneous collection of theological books, among
My TearhevM at "St. Philip's"
305
which were several works of the " Fatliers," and volumes on
Church History, on Church (\)uneilH, and on apostolical succes-
sion. There were also books containing lists of martyrs, and
liv68 of saints, antl narratives of well-authenticated miracles ;
and there were pictunvs of martyrs, apostles and saints in this
room as well as in the parlor, and in my uncle's room, in
which was also a silver crucitix and a picture of the crucifixion.
I thought it very singular at the time, that such things should
be found in the jirivate residence of a cleryman of the Church
of England, and I tried to fancy what my aunt's surprise would
l)e were she to mak*^ such a discovt^ry. Strange to say my
father did not seem to notice these things, for at that time he
had the great<>st confidence in my uncle. He evidently had
taken it for granted that because he was in the house of a Pro-
testant ch^rgymaii there was nothing significant in pictures or
other olyects which if discovered in a Catholic residence would
be set down as being deeidedly popish in tlieir tendency. Since
that time I have met with many so-called " staunch Protest-
ants " to whom if Catholic doctrines, such as tho.se on confes-
sion and al)soluti()n, were preached from Protestant pulpits,
they would have l)een accepted by them without a nmrmur.
Everything went on like clock-work in my uncle's house.
We had to get up very early. My uncle was in the oratory
every morning by six o'clock, often before that tinH\ It struck
me that Mr. Callaghau was rather lazy, and did not care to be
bound down to such punctuality ; he, however, managc^l to be
there near the time, and generally to find some excuse if he were
late. The housekeeper, I found, also attended ; and, from what
I could guess, it occurred to me that after my father left us and
things got settled again, I should be obliged to go there
along with the others. We had i)reakfa8t at eight, dinner at
three, and tea at six ; and all were expected to be, as Mr.
w
tkmiim
306
Family Creeds.
'■i i'
';i.
Callaghan used to say, ** snug and comfortable " in bed by
nine p.m. at the furthest. My uncle used to have light in his
• room after this, and I discovered that he remained up often
until it was very late : sometimes he would go out even after
midnight to attend a sick call — indeed, I think he solicited such
requests — and, much I know against his will, Mr. Callaghan
had frequently accompanied him. I may add in this place that on
Fridays no meat of any kind was used at meals, and from what
I had already seen I was under the impression that my uncle
made that day one of abstinence by the omission of his break-
fast or his dinner.
The Sunday my father remained at my uncle's was, to him
and me at least, a real holiday. My uncle had engaged to ex-
change pulpits, as it is called, for the day with a minister a few
miles out of town. We did not, therefore, accompany him, but
we went out and had a pleasant ramble through the old city,
and visited many interesting places. The next day my father
left us for home. Though he was no way demonstrative in
manner, yet I could see that he felt our parting. He gave me a
kind, fatherly advice, and I felt determined, if possible, not to
disappoint the expectations he had formed concerning me ; yet,
still, at the last moment my dreaded secret again loomed up,
and again I anticipated the indignation or the alienation which
might follow its discovery, and what my dear mother might
have to suffer in consequence.
As my uncle was very reserved — he was perhaps naturally
so, I think he fancied that a clergyman should be particularly
demure in manner, and sombre in aspect — I felt that there was
a great distance between us, and, therefore, wishing for some
person with whom I could be more familiar, I grew intimate
with Mr. Callaghan, who was very unlike my uncle in most
respects. Mr. Callaghan was one of the most vivacious per-
My TeachwB at "St. Philips:'
307
sons I had ever met. On account of hiH being a kind of eccle-
siaHtical attache of my unclai he passed for a religious man, but
if he was to deny himself and take up any particular cross inconse-
(juence, it was generally one of the very lightest, and no more
affected his genia) spirits or his genuine humor than tne wear-
ing of an ornamental gold cross by a fashionable lady would
tend to remind her of the sinfulness of dancing while so engaged
in a grand ball room.
Mr. Oallaghan had been partly educated for a Catholic
priest, his parents wished him to bo one of the pillars of the
Church, but his natural inclinations being all the other way, he
was permitted to have his choice of a profession, which permis-
sion was perhaps a.s fortunate for the Church as for himself.
He must have been nearly or quite forty years of age when I
first met him. He was about the mid<Ue height and somewhat
stout, his face being of a Milesian cast, yet good enough every
way, but, if anything, rather florid ; still, his temper was by no
means hasty, he was very good natured and socially inclined, and
being fairly educated, he was on the whole a very agreeable
person. His principal failing was in a little peculiar self-
indulgence occasionally. He would keep in his room at certain
times and complain of rheumatism, and my uncle was made none
the wiser.
Of course I took Mr. Callaghan to be a Protestant. He
was nominally one, just as I afterwards discovered that he
was but nominally a Catholic, or even religious. Indeed, I
think if circumstances had permitted, religion of any kind
would have been to him a matter of the greatest indifference.
He was a good mathematician and given to science, and whether
his studies in ohese gave him a dislike for dictatorial teaching
and assumed authority, or a kind of contempt for unproved
statements or propositions — religious creeds of all kinds he
Mil
m- :i!
I '.]>
308
Family Creeds.
claimeil to be full of such— the religious drudgery he had to
perform was gone through in the most perfunctory manner.
He, like a great many others, could not yet afford to acknowledge
his real opinions, and in consequence of this, and the necessity
he was under of obtaining an engagement of &ome kind, he had
to appear what he was not in reality —he was not and could
not be a believer in the doctrines and ceremonies of the most
ultramontane branch of the English Church. Trained a Cath-
olic, as he had been, among the most faithful of Rome in the
Island of Saints, there were certain nmtters relating to church
discipline and afi'airs of the altar with which he was quite
familiar, and as it had been rumored that he had partly given
up his belief in literal transuV)stantiation, and refused submis-
sion to the extravagant claims and pretensions of the Romish
clergy, he was recommended to my uncle as being sufficiently
Protestant— and perhaps sufficiently Catholic — to suit his pur-
pose. As my uncle was one of the leading clergymen connected
with the Church of England who had already been suspected
of "extreme practices," and as he ^^as determined wlion things
got more matured to act up to his convictions in spite of any
inhibition, he needed such a person as Mr. Callaghan to initiate
him into certain ceremonies and observances of which the Church
had been despoiled after the Reformation, and which he had for
some time considered almost essential in church service, and to
the proper performance of clerical duties. Indeed, I now ques-
tion if he would have very much objected had he been fully
assured that Mr. Callaghan was a real true member of the
Romish Church, for though English prejudice was strong
against the so-called old faith, which but two or three centuries
previously had been the faith of the Realm, my uncle would
have adopted it far sooner than he would have acknowledged
the validity of the " hateful dissent," which was making such
My Teachers at "St. Philip' s!'
309
^ had to
manner,
owledge
lecessity
I, he had
id could
he most
I a Cath-
a in the
church
Ets quite
ly given
subniis-
! Romish
fficieutly
his pur-
ouuected
uspected
in things
of any
initiate
e Church
B had for
and to
ow ques-
sen fully
of the
s strong
lenturiea
would
)wledged
:ing such
annual encroachments, and alienating ho many of the foolish
and unwary. Mr. Callaghan being from Ireland was another
recommendation in his favor, as my uncle h(jld the Irish |M?ople
in high (jstimation on account of the Hteadfastness of the great
majority to their ancient niligion ; and he therefore counted
himself peculiarly fortunat<^ in having secured the services of
one who had bent the knee before one; of th(f ancient altars, and
whose? ancestors had no doubt suffered for their noble fealty to
the Supreme Hc^ad of the Christian C'hurch at Rome, who,
though having erred in some degree, was still worthy of venera-
tion even from true English Churchmen.
The morning my father went nway my uncle asked me to his
room, and when we were alone he made a number of incjuiries
about our family matters at home ; he kindly inquired after my
uncle the priest, and he dwelt particularly on our family creeds.
Not being sufficiently accjuainted at the time with his opinions,
I o\ course expciuted that as he was a Protestant clergyman he
would to some extent follow the course my aunt had generally
pursued with me —that is while I was with my mother — and
perhaps denounce everything connected with the Catholic
religion. From his more gentle manner, and his milder dispo-
sition to that of my father, I however believed he would explain
the errors of Rome in a less offensive way, and caution me as
to how far I should allow myself to be guided by my mother's
views on religious subjects. Instead of this course he praised
her wonderful steadfastness as giving another proof of what the
true servants of God could endure for their holy faith — still, in
a great degree, the faith of every true Christian.
I was at the moment most agreeably surprised at his modera-
tion, but I found it was something more than that when he
assured me the religious belief which my mother held was
nearer the truth than that to which my father or my aunt would
Mm
Hil
I:
lit '
ill!--'
in:;'
310
Family Creeds.
have me yield my assent. "Yes, John," said my uncle, "I can,
I think, tell you what I could not yet tell your father ; you
should be proud of your mother, and so am I. From what your
father has told me I see how things have been, and I can easily
fancy how jealous he is, or has been led to be, of her inflyence
over you in religious matters, I trust that that influence has
had, after all, its proper effect. I know, to some extent, what
she must have had to suffer on account of your aunt's very fana-
tical interference among husband and wife and children. How
unfortunate ! I hope, however, your coming here will not be
to your disadvantage as much as your mother may suspect it
will be. You shall have the pleasure of informing her that the
change has been for the better. I have not seen her for a long
time ; she knows nothing as to my altered sentiments — neither,
of course, does your father, from whom I have tried to keep
the matter a profound secret — but now I may have the plea-
sure of communicating with her soon. I know you must have
received a great deal of religious instruction from her, and I
hope it will make a lasting impression. The fact is," continued
he, lowering his v^oice, "a year or so after my ordination, the
rector under whom I had the happiness to minister was a man
who had a great veneration for the Old Church, through which
even we have derived our apostolic authority, and following
his example by casting gross prejudices aside, I have gradually
become almost enamored with the doctrines which are denounced
as Romish, and with the beautiful and significant rites and
ceremonies of the ancient Christian Church, and though we
cannot as yet avow ourselves, though we have to suppress to
some extent our religious yearnings, and practise in private, as
the saints did of old, the devout exercises which we consider
most/ acceptable to God, yet there are many in England who
think as we do. We may be called Jesuits, or what they will,
My Teachers at "St. Philip's."
311
you
ligh we
bress to
/ate, as
lonsider
kid who
ey will,
but the time is coming when Britain will shake oft' the yoke
which she has worn since the so-called Reformation, and return
to her first love."
He paused, and as I made no observation he continued,
" There should be a proper spiritual Head. How absurd to
have our present monarch called the Head of the Church 1 The
reformers were reckless in pulling down, too much so, in order
to satisfy the injured pride of one of the worst kings that
England ever had. While popes, cardinals and bishops were
denounced, the Church had an unordained profligate ruler for
its head, and what has this country gained by the exchange ?
Has not the rapacity of our archbishops and bishops, and
rectors and pluralists of all degrees more than equalled that
ever incited by the alleged pride of a Wolsey? Religious
orders and institutions have been abolished and despoiled by
Round Heads, religious as well as political, and while the great
round tables of our princely bishops groan under a weight of
luxuries, there are few left to care for the poor but the despised
monks and nuns of that Church which was once such a bless-
ing to the humble and distressed. Fanatics at the present day,
principally those who claim to be dissenters, think they are
doing the Lord the greatest service by sending thousands of
pounds out of this kingdom for what is called missionary
purposes, leaving poverty at home almost unpitied ; and while
vast amounts are sent to the heathen, the prison-like dens of
refuge erected for the destitute heathen at home, are languish-
ing even for needed supplies. Pauperism is on the increase,
and crime is festering and polluting in our very midst ; and
still the visionary Methodist or Baptist missionary comes to
beg the pittance, which should be reserved for our own poor,
in order to spread his poisonous doctrines in foreign lands.
Our own Church, or that to which I nominally belong, has
iriMUmmnriS
ii»
M
! :l i
I '' !
I !i;
312
Family Creeds.
been to blame for much of this, but there are some now in the
ministry who are determined to go back to first principles, and
among other things, as one of the chief Christian duties, to
remember the poor at home.
Encouraged by what my uncle said, I told him how bitter
my aunt was against almost every creed but her own ; how I
had been obliged to learn long tiresome chapters of the Bible,
and how strictly I had been trained by her to look on tran-
substantiation and confession, and absolution, and celibacy and
other doctrines and certain rites, as being false and improper,
and upon my mother's religion as a superstition, and upon the
Pope as the Man of Sin,
"The Bible!" he exclaimed, "that's the Protestant's idol,
one more to them in reality than the cross is or ever has been
to the most ignorant Catholic. It may not be becoming in me
to say anything against that book. I once, like others, used
almost to worship it, but now I am convinced that it is not a
suitable book to be placf^d in the hands of the uneducated or
self-sufficient. I may consider it my duty to explain this more
fully to you on some future occasion. Just fancy, the gospels
were not written until very many years after the death of
Christ — some even more than a century afterwards; therefore
they cannot fairly be called the foundation or rule of our faith.
The early Christians knew nothing of them, but they had the
traditions of the fathers for their guidance as to doctrine and
practice. Upon reflection I find that too much has been said
in tliese wayward days against the doctrine and usages of the
primitive Church. It is alleged that the doctrine of tran-
substantiation is a violation of reason and common sense, b""^
sacred things cannot be judged by the feeble light of reason.
This doctrine may have been carried too far, yet there seems
to be authority for it. Confession has been mocked at by the
My Teachers at "St. Philips:'
313
r in the
lea, and
jties, to
w bitter
; how I
e BiV)le,
on tran-
jacy and
mproper,
apon the
nt's idol,
lias been
ing in me
lers, used
is not a
icated or
this more
le gospels
death of
therefore
our faith.
y had the
brine and
leen said
les of the
of tran-
lense, b"*
if reason.
re seems
,t by the
impenitent and turned into ridicule by illiterate preachers, but
what is more natural for a person wlio is sincerely grieved for
having offended either God or man, than to confess his fault —
or his sin if you choose — and if one wishes to unburden his
mind, in whom is it more reasonable to confide than in one of
God's duly authorized ministers; for it should be widely known
that in our ordination service we receive our warrant, " W hose
sins thou dost forgive they are forgiven, and whose sins thou
dost retain they are retained.' Ought not these formal words
be therefore quite sufficient for all 1 There may be a Purgatory,
there seems to be authority for this also. It is a reasonable,
comfortable doctrine, and one, on the whole, of which I cannot
disapprove. As for celibacy, what more suitable condition for
a priest. How unseemly to hamper himself or the Church with
a wife and children. I could say much in defence of other
doctrines which have been repudiated, but I shall take another
opportunity of explaining my opinions. The changes made at
the time of the Reformation were too sweeping. There may
have been abuses, but they miglit have been rectified by a
different procedure. In hot haste too much was swept away,
and too little left us ; but the old doctrines and significant rites
and ceremonies which once proved so consoling and edifying to
thousands who have passed away to enter the bright regions of
heaven, are coming into favor again, and it may not be many
years until His Holiness the Pope shall Ix' ucknowledged once
more as the spiritual chief by a majority of the British people."
" I have th-^^'refore, my boy," said my uncle, placing his hand
on my head, "confided to you what I would not to your father.
For a pious purpose I have had to dissemble and hide my views
from him, so that if you have any preference for the religion
of your good mother, you need not be afraid to acknowledge it
to me. You are free to follow your own inclinations in this
21
II
314
Family Creeds.
|:h
lii/ ■'
respect. I only regret that my brother should have ever
objected to your being brought up a Catholic; for surely it
must have been painful to a gentle pious woman like your
mother to see her daughter educated to one form of faith,
while her sons were baptized in another. Even now for her
sake I would prefer to see you a member of her own Church."
During the greater part of the time that my uncle spent in
addressing me, my eyes were directed to the floor. I now
raised my head, and looking at him with more boldness and
confidence than I thought I ever could assume under the
circumstances, I said, " Uncle, I am a Catholio. I shall confide
in you now. I was baptized a Catholic unknown to my father,
If he knew it, he would be very angry with me and ma, and
perhaps never let us see each other again. I have told you
all, and it must be kept a great secret."
He took my hand and smiled on me most graciously. " I am
so pleased at this," said he; "you can be of such service to me.
You, a genuine Catholic, a genuine Irish Catholic ! How de-
lighted I am to know this !"
I then gave him a short account of how desirous my mother
had been that I should become a member of the Church of
Rome, and of how I was baptized in the big room, and when
I told him all, he assured me that my secret was safe ; that it
should be kept as sacred as if it were my confession.
ever
■ely it
s your
faith,
or her
mrch."
pent in
I now
Bss and
ler the
confide
{ father,
ma, and
told you
1 " I am
;e to me.
How de-
mother
lurch of
|nd when
that it
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MY FIRST MATINS AT THE ORATORY,
WE sometimes fancy that we are taking precautions against
a certain evil when we may be only unwittingly smooth-
ing the approaches to the very evil itself. Our eager desires
frequently run ahead of discretion, only to leave us among
difficulties which we wished to avoid. Our intentions, like
"vaulting ambition," often "overleap" themselves. The mar-
iner wishing to shun rocks in sight, may be tempted further
out among the waves to avoid the threatening coast, and while
he sees wide sea-room, and, feeling more secure under the be-
lief that he therefore has deep soundings, yet he may find his
vessel aground on some hidden shoal when and where it was
least expected ; the unseen danger, far from land, proving at
last, perhaps, more destructive than that which frowned upon
him within reach of shore.
From what I have already stated it will be seen what my
father's principal notion was in placing me under the guardian-
ship and instruction of his brother. Taken up with other mat-
ters, and having the fullest confidence in my uncle, he would
have paid but little attention to any stray rumour afiecting the
soundness of his Protestant principles. How far there was
wisdom in his precautions, and discretion in the course he
adopted, will become more apparent as I give a further account
■BMi
316
Family Greeds.
of the principal teaching I received from my uncle, and of our
every-day life and practice while subject to his ministerial in-
fluence and clerical supervision during my stay of some years
at Bristol.
The next day, I think it was, my uncle informed me that as
his time was greatly taken up in the performance of various
duties, he had decided to give me over to Mr. O'Callaghan, wlio
knew all I wanted to learn, or that would be most serviceable
to me without going through anything like the strict classical
training followed in most of our colleges and universities to the
exclusion of more useful knowledge. Latin sufficient to enable
me to understand certain subjects, or, in fact, certain prayers,
— for in some cases he thought prayers in that tongue might
not be inappropriate — would be quite enough. Theological
classics, such as most of the Catholic priests are only learned
in, would give me all the knowledge of that language which
was necessary ; there was no use in being encumbered with the
solid contents of ponderous lexicons, or with that which in all
probability would never be required. I should also receive in-
structions in other branches, and he, my uncle, would occasion-
ally examine me in order to be satisfied as to my progress, and
to be enabled to report to my father. Mr. O'Callaghan, he as-
sured me, would be very happy to have me as a pupil, besides,
he would on this account be a gainer in a pecuniary sense, for,
my uncle said, he would have fifteen or twenty pounds a year,
in addition to his salary, for his services as my teacher. " You
and he will be one," said my uncle, rather confidingly. " Be-
«n ourselves I think he is still as much a Catholic as ever.
i'o. uL . jen can never get beyond the prejudices of their early
trn liing, and I think Mr. O'Callaghan is one of them " (my
;■>-_: ever omitted the "0" in mentioning his clerk's name).
" Of course I can have no objection to this in his case. He is
My first Matins at the Oratory.
317
of our
ial in-
years
bhat as
.various
n, who
iceable
lassical
I to the
enable
)rayers,
} might
ological
learned
5 which
i?^ith the
in all
eive in-
ccasion-
less, and
he as-
besides,
ise, for,
a year,
"You
"Be-
as ever,
ir early
■n" (my
name).
He is
an excellent person, I have great confidence in him, he has been
of great assistance to me, and now, with your aid also, we shall
be able to get on in the oratory splendidly. I say in the ora-
tory, for as prejudices exist yet to some extent, we think it
better not to practice, or even to introduce in the simplest way,
certain rites and ceremonies in St. Mary's for a time " — St.
Mary's was the name of my uncle's chui ch — " we can do so
freely in the oratory, we can explain their usefulness there ;
for none attend who have not, I may say, been initiated, and
who do not approve of our so-called ritualistic principles.
I assured my uncle that I should consider it my duty readily
to assist either him or Mr. Callaghan to any extent in my power.
(I never used the " " except on very formal occasions, or
when using my tutor's name in my uncle's presence.)
" Yes, yes, I believe you will. Now let me see," said my
uncle, reflectively, " you must know something already of Latin
prayers — of course you must. Your excellent mother would
have taught you some before your late baptism. First, then,
you know how to bless yourself? Ah, how appropriate this
form at the commencement of prayer or religious exercises !
Try, please let me hear you."
He waited a moment in an attitude of attention and I com-
menced, "/w nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."
" That's it," exclaimed my uncle ; " that's the way to com-
mence an invocation. What folly to object to such a beautiful
preliminary I You know how to begin the creed, undoubtedly ?"
I placed my hand to my forehead and thought for a few seconds
and then repeated, " Credo in umivi Deum, Patrem omnipo-
tentem, factorem cceli et terrcB."
"Capital, my. boy," said he, slapping his thigh, "the very
words expressed in the grand old tongue." He was all smiles,
and evidently very much pleased.
mm
Rl >
i I
,.,
If'"
1 t
I ii ■
. '
318
Family Creeds.
" Now, once more," said he, " you have learned the oonfiteor,
I'm sure?" I liad no difficulty in remembering this and re-
plied, " Confeteor Deo omnipotenti, beatce Marice semper Vir-
ijini."
"That will do, that will do," said he, without allowing roe
to say any more. He was quite delighted. " I declare, I am
very much pleased. Why, we shall have no difficulty with our
responses in the oratory. We shall commence there with you
to-morrow morning, and your regular attendance with Mr.
O'Callaghan will help us to add to our imposing service."
T must say that I was very glad to learn that Mr. Callaghan
was to be my tutor, and I am sure he was as equally pleased as
I was myself that I was to be his pupil. He said that we
should get on famously together, that he should tell me a thing
or two not generally known, and that, after a time, he should
give me other problems besides those in mathematics to try and
master. If left to my uncle's teaching, I should feel very dif-
fident and should hesitate to ask him for explanations, or to
assist me in my studies, but with Mr. Callaghan I should feel
quite at home. I had already become quite a favourite with
him, and I began to feel an attachment for one who appeared to
take such a friendly interest in me.
There was another person ))y whom I was also regarded very
kindly ; this was the old housekeeper, Mrs. Tracy. She was a
widow, and one of the most 'gentle, unassuming persons I have
ever met. She was a lady in every respect, and 1 never saw a
woman who had a more serene expression of countenance.
She was most suitable every way to have the management of
my uncle's house- She had known his wife — they had been at
school together in their younger days— and she had lived with
him since he had become a widower. The poor old lady felt
that I was left, as it were, among strangers, and, perhaps oi^
My first Maths at the Orator jj.
319
mfiteor,
and re-
er Vir-
^ing me
e, I am
vith our
ith you
ith Mr.
allaghan
eased as
that we
J a thing
e should
) try and
very dif-
ns, or to
)uld feel
'ite with
)eared to
ed very
le was a
s I have
3r saw a
tenance.
ment of
been at
^ed with
lady felt
haps oi;
that account, interested herself in many ways to make me feel
at home and as comfortable as possible. She often spoke to me
of my mother, and would tell me that no matter among whom
I went or with whom I should l)ecome associated in after life,
no one would come any way near to filling my mother's place.
I think Mrs. Tracy must have suflered much domestic aflliction.
She told me that she had lost her husband many years ago —
she always mentioned his nam'' as if he were unequalled. The
small amount that he had left her had been invested for her in
some kind of a loan company, which had failed, bringing her
and many others almost to poverty ; and she would have been
in very great distress were it not that she had most* fortunately
found a home in the house of my uncle. After this her greatest
miswrtune was the loss of her only son — a boy about my own
age — near his fourteenth year. She would often tell me that I
reminded her of him, and sometimes when we sat together,
particularly should it happen that we were alone about evening
time, if I chanced to raise my eyes, I would mostly find hers
filled with tears, and her sad gaze resting mournfully on my
face. I have often thought that it must be about the close of
day that the saddest recollections come most regularly to the
aged, and that sorrowful memories then bring back most vividly
to those in the decline of life, scenes that have long passed away,
and the forms and faces that have faded and disappeared forever.
Mrs. Tracy was, as might be expected, a close member of my
uncle's church. She was, however, no enthusiastic believer like
most of her sex. Her religious feelings were of the mildest
type, and she went regularly to church, more because it was a
long contracted habit than because she considered it a neces-
sary duty. She valued religion more on account of its promises
to restore the dear ones who had been lost — of the happy meet-
ing of husband and child in some bright land which it assured
" I
1,1 i
ii^
1 j
her — than of any personal need which she felt for religion it-
self. She would tell me, '* I have done nothing very wrong
that I can remember. I have never wilfully injured any per-
son, nor have I any inclination to do so. I am not afraid to
die. I often wish to depart because I have been told that I
shall live again. But oh, immortality would be no blessing to
me without those whom I love and from whom I have been
separated. To live without them forever would be endless
punishment, indeed. If they cannot be })rought back again
annihilation will be the greatest mercy."
1 have since found that there are many like Mrs. Tra ;oy, who
estimate religion for its beautiful representations of future bliss.
It is prized by most believers becau.se they fancy that it gives
as it were a photographic view of an actual land of pure delight,
but how many would turn aside from the dazzling illusion could
it be fairly proved that the fond picture upon which they gaze
with such rapture is but a copy or re-production of some bril-
liant sketch of a frenzied imagination. Still, without such a
proof, this fancy is to many a glorious reality.
I was in the oratory half-an-hour before the usual time on
the following morning ; I had a curiosity to see it. My uncle
was there already busy making some arrangements, but ^Mr.
Callaghan came lagging in just a few minutes previous to the
commencement of the services. I was told they were to be
this day more imposing than usual on account of tlie attendance
of several new members. Having got there in good time I had
therefore an opportunity to see at my leisure all that was to
be seen in this almost private sanctum. It was a room not
much more than thirty feet long, by about sixteen feet wide.
There were two ordinary windows on one side, and two more
at the end furthest from the door, and all had blinds closely
drawn down. Between the two windows at the end there was
■My first Matins at the Oratory.
321
^ion it-
wroiig
,ny per-
'raicl to
that I
ssing to
ve been
endless
k again
;ey, who
ire bliss,
it gives
I delight,
on could
hey gaze
mie bril-
such a
time on
ly uncle
|but ,Mr.
IS to the
•e to be
;endance
le I had
was to
>om not
let wide,
o more
closely
lere was
a small altar somewhat similar to the one I had seen in the big
room at home, but instead of being covered with black it was
vested with a white cloth on tlie top, and it was amply screeiw^d
in front with silk of a light violet color, in the centre of whicli
was the monogram I.H.S. wrought with golden thread. There
were three silver candlesticks, holding lighted wax candles, on
each side of the altar, and between these stood a silver crucifix
about twelve or fifteen inches high. Over this, at the back,
there were images of two small angels with outstretched golden
wings, supporting a raised representation of the Virgin and
Child surrounded by rays, and over this again were the words,
in gilt letters, " Hear the Church." The only thing in the
shape of a text which I saw was one on the side which had no
windows, which read — "Obey them that have the rule over
you, and submit yourselves." There was a kind of railing in
front of the altar, and within this at one side was placed a fald-
stool for the use of the officiating clergyman ; and from the door
to the railing several plain benches were put at regular dis-
tances for the accommodation of worshippers. There was a
porch outside the door, which was at one end, and within this
sat my uncle's man, dressed as a kind of beadle, who was
instructed to give admission only to regular attendants, or to
such others as had received a ticket or permit to enter.
The place was, I should say, well tilled on this occasion.
Early as it was, fully five-sixths of those present were women,
including Mrs. Tracey,the housekeeper. There were three or four
old men, and a few boys, altogether more than thirty persons —
most of them apparently of the poorer class. Three of the boys
wore white albs; one was in red. Mr. Callaghan in a whisper
humorously called him "the cardinal," while I was much sur-
prised to see Mr. Callaghan himself almost hidden in a large
white kind of surplice which buttoned tight round his neck,
322
Family Creeds,
ii '
M
13 ; >;
and when he afterwanlw HtepjMMi behind my uncle, when it was
time to assist in the services, he did so in such a jaunty nianuur
and with such a serio-conjic expression of countenance that I
could scarcely keep from laughin;j;. and ujy inclination to do so
was furtluir increased by the look of niock gravity which he
suddenly assumed as if to reprovf^ nw for my unbecoming' levity
at such a time and on such an occasion.
There was a little screen placed in a corner at one side of the
altar, behind which my uncle went to array himself — this I
afterwards found was also a confessional. I say "array," for
he emerged from the little enclosure in splendid apparel, as
unlike the sober-looking canonicals generally worn by clergy-
men of the Established Church as could bo imagined. He had
OP a claret-colored soutaine. Over this there was a short white
muslin frock which reached a little below the knee ; it had
wide sleeves, ard the collar, cuffs, and skirt edge were richly
embroidered and trimmed with deep lace ; a violet colored silk
stole with gold crosses and gold fringe at the end, hung from
his neck, and with bent haad and hands palm to palm in
front, he approached the altar folk wed by his retinue, com-
prising Mr. Callaghan, the little "cardinal," and the other boys
ill white albs. I was not included among the number, for as
this was my first attendance at the oratory, I was merely
requested to pay particular attention to the services in order to
get an idea of the form of procedure at matins.
When ray uncle got to the centre of the altar he made a
reverential bow to the crucifix. Mr. Callaghan, who stood
behind him, and the boys on either side, did the same — Mr.
Callaghan did so, I fancied, rather too profoundly — and the
congregation knelt. My uncle then, while muttering some words
I could not hear, commenced the services by making the sign of
the cross, all others following his example, and he said aloud as
Mji firnf MdtliiH at f/ui'Oraforf/.
323
lum it was
ty maimer
nc« that I
)U to do HO
f which h«
niujf levity
I side of the
jelf — this I
'array," for
apparel, as
1 by clergy-
d. He had
short white
iiee ; it had
were richly
colored silk
I, hung from
to palm in
itinue, com-
other boys
iber, for as
|was merely
in order to
I he made a
who stood
same — Mr.
ly — and the
1 some words
; the sign of
laid aloud as
a Catholic priest would at the beginning of mam -" Jntroibo ad
allure Dei."
T' lis was responded toby Mr. Callaghan, — " Ad Deum qui
laetijicnt juventntem meain."
1 must say that although I had been made aware of my
uncle's opinions regarding Catholic rites and ceremonies, I
scarcely expected that he would so openly commence his ser-
vices, after the manner of the Roman Church, in a foreign
tongue, and I looked on and listened with the same kind of
curiosity that one would feel who was present for the first time
at some strange unique exhibition.
My uncle then ascended the altar, made another bow to the
crucifix, and turning to the people, he made the sign of the cross
in the air with his right hand, while repeating the words ^^ Dom-
inus vobiscum."
It seemed to me that Mr. Callaghan wore an odd expression
of gravity while he emphasized his reply^"^< — cuvi — apiritu
~tuo."
A psalm and one of the epistles were read by my uncle
standing with his back to the worshippers, and when he went
to the faldstool to repeat the Lord's Prayer and the Creed, the
boy in red brought out a censer and censed the altar and the
priest, and afterwards swung the incense towards the people
who were still on their knees.
When all became seatcnl, my uucle, instead of giving a ser-
mon, next proceeded to explain for the benefit of all present —
more particularly for the new members, who, indifferent,
he said, to the contempt of scoffers and worldlings, had
boldly taken up their cross to join the ancient and true wor-
ship of God — the use of some of the sacred things which
were to be found in the oratory of St. Philip's, and the signi-
ficance of them as well as of certain rites and ceremonies long
ilfr
SHIB
■m
II
i
n 'ti
III ill i|!|
ill ^t
I''
I i li
pi |[
(.■■'' '
324
Family Creeds.
practised by the Mother Church — not so called, as was sneer-
ingly said, because the Mother was therein worshipped more
than the Son, but because it was the truest exponent of Chris-
tian faith and doctrine ; and in speaking of such a worshipful
personage as the Mother of God. he cared but little for any
authority, secular or ecclesiastical, which denied the profound-
est reverence to the Sacred Virgin.
First, he told them that in ancient pagan temples altars had
been erected upon which worshippers had placed offerings or
sacrifices to the Gods. Tiie altar in the primitive Christian
Church represented Mount Calvary, upon which the greatest of
ajl sacrifices had been made, and that we in commemoration of
this, still offer the mysterious sacrifice in our communion ser-
vice ; and from the altar we also offer up our prayers and peti-
tions ; consequently what more appropriate in our modern
church than an altar to the Lord.
The altar cloths he said represented the clothes in which our
Saviour was wrapped when placed in the sepulchre. The lighted
candles which we observed on each side were significant of the
light of faith. The crucifix represented the sacrifice once made
for our sins, and the incense such as had just been used was
emblematical of the prayers which we offer up to God.
He now would asK, was there not a beautiful significancy in
these things 1 Even many of those weak-minded persons, who,
to gain a little popular applause, had the folly and affectation
to deny that these were of any spiritual utility, were neverthe-
less secretly convinced that the emblematical had an inspiring
religious effect. The venerable Catholic Church, for which he
admitted he had a sincere respect, encouraged emblems and
ceremonials — the poetry of the triie faith-^to satisfy the ideal
in our nature. Restricted as we were at present to the use of
these objects only to this private sanctuary, he had no doubt
My first Matins at the Oratory.
325
1 was sneer-
lipped more
;nt of Chris-
j, worshipful
ttle for any
he prof ound-
es altars had
I offerings or
ive Christian
he greatest of
aemoration of
mmunion ser-
lyers and peti-
i our modern
in which our
. The lighted
Inificant of the
ifice once made
leen used was
God.
signiticancy in
persons, who,
,nd affectation
ere neverthe-
,d an inspiring
t, for which he
emblems and
ktisfy the ideal
it to the use of
had no doubt
but that the time would shortly come when we could use in our
churches the chalice, which represents the holy sepulchre ; the
Paten, as the great stone which was placed against its entrance ;
and the holy water, holy oil, and holy candles, and even blessed
relics, as aids to our faith. Most of these were now severally
under a ban as being popish inventions and superstitions.
'* Yes, my brethren," he continued, " it is very easy to be
flippant on the subject of superstition, but he who is without a
trace of superstition will also, very probably, be without a trace
of religion — the one engenders the other. Man everywhere,
in remote times as well as at present, in his barbarous as well
as his civilized condition, impressed with his own weakness and
impotence, is inclined to be a worshipper. In his barbarous
state, yearning for the incomprehensible, he ascribes almost
omnipotent power to the huge misshapen image which he has
raised, and bows himself before it. He sees the form of some
deity in the passing cloud, witnesses his glance in the lightning,
and hears his voice in the storm. These imaginings are created
by his instinctive feeling of superstition, without which he
would be an atheist. In our present civilized and enlightened
condition we have controlled and modified our superstitious in-
clinations, but to discard them altogether would be to discard
religion itself. Therefore, I claim that superstition, which is
natural to man, is the germ of religion, which is also natural,
and akin to that which has been revealed — superstition being
the active impelling power in both."
This, as nearly as I can now remember, was my uncle's rea-
soning on religion. On a future occasion he said he should try
and explain the subject more fully. Before the service was
ended, he wished cO say to his hearers that, after much thought
upon the subject, he had come to the conclusion that it was a
" holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead, that they
~vw
■■■■
326
Family Creeds.
may be loosed from their sins." On their next meeting he should
therefore ask the prayers of the congregation for the souls of
such deceased persons as should be named to him by their frie.nds
desirous of pious supplication in their behalf.
The little boy in red swung his censer again. My uncle read
a short prayer and pronounced a Latin benediction. The re-
ligious formality was over, and I had the benefit of my first
*' matins " at the oratory.
CHAPTER XXIX.
SOME SAD VICISSITUDES.
A COWARD is defined to be " a person who lacks courage
to meet danger." This definition is generally supposed
to mean danger mostly of a physical kind. The man who will
follow in the train of a tyrant, and submit to oppression rather
than resist, and who will suffer a wrong rather than risk a
struggle for the right, is a coward. Many now will even say —
no matter from whom the exhortation to the contrary — that he
who will "resist not evil," or who, being struck on one cheek,
will submissively turn the other to receive a blow, is also a
coward.
In all ages, and among all people, the man with a craven
heart has been most thoroughly despised ; for a genuine coward
can be moulded into one of the basest of characters, and he
can be used for any purpose, no matter how mean or how de-
grading. There is nothing lower, more contemptible, or more
cowardly, than cowardice. There is yet, however, a more de-
spicable kind of cowardice than that which arises from a dread
of physical danger. A man may be so far without fear as to
be reckless of life or limb, and yet be without true bravery ; he
may be a hero in one respect, and a poltroon in another. It is
only when he becomes a moral coward that he sinks every trace
of true manhood into the polluting slough of mental slavery.
-jf-n"
mmmm
ij
li
111!
III
i
328
Family Greeds.
Moral cowardice is therefore the most shameful and most to be
deplored, for its example is contaminating, and its corrupting
influence almost unbounded. The moral coward is he who,
while afraid to oppose false principles, or utter his own honest
convictions in favor of what is good or true, becomes subservient,
for his own elevation or aggrandizement, to popular opinion,
which he knows to be wrong, and who is willing to bow down
to illusions and prostrate himself before venerable myths, even
while he sees Truth kept shivering in some cold, dark corner.
Thousands, who should otherwise remain unknown, attain the
highest positions in society by such mean subserviency. Among
rulers, legislators, teachers, preachers, and editors — especially
among the latter, — cowards of this class can be found who re-
present the very meanest typo of the pusillanimous. For per-
sonal reasons many of them denounce that which they know to
be real, while they exalt that which they believe to be imaginary.
It is truly pitiable to see some, who should be exponents of
truth, lagging behind, afraid to take a single step in advance,
lest they should come into collision with some popular absurdity.
What a spectacle to see men, who are even half ashamed of their
own cowardice, trying to assert a feigned independence, and
making wild ostentatious flourif^'] 3S in behalf of mental free-
dom while they are chained and lettered to a dogmatism from
which they cannot, or dare not, move an inch ! It is a humili-
ating sight to see intelligent men in such a position, but the
most pitiful and humiliating of all is to be obliged to look at a
public writer go into feigned ecstacies over the silly utterances
and puerile platitudes of some feeble "successor" who can
never get beyond ortho lox nonsense ; or to witness the genu-
flexions and prostrations and adorations of the Public Press of
the land before some mammoth fraud which audaciously uprears
its brazen head to assume pre-eminence.
Some Sad Vicissitudes.
329
ost to be
irrupting
he who,
rn honest
jservient,
• opinion,
)ow down
^ths, even
rk corner.
attain the
, Among
-especially
nd who re-
For per-
3y know to
imaginary.
ponents of
n advance,
absurdity.
led of their
,dence, and
lental free-
atism from
LS a humili-
on, but the
io look at a
utterances
' who can
,s the genu-
lic Press of
isly uprears
This is the kind of cowardice or subserviency most to be de-
plored. Free thought must be circumscribed, and new ideas
pronounced illegitimate. Every innovation dreaded by certain
intellectual pigmies is arraigned as being in conflict with past
experience. No new ventures must be made beyond certain
old-time boundaries, and all progress would be brought almost
to an end, were it not for the independent few — the really in-
dependent — who, indifferent to the scorn, the ridicule, the te-
proaches, and the misrepresentations which are so lavishly be-
stowed on them, still refuse to aid in the dethronement of Truth,
or assist in the apotheosis of Error, or to join in the throng of
its unreasoning, infatuated worshippers.
What cowards chill penury makes of some ! If any plea can
be offered for those who almost hate themselves for the sorry part
which they are obliged to take in giving a seeming assent to false
principles, or by yielding a seeming belief in old wives' fables,
it may be the plea of their dire poverty. — Alas, that such should
exist ! But it does exist. Are not the poverty-stricken to be
seen on every side — men, women and children — who have
scarcely a place to lay their heads, and are often obliged, from
day to day, to solicit, in the humblest manner, every mouthful
they may get to eat. Who can expect manhood, or independence,
or even honesty from a race of starvelings, the continuation of
whose wretched existence may be dependent on the uncertain
charity of those who claim their submission. There may be, and
ought to be, pity for a class of persons so situated, many of whom
might be willing to worship Jupiter or Juggernaut for a single
meal. There may even be a plea offered for their apparent
conformity to principles or doctrines which they neither care
for nor understand, but what excuse can be made for those ui
affluence, for those beyond the reach of want, or for the well-
to-do writers, or teachers, or preachers, who will persistently
22
330
Family Greeds.
1 1" i.
:;! 1
«V,, ,
ill
til i
i!
li
n
"1-1 ■; •
Hi'-y:;
•i'i: ,:
IItI- ■■
I i
!l! 'i
pil!
prostitute reason in defence of error, who refuse to investigate,
and who would, in subservjence to the powerful and influential,
domineer over and even pejsecute thoughtful men and women
who dare to judge for themselves.
If it ;re ,u be joy among angels in heaven, or increased
felicity among the guileless on earth, or among the pure in heart
anywhere else, it must be when some sturdy, honest thinker,
spurning dictation, and bursting through every barrier, leaves
the beater '.rach -t' "onformity and takes up his cross prepared
to hear himself x ^v ^^^bcd and calumniated ; and while mocked
and despised on eve.7 s: 'e, to go on, and on, and forever on in
a sincere and tletarmint. - .?Tch after truth.
Poverty will fu i.-iij. ii;;.. -.^ for any creed; and it has done
so. The Churches court the v/ei).ithy, yet find it useful to pa-
tronize the poor, and all that can be gathered after missions
are supplied, and all that can be spared after other religious
expenses are met — including those for costly decorations and
magnificent organs — is sometimes kept for the poor, and most
of the poor eager to be patronized — for without such patronage
they might die — soon find out where largess is most bountiful,
and there they are willing to pray and to praise.
Now I soon discovered that the greater number of the persons
who regularly attended service at the oratory were my uncle's
poor — a select few — who were fed outside, or rather within the
railed space or yard near the little chapel, every morning. I
call them my uncle's poor in contradistinction to the numerous
wandering destitute that could not as yet be relieved at St.
• Philip's. They had first to wait, if any came before the regular
hour, until we had our breakfast, and then they were fed —
almost after the manner that I often fed chickens at home —
they got the crumbs that were left, or all we had to spare, or
all that had been sent or collected for their relief. They sim-
Some Sad Vicissitiules.
331
vestigate,
afluential,
ad women
r increased
re in heart
;st thinker,
Tier, leaves
ss prepared
htile mocked
)rever on in
d it has done
seful to pa-
iter missions
tier religious
orations and
jr, and most
ich patronage
)st bountiful,
A the persons
;re my uncle's
ler within the
morning. I
the numerous
elieved at St.
ore the regular
ey were fed —
ens at home —
to spare, or
[ef . They sim-
ply got all there was to be had, little or much, and if it was
not enough after being apportioned, why they would have to
do with it until next day, unless successful in their appeals at
other quarters. What we had to offer them might be suffi-
cient for their first meal, or their only meal for the day. They
got the portion after matins, and as a rule it was given only
to those who were regular attendants at the oratory, who had
worshipped in that place, and had therein asked their Father in
heaven for their daily bread. If they did not pray for this
from the heart, their prayers for any other mercy would be but
the merest lip service.
Perhaps some one among the half-famished worshippers
might have imagined that the slice or two of bread which after-
wards came was the answer to the prayer of faith. Ah, me !
I often used to look at these hungry ones devouring, yes raven-
ously devouring, the little we gave them, and often when we
had no more to give, and when we knew that their hunger
could scarcely have been appeased, in my pity for them I some-
times used to pray mentally for more — " O, Lord God, send
these, the creatures thou hast made, oh, send them speedy help,
send them food ere they perish ! " Oh, how fervent used to be
my appeal ! But more never came and my simple prayer on
such occasions, let me endeavor to strengthen it with all the
faith in my power, even by asking the Virgin to intercede,
must still have been lacking in some great essential, for it was
never once answered, that I can remember. Yet when our store
of bread grew less, and when the mouths of the hungry were
not filled, and when the rich withheld their hand, my impulse
was to importune the Deity again, '• O, Lord God, will thou not
pity the poor."
Well I" was asked out after breakfast to help to distribute
the eatables collected for the waiting ones outside. Often as
MM
i
Bi::-v! •I!''
Il' .! ■!
m
I ! ■ E •:;
P:l
» : I
*;
! i
1 1 I
I ":'
332
Family Creeds.
I had seen poverty wandering about in rags and tatters I had
never seen such a sight as this. There were no rags or tatters
permitted to be worn among the select few belonging to my
uilcle. But oh, the trembling ones ! for the morning was cold,
who had tried to make the best of their faded bonnets and their
thin shawls, and their threadbare dresses; who had by stitching,
and patching and darning, done all in their humble power to
come as near as possible in appearance to the respectable poverty
which was under the respectable patronage of the vicar of St.
Mary's church, and the high priest of the oratory of St. Philip's.
Poor things, there they sat, in the raw morning air, on two
long benches, humbly waiting for the little we had to give.
John, my uncle's man, went first, carrying a fair-sized basket of
coarse brown bread cut in slices, and a kettle of what was called
hot coflFee. I followed with a smaller basket of something,
and a little tin pail of what was called milk. It was arranged
that I should take Mr. Callaghan's place from this morning in
assisting to serve our registered dependants in waiting, and he
was rather pleased to be released from this duty, and to get rid
of any further attendance aa one of the distributors of this daily
charity. He came with us, ho vever, this morning, he hoped
for the last time, not that he was by any means indiflFerent to
the claims of the poor, but really I think it was because he,
like myself, felt pained in witnessing their great destitution.
He came this time as if to introduce me as his successor, to
some of those humble regular dependants whom he had known
and relieved for some months, and of whom he had already
given me a glimpse of the history of some of their lives, briefly
illustrating, by their woful downfall the strange but sad fluctua-
tions of fortune.
How I pitied them! I never saw a beggar in the street
whom I did not pity, but there was something in the look of
Some Sad^Vicisaitudea.
333
rs I liad
)r tatters
ig to my
was cold,
and their
stitching,
power to
»le poverty
car of St.
It. Philip's,
ir, on two
ad to give,
sd basket of
t was called
something,
IS arranged
xnoruing in
iing, and he
id to get rid
of this daily
g, he hoped
ndifferent to
because he,
destitution,
successor, to
had known
had already
lives, briefly
Lt sad fluctua-
in the street
the look of
1
these people that claimed peculiar commiseration. The greater
number of them had once been in respectable circumstances, and
they seemed to prefer the retirement of my uncle's place instead
of having perhaps to wait outside some rich man's door. One
or two had been well-to-do traders, one had been wealthy, one
was high-born, and some had once been distinguished; but,
alas, all, all had been signally unfortunate ! There they sat,
how subdued at last, the once reckless ones now thoughtful,
the wild ones tamed, the haughty ones humbled, and the once
eminent abased. Poverty, like death, had brought them at last
to a common level. There was no more pretention, no more
self-reliance, no more exclusiveness, scarcely any more hope.
Nothing on either side but gloom, nothing in the heavens
above them but gloom, and hardly anything more in their
hearts than the most terrible despondency. If any one among
them, on the verge of despair, ventured one more appeal,
and had mentally cried in the words of the afflicted Job, '* I
cry unto thee and thou dost not hear me ; I stand up and
thou regardest me not — Thou liftest me up to the wind ; Thou
causest me to ride upon it, and dissolvest my substance ; for I
know that thou wilt bring me to death, and to the house ap-
pointed for all living." And then if urged on, to cry aloud,
'* O God is there no further hope 1" the response of the sinking,
despairing heart would be "None." Every one of these destitute
seemed to have made a last effort to rise again, a last attempt to
retrieve, but all having again failed, they might now be likened
to drifting wrecks left to the sport of the wind and the waves.
The first person we waited on was an old widow woman,
poorly clothed as the others, who was called " Mrs. Evans." This
was but an assumed name. She had once been Lady , once an
actual lady, a beauty and a leader of fashion in London who had
had many admirers. She had married an old lord for wealth and
!l iiliiii
liii
'i|
Family Creeds.
position, had been unfaithful, had been divorced and degraded,
had become the slave of another, had been deserted by successive
protectors, until finally she had been abandoned by all and de"
tested by many, and left to the mercy or the pity of the world.
After many sorrows here she was at last, poor, pale-faced, sick and
trembling with the cold. She thankfully accepted a tin full of
coffee. As I poured a little milk into it she looked at me with
a sad expression. When she had drunk this she put her two
small slices of bread and a boiled egg into a little black bag
which was hung on her arm, and then bowing to us respectfully
she arose, and with feeble steps went silently away.
Another woman, thin and wan, and worn looking as any
present, had once been an actress — a famous actress in her day —
and so beautiful that any professional demerit was overlooked
by judges, or applauded as even an artistic excellence. She
had been the " rage" in her time. Theatres had nightly been
crowded, and on more than one occasion she had been patronized
even by the Royal presence. But at last a rival came and her
fame was soon eclipsed, A more beautiful dramatic divinity had
become the popular idol, and in tiying to traduce and undermine
this competitor she had sought aids which had eventually blasted
her fame and disgraced herself. She was soon forgotten. Mis-
fortune came in a hundred fearful shapes, and down the steep
she fell with accelerated speed until she now found herself
among the destitute outside the oratory.
With eager hands she raised the tin of coffee to her faded
lips — lips that, no doubt, had often been moistened with the most
luscious wines — and swallowed it as if she feared she would never
have another draught. She appeared dissatisfied with what
she had had, and would, I think, have pleaded for more if she
thought pleading would have been of any service, but she had
drunk her allowance, and as we passed on to the next I saw
Some Sad Vicisaitvdea.
335
uccesaive
I and de'
he world.
I, sick and
tin full of
X me with
it her two
black bag
espectfully
Lng as any
a her day —
overlooked
tlence. She
lightly been
n patronized
ame and her
divinity had
d undermine
ually blasted
otten. Mis-
vn the steep
ound herself
to her faded
with the most
would never
ed with what
. more if she
but she had
next I saw
her break off little pieces from one of her slices of bread, and
place them inside her sunken cheek., Alas, what a fall from
celebrity !
We passed in the same way two other poor old women. One
had been a great singer, whose voice had charmed thousands.
Now how broken, and unmusical, and asthmatic, was the voice
of her old age as she crooned for a little more bread. Another,
who was sadly drooped and wrinkled, had been, .« mg years be-
fore I was born, a woman of rare personal attractions. She
had been the favorite of a celebrated author, and had had
verses and sweet sonnets, and tender madrigals dedicated to her
as the " Fair Celia," many of which can still be found among
select poems; and in gift books on our centre tables, and still
addressed to other Celias as conveying the gushing emotions of
love, or the gentle feelings of affection. Ah, me ! Where now
the "raven tresses," and "starry eyes," and blushing cheeks,
that won such admiration] If this poor, faded, withered
Celia could find heart to glance through her spectacles at one
of these poems again what a heartless mockery the words would
seem.
When the women and the few children they had with them
were served, we next went to the men, who generally sat on a
bench by themselves. There were, however, but few of these
persons. For my present purpose I shall only . select one of
these, whose career was said to have been the most singular
and unfortunate. He was a very old, gray-headed man. He
wore an old broad-brimmed hat, from beneath which his white
hair hung down at the sides, and was long enough to fall back
as far as his shoulders. His hands were crossed on the top of
his staff, his forehead rested on these, and he appeared to be
looking down pensively at his mother ^arth, as if to join her in
some solemn deliberation as to his future. He did not lift his
mi\
:
m
' ii
!i
ill
11 .,i!l
Ml I, nil
336
Family Creeds.
head when we approached him, and we waited silently. He
raised it — what a face ! \^(rinkled, and careworn, and anxious,
like most of the faces of the poor, yet here was one that was still
intellectual, with a trace of comeliness that had not all faded quite
away. He looked up at us with some of the commanding ap-
pearance that had won him such respect in days and years long
past, but in a moment or two the haughty stare passed off, and
quick as he saw our baskets he seemed to understand the object
of our presence, and to recognise his own humiliated condition,
and then he bent his head again; and though I had seen his
hands tremble before we had come up to .him, I now imagined
that this trembling was greater, ami that it was caused by
something that affected him more than old age, or palsy, or the
cold. What could have been his reflections'?
Mr. Callaghan spoke a few words and addressed him as
" Colonel," yet the old man did not seem to take it as mockery,
or perhaps he could not hear distinctly; for I saw him place
his hand behind his ear when addressed. But the title was
not given him in derisive courtesy ; it was one to which by
ordinary usage he was fairly entitled. This very person, aged
and tottering as he now looked, had once been a stalwart colone 1
in a regiment of horse ; an actual colonel in one of His
Majesty's regiments of Dragoon Guards; an officer who had
worn medals for bravery in battle, who had sat at dinner with
princes, and nobles, and fine ladies, and whose name had been
among the foremost members of a very exclusive London club.
In the hey-day of life he seemed to forget that he should ever
grow old ; present affluence had led him to fancy that he could
never become poor, and how could one so distinguished, and so
great a favorite with some of the most influential in the land
ever be passed unrecognised by old friends and sent to Coven-
try by old comrades] But it was so. In his wild career he
' i' <<'/ % 1
S§me Sad Viciaaitudes.
337
tly. He
I anxious,
twasHtill
ided quite
[idiug ap-
yrears long
3d off, and
the object
condition,
d seen his
' imagined
caused by
alsy, or the
sed him as
IS mockery,
him place
le title was
3 which by
)er8on, aged
wart colonel
one of His
sr who had
[inner with
le had been
london club,
[should ever
bat he could
Ished, and so
in the land
Lt to Ooven-
Id career he
followed the example of many of his titled friends and lived a
life of dissipation and extravagance. Il^^ had kept horses and
hounds; had attended race courses and stcieple chases; had bet
heavily at the turf; had won large sums, and ha<l lost still
heavier amounts, until his resources liad become almost ex-
hausted. While pressed by creditors, and shimning importun-
ate duns, he had betaken himself to fashionable gambling, and,
after repeated losses, had risked his honor on a game, and been
detected as a cheat using false cards. His expulsion from his
club immediately followed. He was cashiered and disgraced,
and, leaving the country, he sought foreign companionship, had
to mingle with the disreputable, and quickly lost every shilling
he^ossessed. Soon reduced to greater extremities, h fell still
lower in the social scale, until, step by step, he brought himself
to his present wretched condition.
He took his allowance like the others. He drank his tin of
coffee, and commenced to eat his bread and his .»oiled egg. If
he had no desire to live as a wandering pauper, he evidently
did not care to end his few remaining years or days by linger-
ing starvation, and he ate. As he did so, I pitied him too — so old
and wearied looking ; yet still with something of the soldier in
appearance. He wore his old patched suit differently from the
manner of others, his old boots a little blackened, trowsers
strapped or tied down, hollow breast padded out, and neck
stiffened and held up by some contrivance. He would, no
doubt, have worn his medals, but those, I heard, had long ago
been pawned or sold for actual necessaries — thus appeared the
"Colonel." Poor, old, crushed and defeated cavalier, so reduced
at last to the very lowest rank of human life !
I often think that the aged unfortunate should receive more
lenient consideration than they usually get. The sorrows, and
disappointments, and misfortunes of years have their own silent
iSr
338
Family Creeds.
K I'
(k''
i'f ,^1
>■:(('
•; 'IP
w: :
:l '. i -l m^
influence for good even on the most reckless or depraved.
Who could remain obstinate, or unrelenting, or remorseless,
after having found his opportunities lost, his chances thrown
away, his friends alienated, and his own reputation blasted 1
Unless the heart has become desperately hardened, old age and
reflection must produce sincere regret for past misdeeds.
I shall not mention others who had like the " Colonel" fallen
from some high estate. Each case might seem to be, with but
slight changes, almost a repetition of the last. After we had
served the older people we came to the boys. There were only
three or four of these. The first took their allowance very
thankfully, but the last boy turned away his head as we came
near, and looked sulky and discontented.
"What's up now, Jimi" inquired John, my uncle's man, see-
ing that the lad did not reach for what was offered him.
"I don't care for nothink, so I don't," sniffled Jim, while he
swayed his legs now forwards, and now sideways on the bench-
He was what was called "seedy looking," with close cropped
hair. A little torn cap was tied under his chin to keep it, on
his head ; his shoulders were drawn up, and the collar of his
old short jacket was turned high enough to reach his ears, which
he seemed anxious to bury out of sight as well as out of the cold.
"What's the matter, Jiml" said Mr. O'Callaghan, in rather a
kindly way. The boy made no reply, but swung his legs about
more actively than before.
" Nuff's the matter. I ain't agoin' to starve on bits o' wit-
ties like that, when I can get more sumerelse." He did not
yet touch the two little cuts of bread, but cast an occasional
side look at them as if to reproach them for their want of size
and solidity.
"Well, if you don't want them," said John, "what brings
you here ?"
Some Sad Vicissitudes.
339
what brings
" I ain't a comin' here any more — see if I do — I ain't. This
is not a goin' to be the ony rattry round here, I tell you.
There's parson Monk a fixin' up another rattry. He's got as far
as dips and smoke aready." (He meant cand)*^8 and incense.)
"He's a fixed up a halter as 'igh as my 'ed." — He raised his
hand to show how high the new altar would be — "an' he's a
goin' to have a big scrucifix, I tell you, an' lots o' little ones all
about, just wait. He'll have them sure, and he'll soon git as
far as westments wid spangles just as big as a fardin piece, see
if he won't."
"And yoil want to desert us, you little rascal," said Mr.
Callaghan, humorously, "and are going to that 'rattry,' as you
call it, instead of to ours ?"
"Yes I be," said Jim, still sulky, "yes I be, for I brought
lots on 'em here, an' if I can't get a hegg the same as the rest,
I'm a goin' to parson Monk's, for he's put 'em down for heggs
all around an' lots o' sprats o' Fridays "
The cause of Jim's trouble was that he did not get an egg.
One egg each had been given to the old people, but the boys got
only bread and coffee, and Jim, having, as he considered, patron-
ized my uncle's oratory by inducing some poor people to attend
matins, he felt that he was entitled to an egg at least for his
influence with some of them.
It will be seen from this incident why it was that Jim, as
well as others, had attended so regularly at St. Philip's; and
now as ritualism was extending, and another oratory about
being established, Jim had determined to make the most of his
poverty, and take it as his chief commodity to the best market.
As there were no more eggs, Mr. Callaghan, desirous, perhaps,
to retain Jim's influence for my uncle, or, more likely, through
a feeling of pity, gave him a penny, and whispered something
in his ear which immediately set him all right, and he was
340
Family Greeds.
t
lavish in promises of what he was going to do for the " rattry "
of St. Philip's. " See if I don't."
During the time we were engaged with this boy, the two
benches became vacated. One after another of our poor depen-
dants had slipped quietly away, most of them to wander list-
lessly through the streets for another day, some to claim further
charity, and when the shades of evening came, to retire, wearied,
and sad, and often hungiy, to some uncomfortable den, or more
likely to some wretched place, to try and find rest during an-
other cold night.
((
rattry
, the two
)or depen-
inder list-
in fui-ther
B, wearied,
sn, or more
during an-
CHAPTER XXX.
TIRED OF LIFE.
((
r
F this won't do him, faith I don't know what will. Now,
justlook at that, ma houclial," said Mr. Callaghan as he
handed rae a new kind of clerical stole or scarf for my examina-
tion. He and I were in the oratory together one quiet even-
ing, and he was looking over some clerical " toggery," as he
called it, belonging to my uncle. There was an aperture under
the altar ; a kind of safe, in which was kept a good sized trunk
containing my uncle's canonicals, including cassocks, gowns,
surplices, albs, stoles, maniples, and chasubles ; the last three
were vestments but lately added — "the tawdry fantastic acces-
sories of ritualism," as certain low-church people named them —
but they were considered by my uncle necessary to be worn by
" advanced " clergymen while officiating according to the " im-
proved " mode of worship now upheld by him and a few others
still belonging to the Established Church. There were several
of these additional vestments such as stoles, maniples and chas-
ubles, and they were of different colors, white, black, red,
purple or violet, and green. Most of them had been presented
to my uncle by certain v oalthy ladies who approved of the stand
he had taken — though as yet rather privately — towards a return
to the practice of the rites and ceremonies of the primitive
Church.
\m
342
I 'i
Family Creeds:
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He certainly felt proud of the showy articles, and placed them
in the exclusive charge of Mr. Callaghan, to whose taste and
judgment was left the selection of such of these as should be
worn during Divine service on certain days in the oratory.
There were other things belonging to the altar placed also in
this receptacle for preservation, such as the communion plate,
the censer, extra candlesticks and extra crosses, banners and
pictures, little statues and ornaments — most of which would
be required in special religious services, or on great festivals,
and which Mr. tOallaghan rather irreverently denominated,
"blessing tools, gimcracks, and fal-de-dals."
" See there now " said he, still looking at the new stole, and
afiecting his broadest brogue, " jist look. Be the powers they'll
be no standin' him whin he rigs himself out in that — Blur
alive wont he be the gayest of the gay intirely — jist look. An'
see here," he held up a new chasuble which had been made up by
some pious lady and sent to my uncle the previous day. It was
of a brilliant scarlet color, bound round the edges with gold
lace, and a long cross formed with spangles had been worked on
the back. " Be the mortial isn't that stunnin' 1 Who wouldn't
be proud to shoulder such a cross as that ? Won't that be some-
thin' for them flatheaded low-churchmen to talk about. " Now
let me see," said he, searching the trunk, '* havn't we somethin'
to suit that ] " In a minute he pulled out a stole and a maniple
of the same color, and holding out one in each hand at arm's
length he seemed to gaze on them with delight — " Arrah, blur
an' ages, wont the ould lad be bloomin' when he gits spancelled
in these ] Och ! divil a finer in the whole kingdom ! Sure the
Pope himself couldn't swell out more nate or daycent. Well,
well, what a blessed thing it is to be holy, an pious, an godly,
an religious — that's the tau-tol-logy, or the whole list I b'leeve —
an' to be a priest, or parson, or preacher, or minister, wid duds
Tired of Life.
343
like these covered a'most all over wid goold-lace an' spangles,
an' ribbins. Be dad, but its jsnough to drive me crazy. Shure
I ought to have been a priest myself — so I ought — aye, a bishop
by this time — divil a finer life for iny man, lots o' the best av
ivry thing an' nothin' to do but display yourself up there (point-
ing to the altar) once in a while, or to stow yourself in there
(pointing to the little confessional) for an hour or two once or
twice a week to hear the mea culpas of half-a-dozen or so of
thim faymale craw-thumpers, an' thin to vary the intertainmint
by lordin' it over a pack uv bewildered omadhawna ; an' thin
to be cock-shure uv heaven in the long run. Och ! be the mor-
tial, 'tis jist the way with me, I'm always behind, or too late —
just on the ground the day after the fair. Well iiuibochlish,
here we are an' we've only got to make the best of it."
" Arrah ! look at that," said he again, taking up the new
chasuble. " Won't the ould boy step out like a drum-major
whin he puts that on him — be the powers won't he I Why you
gommoch, you stare at it as if you niver saw inything like it
before."
I assured him that I had never seen a vestment of that kind
of the same color, for that it seemed to me to be as red as a
soldier's coat. *
" So it is," said he, " an' that's the right color for it. Isn't ivry
man a sojer that fights the divil — that faces the very ould fellow
himself'} But," said he, resuming his natural manner of speak-
ing, "T'li tell you something about the difierent colors and
when they should be used. In imitation of the Roman Church
we have here almost every hue of the rainbow — white, black,
red, violet, and green. White vestments are worn at service
on feasts of the Lord, and on those of the Virgin ; black on
Good Friday, and when prayers, or masses if you like, are
said for the dead ; red, at Whitsuntide, and on feasts of the
r.yr<^
i!l
344
family Creeds.
€
m
apostles ; purple or violet on Sundays in Advent ; and green,"
said he, again assuming the brogue, "the rale ould blessed
green av coorse fur St. Patrick's day in the mornin' " — and then
he hopped oflf briskly and skipped around me once or twice
while he whistled a few bars of the Irish national air, snapping
his fingers, as he pranced, to keep time.
As he knew that my uncle had a weakness for ostentatious
ceremonial and clerical display, he selected vestments for him
to be worn next day at matins ; they were as showy as those I
had seen him wear on my first attendance at the oratory, but
Mr. Callaghan said they were of the color suitable for the
feast of some saint that he mentioned, and my uncle would
have worn those of any kind, or a suit of motley had they been
recommended by his most esteemed deputy.
During the first few weeks at my uncle's I used to be often
surprised and often amused at Mr. Callaghan's humorous
levity. At matins, and sometimes at church, he would, once in
a while, put himself in some ridiculous attitude when it was
least expected, or suddenly affect such a sanctimonious look,
that I frequently found it difficult to keep fron\ laughing ; and
the flippant irreverent manner in which he often spoke of sub-
ejects and things that I had been taught at home to consider
sacred, made me once suspect that he had no very profound
respect for our services at daily matins or even at St. Mary's ;
but now having got accustomed to his frequent curious remarks,
which were often as skeptical in their way as anything I had
ever heard from Shawn, I began to doubt whether he had a
belief in religion of any kind.
As to my uncle himself I had the most satisfactory evidence
that as a clergyman or religious teacher he was actuated more
by formality and mere show than by any strong religious con-
victions. That his religion, in fact and in truth, consisted more
i !
Th'sd of Life.
345
I green,"
. blessed
and then
or twice
snapping
ientatious
bs for him
as those I
atory, but
e for the
icle would
. they been
to be often
I humorous
iild, once in
len it was
nious look,
ling ; and
jke of sub-
to consider
y profound
,t. Mary's ;
,s remarks,
hing I had
sr he had a
in being the member of a certain Church and a strict adherent
to the practice of certain rites and ceremonies, than in the
feeling of any need for greater purity of heart than that which
he had simply inherited from nature ; that his impressions
regarding what is generally accepted as true piety were of the
most superficial character ; that to be a churchman was all that
was necessary to be a Christian, no matter how vague his ideas
or even liis belief might be as to doctrines ; and that, evidently
fully satisfied with ordinary moral maxims, he never perplexed
himself by trying to fathom the depths of religious mysticism,
or to trouble himself by an investigation into the claims of
what he had accepted as religious truth ; that, tied down as he
was to observances, he seemed to think that while doing his
duty in this respect — the inculcation of ecclesiastical pageantry
— he was truly and faithfully fulfilling the whole law.
Having observed these things, and having from time to time
witnessed the hatred and contention existing among the numer-
ous Christian sects, young as I was, I began to feel indifierent to-
wards religion itself, a growing repugnance to its teachings, and
the strongest disinclination to appear in a red gown and skull-cap
as a second " cardinal," to swing a censer, and make responses
to prayers, and litanies, and vain repetitions, and to bend and
bow in a certain manner during what seemed to me to be the
puerile unmeaning formalities of the oratory, while Mr. Cal-
laghan was looking on or watching me with an aJSTectation of pious
gravity, or of lofty supervision.
I may say here that in St. Mary's Church where my uncle
officiated every Sunday, the ordinary ei)iscopal service was
used, but I often thought that he took but little interest in its
rubrical forms, that he did not feel, in a way, so much at home
in the large church, in plain gown and bands, while reading
gospels and collects, as he did on the altar of the oratory in
23
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346
Family Greeds.
shining vestments, while bending, and bowing, and turning,
using genuflexions, and ofiering invocations to saints and to the
virgin. There was a Avide difference between tlie form of wor-
ship and even in the objects of worship in both places ; and as
great a difference between his religious ceremonial of week days
and of Sundays.
His ministerial duties on the Sabbath were generally per-
formed in the most perfunctory manner, and he read short
peculiar sermons — which, by the bye, had been purchased for
him — as if desirous of exhibiting the weakness of low church,
or so-called evangelical principles ; and anything he added
himself to the written remarks would be in the form of a mild
protest against the puritanism or fanaticism which could lead
any to object to a few ancient but most decent and appropriate
ceremonies which helped to make the worship of God more
attractive and impressive ; or to ornamentation which made the
house of the Lord look more like a temple dedicated to Him :
and his further arguments in this direction might be conveyed
as follows : — Minds were differently con^ituted. Rites and
ceremonies would reach some with whom mere words would
perhaps be ineffectual ; and pious pictures, and even devotional
attitudes, would be more touchingly eloquent to many than the
most elaborate reasoning. Men should, therefore, be sought
after by different methods, and any method which long ' xperi-
ence had proved useful should not be overlooked or thought-
lessly pronounced extravagant or superstitious.
The great temple of nature has a thousand attractions and
ornamentations. Were Nature herself only to be found sitting
in loneliness upon some vast arid plain, like some solitary
pyrmnid upon a wide desert, men might say that she had neither
form nor comeliness. But look around, see her enthroned upon
the mountain under her canopy of clouds, see her pausing on
Tired of Life.
847
turning,
ind to the
m of wor-
58 ; and as
week dayH
erally per-
read short
rchased for
[o^ff church,
cr he added
lu of a mild
ti could lead
I appropriate
of God more
tiich made the
,ted to Him :
be conveyed
Rites and
words would
ven devotional
many than the
)re, he sought
h long ' xperi-
a or thought-
tttractions and
,e found sitting
some solitary
she had neither
^enthronedupon
Iher pausing on
the sunlit hill, or reclining in the shaded vale ; see her wan-
dering through green fields or along shining rivers, listening in
the deep woods to the murmur of the running stream, or stand-
ing on the naked rock to hear the ripple of the little brook.
How desolate the world would be without these and various
other captivations furnished by the great High Priest for the
embellishment of his own stupendous temple ; and should not
the humbler edifice, made with hands, into which the creature
is called to worship the Creator, should it not be, as far as possi-
ble, an epitome of the more glorious structure raised by the
simple fiat of the Almighty 1
Men's feelings of regard are excited in different ways. One
person might value a bird for the gorgeousness of its plumage,
another for the sweetness of its song. A rose may be a delight
to some more on account of its beauty than its fragrance. Thus
we see that as human beings can be drawn towards an object by
entertaining different ideas of its nature or of its value, so also
they may be led to approach the sanctuary by different avenues,
and led to a reverence for UxC Supreme by dwelling on the
beauty of His presence, as much as on the immensity of His
power or the extent of His goodness.
Much as my uncle might feel inclined to test his theories by
practical experiment, he had as yet made but the most cautious
ventures towards ritualism in St. Mary's. Though a few might
be found among the members of that church who could see no
real harm among symbols or ceremonies, and who would even
tolerate a little ecclesiastical parade, still there were others —
rather strong Protestants — in his congregation who would r ?sist
at once any very open approaches towards popery, or such as
it was said had been made at the oratory. But as this little
chapel was on his own ground, and, in a manner, private, it
was left out of the power of any one to enter a complaint as to
rw
348
Family Creeds.
Kl'fi
I
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his religious practices therein. Suspicions as to his teaching in
that place had, however, already been engendered, requiring
any step which he took " in advance " at St. Mary's to be taken
with the greatest precaution.
So far, all that an ordinary observer could discover in the
church was a plain embroidered cross on the cover of the com-
munion table, two silver candlesticks, apparently more for or-
nament than for use. placed on the same representation of an
altar ; the communion cup in the centre, and a picture of the
twelve apostles against the wall behind these. During sjrvico
my uncle would deviate in some slight degree from the pre-
scribed forms ; he would spread out his arms while muttering
some prayer, he would bend, and bow, and turn, oftener than
was necessary, and he would make little attempts at dumb
show sufficient to produce only a smile. Had some of the con-
gregation seen but half of what we had just taken out of his
trunk, or even a few of the other " consecrated " articles which
were stowed away under the altar in the oratory, they would
want no plainer evidence of the tendency of their chosen min-
ister towards Rome.
After Mr. Callaghan had exhibited all my uncle's clerical
finery, and had made such eloquent comments thereon as he had
deemed necessary, he seemed to think that there might be some-
thing else hidden away under the little altar which might be
worth seeing and explaining. With the oddest look imagin-
able, he peeped in, his hand and arm soon followed, and in
a few moments he pulled out a black quart bottle full of some
kind of liquor.
" Arrah what's that V said he, affecting the greatest surprise
at the discovery. " Be the mortial who'd think of finding the
like o' this here 1 Sure miracles will niver sase, so they won't."
Then looking at me, as if for my approval, he asked, after a
Tired of Life.
349
,ching in
•e(iuiring
be taken
ir in the
the com-
re for or-
ion of an
ire of the
tng s'.irvicf)
1 the pre-
luuttering
tener than
8 at dumb
of the con-
ont of his
tides which
they would
jhosen min-
jle's clerical
on as he had
ight be some-
•h might be
ook imagin-
wed, and in
Ifull of some
itest surprise
finding the
they won't."
Isked, after a
little pause, '* Now I wonder av it id be iny harm to try an find
out what's in this," and he hold out the bottle between him and
the light, wliile he looked through it keeping one eye closed, his
face being twisted into the most curious expression.
" Maybe it's ony water after all, they have it so well corked
up," said he, giving me an interrogatory glance, and then look-
ing through the bottle again.
'* But faith it's an odd looking color for water, so it is, an'
accordin' to my limited comprehinsion there's some deep saycrit
about this that's worth findin' out — What d'ye say 1" He asked
me this as if everything depended on my consent.
" You don't know,— Is that all you can reply 1 Well av you
don't know it's time you should, and as it's my business to im-
part ideas an to extind yer knowledge av matters an things, I
don't think yer edieation would be inything like complate av I
didn't explain somethin' to you as to the solid or liquid contints
av this irregular cylindrical tube."
He pretended to make another search in the place under the
altar, and to his surprise again he chanced to find a corkscrew.
" Blur an ages," said he, " what's the manein av all this ] —
bottles an corkscrews an the like in sich a place as that. Well,
as I'm a livin' sowl, I b'lieve that identical spot is bewitched.
It's a riddle, or mystery, or puzzle av some some kind or other,
an as I've partly got over a belief in mysteries, either sacred or
profane, I propose to excercise me rayson an common sinse an
find out what this is so as not to be botherin' me brains about
it iny longer — so here goes."
In less than a minute he had the cork out and his nose over
the neck of the bottle. " I'm clane bate at last," said he, pre-
tending not to be able to guess what was the contents. He
handed the bottle to me. I told him I thought it smelt like
wine.
350
Family Creeds.
.'i-^i
':'i;. i
P' ■:
" Oh nonsinse," said he. " What id they be doin' wid wine
here — but jist let me try. Faith," said he, taking the bottle
from his mouth, " it tastes mighty like somethin' — I don't know
what — maybe you're a better judge. Jist take a pull at that,"
said he, handing me the bottle, « an let me know what you
think."
To satisfy him I just tasted the wine.
" I won't take it," continued he, almost scornfully refusing
the bottle, " sure that little nibble wouldn't drown a fly. Take
a good twist av it, man, an let me know what it's like." I said
that it was undoubtedly wine.
" Thin as sure as I'm a livin' man," said he, " they've been
performin' the ould miracle horo over agin, that's jist what
they've been doin', turnin' water clane into wine, an wine av
the right kind, I tell you. 'Pon me sowl an 'twould have taken
even holy water itself to make it as good as that. Oh don't
be lookin' so surprised me nate young man ; that's the very
thing they've been at. Sure such a fine ould Christian gintle-
man as yer uncle, that b'lioves ivry thing in religion, wouldn't
be sich a haythin as to have the laste doubt that by puttin' a
bottle ur two av water, av rale holy water, — he could sind an
git a dozen bottles av it at the Catholic factory over there
across the way — by stickin', I say, half a dozen or so of thim well
corked an sealed in there, an thin by puttin' his best foot fore-
most, or his stoutest faith to the tist, they'd find the rale
jaynuine thing — the most beautiful stuff imaginable — in placr
av the cold water. Ja^uuine it is, av I'm iny judge," said
after having held the bottle up to his mouth again long enou^
to reduce the contents by fully a third.
" Arrah, try it," urged he again, seeing that I hesitated to
taste the contents of the bottle another time. " What are you
afear'd of, Take a good swig. Av it's good for the sowl shure
:fl
Tired of Life.
351
wid wine
he bottle
on't know
at that,"
what you
f refusing
fly. Take
:e." I said
sy've been
jist what
n wine av
have taken
Oh don't
the very
ian gintle-
i, wouldn't
puttin' a
Id Bind an
over there
if thim well
t foot f ore-
d the rale
I — in plft"
:," said
ong enou^
it must be good for the body ; it doesn't need much logic to
prove that, fur you know 'tis for the sake uv their sowl.s that
they have it here. I suppose. Well, iv that's mo<licino fur a
sick sowl, faith, I might want to be sick all the time."
I think Mr. Callaghan must have known that what he had
just taken was some of the fine communion wine selected for
the oratory ; for he hail charge of everything in the closet
under the altar, of which he kept the key ; but still he asserted
that a miracle had been performed.
" You doubt it, I persave," said he, giving me one of his
curious looks. " Well, maybe you do ; but av you b'lieve the
great book — an' I s'pose it's a shame fur me that I'm once in a
while a little skeptical about some things in it myself — shurd
you have authority, if plain words mane anything, to b'lieve
that miracles will nivir sase, nivir. Doesn't the same ould
book say, ' What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, b'lieve
that ye receive them and ye shall have them.' Faith, tiiat's as
plain a promise as I want, there's no going about the bush
there, A born fool couldn't mistake the mainin uv that ; an"
now, be the mortial, av you b'lieve that — as yer bound like an
honest Christian to do — why not b'lieve that they kin still turn
water into wine 1 Yis, a miracle it is, the taste uv the contents
uv that (he held out the bottle) is enough to prove it. That's
none of yer common stuff, me boy, take me word for that."
.ave faith, I mane jist enough uv it, an' the thing is done.
H where ould Montjoy failed whin he had the assurance to
p lis dribble uv that article to the test, Shure he thought
he iiail faith enough to surpass Peter in the attempt to walk
upon water, an' in he went and shure enough down he wint,
makin' an 01 <lhawn uv himself before them all." *
* Many yen
actual test I
\ a pious gentleman named Montjoy put bis faith to an
tkiQg an attempt to walk upon water.
i:i;|
lli!i
if m
Ilii
352
Family Creeds.
By this time Mr. Callaghau had introduced the bottle to his
mouth so often that there was scarcely a drop of wine left.
Hi s fondness for such drink was his principal failing ; and I
have reason to believe that it was not the first bottle of that
liquor which he had managed to discover under the altar. He
had now be'^ome wonderfully communicative, and he told me
many things about his private affairs and his family matters,
and of how he had once been, as he called it, " head over heels
in love ;" and then he made some strange comments on religious
subjects, which if repeated in the presence of my mother, or ray
aunt, or of my father, would have startled theic into fear for
the safety of my orthodox principles.
" Jist look at 'era," said he, pointing to the vestments he had
laid out for the next day, " what miserable frippery to becloud
a man's mind. Yer uncle is a good-natured ould man, but there
lies his religion, an' av he hadn't thim to show himself off in,
he'd as lief be a Turk, or a Quaker, or anything else. Jist let
me see how I'd look in that."
Before I well knew what he was going to do, he had the
chasuble drawn over his head and, with his arms akimbo, was
pacing about with a kind of military step. I could not keep
from laughing at his ridiculous appearance, nor at the half
jocular, half sanctimonious expression of his face.
*' Och, be the piper," said he, as he marched about, " av I
was only a rale priest, wouldn't I lether the daylights out uv
some uv them bastard Riverinds, an' even show yer uncle some-
thing he doesn't know."
Just then the door opened — we had neglected to secure it
inside — and in walked my uncle himself. Mr. Callaghan, so
heroic a moment before, now seemed to recognise his ridiculous
position, felt rather ashamed of his appe^iance, and made some
excuse by saying that he had put on the vestment in order to
ile to his
ine left.
r ; and I
e of that
tar. He
told me
matters,
)ver heels
I religious
ler, or my
5 fear for
its he had
to becloud
, but there
pelf off in,
Jist let
le had the
imbo, was
not keep
,t the half
at, "av 1
its out uv
incle some-
Tired of Life.
353
ask me how it looked. Fortunately it was getting rather dusky,
and my uncle did not seem to notice that there was anything
irreverent in our behavior. He was evidently a little excited.
" Mr. O'Callaghan," said he, " here is a note I have just
received requesting our attendanqe at the bedside of our poor
old friend, the Colonel. He shot himself about an hour ago.
He is, I believe, still living, and if we hurry we may be in time
to administer some of the rites of the Church before he breathes
his last."
What a shock to us all ! Mr. Callaghan, who had been more
intimate with the Colonel than with any of the others whom
he had so often fed on the benches, appeared to be almost res-
tored to perfect sobriety, and to grow serious. We left the
oratory in a far different mood from that in which we had so
lately indulged. And when I was left alone, I fancied my
uncle and Mr. Callaghan by the dying man's side in some
wretched place of refuge, repeating some formal prayer and
going through some priestly ceremony. Of what possible benefit
could these be now ? I thought of the Colonel's lost oppor-
tunities, and of the agitation of mind that must have led him
to beckon death near rather than die of lingering starvation.
Poor old Colonel ! What a long downward march his life was !
And now I fancied I could see him stretched upon a pauper's
bed, soon to be hurried into a pauper's grave, over which no
tear would be shed, or farewell shot ever fired.
secure it
|llaghan, so
ridiculous
Imade some
In order to
■tf!
"Mi
ill
ii-'
T ' '.
\h9 -
mi
CHAPTER XXXI.
CAUGHT AT LAST.
I USED to hear from home regularly, for my dear mother
was always punctual in sending me letters. When I was
only about six months in Bristol, I had a letter informing me
that, after repeated altercations^ another religious dispute had
taken place between my father and Mr. Casey, and that it was
of such an angry character that a dissolution of their business
partnership followed.
For many reasons I was very sorry to hear this. It was
hard to think that a union which had been so long, and of such
mutual advantage, should have been almost suddenly dissolved
on account of some heated discussion respecting their creeds.
I knew Mr. Casey to be a most excellent man, one of the
kindest that ever lived, and I felt confident that my father
would have reason, pai-ticularly in a business point of view, to
regret their separation. Though my mother, as well as Shawn,
often used to say that something of the kind would happen
sooner or later, yet when the news of this severance came, it
took me by surprise and set me thinking of what its effects
might be in many ways concerning my mother and myself.
My brother, after having spent a few months at a nautical
academy, had just been sent off on his first sea voyage, and I
was informed that upon his return my father intended to keep
Caught at Last.
355
him at home and put him in the office in order to give him a
knowledgfe of the business in which the late firm of Fairband
and Casey had been so long engaged.
My sister and Jane, I was happy to learn, had been sent to
the same convent-school. Whenever I had a letter from Ellen
I should therefore most likely have a chance of hearing some-
thing of Jane, from whom I had not yet received a com-
munication. I believed that she would feel as sorry for the
dissolution of partnership which had taken place as I possibly
could be myself.
Everything at home went on about as usual. Shawn, poor
man, often mentioned my name. The only other event cf any
importance during the first year, was the marriage of Nellie
Carberry to a sailor. My mother informed me of this, and
remarked in her letter how strange it was that my brother's
prediction should have been so exactly fulfilled ; and then I
remembered how he had foretold Nelly's marriage when he
examined the grounds in a tea cup one evening. After all I
did not see anything very remarkable in this. We all knew
that a young sailor used to call to see Nelly every time he
returned to port, and that there was every probability of their
marriage sooner or later.
Some time during the second year we had the great pleasure
of a short visit from my mother. She was much failed and
older looking. My uncle v/as almost as well pleased to see her
as I was. She derived some benefit from her stay, and we were
all much happier while she was with us. I accompanied her
on her return and remained home in Ireland for about a week,
but as Jane was away somewhere on a visit I had not the
pleasure of meeting her.
The sixth year had almosi passed without any occurrence of
importance, when our ordinary quiet life at St. Philip's was
wm
il'-tk
lit 1;
v:
f
I"
If ' '
a. i I
V'
I ,
i:^
['I 4 '
11 Hi'
III
i r.l
f
350
Family Creeds.
disturbed in a most unexpected manner. Things had gone on
at the oi*atory in the usual way, except that my uncle had be-
come more " pronounced," and that there was an increase in
the formality of worship, some additional ceremonies, greater
clerical display, and a greater number of regular members.
Within that limited time, one after another of our poor
friends, those v/ho had come to wait, or worship, or pray at
early matins — T often wondered if they ever sincerely prayed,
and for what — who had depended on us at least for their first
meal, had passed away, not exactly as the old Colonel had made
his exit, but, as every month went by, some familiar wan and
withered face would be missed from the benches for ever, and
some other poor creature would have taken his or her place ; so
that we had always a sufficient number of those needy believers
to attend at matins and afterwards to wait on the benches out-
side and accept of the charity which we had to bestow.
Well, it so happened one morning that we were to have an
unusual display at the oratory. It was the feast of some dis-
tinguished saint, and as my uncle had grown bolder in his
advocacy of ritualism, and less particular as to those who
should be admitted, several strangers were present ; and the
congregation if it can be called such — -was larger than usual.
My uncle was robed in his most gorgeous canonicals ; and every
extra candlestick, every extra cross, or crucitix, or picture, or
ornament, had been placed upon the little altar.
Mr. Callaghan, somewhat stouter in form, had on his slovenly
alb, and I — now nearly or quiti lis height — was vested in the
crimson cassock and girdle which I so much disliked ; I had on
a skull cap of the same color, and in this ridiculous looking
costume I had to swing the censer and make response to a cere-
mony, as closely approaching the celebration of mass in a
Catholic church as any ritualist could desire.
Caught at Last.
867
This clay in particular the religious pageantry exceeded any-
thing previously witnessed at the oratory. We had a greater
repetition of Latin prayers, more than the usual bowing and
^'enuflexions, and more moving about and turning from side
to sside. At one part of the ceremony my uncle lifted the
communion cup above his head, after the manner of the eleva-
tion of the host by a Catholic priest, and, during this move-
ment, a boy rang a little hand-bell and raised my uncle's
vestment at the back, and two other boys, also in albs, held
up lighted candles, while I plied the censer as fast as I was
able, until the whole place was almost filled with the fragrant
smoke.
After this pai-ticular service was concluded, my uncle read
out the names of certain deceased persons for whom the prayers
of the faithful were requested. He then gave an explanation
of some of the ceremonies and advocated their use in all regu-
lar churches. He spoke of miracles and of relics, and lauded
the faith that could still believe in these. Luke-warm Chris-
tians, as well as avowed infidels, were occasionally flippant in
asserting that the true Church had no further power to prove
its authority by miracles ; or that there could be any possible
virtue in the sacred relics of departed saints. But he could
toll them that the day of miracles was not yet past, that the
accumulation of evidence in proof of those taking place, even at
the present time, was overwhelming ; and that the most won-
(lei'ful cures were })eiug performed through the holy instrumen-
tality of relics. He then told them that in support of his
vitiws, he would give them extracts from the work of a prom-
inent clergyman, who had but lately joined the Catholic Church,
and he read : — " I firmly believe that the relics of saints are
doing innumerable miracles and graces daily, and that it needs
only for a Catholic to show devotion to any saint in order to
,'
';!.!
|i'^-
IIH !
^^1 h
■I ;» i'!
358
Family Greeds.
receive special benefits from his intercession. I firmly believe
that saints in their lifetime have before now raised the dead to
life, crossed the sea without vessels, multiplied grain and bread,
cured incurable diseases, and stopped the operation of the laws
of the universe in a multitude of ways!"* And again : —
" Certainly the Catholic Church, from east to west, from north
to south, is according to our conceptions hung with miracles.
The store of relics is inexhaustible ; they are multiplied through
all lands, and each particle of each has in it at least a dormant
— perhaps an energetic — virtue of supernatural operation. At
Rome there is the true cross, the crib of Bethlehem, and the
chair of St. Peter ; portions of the crown of thorns are kept
at Paris ; the ^oly coat is shown at Treves ; the winding sheet
at Turin. At Monza the iron crown is formed out of a nail of
the cross, and another nail is claimed for the Duomo of Milan,
and pieces of our Lady's habit are to be seen in the Escurial.
The Agnus Dei, blessed medals, the scapular, the cord of St.
Francis, all are the medium of Divine manifestations of grace.
Crucifixes have bowed the head to the suppliant, and Madonnas
have bent their eye upon assembled crowds. St. Januarius'
blood liquefies periodically at Naples, and St. Winifred's well
is the scene of wonders even in an unbelieving country. Women
are marked with sacred stigmata ; blood has flowed on Fridays
from their five wounds, and their heads are crowned with a
circle of lacerations. Relics are forever touching the sick, the
diseased, the wounded, sometimes with no result at all, at
other times with marked and undeniable efficacy. Who has
not heard of the abundant favors gained by the Blessed
Virgin, and of the marvellous consequences which have
attended the invocation of St. Anthony of Padua 1 These
phenomena are sometimes reported of saints in their lifetime
. ■
* From Dr. Newman'Q Apologia.
Caught at Last
359
aly believe
,he dead to
and bread,
of the laws
i again: —
from north
Ch miracles,
ied through
b a dormant
ration. At
sm, and the
ns are kept
inding sheet
; of a nail of
no of Milan,
ihe Escurial.
cord of St.
ons of grace,
id Madonnas
|t. Januarius'
ifred's well
try. Women
on Fridays
[wned with a
I the sick, the
|lt at all, at
Who has
the Blessed
which have
iua 1 These
;heir lifetime
as well as after death, especially if they were evangelists or
martyrs. The wild beasts crouched before their victims in the
Roman amphitheatre ; the axe-man was unable to sever St.
(Jecilia's head from her body, and St, Peter elicited a spring of
water for his gaoler's baptism in the Mamertine. St. Francis
Xavier turned salt water into fresh for five hundred travellers ;
St. Raymond was transported over the sea on his cloak ; St.
Andrew shone brightly in the dark ; St. Scholastica gained by
her prayers a pouring rain ; St. Paul was fed by ravens, and
St. Frances saw her guardian angel. I need not continue the
catalogue. It is agreed on both sides ; the two parties join
issue over a fact ; that fact is the claim of miracles on the part
of the Catholic Church ; it is the Protestant's charge and it is
our glory."*
" There," said my uncle triumphantly when he had finished
reading, " there is evidence that cannot be gainsaid. The
Catholic Church is the parent of ours ; it is the venerable
mother to whom we shall ever belong ; and how let him who
dares to doubt take heed of the consequences."
He further approved of invocations to saints, and above all
in humble appeals to the Vii-gin whose intercession could be
counted on as being the most certain and effectual.
At the close of the altar service there was to be a procession
as imposing as could be formed in such a limited place, and
while some boys were making preparations for that purpose Mr.
Callaghan whispered to me, " Well, aren't you satisfied now,
you doubting pagan ? Put a piece of the shin or jaw bone of a
saint in yer pocket an' there ye are, me boy, able to dale wid the
divil himself. Holy Moses, what an array uv authorities ! All
you have to do now is to b'lieve, an' ye can raise the dead, or
cross the wide ocean straddled upon an ould jacket ! Lord
fm
■■A'h
m
I* Dr. Newman.
* I
r!!:S
360
Family Greeds.
deliver us, but ain't rale faith wonderful ! Didn't ye hear him
tell about thira crosses, an' cribs, an' chairs, an' holy coats, an'
windiu' sheets, an' ould nails, an' cords, an' medals, an' scapulars,
an' the way they could turn you inside out av you said boo to
thim ; an thin comes St. Anthony of Padua — maybe that chap
was a rale Paddy in disguise — an' the rist uv the holy fellows
doin' things to amaze us intirely. Arrah now, in rale earnest,
what d'ye think uv all that ?"
I must say that, much as I had heard before from the most
credulous and illiterate Catholics, as to what banshees, witches,
lepricawns, or fairies could do, or had done in old times, I never
heard any thing, for grossness of superstitious conception to
exceed the " marvellous consequences " said to have been wit-
nessed in bowing crucifixes, blinking madonnas, the liquefaction
of a saint's blood, the wonders of St, Winifred's well, women
bearing mysterious marks corresponding to the wounds of the
Saviour, blood flowing from these on Fridays, the axe-man
unable to cut off a saint's head, and another saint transported
over the wide sea on his cloak ! I felt shocked more particu-
larly when I was informed that an educated Englishman, even
in the blaze of the scientific light of the nineteenth century,
could assert his belief in such old wives' fables, and mouth
them throughout the land, unabashed, as being evidences not
alone of the apostolic authority of a certain church, but as
undoubted proofs of the truth of Christianity itself !
No woiidor that there should be so many scoffers in these
latter days ; no wonder that some should stand amazed, and
rub their eyes, as if to try and discover whether religion had
not made a mad-house of the wide world ; and, worse than all,
no wonder that gross superstition should still prevail among
the ignorant, while it is fostered by the licentious credulity of
so-called learned men ; a credulity which clouds the intellect,
Caught at Last.
3G1
lear him
oats, an'
capulars,
,d boo to
hat chap
y fellows
3 earnest,
the most
I, witches,
ss, I never
ception to
been wit-
quefaction
ill, women
Inds of the
3 axe-man
ransported
re particu-
man, even
century,
,nd mouth
clences not
Ich, but as
debauches the mind, and puts reason and common sense at utter
defiance !
The procession started. I led the way a few feet in advance,
swinging the censer. My uncle then came, clasping the com-
munion cup with both hands, and holding it before him ; two
boys at each side, carried lighted candles. Mr. Callaghan fol-
lowed, bearing a large silver crucifix ; while half a dozen boys,
including Jim — whom we still managed to keep with us —
dressed in albs, came on with irregular steps in the rear, some
carrying little bunches of flowers, and others little silken
banners.
The seats had been arranged, so as to permit us to pass around
the room, leaving the people to sit in the centre. As all could
not be accommodated, there being a greater number of persons
present than had been expected, ten or a dozen strangers had
to staiid at one side near the door. Most of these might have
been in sympathy with our proceedings, but as I looked at them
when passing, I thought I noticed a scowl on the faces of two
or three, while an expression of pity or of contempt was observ-
able on others.
I must say that I did not feel surprised at this, for, though
taking a reluctant part in the religious mummery, I felt the full
force of how ridiculous we must appear in the eyes of sensible
persons not blinded by the absurdity of the garish display we
were making, and what a travesty on simple devotional exercises
it must seem to nearly all.
We had to pass three times around the place. We had just
got close to the door on our last circuit, when my shoulder wa?
touched somewhat roughly by one of the strangers standing close
to me. I looked up, and, Oh horror ! there was my father, with
the old look of anger and excitement on his face ; the frown and
the expx'ession which I had so often seen when he was denounc-
24 *
l^t
.1
1-,' '.
\'-.\.- i
pi '"
SI :' •
ifciti* 1
I
I"
Ml
mi
3G2
i ill
"!: [h
Fwniily Creeds.
ing popery in presence of my mother ; and the same which we
had witnessed, and which had made us all so uncomfortable, the
last time I saw him and Mr. Casey together, at our own table.
There in the oratory stood my father, with pressed lips, as if
scanning my appearance, with the most disdainful recognition,
and there at his very side was my aunt, gazing at me with the
same bitterness of countenance with which I saw her once con-
front and accuse poor Mrs. Reardon. Had my officiating uncle
noticed my sudden nervous attack, or known anything of my
feelings, he would pr-obably have said that I was saved from
annihilation by a miracle then and there wrought in my favor.
I really felt so ashamed, so mortified, and so convicted, that I
could hardly move another step. I fancied that every eye in
the pla<;e was fixed I'^'on my confusion. A more terrible feeling
no mortal man ever endured than I did for the few moments
that I became so overwhelmed, and which moments, seemed to
me more like long, long hours.
How I got away from that terrible spot I know not ; I swung
the censer no more, my hands dropped listlessly by my side.
My knees trembled, a dinmess came before my eyfw, and I
approached the altar, as if I were a criminal on the way to
execution. I felt as if all, all, were lost, and that my father
was now, at last, in possession of my guilty secret.
which we
rtable, the
)wn table,
lips, as if
jcognition,
e with the
r once con-
iting uncle
ling of my
saved from
I my favor.
iUn\, that T
■very eye in
rible feeling
}W moments
s, seemed to
ot; I swung
by my side.
ivos, and I
the way to
,t my father
ClfAlTKR XXX 11.
LOST [N THE CLOUD.
IT is almost necdlrss for mo to relate wliat followed that dread-
ful morning. [ could not appear at breakfast. Even Mr.
Callaghan, after things had been explained to him in my half-
distracted way, looked at matters in a serious light, and rightly
Judging, from wliat I had tohl him, that my father was not a
man to be trilled with, especially as my apparent deliberate es-
pousal of what might be calle<l naked popery, was so offensive ;
and besides wlien he had been as it were, so systematically de-
ceived by myself, my mother, and my uncle, my tutor came to
the decision that my father would very })robably cast me otf
forever ; and, most likely losing all confidence in my mother's
adhesion to the ante-marital arrangement made respecting my
leligious training, would seek a sc^paration from her, if he
had not doiui so already.
Mr. Callaghan said he had heard of similar cases which had
resulted as he had indicated ; for he himself had known ami
felt something of the bitterness of religious persecution in
a social and domestic way, a kind of persecution which
evidently had the approval of religious persons who could not
be persuaded to recognise a resort to the "boot" or "thumb-
screw," but who nevertheless thought scorn and detraction a
penalty which should be paid by those who dared to be sceptica
364
Family Greeds.
n
in anything relating to high-toned popular othodoxy. I could
not but feel greatly deprcHsed, but I shall never forget his words
of kindness, sympathy and encouragement at a time when I
fully expected that I was just about to undergo the severest trial
of my life. My father had proba])ly seen my uncle immediately
after having left the oratory, for I was told that arrangements
had been nmde whereby we were all to meet in the parlor aV)Out
ten o'clock. I was, I may say, in perfect misery during the time
I had to wait, and were it not for Mr. Callaghan, to whom I
confided my apprehensions, I should scarcely find courage for the
coming interview.
The weather grew almost suddenly gloomy and misty, the
clouds crowded thickly overhead, and not a bit of blue sky could
be seen. How melancholy everything appeared ; it seemed as
if my fate was about to be decided forever. I looked on the
c serted benches outside, and I really envied the poor people
who had been fed there but an hour previously ; and I think I
should have willingly exchanged places even with "Jim," to
have his unrestricted freedom to go from this " rattry " to that
or the other as he thought most profitable, rather than meet
the frown and hear the anticipated reproaches of my father, of
which I someway felt that I was now deserving.
The hour came at last. Oh, how my heart sank. I dared
not raise my head as I entered the room. I sat close to the
door ready, if need be, to run away from my only home and
from contending relatives, ready to get rid of mental restraints
and absurd formalities, ready to escape from creed and churches,
from religion, or even f roD% life itself, rather than be harassed
as I had so long been. I sat there fearful and humbled, and
though I felt that after all I was not conscious of having ever
wilfully done a single act to make others unhappy, still I felt now
as if I were a criminal.
Lost in the Cloud.
3G5
Not a word was yet spoken. I could just discover that there
were Imt my father, my uncle, my aunt, and myself in the room ;
but my uncle instead of being disconcerted in the least by their
stern manner, looked as defiantly at his visitors as if thvy had
been mere inquisitive obtruders who were only deserving of his
contempt. He could now well afford to assume this attitude.
He was a popular priest, the leader of a peculiar sect, and, if
yet not wealthy himself, he was fairly independent and had afflu-
ent supporters who held him in great esteem ; besides he had
already defied bishops and ecclesiastical courts, as well as courts
of common law ; and, as a clergyman, he was one who really
wielded more influence in the community than some wlio were
even distinguished for their learning, their literary ability, or
their scientific attainments. His pulpit uttemnces, let them be
ever so feeble or so insipid, were generally reported in extenso
in the morning papers, while any iaformation relating to the
great or gi*and solid facts of science or philosophy were either
(excluded, or condensed into the smallest possible space in order
that popular reverend gentlemen might be awarded more room for
their prosy platitudes or doctrinal content) .>na. My uncle there-
fore appeared quite indifferent as to whether his visitors were
pleased or ofiended. He and my father had, however, evidently
arranged matters, before I entered the room. I well knew,
that when my father had determined on any course, he would
pursue it at once, and I felt that any decision he came to, respect
iug my mother or myself, would be carried out without delay.
As I could not yet raise my eyes to his face, I sat still, as
if awaiting to hear the dreaded word which would pronounce
my doom. My ear had become painfully acute, and just then,
while listening attentively for the least utterance, I heard my
aunt say in a low tone — " He is as deceitful as his mother, just
as deceitful."
m
Hfe
Bfff^
'a :;
M
m
m
fi
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'i
366
Family Creeds.
" Well, if he is, let him be," said my father in an audible
voice. '* The young man has followed his own choice, and I shall
interfere no more."
No more ? — Oh sad words ! how they struck me, as they had
struck many a poor forsaken one before ! There was something
very melancholy at the time, in the sound of those two dreary
monosyllables. The tears rushed into my eyes, for I knew that
the utterance oi the words, " no more " had, many and many a
time, been tiie death knell to some of the fondest hopes of the
human heart.
*' Oh Father," said I at last, with a tremulous voice, " Oh
sir, ii I have done anything wrong won't you forgive me —
won't youl Oh I am sorry for all this. You might have
known that I would not willingly offend you — I scarcely know
what I have done. Do forgive me and don't leave me in anger."
Tears now filled my eyes, and my heavy breathing, could, I
think, be heard outside the room. Even my uncle seemed as
if half inclined to pity and to plead foi" me. I stood with my
head bent, and my hands clasped, still fearing to approach him
to whom I should have had such ready access. But no motion
was made to receive the prodigal son. My humble attitude, or
my expressions of sincere regret, seemed to have produced no
more effect on my father or on my aunt, than the mere practice
of a bit of acting would hive had on the most careless observer.
In fact they must have fancied that what I said or did was an
unimpassioned performance — the prelude to an act of further
treachery.
" How like a true Jesuit !" exclaimed my aunt, in a kind of
half laugh.
" Oh aunt," said I, with the deepest contrition, " I am indeed
very sorry for having done anything to cause your dislike. What
can I do to prove that I am sorry for what l.us happened 1"
Lost in the Cloud.
367
*' Nothing now," she replied tartly. " You sorry 1 — not in
the least. You are a genuine papist, and I have suspected it
for some time. You took the vows of a papist in the big room,
and long before that you were one at heart. Oh, I know all
about you, you smooth-faced, dissembling brat ; your word or
your promise would be no more binding than the oath of a
Dominican priest."
My father here interrupted her ; my uncle, though evidently
d^dpleased at my half retraction, said something in my defence.
She however paid but little heed to him, yet, in spite of all my
father said to her, she appeared as if scarcely able to restrain
her indignation. I never saw her more angry ; it reminded me
of the ti e when she once hurled reproaches and accusations
against poor Mrs. Reardon.
As I expected, the businesi was soon arranged. My father
had read something pungent in one of the newspapers with
regard to the oratory and my uncle's ritualistic practices
therein, and one of my uncle's letters of a recent date to my
mother, had by some means got into my father's hands, and in
tliat he had read enough to reveal all. He then demandetl the
perusal of other similar letters, and a full explanation of every
circumstance relative to my change of faith ; and my mother,
too candid, when thus questioned by him, to keep back the
truth, confessed everything and absolutely took all the blame
to herself. Whether Nancy Ferrin had any hand in the matter
I cannot assert, but it is quite probaV)le that some chance had
oft'ered to tell my aunt ay)out my baptism in the big room ; and
the secret once in her possession would not br long reaching
uiy father's ear.
As expected by Mr. Uallaghan, my father informed us that
he and my mothc^r had separated. Arrangements were made
between him ond my uncle for her removal to Bristol. SIk;
Ml
|! !1
ir
III ^
tn
f'ti iv
368
Family Creeds.
was for the future, or for such time as she thought propter, to
reside with my uncle, and a fair annual allowance was to be
given her. My uncle very generously, offered both her and me
his home without the payment of any consideration whatever,
and he stated that any sum which my father considered sufficient
to give, should be kept exclusively for her own private use and
benefit.
The painful interview was soon brought to a close, and I
knew the worst afc last. I never imagined that anything I had
done, or could do, would produce such a change in my father
towards me. He had evidently made not the least allowance
for my youth and inexperience, but in his wild hatred of what
he deemed my deliberate and treacherous apostacy, every
natural and tender feeling for me seemed to have been en-
gulphed. Up to the last moment he showed no disposition to
relent ; he treated me as if I had been almost a perfect stranger,
and when all was over, he and my aunt departed without- a
blessing or a curse, leaving me, as she at least hoped, to the
cutting pangs of remorse, but in reality to my own sad
thoughts, — as if I were fit only to be despised or forgotten
forever.
How deeply troubled I was during the remainder of that
dreary day ! Even the sun hid his face ; the weather grew
cold and blustery, and for hours the rain poured down almost
incessantly. I sat alone in the room, with my head bowed down,
thinking of my mother, and of 8hawn, and I felt at times how
gladly I could die if by so doing my pareT«ts should again
become reconciled and united.
In about half an hour from the time my father left us
my uncle returned. He was very kind, and looked at me with
real pity and affection, and though his words were most friendly
and soothing, still my sense of 'oneliness was almost overwhelm-
N
Lost iv the Cloud.
3G9
ing. He did his l>eat, in his own peculiar way, to cheer me up,
and he told me that for the future I should look upon him as a
father, and, that as circumstances had turned out, he should
consider it his duty when the proper time came to do all in his
power — and he had some influence — to give me a good start in
life ; that, as it was, I should be proud to have l)een called on to
suffer for my religion, that I should never waver in my faith.
It was a glorious thing, he said, to be asked, as a true Ijeliever,
to take up th(^ cross, and a still more glorious duty to bear it
bravely.
He said much more to me in the kindest and most encour-
aging way, but no cheerful words from him, whatever, could
' . : had then any effect. I still felt forsaken and depressed ; and
it "V </ood uncle had only known at the moment how little X cared
to suffer for what he called my religion, or for his, or for any
other, Christian or heathen, or for bearing any cross, or even
for wearing a martyr's crown, he might have been disposed to
treat me far differently.
In my present mood, as I wanted to be alone, I left the
house and strayed away some distan(!e. The weather was
still wet and disagreeable, yet I paid but little heed to the
rain which was occasionally blown into my face. On I went,
heedless which way my steps were turned so that I could be
left to my own thoughts. I must have been out more than two
hours when I found myself near the edge of a cliff that over-
looked much of the city. My mind was somewhat diverted by
the number of objects around, which from here attracted my
attention. In the distance I could see the Cathedral, the Tem-
ple Church with its singular leaning tower. Not far from the
spot on which ^ was standing, traces of an ancient Roman
(mcampment could be discovered; and then there was the ship-
ping — always interesting to me — and the thick black smoke
pi
Iff'
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If
370
Family Creeds.
which ascended from some of the steam vessels in port, re minded
me that my father was to sail in one of these that evening for
home.
The impulse to see him once more, and, if possible, to speak
to him, now became irresistible. I hurried away from the cliff,
and never ceased walking until 1 stood on the quay at which
the steamer Frome was moored. This vessel ran between
Bristol and Cork, and it was on board of her, I learned, that
my father was to take his passage for home. She was to leave
in about half-an-hour. Most of the passengers were on board ;
others were still arriving, and I looked around in the bustle to
try and discover my father. He was not, however, to be seen
on the deck of the vessel or anywhere else. As the rain con-
tinued I thought it probable that he might be in the cabin.
Any way, to make sure, I still waited and watched. The only
individual whom I knew in the number of persons about me
was "Jim " of our oratory, who waK carrying the valise or small
trunk of some passenger.
The vessel would now leave in a few minutes, and just as I
was about to give up all hopes of seeing my father, a close car-
riage drove up to the gangway. My father and my aunt step-
ped oi|t, he led her on Iward, t/1. )ir baggage followed, and Jim
earned another penny for some little service which he had ren-
dered them. They wer» scarcely more tlian fairly on deck when
the ship's last beJl rung for her departure. How Hko a knell it
sounded in my ears at the time. There was now scarcely a pos-
sible cha: '■> of sp<!aking to my father any nwjre, and I felt as
exceedinL^ >idj\ as if J were about to part with him forever.
Any way, 1 thought 1 would make an att«*iiipt to get to him if
but for a moment, but just as 1 was going to stt^p on the plank-
way leadin)u' io the ship, it was lianleil in, and my ettbrt was a
failure.
Lost in the Cloud.
371
A loud rush of steam now came, drowning every other HOun«l,
and when this deafening noise ceased, I could hear the wind
blow through the rigging as if it wished to waft nie a wild fare-
well. The ship's great sidewheels turned slowly round, and,
beneath a sullen sky, she moved away from the shore to seek a
fresh encounter with the distant waves in the Bristol Channel.
Oh, how my heart beat at the moment ! and what a rush of
melancholy ideas followed. Parting is to me always painful,
but this parting — and in this particular way— was somethi: ig
more than dreadful. Could I not catch my father's eye once
more 1 I ran and climbed up on a stone post at the ver;' end
of the quay, and with my arms extended I waved my hat and
my handkerchief — I really think that I also shouted — yet ap-
parently in vain, as there was no recognition. Now, again, I
redoubled my efforts, for I could plainly see him standing near
the stern of the ship looking towr.rds me. He must have
caught the signal, for see, he turns aside as if to call my aunt's
ii-ttontion. Hhe comes an«l stands by his side and watches me
for a few moments. Hhe motions not to me, b"t soon walks
away, a^ if to exhibit her disdain Still /i« remains ! () God,
my father has not yet l(^ft me as she lias ! Will he not look
ui)on '".(! again ? Yes, he turns ; he sees me now, and though
my signal h, not yet answered, I can detect that there is some
change in his manner, in my favor ; for his hands are crossed,
and his head is bent as ■{ in regretful thought. I still wave
to him, though niy arms are tired with the exertion. He looks
again, he does not avert his fac(% but there he yet stands ajomf,
while bis lessening form grows dimnufr in the waning light.
He must f(!el that I want to V)e n^stored, and to have a piac-e in
his atf(H-tionate remembrance. S((e ! his hand is placcxl over
liis eyes ; there is sonu; d(!<![) nu^aning in this. Another mo-
iiieiit and he aniswers. Oreat heavcais ! His hand high above
'li'"
372
Family Creeds.
his head waves at last, his coveted signal of forgiveness ! Oh,
happiness ! his old feeling for me has return tn I ; for this last
act is sufficient assurance. My little pennant of peace is still
fluttering in the evening air, and I can yet see his in the fading
light. My eyes now fill with tears, and, while I try to keep
his receding form in view, a great black cloud of smoke from
the funnel of the v(jss«4 winds around him and hides him from
my sight. And while the heavily -freighted ship rushes onward
to reach the wild sea, and hastens out to meet the lowering
night, I still try to pierce the cloud in which he is enveloped ;
hut the cloud remains, and, though I can catch an occasional
glimpse of his answering signal, still held above his head, dark-
ness is around him. I see no more of my father, and I have a
terrible foreboding that I shall never, never see him again.
^
!88l Oh,
■ this last
ice is still
the fading
y to keep
loke from
1 him from
les onward
e lowering
enveloped ;
I occasional
head, dark-
nd I have a
1 again.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
AN unexpp:cted visitor.
I REMAINED on the wharf until the steamer was completely
out of sight. Although the night had now approached and
the weather had become almost stormy, I still strained my eyes,
and had momentary fancies that I could see the ship, and my
father by the stern still waving his last parting signal. I can-
not say how much longer I migi't have remained had I not
been aroused from my reverie by the call of a watchman, who
must have had doubts of my sanity, or of my intentions, when
he noticed me yet standing at such a time on the stone post at
the end of the now lonely quay.
With a heavy heart I turned my steps homeward. My long
and rather unusual absence must have caused some uneasiness
to my friends. I thought of this now for the first time, and I
hurried to get back in order to relieve thom from any apprehen-
sions regarding me ; for my uncle and Mr. Callaghan must
have observed how dejected I felt after my father had gone
away.
Passing along a narrow street near the principal landings, I
noticed a number of small shops. Home of these were places
of so-called entertainment, in most of which I could hear tlie
sound of music and dancing — or rather of tramping. Here
strong liquors were sold, and into these low retreats sailora
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I
Mi'f 1
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1
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374
Family Creeds.
were freciuontly enticed, and then kept by duly licensed lau<l
Hharks, until the last nhilling of their unHuspecting victiniH was
abstracted. Others were places where a small stock of artichfs
could be found for sale needful for sea-faring meit; and 1 knew
by the thr(?e gilt balls hanging over the doors of other s:»ops
that th(^se were the dens of a certain mean class of pawnbrokers,
who gave trifling loans to needful or to di'unken sailors, or to
uneinploy(Ml wandtirers in a state; of necessity, taking as security,
watches, pistols, knives, coats, caps, or <!ven shirts, -most of
which would ntjver be redeeimnl — no advance on anytliing be-
ing made unhiss that which was olVenid was at least worth four
or five times the value of the sum reipiintd ; and, in many a
case of extremity, a needful article, ev(in of clothing, would be
let go for a bare sixpence ; or a sailor, to satisfy his craving,
might give his best knife, or his only handk«;rchief, for the
mere price of "a glass of grog."
As I went close to one of these pawn shops, I was sur|)ris(Ml
to see our Jim — or "rattry Jim, "as Mr. (Jallaghan called him
— standing just inside the door. His back was towards me,
for he seemed to be int(;rest(Hl in some bargain or " operation "
taking place at the counter or desk. 1 had some curiosity to
know what Jim could be doing there at such a time, and I
drew sufficiently near the little shop window, without being
observed, to see those within as v/ell as to hear their conversa-
tion. A woman stood at the counter, and the man behind it —
evidently a Jew — was examining a cloth cloak, one Avhich his
customer had probably but lately removcsd from her shoulders.
She was a delicate looking person in figure, and to all appear-
ance needed, this cold evening, the covering with which she was
about to part. I could only see a little of her side face, while
she spoke a few words in a low tone to the proprietor, who ap-
parently wished to undervalue the article,
An Uiwxpec.letl ViHUor.
37
a
iHcd land
;timH was
)f articlc-H
x\ 1 knew
\wr H.'lOpH
nibrokoiH,
loi-H, or to
LHHccurity,
--most of
yUiinf,' 1><!-
worth four
in many u
f, would l)('
lis craving,
i(.f, for tlu;
,s Huri)riH«'<l
called him
) wards nw,
operation "
iuriosity to
inie, and I
thout being
r conversa-
Ibehind it —
which his
shoulders,
all appear-
lich she was
face, while
ior, who ap-
'* Vy, mi goot madam, pen mi vord of honour, cef 1 havint
offered you all, all dat she is vort — all. Dat cloag, der mantle,
is halv vorn alredy, you know dat, an halv-a-crown is all she is
vort — all. See (lore, she has beiui mtindetl ein, zweiy dreivml —
three time — one, two, thn^e plac(;B. You can see for yourself,
my tear madam, you can see for yours<'lf, you know," and the
Jew took some pains to discover and point out tin* places which,
accoi'ding to his vi(!w, had necd«;d repair, or luid been n^paind,
" vielmal."
"I know the cloak is not cw," said the woman, "hut I can
assure you it has Ikmmi w(^1I <al«!n care of; the cloth alone cost
more than two pounds, and you sc^e it is quitt; good yet."
Though the voices was soft and ph;ading, tln^e was something
in the vcTy sound of her words that almost sUirthxl me. It
was a familiar voice, but where or wlum J had heard it before,
I was at th«! monuuit <juit(! unable to remeudwir.
"Oh, you praise your own ting.s. Das int suhur yiU, nho.r —
but I may be the best judge, my good lady. But I say all vot
[ vill do now. I'll just make de geld, de money, for you drie,
(lit8 vst dree schilling. Now, dat is all," and he raised his t)pen
hand as if to deprecate any further argument on the subject.
I could notice the unwillingness of the woman to accept his
offer, but her need must have been pressing. She now sj)oke
so low that I could not hear her reply. She seemed v(iry re-
luctant to part with the cloak, but at last she held out her hand
!ind took the money.
The Jewish dealer handed the cloak to a boy and told him to
number it and put it away ; he gave a ticket, or certificate, to
the woman, and as she turned to leave the place, he look(;(l
elated, and muttered to himself in German, " Sie JiMt es nicht
thnn mogen, aber was Kann ich dafur.^^
"A nice place^ ini^m. Oh, yes, shure as I live, a tine place,
V
Ii7(i
Family Cri'edM.
!.• jf
■■■••>
K. J ^
li
i
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! v.
ony ihripuuco for lodging; an' scjo iv I don't call in tho uiornin'
an' ta,k«! you to St. Phil's — that' h the very rattry you want to
fin<l — an' I'll take you to matins, as they calls 'oni ; an' may I
jiiver, iv after that you don't git yer breakfast free, an' all for
thripunce, with ony a penny for my trouble. — That's all shure
as I live— I'm blowed, mum, iv it ain't."
Jim said this in reply to some inquiry by the woman who
had just left the pawn ottic(\ and to whom he was now acting
as a kind of escort. It was plain that she wished to find some
safe retreat for the night, and being a stranger, and no doubt
in necessity, trusted to tho guidance of "rattry" Jim.
I followed at a little distance and left them at the first street
corner ; my course being in a different direction. As I went
along, though tho wind blew fierce and cold, I forgot my father
for the moment and tried to recollect where I had heard that
woman's voice before. Indeed so keen was my desire to dis-
cover who she was that, were it not so late, I think I would
have followed her to her lodgings in order to satisfy my curi-
osity ; and then I thought what wretched lodgings she would
have to be satisfied with if only a bare threepence could pay
for the accommodation.
When I reached St. Philip's I found my uncle and Mr.
Callaghan in serious conversation with our fam.ily physician.
During my absence Mrs. Tracy, our housekeeper, had been
taken dangerously unwell. She had been rather poorly for
some time, and I heard the doctor say that her symptoms
gave him very little hope. She might, he said, linger for a few
days, but he plainly stated that, owing to her constitutional
debility and her present very feeble state, she could not live
another week unless Providence interposed, or unless some
miracle should be wrought in her favor.
When my uncle heard this he was in deep thought for a few
An Unexpected Visitor.
377.
) moruiu'
want to
n' may 1
,n' all f«r
all Hhure
)inan who
ow acting
, tin«l aomo
no doubt
t.
! first street
As I went
,t my father
heard that
psire to dis-
^k I would
•y my curi-
she would
-. could pay
jle and Mr.
physician.
|r, had been
Ir poorly for
\r symptoms
iger for a few
lonstitutional
)uld not live
unless some
ightforafew
inoinonts. He had tlvc! greatest regard for his old housekeeper,
and 1 saw that he was very much concerned about her ; and
when the doctor reassfirted that neither physician's skill nor
the most potent medicine that could bo administered would
now avail, I was a little surprLsed to hear my uncle say that
we should try th(! " j)ower of pray(!r," — the prayer of one or
iiiort! of God's divinely appointed and ordained ministers. Ho
was, he said, satisfi(Ml that in her case that would prove a
rem(idy, and, to this end, that special supplicatory services
should be lield in the oratory for her next morning.
The doctor, who was a leading member of my uncle's con-
gregation, readily concurred. He might have had liis private
doubts, for I have reason to believe that his faith in his own
professional treatment was far beyond his faith in any other
curative experiment — especially one of an ecclesiastical kind- —
l>ut, as my uncle's powerful recommendation among his people
was worth cultivating, the doctor very wisely asserted his
belief in the continuation of " Apostolic gifts." Was not my
uncle — the doctor's beloved pastor — one of the genuine suc-
cessors, one of the true priestly descent, and, this being so, his
clerical power of healing might in this case be made manifest.
Now that human efforts had, to all appearance, signally failed,
if Mr.s. Tracy recovered it would be another evidence to a
scoffing multitude that God's divinely appoint(;d ministers had
still power to restore the sick and bid him who was diseased
and prostrate to arise and take up his bed and walk.
I could see that my uncle felt pleased or flattered when he
h(;ard his friend the doctor make such observations, and I
really think that he — like others of the "cloth" — could easily
])e persuaded to fancy himself possessed of superhuman powers.
I sat up ver}' late that night. My mind was disturbed by
different feelings, and I could not rest. I thought of my father
26
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(716) 872-4503
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Family Creeds.
and of our aad and singular parting. I thought of that strange
voice which someway connected the woman I had seen that
night with something of the past; and th^ when I reflected
upon the languishing condition of poor Mrs. Tracy, I felt
downcast and had no inclination for sleep.
After midnight the wind increased to a gale. At intervals
the house seemed to tremble. Strange, wierd moanings could
be heard outside, and the windows rattled as if some spirit of
the storm was trying to gain admittance. I ventured to make
bare one of the comer panes and to look out. The street, as
far as I could see, was deserted. There was sufficient light to
enable me to behold the clouds rushing about the dreary sky,
and far out towards the sea everything appeared to be in a
state of wildness and confusion. The night, and the storm, and
tlie tempest on the great deep, made me shudder with appre-
hension when I thought of the danger to which my father
might then be exposed on the treacherous waves of St. George's
Channel.
The Frome was but a small vessel. She was old, and re-
puted not to be very seaworthy. As her captain was, however,
known to be skilful and cautious, it was not considered that
there was any particular risk in taking a short voyage from
England to Ireland on board his ship. Anyway, do what 1
could, my fears increased, and, as the black night lingered, 1
imagined that the storm became more furious, and though I
seldom prayed from the heart, though my lips at that solemn
time gave no formal utterance, yet a deep, fervent petition —
the petition of my anxious soul — was sighed for the safety of
my father.
In an hour or so after this it grew much calmer and I fell
asleep. But my sleep was not one of forgetfulness ; my dreams
brought back a more terrific storm than I had ever witnessed
An Unexpected Visitor.
379
lat strange
geen that
I reflected
acy,
I felt
^t intervals
nings could
ne spirit of
red to make
iie street, as
ient light to
dreary sky,
i to be in a
ihe storm, and
r with appre-
3h my father
>f St. George's
old, and re-
I was, however,
)n8idered that
voyage from
ly do what 1
[ht lingered, 1
land though I
It that solemn
lent petition —
the safety of
tier and I fell
I • my dreams
lever witnessed
when awake. I could hear the roar of the wild gale, and I im-
agined that the whole wide sea was one vast stretch of seething
foam. Hidden ro«ks seemed co rise at every surge of a wave,
and great fishes appeared to be crowding around as if in wait
for their certain prey. In the gloom I could just see the
Frome reeling, as it were, on her wild course to certain de-
struction. And there was my father now kneeling by the stem
where I had last seen him. His hands were raised on high as
if begging for mercy, and then I thought he saw me and shouted
for my assistance. In a moment afterwards I saw the ship
heaved upon a mighty billow, the breakers were almost under
her bow, and then, when all prayers seemed to be of no avail, and
when all hope seemed lost, I saw him rise from his knees and
wave his little signal to mc again. Then I heard a fearful crash ;
the Frome had disappeared, and her timbers were scattered in
a thousand pieces over the wild and desolate waste of waters.
I arose very early next morning, but was quite unrefreshed.
The weather was cold and dreary, and the remembrance of my
dream greatly disturbed me. I was scarcely prepared to leave
the room when I heard a rap at my door; and I was hurriedly
requested to go and find the doctor. Mrs. Tracy was said to
be dying. I was almost shocked. When I got down stairs I
met Mr. Oallaghan in the hall, and he told me not to leave the
house as a messenger had already l)een sent for the physician.
I saw my uncle in the parlor ; he wa.s seated in a chair with
his head bent down and holding a handkerchief to his eyes
He appeared to be much affected at the idea of losing foi*ever
his old and trusted housekeeper, for whom I knew he had the
greatest regard. I now felt satisfied that her end must \nt fast
approaching, there was a solemnity about the place, and I could
hear the muffled tread of the nurses up in her chamber, as they
hastened in their services at the last sad moment.
380
1 I
1
J
VI
i< ■
ill
I
Family Creeds.
We all waited impatiently for the. doctor. He came at last,
and he had hardly more than time to look at the face of his
patient when he desired that we should all* come in and take
our final leave of our poor friend. Every one present was
deeply grieved, and the few of us who had been intimate with
her so long were unable to keep their tears. She knew us all to
the last moment, and she died calm and resigned, murmuring
the beloved names of her husband and son.
I felt her loss very much. Every year she had grown more
attached to my uncle and his friends, even the poor who
attended daily outside, had ever had her most humane con-
sideration ; and many of these afterwards wept when they
could hear her voice of sympathy no longer. To me in particular
she had shown many marks of the most tender regard. She
had been more like a mother to me than anyt^'^g else, and I
shall miss her serene face and her gentle smile for ever. I should
be most happy to feel assured that her fon<l anticipations had
at last been realized, and that she had met her dear ones in
some happier world than this, never, never more to part
We had many poor friends with us that dreary morning.
The benches outside were filled, and some who could not find
seats stood silently around. It was evident that most of them
came at this particular time more out of respect to the memory
of her who had just departed than for any other object.
As there was to be no service in the oratory, Mr. (Jallaghan
and I had more leisure to tlistribute among our needy visitors
what had been provided for a breakfast. In order that none
should be kept waiting too long we asked Jim to assist us.
When he came near me he whispered that he had brought a
" new convert to the rattry," that he thought she knew me, and
wanted to say something to me in private. In a few moments
I followed him to the door or gateway which led into our little
All Unexpected Vimtor.
881
line at last,
face of his
ft and take
)re8ent was
timate with
lew us all to
murmuring
grown more
B poor who
lumane con-
i when they
in particular
regard. She
g else, and I
krer. I should
cipations had
dear ones in
» part.
axy morning,
ould not find
most of them
o the memory
object.
^r. (^allaghan
needy visitors
der that none
to assist us.
lad brought a
knew me, and
few moments
into our little
yard. A woman stood there alone. She seemed disinclined to
speak while Jiii; was present. I told him to go and assist Mr.
Callaghan, and when he left us, she uncovered her face, a
face faded and worn since I had last seen it, but the features
were readily recognized, and when she spoke I knew the voice
again, it was that which I had heard in the pawn office the
previous evening. How great was my surprise, for there, sadly
changed in appearance, stood Mrti. Reardon.
Her story, since I had la.st seen her, wtu) soon told. My
aunt's anger or jealousy against her had increased to such a
degree that she could not remain any longer in my aunt's house,
oven though Mr. Sharp, my uncle, had given her every assur-
ance that neither she nor Bertha should be further diuturbed.
But Mr. Sharp's open protection had only added fuel to the
dame. He could never counteract my aunt's misrepresentations,
nor tlie scandalous unsupported assertions of Nancy Ferrin.
Evil re|)orts are double winge<l. In this case wise owls hooted
them from steeples, and even from pulpits, and religious crows
and ravens cawed them aloud from tree tops, as well as from
orthotlox tea tables. Highly monvl church members whispered
accusations against him^ and, in a tit of honest indignation, he
took leave of church, pastor, and brethren, and rather irrever-
ently consigned them all to the special care of that malign
potentate who has been accused by true believers of having so
often and so successfully counteracted the beneficent designs
of Providence ; and bands of pious females who would turn
aside their heads in holy contempt should they chance to meet
au erring sister in the street, now afiected to be mentally dis-
quieted lest even the mention of the name of this poor perse-
cuted woman should produce contamination.
Grossly traduced by so-called moral and religious society,
Mrs. Reardon could seldom remain more than a few mouths in
ll
h
■t.!!
»
382
Famdly Greeds.
ij
one neighborhood. She had been obliged to shift about from
place to place, and from town to town. But as the shafts of
malice were sure to follow, if defamation had not already pre-
ceded her, she had often found herself in a very distressed
position. Mr. Sharp, however, honestly feeling himself under
an obligation to assist her, did aid her as well as he could, in
defiance of every evil tongue, but mostly in such a manner that
the recipient of his benevolence seldom knew whence it came.
He also succeeded in obtaining a situation for Bertha as a kind
of governess in the family of an old friend, ar.d though Mrs.
Beardon was very loth to part with her daughter, yet for her
sake she made a sacrifice, but with the hope of an early reunion.
Time passed away, and greatly wearied with her wandering,
imsettled life, she decided on leaving Ireland again. She knew,
of course, that I was in Bristol. She also kne^ that I had
always been most friendly to her, and under the impression
that I might be of service to her in some way, she fled from her
pei-secu^ors and arrived in Bristol the very evening that my
father and my aunt took their strange departure from St.
Philip's. It was fortunate that she chanced to meet Jim at
that particular time. Her purse and the small amount which
it contained had been stolen, no doubt within a few minutes
after she landed, and owing to this mishap she had been obliged
to pledge her cloak as I had witnessed.
That very forenoon I sent Jim to the pawnbroker — for he
knew the place well — and released this article. She permitted
me to provide for her until we should have more leisure to
confer. The day after the interment of poor Mrs. Tracy, I had,
however, the great satisfaction of seeing Mrs. Beardon installed
as my uncle's housekeeper on my sole recommendation.
A week had now passed since my father had turned away
from us at Bristol — a dreary, lonely week since I had seen hiui
An Uneaypected Visitor.
383
ix>ut from
ghafts of
ready pre-
distressed
self under
te could, in
lanner that
loe it came,
a as a kind
lOUgh Mrs.
yet for her
rly reunion,
wandering,
She knew,
that I had
3 impresRion
led from her
ng that my
•e from St.
leet Jim at
lount which
tew minutes
been obliged
wave hia signal of adieu from the stempost of the vessel that
had borne him off near the approach of night Oh how gloomy
were the hours, and the days, and the nights, of that harassing
period while I waited so anxiously for the news of his safe
arrival home. But day after day went by, and I could get no
satisfactory reply to my eager inquiries — the vague nmiors
were sickening— nothing was heard of the ship in which he had
sailed, and how dreadful was my apprehension when at the end
of that long, long week of waiting, there came back no tidings
of the "Fromk."
Iker— for he
le permitted
leisure to
Tracy, I had,
Ion installed
bion.
burned away
lad seen him
.1^
3 i
Wl
If
¥
iy
CHAPTER XXXIV.
"WHAT AUE TUE WILD WAVES SAYIMUr
HOW many of the pure in heart and of the gentle in spirit
are classed among the worthless or depraved, and have
to remain among the injured and unpitied through adverse
circumstances ovef. which they have scarcely ever had the least
control. How many of the upright and noble-minded have
been maligned, misrepi'esented, and misunderstood, in conse-
quence of their having been embarrassed by intricate social
ordinances comprehended by few, or by artificial rules and fine-
drawn moral precedents which perplex the uninitiated and the
unsuspecting ; by codes and formulas which often rudely
domineer over honest, natural impulses, that are sometimes
rated, by affected advocates of conformity, as evidences of a
wayward, or of a depraved disposition. How many of the kind,
the tender, and the well-meaning, especially among women, have
been anathematized for an only sin, and thrust among the
despised and rejected, because, having been of a too trustful
nature, they were deceived, and the one, and it may be the
only one, false step which they may have unwittingly taken
and bitterly repented of, has brought upon themselves the most
uncharitable scorn and contempt, vastly disproportionate to the
social offence, placing them almost forever outside the pale of
so-called respectable society. How many of such as these are
ly
" What are the Wild Waves Saying r
385
or
itle ill spirit
id, and have
igh adverse
lad the least
linded have
d, in conse-
ricate social
les and fine-
itcd and the
ften rudely
sometimes
deuces of a
of the kind,
*romeii, have
among the
too trustful
may be the
ingly taken
ves the most
onate to the
the pale of
as these are
left under a ban of humiliation, are forced to cast their lot
among the proscribed, and to spend a weary life almost entirely
excluded from genial intercourse and association, from hallowed
sympathy, and from the sweet, blessed mercies of charity and
reconciliation.
Alas, for the Christian compassion which is too generally
dealt out to the fallen or the unfortunate, by the flaunting,
Pharisaical, self-righteousness of the times ! How little of real
humanity has been found in that specious morality which, while
pretentiously exhibiting an arbitrary code of ethics, and tlis-
playing its gilt-edgetl certificate of purity — often a glittering
counterfeit — hides its own dissolute features behind a mask of
innocence or piety, and, as if dreading pollution, loftily scorns
to touch the trembling hand, frequently held out in vain, which
mutely pleads for pity.
O ye exemplary women of the great moral world, ye luminous
leading stars of society, ye who can fotmally say so much to
your weak or erring sisters alK>ut repentance and forgiveness,
know ye not that there is a sin which, for many of them, ye
'* have never forgiveness ;" a sin which ye may det^m but a
mere frailty in their brothers, but a deep, indelible stain upon
the character of her who may have been wilfully and treacher-
ously wronged, or whose pitiful poverty or deprivation may
have forced her reluctantly to make a choice between impurity
and death. And then, O ye immaculate, whil«; spurning the
poor suffering creature who has lieen betrayed, ye can, as a rule,
overlook the infamy of the l)etrayer, ye can, without much
delay, exalt him to the position of a hero, and — wonderful
obliviousness — even take him to your own bosoms !
O ye amiable regulators of social rewards and punishments,
to whose sole decision is generally left the pardon, or overlook-
ing or condemnation of the faults of those of your own fair sex,
, y
:
i«
#1!
^flH
11*
:?i^
386
Family Creeds.
how repeatedly in pronounoing upon a siBter's frailties or mis-
fortune, have ye become masculine in sternness, virile in hate,
and unwomanly in vindictiveness ! In' your relentlessness as
judges, what sighs ye have drawn from sorrowful bosoms, what
bitter tears ye have caused to be shed, what hearts ye have
riven, what spirits ye have crushed, what sudden and violent
deaths ye have occasioned, and, if your religious doctrines of
predestination or of retribution be true, what souls ye have con-
signed to eternal perdition !
If delightful places of honor and distinction in this sublun-
ary sphere could be reserved for the really excellent of the earth,
or if golden thrones or pearly seats of glory could he found for
those worthy of being ranked among saintH or angels in any
brighter world than this, the proudest positions on earth, and
the most beautiful retreats in heaven should be set aptirt for
benevolent and heroic women, who, in defiance of almost inex-
orable social regulations, and inhuman prejudices, will not only
pity her who has been misled through misfortune, but who will
readily extend the hand of reconciliation to a repentant sister ;
and who shall also insist that any penalty due for social delin-
quencies shall be paid impartially by all alike without any dis-
tinction as to sex ; and, particularly, that, where a woman has
erred, some blessed ray of hope shall be held out that her past
sin, or her indiscretion, shall not be an eternal bar to her social
restoration.
Had one of the angels I have just spoken of entered our
dwelling, our home could not have been more like heaven than
Mrs. Eeardon made it within a week. Poor Mrs. Tracy, dur-
ing her indisposition, had been unable to give matters her usual
supervision, a laxity of household discipline had consequently
taken place, and there was, therefore, some neglect and irregu-
larity. But under Mrs. Beardon's management things were
" What are the WUd Waves Saying T 387
quickly restored to order, duties within the house went on like
olook-work, and there was an air of [leace and content about
the place which was delightful. My uncle, I knew, must have
thought so. He seemed to care more about household affairs
than he ever had before. Ho appeared very much pleased
when consulted by his new housekeeper; he readily approved of
her suggestions, and concurred most cheerfully in any change
recommended by her. Indeed, it was quite apparent that h«
took unusual interest in Mrs. Reardon. He must have con-
sidered her a paragon of excellence, not alone as a housekeeper,
but as a gentle, pious lady of exquisite disposition and attain-
ments, and it somehow struck me that my uncle fancied that
she could not be surpossetl either in mind or person. It was
evident that he enjoyed her society. Instead of roadin alone
in his study, as he used to do, he would join her in the parlor,
after tea — a proposal of his own, — and either read to her, or
entertain her in some other way^ "hile she sat sewing at the
opposite side of the table. For no matter how busy she had
been kept during the day, when evening came, in order to please
him and perhaps to make the place look more home-like and
cheerful, she would remain down stairs and ply her needle as
diligently almost as of old, as if she had some task work to
perform which needed every moment without intermission.
Mr. Oallaghan also seemed to feel the attraction of her
presence ; he showed this in many odd and peculiar ways. Of
old he had mostly retired to his own room after tea, to enjoy
his pipe, assist my studies, and often tell me droll
stories ; but now, when a certain hour came, he would stroll
awkwardly into the room, and with a kind of shy look take a
seat in a corner and appear to be solely interested in my
uncle's reading or conversation. I may have been mistaken,
but once or twice it struck me that my uncle seemed to feel
T
3M8
Family Creeds.
rather diHconcerted when Mr. (Jallaghan untoriMl the room, as
if his outranoe wa« a kind of interruption, or perhapH intrusion ;
but, as it was, no one, I think, appeared to notice this but my-
self. Mrs. Keardon had not l)een long with uh when Mr.
Callaghan tpld me he had never found the houwe 80 like a real
home. Ho became more spruce in appearance, more cautious
in his habits, and I fancy that he sought opportunities to have a
few words with our new housekeeper, or to meet her, as if by
chance, on some occasions wlurn she wont out for a walk. With
regard to my uncle, the clerical sternness, or coldness, or dig-
nity sometimes aflfected by him seeme<l to have been warmed
down frequently to more than geniality, and I really feel cer-
tain that one and all wished for thd appi'oach of those quiet
'Evenings so -.hat we could meet and spend an hour or two
together before bed-time,
" A most excellent woman, John," said my uncle to m(^, in a
kind of confidential manner, one day when we wore alone. "A
most exemplary person, and far in advance of us in religious
matters ; for even our services at the oratory do not, it seems,-
come up to her standard of perfection." He spoke in an under
tone, as if afraid of being overheard ]>y any one but myself.
"You know she is a Roman Catholic, uncle."
" Yes, yes. I know that," he replied, " I value her more on
that account. She is most conscientious in that respect, yet I
someway thought we had already made a sufficiently near ap-
proach to the original to have it pass almost for the thing itself."
" Indeed you have, uncle. Many think you are the same all
but in the name ; but a genuine Roman Catholic who fancies
that his creed is the primitive religious belief unchanged and
unchangeable, can have scarcely more than contempt for that
which may appear to him to be but an imitation of the Mother
Church. Mrs. Reardon can see a difference where perhaps you
e room, aa
i intrusion ;
lis but iny-
when Mr.
liko a real
re cautiouH
)H to have a
er, as if by
alk. With
lOHH, or dig-
en warmed
ly feel cer-
those quiet
our or two
to me, in a
alone. "A
in religiouH
t, it seems,'
in an under
myself.
ler more on
ipect, yet I
ly near ap-
ling itself."
he same all
ho fancies
langed and
t for that
he Mother
rbaps you
" What are the Wild Waves Saying r
389
or I could not. The most imperfect system is often buoyed up
by innate self-consequence, and that is as often developed into
a feeling of supremacy by the servile action of imitators."
My uncle drew his hand two or three times thoughtfully
across his forehead. " I won't say," said he, almost soliloquis-
ing ; ** I won't say that the Catholic Church is an im()erfect
system. Thc^re is a difference l)etwoen us, I suppose — there
must be, of course, for priests are now required to lie celilMites.
It was not, however, always thus, still they are inexorable on
this point — and — and — " He finished the sentence with a
little sigh, as if he felt there was some obstacle in the way, or
some virtue or excellence in pure Romanism which he feared
that he would never be able to attain.
One evening after this, when Mr. O'Callaghan appeared to be
unusually excited — I fear he had gone alone to test the wine in
the oratory, — he remained in his room, and was earnest in his
desire that I should stay with him, but was careful not to be
seen by anyone else. He was inclined to be confidential, yet he
seemed unwilling or unable to tell all he evidently wished
to say. I certainly thought that it must be something of a very
peculiar nature when he felt reluctant to impart his mind to
me, to whom he had revealed the principal trials and troubles
of his life. He made one or two abortive attempts and then
grew silent.
" Arrah, Jack," said he at last, touching me on the shoulder,
and using his broadest brogue — his favorite mode of expression
when he was rather " elevated " — " Arrah, Jack, I'm bothered
to death, so I am ; me heart is like a lump of lead, so it is ; an'
iv I'm not a'most — yis, bi the mortial, altogither — in the very
mess I was wonce before — an' a'most half crazy in. the bar-
gain — there's no truth in what I say. Oh, be gor, I'm in for
it now, and that's beyant the beyants, so it is."
e»
It:':'
h\ ,
I..
390
Family* Creeds.
Mr. O'Callaghan was obviously troubled about something of
a serious nature ; so far I had not the most remote idea of
what it could be, but when he raised his head and asked me a
certain question I knew all in a moment.
''Jack, were you ever in lovel"
There w£,s a pause, for in my astonishment at such a ques-
tion I made no reply.
' * Of course you weren't — no not yit. Well av you ain't you will
be ; it's as certain to come as death, so it is, an' the divil a know
1 know which is the worst — one is as bad as the other ; be the
powers, as I am now, av I had to choose I'd rather be a day cent
ghost at wance than the livin' scarecrow I'm likely to be av this
thing goes on much farther. Oh," said he, looking down and tap-
ping the floor with his foot, " I'm in a beautiful state, ain't II"
What reply could I make t 1 could say nothing.
" Say, Jack," said he pulling me towards him, and putting
his mouth close to my ear, " sha's the same one, be all that's
good, the very same one I tould you about that 1 had seen long
ago — an angel from heaven. Jack— an' iv I'm not head over
heels in love agin, the divil a man was iver in the same unfor-
tunate state before me. Oyea, Jack, what the divil am I to do
wid myself at all at all 1 An' thin there's the ould fellow,
shure he watches me like a fox, so he does, an' av I happen to
meet her alone — which is not very often — I can hardly git a
chance to git in a word edgeways about the sun, or the moon,
or the weather, or iny livin' thing else, until he's right at me
heels givin' me a look which exactly manes, ' What the mis-
chief are ye doin' here ye dirty blaguard ye,' an' thin — but
stop avick." Here Mr. Callaghan closed his eye and gave me
a wonderful knowing look with the other. " Whisper, Jack,
digger alanra. There's a kick in the ould fellow yit, ye may
take yer solemn oath of that."
"What are the Wild Waves Saying r 391
)mething of
lote idea of
asked me a
such a ques-
ain't you will
divil a know
)ther ; be the
be a daycent
' to be av this
iown and tap-
tate, ain't II"
ig-
, and putting
5, be all that's
had seen long
jot head over
|e same unfor-
il am I to do
ould fellow,
I happen to
hardly git a
or the moon,
's right at me
hat the mis-
Ian' thin — but
and gave me
hisper, Jack,
yit, ye may
I must confess that T was rather uncertain as to his mean-
ing, but he hurriedly proceeded to enlighten me.
'• Oh, don't look so bewildered, there's a kick in him yit I
tell ye. Nabochlish, av I don't know tliat I'm the biggest
omadhaion out. Wait a little, avick, an' av ye don't find out
for yerself I'm no prophet. Shure he's watchin' her, an' tendin*
her, an' waitin' on her, an' colloguein' wid her, an' iv he's not
soon beeeechin' her — iv he's not been at it a'ready — I'll let you
call me the stupidist gonivioch out av Bedlam. Oh shure ; I 8?e
how its been goin' on for some time ! He talks av havin' nuns,
or collectin' a lot uv thim ugly ould unmarried virgins around
him — the Lord save us, that nobody else would have ! — to pray
here an' there, an' to mope about the oratory, jest as iv he was
determined to scare the viry divil himself away from the place.
I've seen some uv thim faymale scarecrows that were pious an'
wrinkled enough to make Ould Nick hop off purty q rick whin
he saw thim comin'. But yer uncle will niver make a nun uv
her. No, ma bourhall, he won't do that. She'll niver cut off
her purty long haif, an' bandage her head up in thim black an'
white things that are too ugly even to ornament a dead corpse.
He'd niver have her sweet face turn pale wid piety, or change
God's natest model into deformity for the sake uv havin' her
look religious. No, Jack, he wont do that ; he'd rather see
Satan, or Beelzebub, or Lucifer, or Ould Nick, or \^hativer
other polite title you may give the Divil himself, ramble around
at large among saints an' sinners alike -which is, as you know
we are tould, his lawful occupation — than rob her uv her
natural beauty to make a gloomy ugly nun or even a Mother
Abbess uv her. Shure she's a livin' blessed angel as it is, an'
maybe he doesn't know it ; an' he'd rather live on buttermilk
an' crubeens wid her in a hovel, than have port wine an' roast
beef in a bower uv roses wid any one else. Arrah Jack, he's
i
^f.i
il
i
J
II
I !
392
Family Creeds.
me rival, me deadly rival, that's the holy all there's about it —
the pair uv 'em will soon be the death uv me, an' now I fear
there's nothin' for me but to pack up an' lave this vale uv tears
at once, an', be gor, from what I can see, the sooner the better
for me own sweet self."
He said much more in the same strain, and from what I had
already seen and heard I could not but think that there was
something strange and peculiar in his words and manner, as
well as in my uncle's, whenever Mrs. Reardon became the sub-
ject of conversation. I was of course surprised when I fully
discovered my uncle's weakness in allowing himself to be con-
trolled, as he really seemed to be, by an almost sudden attach-
ment for his housekeeper. As for her, it was however plain to
be seen that she had not the remotest idea that the friendship
which was shown her since she had assumed charge at St.
Philip's, was anything more than the ordinary kind ; and from
what I knew of her I felt almost certain that she would never
again encourage anyone, no matter what his position, to enter-
tain for her any feeling of a more tender nSiture. To my mind
she was stern in this respect, and though my uncle was old
enough to be her father, or perhaps her grandfather, I now
began to fear that on her account an alienation or a separation
would take place before long bet\veen Mr. Callaghan and him-
self, and that he would indulge hig infatuation until, sooner or
later, he became awakened from a very foolish dream.
I must say that I was more troubled than amused when I
discovered how things were situated in our hitherto quiet home.
At any other time I might have thought more of the matter,
but as my mind was so very uneasy on account of my father, I
could think but of little else than that which concerned him.
Next morning after breakfast, while my uncle was reading
the latest news, I chanced to turn my eyes towards him and
" W/Mt are the Wild Waves Saying?" 393
about it —
now I fear
ale uv tears
r the better
what I had
it there was
I manner, as
ime the sub-
(vhen I fully
If to be con-
idden attach-
ever plain to
be friendship
harge at St.
id ; and from
would never
iion, to enter-
To my mind
iicle was old
"ather, I now
a separation
lan and him-
itil, sooner or
.m.
used when I
quiet home,
the matter,
my father, I
serned him.
was reading
,8 hJTn and
saw a very grave expression suddenly appear in his face. Hav-
ing read and apparently re-read tliat which must have been
something of serious importance, he looked at me, and, without
saying a word, pointed to the item of news in order that I might
peruse it also. The first words were sufficient to convey the
dreadful intelligence. The steamer, with all on board, in which
my fatlier had sailed from Bristol, had been lost in the Chan-
nel almost to a certainty. Pieces of the wreck had been found
scattered along the coast, and one of the ship's boats marked
" Frome " had been discovered stranded bottom upwards.
Barrels, and bales of goods known to have formed part of the
cargo of the ill-fated vessel had also been cast ashore, but, so
far, noi a human body had been seen. Most probably any who
had tried to escape in the boats of the steamer had perished ;
for sea-faring men had freely expressed the conviction that no
ordinary pinnace or launch could have ever reached shore in
safety during the storm that had raged on the night of the
departure of the Frome from Bristol.
Harassed by dreadful forebodings as I had been during the
past week, I was yet scarcely prepared for such fearful intelli-
gence. I could hardly believe in the possibility of such a
catastrophe as the newspaper had announced ; but as hour after
hour pas.sed, and as neither my uncle nor Mr. Callaghan, nor
any one else, held out the least hope, I settled down into the
sullen conviction that I would never see my poor father again,
and that he and my aunt had met their sad fate together.
Nothing can equal woman's sympathy during the hours of
our saildost bereavement. The kindness and tenderness of
Mrs. Reardoii at that time I shall never forget ; she said all
that her motherly heart could suggest. She could pity luv, and
weep with me, and pray for me, but according to her religious
views, she could not supplicate for the souls of the heretic dead
26
I
i
'1 i
m
r
I
!'
Iil<
394
Family Creeds.
— this Is virtually forbidden by the Catholic Church. To her
mind their eternal destiny must have been fixed and unalter-
able. Yet though indifierent, or even rather skeptical as I
was at other times, I now felt an impulse to pray. To pray for
what 1 I felt that no prayer of mine could restore those whom
I had lost, or alter, or ameliorate the inevitable. I was even
doubtful that there was an Omnipotence who could perform
such a miracle. Still I felt constrained to entreat, and as no
form of church-prayer could then supply words to ease the ful-
ness of my soul at that moment, I retired to my room and with
streaming eyes fell on ray knees, and then, while looking upwards
to some great unknown Power, I implored for pity on my own
condition and for mercy on the beloved dead. It was my most
fervent petition, yet alas, my prayer without faith.
h. To her
,nd unalter-
ptical as I
To pray for
those whom
I was even
lid perform
t, and as no
ease the f ul-
)ra and with
ing upwards
on my own
vas my most
CHAPTER XXXV.
LOVK 8 PUREST FOUNT.
THAT evening I received a letter from home oontaining the
most heartrending words I had ever rea<l. It was from
my brother, who had l)een for some time almost in sole charge of
my father's business. I was urged to return to Ireland at
once. The terrible lujws of the loss of the Frame and of my
father's sad fate, had given such a shock to my mother that her
life was despaired of. I was entreated by every tender and
filial consideration to hasten to her bedside, as her contant
prayer was to be permitted to see me once more before she died.
Within two days from that tinie I stood once more in the
Big Room in our house at Cove. With what mournful feelings
I entered the dwelling, and how sad and desolate it seemed to
be without my father's presence or even the sound of his voice.
My mother's bed was in a corner, near one of the windows,
where my little cot once used to stand, previous to the time I
had been frightened b} the midnight apparition of my younger
(lays. It was a quiet evening; all was still around, and we could
hear with the greatest distinctnes.s the soft farewell notes of the
birds in the garden as if they were bidding adieu to the depai-t-
ing day. It was a beautiful yet a solemn hour. A faint ray of
sunlight stole in and rested for a moment on my mother's languid
face, and then spread out around her head as if typical of the
■': \
396
Family Creeds.
H:
m'^
i-^
glory that would surround her in some happier state of existence.
Even were such an idea a delusion it was comforting to me at the
moment, for I shuddered at the bare thought of her individual-
ity being swept away for ever. Such a gentle and submissive
spirit as she possessed would, I felt, be necessary for the guid-
ance and example for others even in some future state of being.
I believed that if a mind as pure as hers had once become ex-
tinct that its renascence would tie impossible.
Ah, me, what a change ! The room was as silent as death.
We could scarcely hear her breathe. Her eyes, her loving eyes,
were closed in a kind of sleep which might have been easily
mistaken for the last deep repose of one whose tender, wearied
heart had long been too familiar with care. Yet at moments
the sleep was troubled. She muttered, but her words were
mostly inaudible, yet at intervals I could hear my father's name
and mine, and then the Virgin's name, as if pleading for the
lost and the beloved.
Oh, the pitiful change in that dear face ! The brow was pal-
lid, the cheek hollow, the lip blanched, and the once brown
tresses, which I had so much admired, now lay faded and scat-
tered nearly as white as tJie pillow on which they rested. These
mournful alterations in her appearance would not have been so
saddening could I have been assured by some infallible autho-
rity, or some undoubted evidence that they wore necessary for
her rejuvenation in some happier sphere, or for a suitable pre-
paration for some glorious immortality where there would be
no more strife, no more sorrow, no more tears and no more
parting ; could I feel certain that now, near the end of her life
of trial and suppressed emotions, she was like the tender plant
which has been in a manner strengthenet' in the shade in order
that it may be fit to be tcansplanted into a blooming garden
among flowers and sunshine.
Love's Purest Fount.
397
►£ existence.
to me at the
individual-
submissive
Dr the guid-
ate of being.
s become ex-
nt as death.
r loving eyes,
been easily
ider, wearied
at moments
\srords were
father's name
ding for the
But where could I find such an assurance, such a certainty ?
The conflicting doctrines and speculations of professed theo-
logians, of the expounders of contradictory revelations, only
serve to bewilder, or so far to raise a cloud of deep doubt before
my mind which made the shadowy Hereafter more dim and
distant than ever. We may have longings for wealth, for
happiness and for immoi*tality, but these yearnings, though
natural, are no evidence that that which we ardently desire
shall ever be placed within our reach. Unanswered prayer
leaves mp,ny a heart without a hope. The aspirations which
engender blissful expectations are just as natural as our dreams ;
if one is a delusion both may be delusions. Man's wishes
are the wings of his imagination. Though our flights of fancy
should soar heavenward continually, they will never bring us
nearer to the stars than the earth on which we stand and from
which we gaze.
If there be a baptism of aflliction through which every one
must pass that enters heaven, as I looked on the wan face of
my dear mother I felt that she had had her afflictions, and that
if there was a brighter world above, she by reason of her sub-
mission and long endurance, had acquired a title to admission
therein. But my mother, if even in heaven, might for an inde-
finite period, or what might :eem forever, be away from us, and
the dread of separation became so strong that I would gladly
let her forfeit her present right to a celestial throne so that
she could remain with us longer.
Who can think of the sundering of such mortal ties without
a shudder? Who can fathom the profound affection of a
mother ? Where can be found so disinteretsed a friend ?
True love may be true, but it is false and inconstant when com-
pared with her enduring fondness. The most sacred vow may
be given as binding forever, but it is only a fragile tie, an affec-
"Klll
;J
398
Family Creeds.
i'M ■:
mi
M
. ' I
1 ■ ,
'if;
'11!
liiiti'
Mil
tation, a mere gossamer web, compared with the deep ex-
pression of a mother's devotion or with the clasping tendrils of
a mother's heart. The world may flatter, the voice of the mul-
titude may proclaim you a hero, youth and beauty may sing
your praises, age may give you its benedictions, honours may
l>e lavished and wealth poured out for your acceptance ; with
these you may in time become wearied and satiated, but to the
steady welling up of the clear, pure, beautiful and generous
spring of a mother's love you never, never can become indiffer-
ent. It is the greatest solace for the unfortunate ; it is the
brightest and most cheerful ray around the virtuous and happy.
If there is anything in this sublunary state of existence which
may have had its origin in some supernal sphere, it must surely
be that holiest of all human emotions — a mother's love.
Thinking of what she had been to me I could not suppress
my tears. My heart sank as I saw the well marked indications,
the stealthy approach of the " last great enemy," an enemy
more terrible to me than it was to the gentle spirit it came to
overwhelm. I would have banished foreboding thoughts at
the time, but how could I ? For there were the shadows out-
lined on her face which I saw at a glance would gi-ow thickei-
and darker until it was night. Even before I entered the
room, when good old Shawn met me at the gate, the peculiar
pressure of his hand told me what his lips would not utter.
We let her sleep — she had been wakeful for some tinio
previous to my arrival — and while she seemed to be making
terms with Death, or in audience with the " King of Terrors,"
she would open her eyes for a moment and look afar as if tak-
ing leave of the fading visions of life, or trying to keep in view
the dim receding scenes of her memory. She appeared to have
a vista of Eternity, and to be glancing at the well-known
departed forms that stood on either side of the long, dark
Love's Purest Fount
399
ihe deep ex-
g tendrils of
e of the mul-
uty may sing
honours may
ptance ; with
;d, but to the
and generous
come indiffer-
ite ; it is the
as and happy,
astence which
it must surely
8 love.
i not suppress
ed indications,
\f" an enemy
irit it came to
g thoughts at
! shadows out-
grow thicker
I entered the
e, the peculiar
not utter,
or some time
to be making
ig of Terrors,"
afar as if tak-
a keep in view
»eared to have
e well-known
(he long, dark
avenue which led from life to the dreary Beyond, or to Oblivion.
It seemed as if she were calmly engaged in a leave-taking of
the past, and we let her indulge in the solemn retrospection.
Leaving her, therefore, undisturbed, I had an opportunity to
look around and observe what was most noticeable, and say
something more to those near me, to whom T had addressed
only a few words since my arrival. My brother was greatly
cast down ; my sister was in tears. She had grown to be a fine
young woman, but I was almost shocked to see her disfigured
by a dark, slovenly convent garb, which greatly detracted from
her appearance. I was told that she was about to become a
nun partly in compliance with my mother's desire, and partly
out of that kind of religious romantic idea which has prema-
turely blasted and withered so many a young life, often
thoughtlessly yielded up and sacrificed to the grim, rapacious
ogre of a peculiar system of theology. I felt greatly pained to
witness such an evidence of her infatuation, but I could not
express my feelings to her regarding this at the time. There
was happily another lady present, whose features had changed,
but not so much as to be beyond my easy recognition. It was
Bertha Reardon, the former little Bertha whom I had first met
in my uncle Sharp's house. She had greatly improved in personal
appearance, and was very much pleased to see me again, and to
hear all I could tell her about her mother. While on a visit
to a family in which Bertha was engaged as a governess, my
sister had become acquainted with her, and Bertha, having
heard of our sudden affliction, hastened to offer her sympathy,
and at my mother's special request — she had taken a particular
fancy to her — had remained until the present time.
But there was one absent who, almost above all others, I
then wished to seel Where was little Jane, the gentle com-
panion of my earlier years, whose sisterly attention to me
1
s
f'\
'({»
I ;
ill:
l\
3 I
i \ ^^
I,
111
400
Family Creeds.
during my illness in that very room was now brought power-
fully to my recollection 1 Where was she who had ma<le so
deep an impression on my mind as well as on my heart in days
gone by ] How I upbraided myself for my atfected inditfer-
ence ! For some reason which I can hardly (explain, some
peculiar embarrassment, I had not latterly made such entjuiries
about her, as I- really felt inclined to do ; it was even a surprise
to myself to find with what reluctance I could but simply
mention her name to another. Every familiar object around
reminded me of h«}r, but, alas, she was away, and from what
had taken place, I feared that I should never meet her again.
As it was, I felt a great hesitation to ask the least question
concerning her, lest some peculiar motive should be attributed
to me for so doing. Every moment 1 expected to hear some
allusion to her, or to her father, Mr. Casey, but so far no one
had made any remark whatever which could otfer me an oppor-
tunity to introduce a subject in which I felt so deep an interest.
But could I not speak freely to Shawn 1 When I thought of
this every difficulty seemed to disapp(!ar, and when I spoke to
him, I learned that about a year previously, Mr. Casey had
taken a sudden notion to travel, and that he and Jane had
called to take leave before their departure. Shawn assured me
that Jane had felt very sorry when she was informed of the
dissolution of the firm of " Fairband and Casey," and that she
had always made special inquiries about me whenever she
chanced to visit my mother. He told me that Jane had once
spoken to him in a kind of confidential manner, and had
mentioned my name, expressing the deepest regret that we had
all been so unexpectedly separated. She told him that she would
like to write to me before she left Ireland with her father, but
she supposed that I might not now care to hear from her. She
hinted that perhaps I had met with others in whom I could
Love's Purest Fount.
401
take a greater interest, and that hh ho long a time had passed
since wo last met, I must now have almost forgotten her.
She also told hini how sorry she had felt in not having seen me
while at home on my short visit.
I asked Shawn if anything had Iat«^ly been heard from her
or Mr. Casey. He replied that a few days before niy father
had left home for Bristol, it had bf^en rumored that Mr. Casey
was about to bestow, or had V)estowed, the hand of his daughter
on some wealthy foreign merchant. A report had subsequently
b(!«m circulattnl that Miss Casey ha<l actually been wedded to a
Spanish or Italian noble who had fallen violently in love with
her, but as the go.ssiping Nancy Ferrin, who was still a spinster,
hail had something to do with the story, Shawn was but little
inclined to place nmch reliance on that part of the news; still,
other circumstances led him to think that there might probably
be some truth in what had been said as to Jane's engagement;
for more than a year before that he had heard that some rich
gentleman "abroad" had been paying her gi*eat attention.
Scarcely disposed as I might be to mind anything that the
amiable Nancy Ferrin had said concerning Jane, I could not
but feel gi'eat uneasiness after what I had heard. At any other
time I could possibly have reasoned away my apprehensions,
but now I was incapable of so doing. My fears would persuade
me that the report was true. I became almost despondent and
I looked back on the happy duys I ha<l spent with Jane as
being but the bright vision of a blissful dream from which I
had become rudely awakened. Within a single day, even within
a few hours, I might lose one of the tenderest mothers that ever
lived, and I could not resist the impression that through my
culpable carelessness or negligence I had wounded the sensi-
bilities of a gentle nature, and that I had already lost a being
whose sympathy could do most to assuage my grief or lighten
;n3
402
Family Creeds.
iiikm
my affliction, or lend a ray of pure happinesH to the further
journey of life which I now feared I would have to travel
gloomy and alone.
The altar waH again erected in the recess. Mass had l)een
said there that morning by my uncle — my mother's brother —
who had been staying in the house since the sad news of my
father's death had been conveyed to him. I thought how
soon that altar might again be draped in black, and the solemn
service for the dead be again repeated for the repose of a soul
that was now, as it were, fluttering to escape its earthly tene-
ment.
It was nearly midnight. We who were watching in the Big
Room wore suddenly startled by a voice calling out my name.
I hastened to my mother's side, she clasped me in her silent
embrace, while the pent-up feelings of my heart suddenly gave
way and my tears streamed down over her face. Those who
witnessetl this affectionate recognition were deeply touched.
" I knew," said she, with great tenderness, "that you would
come. 1 knew that my prayera would be heard ; for in my
dream there came a beautiful vision, and I just saw you led in
by the Virgin to my bedside. O, blessed Mary, how grateful I
am for this favor !" She held my hand and looked at me
silently for some time, as if in the enjoyment of the greatest
happiness while gazing on my face.
" How like you are to him ! O, John, how like you are to
your poor father ! Alas for your poor father, John ! Shall 1
never meet him more 1 How can I get over the great gulf that
may forever be between us ? Your poor father, John, gone,
gone, and, oh, perhaps to what a dreary interminable distance !
Oh, that I could pray for him before I leave you ! but this is
forbidden. Would that his soul were among those of the faith-
ful departed, how I should pour out mine for him now in inter-
Love* a Purest Fount.
403
, the further
Lve to travel
[a8H had been
)r*8 brother —
I news of my
thought how
nd the solemn
pose of a soul
i earthly tene-
ling in the Big
out my name.
3 in her silent
, suddenly gav«'
36. Those who
deeply touched,
hat you wouhl
ird ; for in my
saw you led in
how grateful I
1 looked at me
of the greatest
ike you are to
John ! Shall 1
e great gulf that
ter, John, gone,
inable distance !
roul but this is
lose of the faith-
im now in inter-
cessions to the heavenly Virgin ! But painful though it be to"
Ijo deprived of the privilege of offering up our prayers for the
repose of his soul, of the felicity it would be to me at my latest
moment, we must be reconciled to the ordinances of the Church,
and leave him to Gofl. Oh, that I could now hear but a single
Mass celebrated there for him ?" and she pointed to th(^ altar.
" Had I vast wealth I would willingly make it an otfering for
such a benefit ! What felicity it would Ik? to me now to be
permitted even to say, *God be merciful to him a sinner!'
Alas, alas, he placed himself beyond the reach of our suppli-
cations, and we must only submit to the mysterious inevitable.
But O, John, be faithful, be faithful unto death ! Ever remem-
ber that there is only one Lord, one Faith, one Baptism, and
orve True Church. We have its authority for making this
assertion, and that none can he saved out of it. Child, be
therefore faithful ! Your steadfastness has been my greatest
comfort. So far I have heard that you have been all that is
desirable. Continue, continue ! My prayers for your guid-
ance have been constant, and I have had a blessed assurance
that my beseeching has not been in vain. Bemain within the
fold ; ever remain there ; it is your only safety ! See ! Your
sister has already made a happy choice, and has in the days of
her youth wisely rejected the world and its vanities. Dear
child, unite your prayers with hers for your brother, and all
may yet be well."
She spoke a few more affectionate words, then she lowennl
what she wished to say to whispers, until they grew so faint as
scarcely to reach my ear, and soon after this she relapsed into
a semi-unconscious state. My uncle, the priest, who sat up
with us that night, read again in a low voice some Latin
prayers appropriate for a person in her condition, and while
we listened to his murmuring utterances, the monotonous fall
404
Family Creeds.
81
I) I
I?''
of the rain, which liad been descending for some hours, and th(*
wind which rushed about at intervals with melancholy sound,
added much to the solemnity of the time and place.
An hour or so V)eforo the dawn my mother revived again.
She liad no pain, she was much calmer, but there was that
peculiar expression of countenance which plainly indicated that
the finger of Death was already pressed upon her brow, and
that the faintest hope which any might have indulged of her
recovery, must now be abandoned for ever. She evidently
knew that she was about to take her departure. She appeared
gratified to .see us standing around her bed. She looked from
face to face, as if the sympathy she could gather in each was a
balm to her feelings at the moment ; and when she withdrew
her eyes a faint smile could be seen like a delicate gleam soften-
ing the deep shadow which seemed to Ik; spreading ai'ound
her.
The rain was still falling, and she listened as if even in its
dull sound there was something soothing. In a little time
afterwards .she made an effort to sit up. We assisted her and
propped her up with pillows. She then drew from her bosom
the old likeness of my aunt Mary, the very portrait which I
had once found in the recess near the altar, and also a little
picture of the Virgin which she always carried. She held these
before her in her attenuated hands, and while looking intently
at the face, venerated almost above all others by every true
Catholic, she commenced to sing in a low, sweet voice, a little
hymn which, many years ago, she had composed herself.
Mary, sinner's friend, be near,
Ere I uhed njy latest tear,
Ere I breathe my latest sigh,
Be thy sacreil presence nigh.
Come, O blessed Guide, to me,
Ere my spirit is set free.
Love'8 Purest Fount.
405
Bright, and beautiful, and best,
Let me on t^y bosom rest,
Ever gentle, lilessed Queen,
Turn on me thy look Herene.
Bid my ling'ring fearH depart ;
Press me to thy sacred heart.
When the last dread day is near.
When the Judge with look severe.
Summons all around the throne.
All their vileness there to own,
Then, O Virgin, plead for me,
Hide me in thy purity.
How I sobbed to b"iar my mother sing .icr last song, to hear
her tender, gentle voice, perhaps for the last time ! Every eye
but hers was suffused by sorrow, and the rain fell faster, as if
Nature desired to mingle her tears with our own. My mother
motioned to be let lie down again. She appeared to make an
effort to listen to the sound of the wind, and in a moment or
two she raised one of her thin hands and whispered, cautiously,
'* Hark to the voices, to the voices, to the song of the re-
deemed ! They take up the strain. Listen, listen!"
It was almost day. Towards the east we could see a slight
opening in the clouds, which were now fringed with a delicate,
roseate light, and still beyond we could just discover a little
patch of limpid sky. My dear mother turned her face to the
window. Her last gaze was fixed upon the distant blue
aperture. It was like a drawing aside of the portals of heav((n
for her admission. She gave one long, lingering look at what
might have appeared to her to be the celestial gates, and then
she closed her eyes forever.
Ere it was fully day her pure spirit had gone forth to enter
upon its eternal rest, and at the solemn moment we suppressed
our sighs, and in silent grief we stood with bowed heads in the
presence of the sacred dead.
I
ill
CHAPTER XXXVI.
IN ROME.
t I 5
mF
IN less than three months from the time of my mother's death,
I was in Rome. I had hastened away from home, indulg-
ing a hope that a visit to the Eternal City, in compliance with
my mother's anxious desire, as well as that the great change of
scene a journey there would bring, might, to some extent, afford
relief from the heavy grief, bordering on despondency, which
had affected me, since her loss seemed to fill the cup of my
affliction. Apart from what I had read of ancient Rome, and
of the virtues and heroism of its time-honored fulers and
people, I had an idea that most of what I should witness in
what might be called the religious capital of the world, would
be something powerfully illustrative of the beneficial effects of
the spirit and influence of that which was claimed to be the
True Faith ; that the contrast I should be able to mark between
what I had read and heard of Imperial Rome, and the modern
Pontifical City, should be sufficient to convince the most
skeptical, not only of the superiority of Christianity itself, but
should lead to the acknowledgment that the faith inculcated by
the Holy Father within the walls of Rome — in fact no other
form of religion at the time was allowed to be publicly te* jht
within the precincts of the city — was the only pure apostolic
doctrine.
In Rome.
407
Indeed, notwithstanding all my previous misgivings, I had
an impression that this superiority would be made manifest by
what I should witness of the devotedness of the numerous
clergy, the purity and simplicity of the lives of the inhabitants,
and in the prevailing order and morality around. I had in a
manner been led to expect this. The clergy, it is true, were
conspicuous in every direction; it seemed to me that they
formed a great portion of the population ; but it soon struck me
that any efforts made by them for the elevation of the common
people were evidently worthless and ineffectual. Such a crowd
of ecclesiastics ! There were cardinals in state coaches, bishops
with servants in livery, priests in soutaines, and with broad
hats and shaven faces, anfl monks and friars of almost every
degree, from fratres majores to fratres minores, roaming about
as beggars. There they were as barefooted l)eggai's, and bare-
headed beggars, as beggars in black, beggars in white, and
beggars in gray, Dominicans, Carmelites, Franciscans, and
Augustinians, wandering here and there as mendicants among
a population, the majority of which appeared to be in a state
of, what might be called,, contented pauperism. At a glance
one might take the whole as being a miscellaneous mob mostly
representing monkish and laical destitution.
In the look and gait of most of the clergy there was scarcely
anything that was serious, and in the features of the listless
people there was an expression of blank indifference. The con-
trast between affluence and poverty in Rome was, at least, as
great a»s I had witnessed anywhere else, but it seemed to me
that the greater wealth of the city was altogether in the hands
of the higher order of ecclesiastics, who were the Croesus and
Dives of sanctified palaces, and palatial churches, while the sub-
missive crowd — the real beggars, the bravos, the lazzaroni —
seemed to have no conception as to the cause of their poverty,
I:
V
\' ■'
[m
f 1 '"
408
Family Creeds.
or to have the least inclination or ability to reason upon it.
They appeared content with the privilege of entering rich sanc-
tuaries, of bowing before shrines, and of prostrating themselves
to receive the occasional blessing of the Holy Father. They
looked as if satisfied with a life of indolence, content to sit or
to mope about in the sunlight, to beg or to steal that which
they ate ; to earn or secure a trifle even by a criminal act, and
to spend part of this if necessary to gain absolution ; and then
to retreat at night to a foul den in some dirty street near the
Ghetto, or the Campus Martins.
This was my impression of the lower orders of Rome. Every
day I had suflBcient evidence to satisfy me tha^ they were as
ignorant, as degraded, and as immoral as any similar class of
people in Europe. What could have been the cause of this 1
Why was it that so few of these people could read or write 1
An advertisement — there were few even of these — posted up on
a wall must hava been a printed mystery to old and young
alike. What were the priests doing, those of every degree and
in varied showy attire, seen in such numbers almost at any
time, and nearly in every part of the' city ? Were even one of
them to stand, if but for an hour a day, with a slate and pencil, on
the marble steps in front of some stately church, and exercise his
clerical authority, he might within a week teach a thousand or
more of his illiterate parishioners to read the dedication to
Saint Somebody over the doorway, instead of leaving them
merely able to bow and mumble some kind of prayer to the
image of the saint himself.
Br ' this was not done. No voice from either pulpit or altar
had ever commanded the people to learn to read, as they had
been commanded to conform to the rites of the Church, or to
beware of apostacy ; and thus many have remained to this day
unable to tell one letter of the alphabet from another.
In Rome.
409
on upon it.
ig rich sanc-
; themselves
bher. They
,ent to sit or
I that which
inal act, and
in ; and then
peet near the
,ome. Every
they were as
milar class of
jause of this 1
Bad or write ?
posted up on
d and young
■y degree and
most at any
e even one of
,nd pencil, on
[d exercise his
thousand or
tledication to
eaving them
irayer to the
lulpit or altar
as they had
bhurch, or to
ll to this day
ther.
What an example the mendicant orders have shown to the
listless, passive subjects of His Holiness, who roam idly even in
view of the Vatican. From infancy they had been taught to
reverence the hooded, or girdled, or barefooted friars who wan-
dered through the dirty narrow streets of the Eternal City,
asking charity from those who needed food themselves. A
stranger could readily perceive that the friars though in humble
garb, were anything but humble in demeanor, and that they
were evidently prepared to demand as a right the alms which
superstitious fears alone urged many to give. The impover-
ished gave, but they followed the example shown them. Honest
toil was despised, and the lives of thousands have been spent,
as it were, in one long holiday of beggary. To be sure there
are vast libraries in Rome, but who read the books? There
are pictures, and museums, but these are seldom seen or visited
by any but tourists and strangers. Even the m6numents and
remains of pagan greatness that still make Rome far more
attractive to the intellectual world than St. Peter's, or the palace
of the Vatican, are glanced at with unconcern. Etruscan relics
are scarcely noticed and elicit no inquiry. Neither the Pan-
theon, the Coliseum, the arches, or the deserted columns wliich
stand out alone making their mut<i appeal, excite the least curi-
osity ; they have no symbolism for the degenerate population,
and they awake no feeling of veneration whatever in breasts
that know nothing of such a sentiment.
In another manner I folt disappointment. So far from Rome
being a clean and orderly city, I found most of the streets,
particularly those narrow ways in certain quarters, excessively
filthy. There were long ranges of dingy walls in nearly every
direction, and the interior of many of the houses exhibited
anything but extra cleanliness. In fact so far from the city
being what I had expected to iind it I was convinced that it
w
m
410
Family Creeds.
m
was, in many respects, one of the most unclean and, I must
say, dissolute places on the face of the earth. I will not say
that, in proportion to the population, it was worse than London
or Paris, but for the metropolis of Christendom, it certainly was
no better ; even making every allowance it was in many ways
far behind what I had expected to find it.*
I had not yet visited any of the churches, I felt more desir-
ous of first looking at the great historical remains of the past,
and from what I witnessed of these I was lead to increase my
feelings of wonder and admiration for the lofty conceptions, the
heroism, and the superior virtues of the pagan predecessors of
those now here under ecclesiastical rule. However, I was soon
to have an opportunity of attending among the worshippers of
the modern established faith of the Imperial City, and to con-
trast the pompous ceremonies of the papal ritual with what I
had learned of the more simple religious celebrations, which
took place in less showy temples, long previous to the alleged
missionary visit of the Prince of the Apostles.
It was Holy Week in Rome. It was Holy Thursday, the
middle of the penitential week, and thousands from all coun-
tries — for whom at this particular time there was but meagre
accommodation — entered the city to witness the recurrence of
the annual display. This word may not be inappropriate, for
though there is an attempt at an external show of mourning —
the Pope and Cardinals wearing a kind of purple instead of
scarlet — and things on the whole being made to wear an unusual
sombre appearance, yet places of amusement were only par-
tially closed ; but were the museums and picture galleries and
tlisatres to remain open, few would care to eater, the graiul
<^ We are informed that the present condition of Borne is much better. After
the accession of the late Victor Emanuel things in the city were greatly
ibaproved.
In Rome.
411
and, 1 must
will not say
;han London
ertainly was
t many ways
i more desir-
^ of the past,
) increase my
iceptions, the
redecessors of
er, I was soon
vorshippers of
iy, and to oon-
\ with what I
^rations, which
to the alleged
Thursday, the
from all couu-
|as but meagi-e
recurrence of
ppropriate, for
kf mourning -
fple instead of
|ear an unusual
v^ere only par-
te galleries and
iter, the grand
Uch better. After
[city were greatly
religious fete would be the paramount attraction for all, more
particularly for foreigners. The Pope was to appear enthroned
in princely array, and would bless the people. My dear mother
had enjoined me never to rest until I had received the pontifical
benediction ; for no matter how tempted I might ever be to
turn aside, this, she had assured me, would secure my adher-
ence to the Church, and confirm me in the true apostolic faith
forever.
I arose early that morning. The sun shone brilliantly on all
around, and this was accepted by hundreds of believers, who
were already astir, as an evidence that the Virgin would lend
her celestial aid to give additional splendor to the pious osten-
tation of the day. As the grand services would not commence
for some time, I had two or three hours to visit the great
church, the most immense and ' wonderful structure of the
kind in Christendom. Upon entering St. Peter's my feelings
were almost indescribable. Apart from a sensation of awe
with which I was inspired while standing beneath the exalted
dome of the vast edifice, I could but with difficulty get rid of
the idea that I was not translated to some marvellous region
beyond the confines of earth. One of the altars was ablaze
with lights, and it seemed as if all the gokl and silver and
precious stones in the world had been flung down upon it, and
scattered profusely around in the most exquisite cliance arrange-
ment. Pendant near by were silken hangings of rainbow hues.
Curiously wrought tapestry was spread out in shining folds.
Cloth of gold, trimmed with brilliants, was intertwined among
tliese, Embroidery and lace work of the rarest fineness and
delicacy fell in front in beautiful screens, to add softness to the
resplendence, and the whole was arched and surrounded with
magnificent clouds of festoons, wreaths, and garlanils, of the^
most extraordinary richness and elegance.
|!
I 18
i
t '.
412
Family Creeds.
The other altars looked to have been denuded, and the great
crowd of worshippers, who had assembled around the gorgeous
display, appeared to be almost overwhelmed with emotion.
Many, like myself, were, however, mere gazers who had at first
been struck with astonishment. The glare was so great that
the eye could not, as it were, turn aside or refuse to see, and
it was with difficulty that a strange emotional feeling, scarcely
understood, could be suppressed. But after haying looked
steadily for some minutes at what had been deliberately col-
lected and artistically arranged for exhibition, and exercising a
moderate control over purely animal impulses, that which at
first appeared so dazzling and attractive, gradually degenerated
into mere tinsel, into a tawdiy and gaudy show, calculated to
deceive and lead the unwary to the actual worship of symbols,
instead of engendering a true regard for the piety or virtues
which they were said, or intended, to represent.
A vast majority of mankind, in some peculiar way, shape, or
direction, are but symbol worshippers. Many a noble principle
is dead and buried, and forever hidden from the multitude that
are clamorous to reverence even its grave clothes. It seemed
to be so here in my presence. It struck me, from what I could
discern, that perhaps not one in a hundred of the bowing or
almost pi'ostrate supplicators, felt anything more of that whicli
might be defined as true religion, than mere emotion; and
unguarded emotion has developed what is commonly called
religion in so many "questionable shapes," that to the great
bulk of mankind it has been anything but a restraint or a
blessing.
Having heard much of what was to be seen within the walls
of St. Peter's, I employed my time to the best advantage in
order to be able to give due attention to the great ceremonies
of the day. Mr. Callagb?n, my old tutor, having told me more
.".if;!
In Rome.
413
id the great
he gorgeous
th emotion,
had at tirst
> great that
3 to see, and
ing, scarcely
iving looked
berately col-
exercising a
lat which at
degenerated
calculated to
p of symbols,
ty or virtues
ray, shape, or
)Ue principle
lultitude that
It seemed
what I could
|ie bowing or
)f that which
[motion; and
jmonly calleil
to the great
jstraint or a
Ihin the walls
idvantage in
It ceremonies
told me more
of the peculiar doings of the Church of Rome than I had ever
l.;)ard from any one else, I was in one way desirous of testing
the correctness of his information. I had been told that many
of the rites and ceremonies of paganism liad been incorporated
into the Catholic Church, and that certain images of the gods
of the Pantheon had been taken therefrom and turned into
>
Romi.sh saints, and that the statue of Jupiter, originally erected
in the Capitol, had been removed to St. Peter's, pontifically
blessed and baptized, to represent St. Peter himself. I had not
long to look for what 1 sought. In one particular place I saw
a number of persons crossing themselves and bowing before a
great statue, and verily kissing its naked foot. This, it is said,
was the original pagan statue of Jupiter, first worshipped in
his temple on the Mow CapitoHuus. Some, however, have
stated that it is only a recast from the bronze of the image of
the principal pagan deity. Be this as it may, lu)re it was now
to be seen erected in the great Christian temple for the v(uie-
ration of believers, and, unless I was gi'eatly mistaktni by
appearances, the veneration of many on that occasion was
carried almost to the very verge of idolatry.
A short time after ten o'clock in the forenoon, a great multi-
tude was assembled in front of St. Peter's. The military were
drawn up in formidable lines, and the stately carriages of
(/'ardinals and high ecclesiastical authorities followed one
another as they rolled towards the church, while peoph; of
every nation stood waiting for the arrival of His Holiness.
Every eye is strained to catch a tirst glimpse of the "king of
all earthly potentates." He comes at last, escorted from the
Histine Chapel to that of the Pontine, where he is robed^ in
scarlet lavishly ornamented with gold, and a golden mitre
placed upon his head. He is borne in a red sedan chair on the
shoulders of four ecclesiastics to a certain place near the grand
,.'; i
ril
•*J')
'1
m-
'If
414
Family Creeds.
balcony. 8oon after this he appears again magnificently dressed
in white satin. He also wears a crimson cape;, and, with fans
of peacock feathers waving on either .side, he is carried out in
his chair upon the balcony, which has an awning of white cloth,
and a carpet of crimson velvet. The spectacle; so far was one of
unusual magnificence, and, no doybt, many among the thousands
who bowed so humbly to the representative of St. Peter, felt
that were they even to pay adoration to him who was so exalted
above all, they would scarcely be guilty of an impious homage
by regarding him, who was acknowledged by the Church to be
the Vicar of Christ, as being something superlatively more than
mere sinful man.
In the unusual silence which prevailed, a Cardinal who stood
near the Pope read certain " indulgences " for the year, granted
by His Holiness. The Bull in Ccpna Domini anathematizing
heretics, schismatics — including, of course, apostates — had its
annual repetition, and was listened to with evident attention by
those who were near enough to hear the words of the male-
diction. The reading of other ecclesiastical documents and
instructions followed, and at the close there was a short pause;
a great bell tolled aloud; all, old and young, of every rank,
station and degree, bent down low, and the Holy Father
stretched forth his band, and, with a wave or two of his fore-
fingers, gave us the papal benediction.
Before I had time to raise my head — for I had instinctively
bowed down with the rest— the guns of the castle of St. Angelo
thundered out their applause. The great bell of St. Peter's rang
out and was accompanied in its acclamation Vjy every other
bell, in the city. The military saluted by presenting arms, the
regimental bands burst out into harmony. The loud strains
are echoed forth by the shouts and hozannas of the people, and
the first grand part of the day's ceremonies is over.
In Rome.
415
ently drossed
lid, with fans
:;arried out in
f white cloth,
:ar was one of
the thousands
St. Peter, felt
vas so exalted
ipious homage;
Church to be
ely more than
inal who stood
; year, granted
inathematizing
bates — had its
it attention by
s of the male-
ocuments and
a short pause ;
if every rank,
Holy Father
wo of his fore-
d instinctively
of St. Angelo
it. Peter's rang
>y every other
iting arms, the
le loud strains
he people, and
er.
There were, however, to be other pious pageants. His
Holiness was borne away to wash the feet of thirteen poor
men — -chosen monks drilled and instructed for the occasion —
and afterwards to hand tliem soup and wine, and wait upon
them at table. The formality at this ceremonial, and the pious
example of humility thereby inculcated must l)e familiar to
many. T did not rush forward with others to try and gain an
entrance to the transept near St. Peter's tomb. The place was
already crowded, and I had for an hour or longer suffered too
much from the jam and pressure outside to care for seeing
any more than I had now witnessed. I was satisfied. I had
complied with my mother's request, and, unlike the majority
present, I felt no further inclination to run the risk of being
crushed to death.
It was something of a struggle to get fre»> from th(; immense
number who were trying to make their way towards the nearset
highways. Packed as we almost were, I was occasionally nearly
lifted from the ground by the swaying and crushing of the
multitude. In endeavoring to elbow myself along, I felt a tug
at my pocket, and as soon as I could manage to get one of my
hands at liberty I mi.ssed my silk handkerchief. Some smart
thief, who of course must have been among the number blessed
by the Pope, had already added that to his stock of plunder,
and fixed as I was it would be useless to try and recover the
property. Redoubling my efforts I had got as far as the end
of one of the colonnades, when I observed an elderly gentleman
in front of me make a sudden attempt to grab a man who had
most adroitly managed to make his escape. The gentleman had
lost his watch. It had just been twitched from him by some
Roman expert in the garb of a friar, who could still be seen
doubling here and there in order to get away. He evidently
had not much difficulty in doing this, as no one appeared to
m
416
Family Creeds.
interfere with him. A hurried appeal in a Htrange mixture of
English, French and Italian, was made for aHHiHtance, but the
gentleman was only laughed at by most of those he addressed.
It was a lusty Irish voice. I drew nearer with a feeling of
sympathy. What! Did my eyes deceive me? Did my senses
betray me ? I made o desperate rush. I grasped his hand and
looked up in the honest but now excited face of my father's
late partner; in the face I liad long >)een anxious to see again,
that of Jane's father, Mr. Daniel Casey, a principal member of
the once respected firm of Fairband and Casey.
<?!!('
iii
CHAPTER XXXVII.
■■■ r
FAITH AM) WORKS.
((
I
WOULD lose a hundred watches rather than not meet
you John ; yes, a thousand of them. The rascal that
has just ran off with mine is now quite welcome to it. (iood-
ness! If you had not spoken I should liave never known you.
Quite a full grown man alr(*ady. Bh^ss me, how we all change ! "
He still held my hand firndy in his, looking all the tinm
earnestly in my face, while his was now glowing with kindness,
and as round and ruddy as ever. Tliongh a long time had past
since I had last seen him, he was but litthi changed ; perha])s a
little more stooped, yet still erect and rugged (Uiough to give
the thief, if he had caught him, a very rough handling.
" How lucky I have been to meet you ! We have spoken of
you so often, not dreaming that you were within a thousand
miles of us, and now, good Lord ! to find you here so unexpect-
edly."
The ^'we" and the "us" darted through my ear with a
strange thrilling effect, but I made an effort at composure, and
assured him that the encounter was the most happy and fortu-
nate event of my life.
" To be sure it is, to be sure it is, man, for all of us," said he
hurriedly. " Why, here we have been, on and off, more than a
week waiting for the celebration — and wasn't it a grand, a
in
!l ,
l«
}•'.
418
Family Creeds,
really <^rand one, Johnl — ayo, waiting until wo got tired of this
wretched old city, its dirty narrow streets, and its population
of thi(wes, and boggara, and half heathens. Who would ever
expect to come across them here ? 'Pon my soul 'twould take
half a dozen popes to Christianize tlvj rascally gangs that fol-
low one about praying for you, and cursing you, in their vih^
gibberish, all in the same breath. We must get out of this vil-
lainous country as soon as we can — indeed we must."
Here he checked himself a little. I scarcely (»xpected that he
was capable of anything like undue excitement, and his wonted
quiet manner was soon almost restored.
" Tell me all the news, John, tell me. Where have you been ?
How long have you been here? Where are you going to?
Come, tell me," said he, pul^'ng mo closer to liim. " But, oh,
what sad news ! You needn't tell me — very, very sad indeed.
We heard it all -.-your father's loss on the Bristol patket ; your
aunt's, too ; and, O, John, your dear good moth(>r's d(uth in the
old house at Cove — God be merciful to her soul ! Well, well,
poor fellow," continued he after a moment's pause, and grasping
my hand again, " You have had your share of trouble already,
and when we heard of it, sure Jane herself wept and cried as
if she had lost me and every one else belonging to her."
Here in spite of every restraint the tears started from my
eyes, and for want of my handkerchief, they streamed dowji
my cheeks ; and when Mr. Casey saw this his eyes filled also.
" Come, man," said he, drawing me aside to one of the outer
pillars of the colonnade, under which we had yet been stand-
ing, " Come, we must say no more about this now ; 'tis a sad
subject, John, and as we shall have a great deal to say together,
let us talk of somsthing else. Sorrow will come of its own
accord ; it will come to the surface of things in the sunshine as
well as in the shade, do what we can. T want to have a quiet
Faith and Wnrhs.
419
tired of this
8 population
) would ever
twould take
ngs that fol-
in their vile
ut of this vil-
st."
ected that he
id his wonted
ive you been 1
ou going to?
1. " But, oh,
•y sad indeed,
patkc t ; your
s d(uith in the
Well, well,
and grasping
Duble already,
and cried as
her."
ted from my
•eamed down
■s tilled also,
of the outer
t been stand-
)w ; 'tis a sad
say together,
lie of its own
le sunshine as
have a quiet
chat with you, so let us get fr(!0 of the crowd and find some
place whore we can, if possiV)lo, sit for an hour without inter-
ruption even from a beggar."
In a few miimtfis we managed to get clear of the throng, and
we went still further until we got to a rather unfre(juent<Ml
place which was consi<lerably clovated. We could see the
muddy Tiber at some distance Ixdow us, and, opposite, we
could see the Pincian and the Quirinal hills which were almost
covered with churches, convents, villas, and many large build-
ings. Seated in a sha<led spot close to an ancient fountain, we
were tolerably secure from interruption, and here Mr. Casey
resumed the convt^r.sation, and in the kindest manner revertfid
to old tim(\s at home. He mentioned with what deep regret it
was that he had felt himself ol)liged to dissolve partnership
with my father, and told me of the sorrowful feelings with
which he had heard of his sad fate. Of my mother he spoke
in the most e.xalted terms ; and his kind inquiries concerning
my brother and sister convinced me that our family never had
a more genuine and disinterested friend. We then alluded to
his reasons for leaving Ireland. His daughter's health had
been failing for some time, and her physician had recommended
a short sea voyage and a period of interesting travel on the
continent. Though she had expressed a desire to visit Eng-
land, she had someway been indifferent about going to more
distant countries. Still, as Mr. Casey had felt lik^. travelling,
and having ample means at his disposal, and few demands to
meet, he thought that he might venture to see a little more of
the world, and that money could not be better spent, esp(^cially
as it would likely be of advantage in many ways to her who
was now his chief if not almost his only care.
Strange that all along, even up to the moment he had ended
his recital, I found it next to impossible to make the least
420
Family Creeds.
it
■i ■' 1 Sl
ifii!
!i '^ ■■■
inquiry concerning his daughter, who had been one of my ear-
liest juvenile playmates and companions; one who had lent such
happiness to my younger days ; the little Jane who had been
in my remembrance almost every day, I might say, during the
long years which I had spent at Bristol in separation from
those I had held most dear. When I tried to mention her
name or make the least allusion to her I was, in a manner,
tongue-tied, and could not speak, and my difficulty in this
respect was greatly increased the moment I thought of what
Shawn had told me in relation to the rumors of her engagement
or marriage. The bare idea of her being united even to a
Monarch would at the time have made me exti-emely unhappy.
An obtruding notion of the kind made me miserable as it was,
because I imagined that unless she had been married, and was
in the society of her husband, she would most certainly have been
out with her father to witness tlie day's religious celebrations.
After an unpleasant pause, during which I tried to say some-
thing, but in reality could find nothing to say in consequence of
the preoccupation of my mind on one absorbing matter, in an
effort of sheer desperation I at last made a hurried inquiry —
" I hope Miss — Miss Casey is now quite well ?"
The words seemed to fly out from my lips as if the sudden
vent to the overcharge of my heart had spetl them quickly
beyond the range of hearing.
But Mr. Casey heard me. He turned in a moment with a
look of surprise and nearly echoed me by saying, " You hope
Miss Casey is well."
He emphasized the patronymic with a stress sufficient to
send a chill to my very heart.
'* Miss Casey, indeed !" continued he. "Why John, I must
only suppose that you can have never heard her name or else
you would not have forgotten it so readily."
3 of my ear-
ad lent such
lio had been
, during the
ration from
mention her
a a manner,
jlty in this
fht of what
engagement
I even to a
ly unhappy,
le as it was,
ed, and was
ly have been
pelebrations.
io say some-
isequence of
atter, in an
inquiry —
tlie sudden
ini quickly
ent with a
' You hope
ifficient to
in, I must
Faith and Works. .
421
Ime or
else
This was a blow under which I feared I should have quickly
to succumb. This was the knell of my lingering hopes, for
was there not here an indirect acknowledgment that she was
another's, and lost to me forever ? It was therefore with the
greatest difficulty I could keep from betraying my emotion
before her father.
" You must pardon me," I replied, trying to affect equanim-
ity. " Though I had heard something of it, I really was not
certain that Miss — at least that — that she was married."
" Married ! " exclaimed he, glancing at me with astonishment.
" Married ! Goodness gracious, what put that in your head %
She's not married, John. She will never marry, you may rely
on that. There is not a man on earth that she will give her
hand to. She has told me that more than twenty times, and I
believe she means what she says. Of course I don't pretend to
know the reason ; the why, or the wherefore, she keeps to her-
self. You should call her Jaiie^ her own simple name, as of
old ; that's what I meant when I found you speak so formally
of your once little friend and companion."
Friend and companion ! Ah, thought I, with a sudden
impulse, those dear terms of association can never find a true
echo on the bleak desert of celibacy.
" She will never change her name," continued Mr. Casey.
" She would rather be buried alive with those holy nuns over
there than wed the finest man, were he a prince, a Bomba, or
even the Pope himself."
When saying this he poiutoil towai-ds the convent of Le
Sepolte Vive, which could be seen in the distance. It may not
be known or believed by many, that those who enter this sad
religious retreat of Le 8epolte Vive and take the terrible vow,
put on a veil, or what might more properly be called a facial
shroud, over their heads, which is never removed in the pres-
i
II
|i r.
pi '(
422
Family Creeds.
I'.
ence of another during life. These nuns are never permitted
to go outside the high gloomy Avails of the convent, and from
the severe kind of unnatural life borne in this pious prison, the
recluses confined therein are called, " The Buried Alive Nuns."
Mr. Casey's information as to his daughter's determination,
though a relief in one sense, was the cause of great discourage-
ment in another. It was a most unexpected revelation ; and
from my being naturally often inclined to attribute the adverse
result of past actions to perverse motives, or suspicious circum-
stances, and, where the least cloud appeared in view, to indulge
in rather gloomy anticipations as to the future, I imagined that
there was some mysteiious circumstance connected with Jane's
history, since we had been separated, that I could not unravel.
I had heard that much attention had been paid her by some
foreign admirer, and of course I was only too ready to weave
an intricate web in connection with the past, and to imagine
tliat some soulless trifler had perhaps made himself master of
her heart, and was now dallying with her affections. To satisfy
Mr. Casey I had, however, to try and give him the best explana-
tion I could as to my reason for supposing that Jane had been
married.
"It is nothing but an idle story," said Mr. Casey, after he
had heard me ; *' nothing in tbi world, John, but that. She
would have been out with me to-day only that she hates being
in a crowd. She had, anyway, a bad headache, and would not
leave the house, and risk getting crushed, as I know I was at
times, even to get the benefit of the Pope's blessing. She has
already seen His Holiness, and may have an opportunity of
seeing him again. As to her having a foreign admirer, I know
of none. We got acqu -inted with a very nice gentleman at
Paris — a Monsieur Valetti — who, he informs me, is the son of
a merchant with whom we formerly had some dealings. He is
Faith arid Works.
423
r permitted
t, and from
} prison, the
Jive Nuns."
)ermination,
discourage-
lation ; and
the adverse
ious circum-
r, to indulge
lagined that
with Jane's
not unravel,
ler by some
dy to weave
1 to imagine
If master of
To satisfy
est explana-
le had been
By, after he
that. She
lates being
would not
)w I was at
She has
tortunity of
rer, I know
ntleman at
the son of
igs. He is
an educated young man, travels a good deal, and will soon speak
English almost as well as he does French or Italian. He has so
far paid Jane no greater attention than I think he has paid
myself. We stopped at the same hotel, and he, having much
leisure, often accompanied us in our walks and to such operas
and theatres as we visited. In such a place as Paris one is
almost sure to meet with some acquaintance from home, and it
quite probable that M. Valetti was seen with us, and no doubt
such a story as you heard could easily be manufactured.
Indeed, I will not say but that his regard for Jane might have
increased had she given him the least encouragement, but she
having, as I told you, decided to live a life of single blessedness,
she merely treated him as a pleasant acquaintance — one who
was my friend — nothing further. He is to be here to-morrow
or next day. He is a Catholic and would of course have been
here to-day were it not for some previous engagement. We
have been moving about from place to place and have not seen
him for almost six weeks, but he corresponds with me pretty
iOj'jularly and I had a letter last week proposing to accompany
us from this city to Florence. Now what is there in this 1
You shall come and see us, however, and then you can judge
for yourself. But what am I saying I You must leave where
you are, and come straight home with me now. Won't I give
somebody a surprised"
I begged rather earnestly that Mr. Casey should excuse me.
I told hiin that it would aflbrd me the greatest happiness to
call on theTu and renew my acquaintance with such kind friends.
But as I must first return to my lodgings, I hoped he would
allow me to defer the pleasure of my visit until evening.
Secretly delighted as I was at the thought of meeting Jane,
yet some strange feeling made me desirous to postpone the
interview.
i '1
1
I
;M
III''!.
424
Family Creeds.
W:''W.
' t
" Well, then," replied Mr. Casey, after a moment's consider-
ation, "be it so; I know you won't disappoint us. And I tell
you," said he, lowering his voice to a kind of confidential whis-
per, " I'll not say a word to her of having met you. I'll man-
age to make her believe that it is Valetti who is coming. You
are ob, t:' . ■ height. His hair is darker than yours. His
moustache is black while your whiskers are bi'own, but in the
dusk of evening she may not know the difference for a minute
or two — in fact she may not know you at all, you have changed
and impr'>"^f^ " r^uch since you left home long ago. Any
way, it Will b a "ririae — a pleasing one, I'm sure; and then,
after we ha, o hud !> < hat about old times, as it will be fine
moonlight — jhall ». n, walk through the Corso and see
something of the , lt.> .' •". 'odern Romans."
We had scarcely ended our discourse when we observed a
friar, or a person in a friar's garb, approach and kneel in front
of a little statue of the Madonna and Child set in a niche in an
old wall. Such statues can be seen in many places around
Rome, and in many other parts throughout Italy and France.
The man evidently did not see us, partly hidden as we were by
a large tree which stood in front between us, and, after he had
knelt and crossed himself, he bowed repeatedly to the image, and
his devotions appeared to be made with the greatest Sincerity.
" That's very like the rascal that took my watch," said Mr.
Casey in a whisper, " but there are so many of the kind around
here that you can scarcely tell one from the other."
I remarked that that man, any way, would be the last I
should suspect.
" I'd suspect a religious man now," continued Mr. Casey, "just
as quick as I would any one else. I have known some that
would fast, and pray, and conform to prescribed church duties
with the most scrupulous obedience, who were certainly the
Faith and Works.
425
it's consider-
And I tell
dential whis-
a. I'll man-
)ining. You
yours. His
n, but in the
for a minute
have changed
g ago. Any
re; and then,
; will be fine
Corso and see
we observed a
kneel in front
a niche in an
)laces around
and France.
s we were by
after he had
le image, and
est Sincerity.
|h," said Mr.
kind around
3e the last I
[Casey, "just
some that
lurch duties
lertainly the
most unrelia'ble and dishonest men possible to meet. In busi-
ness transactions your father and I had some costly experience
in our dealings with a few of that kind. I have known some
who would think it a mortal sin not to hear mass on a Sunday,
or to eat a bit of meat on a Friday, and yet who could be
rogues and liars of the meanest kind. Religion ! Pshaw.
With too many 'tis like, in a manner, to a fine black polish on
old boots ; it makes them look respectable at a distance — a
nearer approach proves the deception."
While the friar was deeply engaged at his devotions, we no-
ticed two or three men in the police uniform of the city cau-
tiously approaching. They were followed a short distance
behind by about half-a-dozen soldiers. They all appeared eager
to get, unnoticed, nearer to the praying sinner. As they drew
closer he must have heard their steps, for he glanced quickly
around in alarm, and sprung from his knees in a moment. He
promptly drew a pistol from his breast, fired it directly at his
pursuers, and bounded away in an opposite direction from
where we were. They shouted after him at once, but as he
paid no attention to them, and only increased his speed, the
soldiers received a hurried order, they instantly drew up and
fired a volley, and we saw the friar fall.
When the men reached him, he made a desperate attempt to
stab one of the officers with a stiletto, and it was with difficulty
that the soldiers, one of whom had just been slightly wounded,
could be prevented from running the prostrate wretch through
with their bayonets. His leg had been broken, and, while
cursing his captors, he was disarn^ed and bound, placed some-
way across the soldiers' muskets, and borne off" to prison.
This was a most startling occurrence which we so unexpect-
edly witnessed. We were equally astonistied at the suddenness
of the whole affair. We fortunately remained unobserved.
28
mi
I im
Si t
\u.i\
ri'.h i)»
It*
426
Family Creeds.
Had we been seen, we might have been required as witnesses,
and perhaps be subjected to delay and inconvenience.
We subsequently heard something of the history of the pre-
tended friar. He was the chief of a vile banditti who had
infested the neighbourhood of certain lonely highways among
the mountains some miles distant, and, strange as it may
appear, he was reported to be very religious. Time after time
rewards had been offered for the apprehension of these outlaws,
but without the least effect. However, as it was known that
on certain special occasions, even for pious purposes, these law-
less men managed to visit the city in various disguises, it was
surmised that they would not miss the greatest opportunity of
the year in order to obtain the Pope's coveted blessing, and to
plunder a little from curious sight-seeing strangers — merely,
perhaps, to pay expenses. It was suspected that during Holy
Week the pious robbers would flock, like others, to 8t. Peter's,
to do penance, and to invoke certain favorite saints for- further
aid and protection. A strict look-out had, therefore, been
kept, resulting, as we had seen, in the capture of the principal
offender. Following the arrest, there was something of a lucky
discovery. Among the thi^igs found in the possession of the
noted freebooter was Mr. Cat'.ey's old favorite time-piece, which
was duly delivered to him after having given the necessary
satisfactory proofs of ownership.
Upon hearing this account, it brought to my remembrance
something which I had read in a new.spaper a few months be-
fore that, relating to the seizure and violent death of another
Italian bandit, who had given the most undoubted proof of his
religious yearnings, and his veneration for sacred things. *
* The London WeeMy'Iiiapatch of October 30th, 1870, gave an account of the
capture and death of Antonio Cozzoleno, otherwise known as Pilone, who was
killed near Naples, October 14th, 1870. He was a Neapolitan brigand, and was
Faith and Works.
427
as witnesses,
ence.
ry of the pre-
tlitti who had
ghways among
ige as it may
rime after time
i these outlaws,
as known that
>ose8, these law-
lisguises, it was
opportunity of
blessing, and to
angers — merely,
lat during Holy
is, to St. Peter's,
aints for further
therefore, been
of the principal
thing of a lucky
ossession of the
me-piece, which
a the necessary
y remembrance
few months be-
bath of another
|ted proof of his
^d things.*
I parted with Mr. Casey at the comer of one of the principal
streets. I had his address safe in m^ pocket, and he made me
renew my assurance that I would call on them at the appointed
hour. As I paced leisurely on alone, my feelings were of the
most peculiar kind, and my mind burdened with doubts. Who
was Valettil Why did he seek such intercourse with Mr.
Casey and his daughter ? Why come all the way to meet them
here, and make an arrangement to accompany them to other
places t T was troubled about this, indeed, 1 might say, agitated ;
for in spite of all Mr. Ca.sey had said as to Jane's supposed in-
difference, I could not get rid of the idea that she must have
given Valetti some encouragement, otherwise he would not
affect so great an inclination for the bare society of her father.
An attempt to construe his conduct in any other way would, I
considered, be an absurdity.
My thoughts for the time were, however, soon turned in
another direction, for when I got to my lodgings, I discovered
to my great regret that, besides my handkerchief, I had lost a
sacred relic which I had taken from the hand of my dead
mother. This treasured memento had also, no doubt, been
stolen from me — the old portrait of my Aunt Mary.
very pious. On his body were found verses in Italian to the Saviour, and an
amulet with the image of St. Giro round his neck. In his pocket was found a
brass reliquaire containing fragments of the bones of Santa Francesca, San
Colombo, San Giattino, and a bit of the Holy Virgin's veil ; and among other
pious articles, figures, and images of saints, was the Sacred Host wrapped in
paper. This brigand committed many murders, set fire to houses, and, as the
leader of a terrible gang of ruffians, robbed all he could.
I
i|
■i ,1
\e an account of the
I as Pilone, who was
brigand, and was
m'^
Si f.i
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
IN THE CLOUDS AGAIN.
IT was nearly sunset before I was ready to leave to go to Mr.
Casey's. Not that I had many preparations to make, for
I felt no inclination to study appearances in order that I might
the more favourably impress one who I was almost convinced
had been using her womanly arts to bring another under her
subjection. No, th6 more I thought of the matter the more
heartless I wished to believe her, and though I was at first
desirous to meet the little Jane of my youth once more, yet
that desire had now degenerated into complete indifference,
and I believe were it not for the promise I had made, and out
of my high regard for Mr. Casey, I should have left the city
without having put myself to the least inconvenience, or even
to walk fifty yards to see his daughter.
I remembered the old fits of jealousy I used to have con-
cerning my brother, but it was not jealousy now, it was more
like contempt. Reluctant, however, as I was to pay this par-
ticular visit, I at last took my way in the direction of Mr.
Casey's stopping place, and went leisurely along with an un-
assumed careless air that really surprised me — just to think of
my going to see Jane under the influence of such feelings !
As I had not far to go, and not wishing to be in a hurry, I
turned into a kind of albergo or restaurant ; it did not look like
In (he Clouds (ujain.
429
a fashionable place of resort ; it was the first I chanced to find,
and while I sat sipping a lemonade I heard persons in an
adjoining box or apartincMit playing at some kind of game.
The character of the place at onc(; occurred to me — it must be
a gambling house. I was preparing to go away when a few
English words in a foreign accent were spoken loud enough for
me to hear. " Yes, that is it. Oni, il est i-mi, (lis ist Mon-
sieur Valetti, an she is Ma'mselle Kaisee, Kaisee, ay, that
is it, an iv he have goot care he vill get all, oui, tout, all
her monee." Another then said in French, " Ces femmea Id,
sont trea capricieusea." The other then replied, " Ah, she ony
pretend, that is it, she will have him and give him de money —
d'argent, jes wait." There was a titter, and after this the words
were spoken so low that I failed to connect them so as to make out
the meaning. It was evident that the persons were not Italians,
but whoever they were, they preferred speaking imperfect
English to good French, in order, perhaps, that they might not
be so likely to be understood by a Roman eavesdropper. As it
was I should not have paid them much attention were it not
that I had heard the name, Valetti, repeated during the con-
versation. They had probably been in the house with others
for some time, and were now about to leave. I stood aside and
watched them as they passed out. There were three, two of
whom I was greatly surprised to recognise. Only a few days
previously I chanced to be a fellow traveller with them from
Dieppe to Paris. One of them was at that time in the char-
acter of a young French priest, the other passed, I think, as
his brother, and I noticed that presuming on their real or
assumed respectability, they had made themselves very agree-
able to two young ladies who happened to be in the company.
Here, however, they were now again, the quondam priest,
wearing a false mustache and in appearance a stylish full blown
'I
Hi'
H
IKM
iih m
., , ? m
mr'--
430
Family Creeds.
man of the world ; his companion the same. Tlie third per-
son was a large, stout, overdressed n\an, whose dark features
were by no u)ean8 prepossessing, and whose general appearance
stamped him, at least in my opinion, as being one who would
not be over scrupulous as to the measures he adopted to obtain
that of which he stood in need. As it happened they took tlu^
direction I was to go. I followed, and it whs but a few
minutes until we reached the house I had to enter. There my
curiosity became much increased when T saw two of them stand
at an opposite corner of the street and leisurely look up at the
windows of the taverna, as if they wished to see who were their
occupants, or expected a token of recognition from some per-
son within.
Just as I entered Mr. Casey took my hand. "Ah, I knew
you would come," said he, "but here in my impatience I have
been waiting for you nearly half-an-hour. I have already told
Jane that an old friend was coming to see us. Of course she
thinks it's Valletti, Whom else could she expect 1 Let us go
up stairs, it is now getting nearly dusk enough to keep her from
recognising you, or him, or any other person."
When we got up to the first landing, a parlor door was open,
and, at an opposite window a lady stood looking out. The
light was yet sufficiently clear to enable me to see the outlines
of her form, which appeared to be graceful to a marked
degree.
"That's she," whispered Mr. Casey; "you just stay here and
I'll tell her our friend is come." At that moment a servant
«
handed him a letter. Thinking it might be of some importance,
he asked me to excuse him while he read it. To do this he
went to a lamp which had just been lit at the end of a hall. I
remained where I was, and, during his stay, of course my eyes
were not for a moment removed from the object that had so
le third per-
ark features
il appearance
e who wouUl
ited to obtain
they took the
8 but a few
r. There my
A them stand
)ok up at the
rho were their
om some per-
"Ah, I knew
itience I have
je already told
Of course she
1 1 Let us go
ceep her from
oor was open,
ng out. The
the outlines
to a marked
stay here and
snt a servant
le importance,
'o do this he
of a hall. I
)urse my eyes
^t that had so
In the Clouds (tgaln.
431
long l)een of such interest to me. She stood like a statue,
looking rather upwanls, but as there was not the least move-
ment of the head, one might fancy that she was in deep thought,
watching the failing red light which could still be seen linger-
ing upon the distant hills. My tirst feeling now >yas one of
»ty. Was she thinking of him whose arts had, no doubt,
succeeded in blotting me so cimipletely out of her memory I Was
she anxiously awaiting his arrival I Ah me, what a change of
circumstances ! She slowly altered her position, and now her
side face was towards me. In the dim light I could notice
what seemed to be its pensive expression, a shade of sadness
having also overspread the really attractive features. They
were Jane's, for 1 could detect in the more womanly lineaments
the lines of the young countenance which would lik' ly be
indelible in my mind forever. As she at present appeared be*
"■>re me, her tiyes were thoughtfully downcast, and, holding a
)k, her hands were crossed upon her breast.
"It was from Valetti," whispered Mr. Cas< joining me
again, " He will be here to-morrow evening — but let us go in."
She iurned towards us when she heard our approach.
"Here he is at last, pretty close, however, to the time he
promised." Having said this Mr. Casey took my hand and led
me towards her. I bowed, but, as she took no step forward to
meet me, I stood and instinctively held out my hand. She
advanced a little and mei-ely touched mine with her fingers.
Just as she was about to speak she looked into my face for a
moment, and turning to her father said : " This is not the
friend you expected."
" Oh, not exactly the same one," replied Mr. Casey, " but
another, may be just as good, even an older friend than Mon-
sieur Valetti."
She ventured to look at me again, but in the dimness of the
il
4
si I
432
Family Creeds.
room she was evidently at a loss — it was plain that she did not
recognise me, and, so far, I kept from speaking.
" Can't you make a guess," said Mr. Casey a few moments —
"Guess his name."
"I realjy cannot, pa," she replied in a hesitating manner.
She appeared to be somewhat disconcerted, and while she still
looked up at my fac(^, J turned it a little aside from the window
so that it might become more shaded.
"Why, don't you know William Fairband]" at last asked
Mr. Casey.
She gave a little start — ^" Why surely," inquired she eagerly,
'not John's brother?" She seized my hand, her reserved
manner gave way to one of earnestness, and she drew me
slowly nearer to the window as if to make herself sati8fie4
regarding the identity of my bi'other. A moment's scrutiny
convinced her that I was some other person, and while she held
my hand still in doubt, her father spoke out in a vigorous man-
ner : " Well, then if it is not William Fairband may be its
John himself." Still looking at me she continued to hold my
hand — pressed it more tirnxly, let it go — and then slowly seated
herself in the chair by her side.
" That's a surprise I had in store for you," said her father,
" but I see it was rather too much and too unexpected. Look,"
continued he, drawing my attention to her, " She has got one
of those attacks of giddiness again, and it will take a minute
or so for her to get over it. "
Jane was still seated, but she had placed her hands over her
face, and her head was bent and resting on the window sill.
I must say that in spite of the mistrust which I had almost
fostered against Miss Casey, I could not help feeling touched
by this evidence of what might perhaps be a lingering regard
either for my brother or myself. Of course I was not particu-
it she did not
ff moments —
ting manner,
rhile she still
n the window
at last asked
d she eagerly,
her reserved
slie drew me
i-self sati8fie4
snt's scrutiny
while she held
dgorous man-
d may be its
to liold my
slowly seated
[l her father,
fted. Look,"
has got one
\ke a minute
ids over her
idow sill.
had almost
[ing touched
3ring regard
[not particu-
1)1 the Clouds again.
433
larly elated to think that she could boar him in affectionate
remembrance and look upon me only as his brother John. She
had seen him many times after I had left Ireland, but when I
heard her refer to him as "John's brother," there was some-
thing in these two words which made a certain chord vibrate,
giving me a moment of ecstacy. It was, however, only for a
moment. I relapsed again into my old doubting mood — she
thinks more of him than she does of me — she is disappointed
that I should be here instead of William, whom she would have
been better pleased to have recognized, or — this is just it — she
feels annoyed that I am here, and perplexed to think that I
shall most probably be present when Valetti, a more favored
person, makes his appearance, and that I shall then discover
her heartlessness. /
Under this impression my pride of spirit returned, and assum-
ing a most formal air, I said, " Though I am really glad to see
you again. Miss Casey, I sincerely hope that my unexpected
(I was on the point of saying, unwelcome) presence has not
been the cause of your sudden indisposition."
" There's Miss Casey again for you," said her father, half dis-
pleased, " In the name of gootlness, man, call her by her own
name and leave Monsieur Valetti to all the missing."
Hurriedly as the words were spoken, they were followed by
a sensation of pleasure, for it struck me immediately that
Valetti after all could not be on very intimate terms with Jane
if he had not got further yet than — "Miss Casey."
" Oh, you will, I am sure, excuse me," said Jane, addressing
nie in her old gentle manner; "there was something in the
sound of your voice that I thought I knew, but you have grown
and changed so much, and there is such a difference since I saw
you last — and what a long time that has been — that I fear I
should not have known you had I seen you anywhere else."
ti
I'ii I
i"! •
f. ■>
434
Family Creeds.
'itf
ii lU
" Gracious me, isn't he changed, and you might have said so
good-looking too," followed Mr. Casey.
" Possibly you might not have known me," said I, desirous of
incerceptiug any further peculiar remarks from her father.
*' When I met Mr. Casey to-day I was overjoyed. He would have
passed me unnoticed had I not spoken." I then gave a short
account of our chance encounter, and of the mutual pleasure it
afforded us to talk again of old times ; and that being here with
them this evening would make the day long to be remembered
as one of the happiest of my life. Jane listened with evident
interest to my recital, and was then going to make some further
remarks when Mr. Casey, holding out the letter he had received,
said :
" By the bye, here is another pleasure in store for us. Mon-
sieur Valetti writes that he will be here to-morrow evening,
and I am so glad John that you will be here to make his ac-
quaintance."
I scarcely know what reply I made to this, but I noticed
with satisfaction that Jane did not appear exhilarated by the
iriormation, and then somewhat encouraged by her seeming in-
diflference as to whether Valletti would make his visit the next
day or the next month, I managed to turn the conversation in
order to try and find out whether some particular incidents of
our youthful days were still as fresh in her memory as they were
in mine. How great was my satisfaction to discover that she
had not forgo tton a single circumstance that had added to our
happiness during the blissful period of her stay with us at Cove.
" You may think it very strange," said she, " that before
you came here this evening I was looking at a cloud picture in
the sky similar to one which we saw long ago — You will re-
member it. I think it was on the very last evening that we
walked out together. The next day, if I mistake not, I took
i '
have said so
I, desirous of
her father.
e would have
gave a short
sil pleasure it
ing here with
remembered
with evident
some further
had received,
ior us. Mon-
row evening,
make his ac-
lut I noticed
rated by the
seeming in-
^isit the next
iversation in
incidents of
as they were
ver that she
added to our
us at Cove.
that before
d picture in
You will re-
ing that we
not, I took
In the Clouds again.
435
my leave of you all. Is it not singular that I should be think-
ing of that airy landscape the moment you entered this room.
Oh yes, many a time have I beheld such cloud scenes since we
have been in Italy, and this evening in particular, the one upon
which my eyes rested when you came was nearly the same as
that which we gazed at in the Irish sky."
Was not this a sufficient evidence that I must have had still
a place in her memory ] I could come to no other conclusion
than that she was the same Jane, the same after years of sepa-
ration. She was now a woman, as fair and as gentle in my
eyes as when she had confided in me with all the simplicity of
a girl. She had not grown to be tall, but wai6 still neat and,
I might say, exquisite in figure. Her hair was dark brown,
her features chaste and regular, and her manner particularly
kind and winning. The reserve which she had shown at first
could now be scarcely noticed, and in her wonted way she sym-
pathized with me on my heavy loss. She asked me a hundred
questions about all at home, about my sister and William,
about Bristol and my uncle, and how I had managed to spend
my time away from my early friends, and so long among com-
parative strangers. Though we spoke quite freely, and rather
with something approaching the old familiarity, yet there was
between us a singular feeling of restraint. I had addressed
her but once as Miss Casey ; she had called me but once, Mr.
Fairband; still, though this formal manner did not continue for
any time, yet neither of us had so far ventured to pronounce
*' the once familiar name."
Mr Casey hardly said a word while we were speaking. He
seemed to take pleasure in listening to what we had to say, and
now that there was a pause in the conversation, he proposed
that, as the night was fine, and the moonlight clear aftd beauti-
ful, we should go out and enjoy a walk
436
Pamily Creeds.
A^ilk
i
It '
[f '-
« if
The Corso is one of the principal streets of Rome, It is
long, and has many line buildings on either side. At one end
of this street is the Piazza del Popolo, near to which is a hand-
some area, where a fine obelisk has been erected. This is a
favorite resort, and to-night a great number of persons could
be seen promenading this select thoroughfare. Foreigners at
this holy season were numerous in the city, and the costumes
of different countries could easily be recognized. Every one
appeared to be talking aloud, but, from the rapidity of utter-
ance, the little I knew of French, and the still less of Italian,
was not of the least service to me in the midst of such a
Babel. ,
"Well," said Mr. Casey, after having, I presume, tried to
give a patient hearing to the running discourse around him,
"It's really amazing to me how they can understand one
another. Such gabble and chatter I never heard before, and
faith they might talk to me until doom's day and leave me no
wiser,"
Peculiar as Mr. Casey's observation was, a stranger would
probably agree that there was some truth in it, for though I
tried to catch a word or two on our way I had at last to give
up the attempt in despair. As I walked once more by Jane's
side in a happy vein of thought, and commenting humorously
on the strange sights which we saw at every turn, I heard a
few English words spoken, "Who are these 1" and we were
met by three persons who were walking arm-in-arm, and in-
dulging in cigars. One of these quickly withdrew his arm and
turned aside, while the other two stood and confronted us for
a moment, and stared at me as if astonished. I knew them at
a glance. They were the same that I had seen that evening
leaving the Albergo, and why one of them should have left his
companion so suddenly rather surprised toe at the time.
In the Clouds again.
437
lorae. It is
At one end
eh is a hand-
l. This is a
)ersons could
foreigners at
the costumes
Every one
lity of utter-
as of Italian,
t of such a
ime, tried to
around him,
ierstand one
I before, and
leave me no
anger would
|for though I
last to give
re by Jane's
humorously
, I heard a
,nd we were
,rm, and in-
his arm and
nted us for
lew them at
ihat evening
lave left his
ime.
We remained out for nearly two hours ; a period more hap-
pily spent than I had enjoyed for many a day. I accompanied
my friends back to the hotel. I had to promise to be with
them again early on the following day, and make arrangements
to remain and accompany them on their further tour, and after
Mr. Casey had given my hand a hearty shake, Jane gave mine
a peculiar pressure that made my heart beat quicker, and
leaving them with regret I went on my way glowing with hope
in the future.
How could I sleep after this ] — Sleep 1 — Impossible ! Noth-
ing but the certainty of the most glorious dreams could have
induced me to allow the delightful, animating feeling which
now possessed me to be eclipsed by any shadow of slumber. I
began to think that I was not altogether forgotten by Jane,
that she still felt interested in me more than in Valetti, or any
other living being, let him be English, Irish, French, or Roman,
and that after what she had just told me, were it possible for
her now to be a deceiver, she must be one of the most artful,
dangerous, and heartless ones alive.
Almost relieved from every doubt, I felt no inclination to go
to my lodgings, and as the night was still exceedingly fine, I
went on alone, quite indifferent as to which course I took. I
must have walked a long distance. It was not yet midnight, and
hearing the sounds of a guitar, I went in the direction of the
music. Somebody, I could perceive, was singing what I sup-
posed was a love song, under a latticed window. Doubtless,
some wandering Andaluciian was paying his respects in this way
to some Roman beauty. It was a retired place. Near by was
part of one of the ruins of old Rome, and getting still closer, I
stood behind a broken column, and, looking up at the moon, I
listened to the voice which, at that quiet hour, was singularly
clear and melodious. Verse after verse was sung, one song was
n j
I
f^
I:
ll
fii
J f
I
t
. ?
♦'« ' 1
t R
i It
438
Family Greeds.
changed for another, but as the lattice remained closed, the
serenader at last took his leave, and, on his way, passed along
a pathway close to where I was standing. He did not observe
me, the column being between us, but how great was ray aston-
ishment to discover that he was one of the three friends whom
I had seen arm in arm on the Corso an hour or two previously.
While thinking over the strange chance meetings I had had
with this particular individual that day — he also being the one
who had turned aside when we met him and his companions on
the Corso — I remained for some time longer, and at last con-
sidering it time to depart, I was about to step away from the
pillar, when I saw a shadow tp^jroaching from an opposite
direction. The moonlight now was almost as clear as day, and
I had no fear whatever of any prowling robber or highwayman.
I looked, and a person in clerical garb was approaching. His
head was bent, and under the broad leaf of his hat his gray
hair was hanging down behind. So absorbed did he appear,
that he passed on without raising his head or noticing me, and
went on a short distance farther to a place in the ruin where a
small marble statue of some female saint had been set up.
Here he knelt, reminding me strongly jf the friar we had seen
in a similar posture that day. Curious to know whether I
should witness another adventure, I listened to his prayer, the
words of which were as yet scarcely audible. He must have
known that he could now make his appeal at this particular
place undisturbed, and that while the great thoroughfares of
the city might remain thronged, remote spots like this would
be almost deserted. But hark ! It was not a prayer, his words
were not in the Latin of the Church, they were arranged in no
formal manner, but to my surprise, he spoke in English, and
with sorrowful voice called upon " Mary in heaven." He
pleaded with his " own lost Mary " to come to him, if even
In the Clouds again.
439
id closed, the
passed along
id not observe
was ray aston-
friends whom
vo previously.
igs I had had
being the one
jonipanions on
i at last con-
iway from the
Q an opposite
ar as day, and
highwayman,
oaching. His
hat his gray
id he appear,
icing me, and
ruin where a
been set up.
• we had seen
iw whether I
is prayer, the
e must have
is particular
oughfares of
e this would
er, his words
ranged in no
English, and
eaven." He
Ihim, if even
but once, ere he departed. In anguish he appeared to await
some answering voice from on high, and when no comforting
reply was borne back on the night air, he looked like one in a
state of despair. Uncovered as he was before the image, his
gray hair added to his sad appearance. He called upon Mary
" for the last time," he sobbed aloud, and was evidently in great
mental distress. Under an impulse of pity I approached him,
and when he raised his head, I saw once more the now pale
and worn features of Father Ambrose, of him who had been
my midnight phantom — the spectre priest of the Big room.
I
h\r-
>
j.r.
P'iii:'
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THAT FACE AGAIN.
I'
FOR nearly a minute I was unable to move from the spot.
The poor man seized my hand without looking up, as if
he were really uncertain whether I was a messenger from his
Mary in heaven, or one from some brotherhood sent to conduct
him perhaps to a monastery. I did not fear him now. He
was so changed, worn and sad, that pity predominated over
every other feeling.
" Do take me there," said he in a low trembling voice.
" Take me, 1 cannot go myself — take me. Oh, I am so tired
of life — and still, I dread it — I dread it."
" Dread what, Father Ambrose, what do you dr6ad V
He was silent a moment before he replied — "The rivor."
He is insane, or nearly so. What shall I do ? I must not
leave him here. This was my first impression. He was ner-
vous and was bent nearly prostrate ; and I looked arounr^ to
see if any person was near, so as to ask assistance if needed.
" Father Ambrose, look up, and see if you know me." I tried
to raise him gently, but he appeared .to cling to the earth as if
he wished it to open and bury him out of sight for ever. I let
him remain this way for a little time. I called to him again.
He slowly drew himself up, and looking at me rather wildly,
said — " You speak English — ^you know my name — where am
' f
That Face again.
441
rom the spot,
ing up, as if
iger from his
mt to conduct
im now. He
minated over
nbling voice,
am so tired
•eadV
Ihe river."
I must not
iHe was ner-
kl arounr' to
;e if needed.
lie." I tried
le earth as if
ever. I let
him again.
[,ther wildly,
-where am
IV He grasped both my hands like one in despair, and spoke
first in French — " Voua He un veritable ami / Take me there,
take me there, I am so tired of life ; and all will be over soon."
He did not know me, but he became quite passive, and
allowed me to lead him away. I saw it would not do bo leave
him alone, for it flashed upon my mind that he must be bent
upon self-destruction, and I was confirmed in this opinion when
I heard him mutter as we went along — " I want to die now, for
I am deserted by her and by heaven — alas, alas, deserted by
all!"
Judging that he was at present in an unsound state of mind,
and seeing that he was plainly rather feeble in health, I deter-
mined to take him with me, and, holding his hand as I would
that of a child, we walked on slowly without speaking until we
came to a bridge which crossed the Tiber. " Ah," said he, sud-
denly, " here is the place."
He tried to release his hand, but I held it firmly. Then he
bent over the parapet, looking down with gloomy wistfulness
at the inviting sheen of the moonlit water, and said — " That
river covers many a lost treasure, many an evil deed, and many
a woful secret ; let me bury another there with those of the
past."
" Father Ambrose," said I to him resolutely, " you must
come with me. I shall not leave you to-night; let us go on, for
it is late, and to-morrow you will think of something better."
" Who are you," asked he, stopping a moment to look at my
face.
" Do you not know me yet. Father Ambrose 1 I am a friend,
I shall tell you my name again," and I spoke it close to his eai ,
He appeared lost in thought for nearly a minute, and then
repeated slowly, " John Fair baud — John Fairband — you know
me then, do you 1 "
29
442
Family Creeds.
St I
-■■I
-4
He now stood as if desirous of tracing my features, and
comparing them perhaps with some face still even maybe but
faint in his troubled memory.
*' Young man-child," said he at last in a tremulous voice,
*' I ought to know, but my poor brain is so confused. Wait,
let me see. John Fairband — Fairband, of Cove. Can it be
possible ! Ah, I know all now — your poor mother was Mary's
sister. O child ! I little expected to see you here. If I had
not met you — if I had not, I might have put an end to my suf-
ferings. What these have been for years none can ever know.
Alas, alas ! what a; long, dreary, melancholy life 1 have had to
bear since she was forced away from me by the most liendish
acts ever designed by man. My poor wretched existence has
been made one long, long continued sorrow. Oh ! of what was
I guilty to deserve such terrible punishment] !My earthly
happiness wrenched from me by demons in the garb of priests.
See ! it is the garb I wear, but I hate its looks. I have never
worn it as a choice — it is a shroud — but, while wearing it, I
have been no false adviser, no treacherous friend, and — and —
no Jesuit."
The last word he whispered in my ear, as if afraid of being
overheard.
" By designing men I have been placed in the Church — in
my living tomb ; and the priesthood, which may have been at-
tractive to others, has been but a heavy burden to me through
years of repining, and has done but little to cheer my prospect
to the tomb. Its imposed duties never brought forgetfulness
of my wrongs, brought no solace in my misfortune, no hope for
my future ; and when I wished to die to-night, it was only be-
cause I had some fond expectation that I should perhaps see
her again, and be united to my lost angel in some happier
sphere."
That Face again.
443
features, and
sn maybe but
smulous voice,
ifused. Wait,
e. Can it be
ler was Mary's
ure. If I liatl
end to my suf-
can ever know.
) I have bad to
3 most fiendish
i existence has
h 1 of what was
t'J !My earthly
garb of priests.
I have never
|e wearing it, I
ad, and — and —
afraid of being
the Church— in
have been at-
to me through
per my prospect
it forgetfulness
me, no hope for
it was only be-
ild perhaps see
some happier
I tried to say a few soothing words, and he listened with a
sorrowful air to what I said.
'* Alas ! alas ! " replied he, " your words bring little comfort.
Oh the desolation of a heart without hope ! But there is one
left, not of earth, but the hope, the prayerful hope, that there
may be some reparation for me after I shall have left this vale
of tears, and closed ray eyes for ever ; the dear fond hope that
I may meet her again, never, never more to part. O, young
man, perhaps you love ! Think what it would be to have that
tender, holy passion made a curse to your existence ! Think
what it would be banished from those sacred domestic associa-
tions and ties which make even this troubled life a paradise to
so many. To receive no caress from an affectionate wife — to
hear no little child lisp your name as father — to have your
holiest emotions pronounced sinful — to have your heart wither
before death — to have your face become prematurely aged, and
your hair gray before its time. 1 sometimes doubt, I sometimes
feel that there is no certainty before me but the long rest of
the grave. Alas, in my gray hairs I now feel as if I were on
the brink of despair." Here, overcome by his feelings, he
placed his hands over his face, and wept bitterly.
We got to my lodgings at last. I prevailed on him to take
my bed, and I determined that he should not be left alone. I
managed to rest comfortably enough on a sofa in the same
room. He slept very little during the night. At intervals he
would mutter something about the Jesuits, and once or twice he
started up as if afraid that they had surrounded his bed. I lay
awake as long as I could, and tried to re-assure him. Towards
day-dawn I fancied he was in a kind of slumber, and I must
have been overcome by a heavy sleep, for it was after ten in
the forenoon before I awoke. My first impulse was to look
444
Family Creeds.
rXV
f'if.;; ' !i
;i f
towards tho bed. I sprang up at once, for I was alone in the
room, and the priest was gone.
I hurriedly dressed, and, in a state of the greatest anxiety,
I made inquiries for Father Ambrose. As nearly as I could
make out no one had seen him leave the house. What was I
to dol I reproached mys<df for having fallen asleep, and
thereby given him an opportunity to escape. I must now go
and search for him, if it took me a week. Forgetful at the
time of nearly everything else, I went on my way, hardly know-
ing which course it was best to take, when at the first street
corner I met Mr. Casey coming towards me. T had agreed to
call on him not later than ten o'clock, and now it was long past
eleven. He had become uneasy at my delay, and as I had
given him my address, he knew where to find me, and here
having met him I considered it a most fortunate circumstance.
Without giving him time to say half-a-dozen words, I told
him hastily all concerning the priest, and fully agreeing with
me that there should be no time lost in commencing a search,
we started together, first to inform Jane lest she should be un-
easy by, perhaps, our continued absence for hours.
I did not accompany Mr. Casey as far as his hotel, I was too
anxious about the priest. I stood on a certain place where we
had agreed to meet, looking in every direction for him I was in
search of. Among the many clergy who passed along I could
notice those in the peculiar dress of the Jesuits, and when I saw
one of thet;e, I turned my eyes at once down some other street,
believing that Father Ambrose would shun them if possible,
and go another way to avoid meeting any of that dreaded fi w
ternity.
As soon as Mr. Casey joined me again we proceeded s, ly
through several streets, carefully looking out for a priest witli
gray hair ; but though we saw a few of these, yet so far we
Sf.:tf>i! *
That Face again.
44')
1 alone in tho
itest anxiety,
y as I could
What was I
1 asleep, and
must now go
>rgetf ul at the
hardly know-
be first street
had agreed to
b was long past
and as I had
me, and here
circumstance.
1 words, I told
agreeing with
cing a search,
should be un-
s.
otel, I was too
ilacs where we
r him I was in
along I could
ad when I saw
e other street,
im if possible,
dreaded Ln
kceeded sj '- ly
a priest with
let so far we
failed to got a sight of the face of him we were seeking. Wo
had been out for more than throe hours. I got disht'arteniul,
and was beginning to think that our chance of succ«!Sh was very
doubtful. Wo were by this time in that part of the city called
the Ghetto or Jews' Quarter. Looking down one of the narrow
dirty streets we saw, only a short distance in advance of us, a
number of persons watching the strange actions of a priest, and
listening to his words, which they evidently did not understand.
" There he is," cried I, and running off at once, I clutched Fa-
ther Ambrose by the arm, to the surpri.se of those who were
near by, and held him as resolutely as if I had been a policeman.
'* Why did you leave me 1 " I asked him in rather an excited
manner. But he scarcely turned his face to make a reply. He
stood outside of a little shop window, and was intently gazing
through the dull besmeared glass at some object inside which
seemed to rivet his whole attention.
"There she is ! there she is !" cried he, pointing to something
inside. " God has sent her to me at last. Look at the heav-
enly face of my lost Mary ! " He repeated these words without
paying the least attention to what I said to him.
The little establishment was apparently a kind of pawn-
broker's shop, or a place where trifling second-hand articles,
prized mostly by the lower class of the population, could be
bought, sold, or exchanged. Through the dim glass we could
see daggers, pistols, knives, pipes, heads and images of little
saints in alabaster ; pictures of saints and angels, of the Pope,
nnd til Madonna; diminutive altars; crosses, crucifixes, and
beuils of glass, horn, and brass, all laid here and there
,u order or arrangement. Through this dull window the
riesi was gazing at something, and seemed disinclined to turn
his eyes aside for a moment. Anxious to discover what it was
chat had so fix d his gaze, I looked and saw a common un-
I
If''' : f
446
!!'■
if-.:
I
Family Creeds.
framed wood-print of the Virgin and Child close to a central
pane, and a little below this hung a small portrait — this was the
attractive object — I looked closer, and there, to my amazement,
hung the lost portrait of my Aunt Mary.
I saw at once how everything was. In his restless wander-
ing he had chanced to pass this shop, and probably being at-
tracted, ju3t as a child might be by the miscellaneous collection
within — or could it be a weapon that he had coveted — he had
stopped for a moment, looking perhaps in a listless way at the
display, when his eye caught the old treasured portrait, and
there he would most probably have remained muttering inco-
herencies to his Mary, until he might possibly have been forced
away as a lunatic, were it not that we had most fortunately
discovered him.
I now made no delay. I told Mr. Casey to remain close to
the priest. I went into the shop, and pointing to the portrait,
signified as well as I could my desire to become its purchaser —
for I thought it would be a useless attempt for me to lay claim
to its ownership. The man I had to deal with was, so far as I
could judge, a Jew, He held up three fingers, meaning that
the price would be three scudi di argento. I paid him the
money forthwith. He had, no doubt, got the portrait for may-
be less than half that sum ; but I was well satisfied. It was
less, I suppose, than one-fourth of its original cost; and had he
demanded three times the amount which I paid him, I would have
cheerfully given it. When I got outside again, the priest came
towards me holding out both hands, so eager was he for its
possession. I gave it to him at once. Ho kissed it repeatedly,
pressed it to his heart, and while his eyes were filled with
big tears, he quietly allowed us to lead him away.
We got back to my lodgings at last. By this time Father
Ambrose was calm again. He evidently knew Mr. Casey, but,
la
That Face again.
447
while the tears once more coursed down his cheeks, he expressed
himself to me in the most grateful nftinner ; " You have saved
me John, you have restored all that most reminds me of her,
and now I shall abide my time and die with some content — O,
child, how fortunate that you ever found me, for ere this I
should have been in the dark liver, beyond the reach of that
heartless fraternity." While saying this his lip quivered and
his trembling hand pointed to the convent of the Jesuits, which
could just be seen past the Strada del Gesu. Still looking at
the portrait, he said : " This dear image of one that was more to
me than life shall now remain with me forever. Before I left
Ireland I handed it to your poor mother — Mary's sister — as a
sacred trust until my return. I came here, nearly distracted,
in the vain'hope of seeking a dispensation — a total release from
my priestly vows — but with the Church it is, once a priest for-
ever a priest ; I shall, however, seek this np longer. I feel
that I shall not have long to wait for my liberty and — for that
meeting in Heaven."
Seeing that he was in a very weak condition, we prevailed
on him to take a little nourishment and then to try and get a
few hours' repose. He agreed to do so. He said he had, to some
extent, got over his great despondency, and, regretting that he
had given us so much trouble, he assured us that we might rely
on him to remain where he was, that he would prefer staying with
me at present than going anywhere else, and that if we desired
it we might both leave him for a few hours, certain to find him
on our return. Still somewhat in doubt, I left directions to
have him strictly watched, and having received every assurance
that this would be done, I accompanied Mr. Casey to his hotel.
Jane had been awaiting us with some uneasiness. She had
heard something of the history of the afflicted priest, and her
sympathizing nature had been touched by his long ^ears of
t
448
! < I
S
I ill'
h
h:\
I"'
I »
i}(
Fawdly Creeds.
suffering. She was rejoiced to hear that I had perhaps been tlie
means of saving a poor persecuted man from self-destruction,
and I saw by her looks how much her gentle nature was
touched by the efforts I had made in his behalf.
It was now well towards evening, and, to my eyes, Jane
looked perfectly beautiful in her womanhood. Some might say
that her face was not decidedly handsome ; but for me it was
that of an angel. It had an expression without which the
most exquisite features would have been commonplace. Any-
way, in her appearance, in her simple manner of dressing, in
her tenderness, and in her truthfulness, she was to my yearn-
ing soul beyond all others, the most attractive of her sex ; and
as for her constancy I had not now the most lingering doubt. /
The only trouble that still remained — the only shadow over my /
happiness — was, why she should persist in remaining solely
attached to her father, and have decided to live an unmarried
life.
As Mr, Casey was rather fatigued after his unusual long
walk with me in our search for Father Ambrose, he now sat
dozing in an arm-chair, and as the soft evening air was most
inviting, I proposed that Jane and I should sit outside on an
adjoining balcony which commanded a fine view of much of
the great Roman capital. With wliat feelings of delicious
pleasure I found myself once more alone in her society, and from
what I could notice in her manner, I ventured to pr(!sume our
emotions on this occasion were, to some extent, reciprocal. We
were alone.
At any other time, and with any other person, I might have
opened a conversation about Romulus and Remus, about the
classic ruins around us, and compared the ancient glories of the
once Imperial city with its present degenerate condition. But I
could not speak of these, another subject was pressing itself on
laps been the
'-destruction,
nature was
r eyes,
Jane
ae might say
r me it was
t which the
jlace. Any-
dressing, in
o ray yearn -
ler sex ; and
;ering doubt. A
low over my /
ining solely
n unmarried
nusual long
16 now sat
ir was most
;side on an
of much of
of delicious
y, and from
5r(;sunie our
Drocal. We
might have
about the
ories of the
on. But I
u
2 itself on
That Face again.
449
my attention ; yet with this long-wished-for opportunity now
presented I felt singularly embarrassed and could hardly say a
word.
"Jane," said I at last, "I must call you by your own name.
My heart is full when I think of the long-ago, and I wish I
could speak to you with freedom as of old. But I sometimes
fear that your sentiments towards me may have changed."
Without any start of affected surprise, she turned her sweet
face towards me, and replied, *' Why not speak, John ] My
regard for old friends such as you seldom vary. I should still
like to hold a high place in your esteem."
"Oh, of course you do — why should you not? And I am
so glad you have called me John again. But you know how
long we have been separated, and you know you may have seen
some other person whom you would now prefer to the little
sickly John of your younger days. I have heard something
like this, and I was almost afraid to speak to you again of the
past."
She looked calmly ot me for a moment or two and quietly
said, " Then, John, let me tell you in all sincerity, that if you
ever heard that I preferred any other person'.s friendship or
regard — or, I shall say any other person's society — to yours, you
have been greatly misinformed."
" I am exceedingly happy to hear you say this," said T with
some emotion, " for oh, how sorry I should be to think that
the past with us was to be but as a dream."
" I should be sorry also," she replied in a low voice.
" And," continued I, " do you remember our youthful en-
gagement long ago, when we promised to become man and wife?
You may now think we were very fooli.sh."
" I have never forgotten it," she answered in the same low
voice. " We may have been imprudent."
450
Family Greeds.
Hi
f, , ,.
i1.
rf
} i
f I >
iVf
^t
" Now, Jane, let me ask you — Would you consider such a
promise yet binding 1"
In a lower voice still she replied, *' It shall be just what you
wish to consider it."
** Dear Jane," said I, taking her hand, " do tell me one thing.
Why have you told your father so often that you would never
marry, that you would prefer going into a convent. He has
repeatedly assured me that you would not wed the finest man
on earth, were he even prince or king — can this be true ? Is
your heart so closed forever?"
She sat still, let her hands fall, and looked silently into my
eyes, and when I repeated the question in a subdued voice, I
saw her breast heave, I heard her sob, and then she laid her
head on my shoulder and wept.
Tears were now in my own eyes, but after a few moments'
pause, I followed up my questions. " Have you any inclina-
tion to become a nun, to become one of the 'buried alive' from
me, and from all the humanizing and gentle domestic duties
and relations belonging to your sex 1 "
I could just hear her say, " Not if you desire otherwise."
" Have you any wish to remain single, and to waste your
affections on winged angels, and withered saints 1"
" No," replied she, slowly whispering into my ear, " no, John,
not if you will be my guardian angel."
My heart was full. I seized her in my arms and kissed her,
and promised and vowed, and almost swore, that I should be to
her all that she wished me to be until life should end. Of
course we said much more as lovb which it is not necessary to
relate, and for some happy minutes after this we sat side by side
watching the lessening sunlight on the Roman hills, and looking at
some glorious cloud, studded, as it were, with beautiful aerial flags
and banners, and bearing pearly freight, sailing slowly away into
Ifl:
sider such a
That Face again.
Vol
the far distance, as if sent out on some mission of peace. The
buzz of the flitting bee seemed to be of love ; and birds with
golden wings flew around us in the rosy air. Every sound
seem6d turned into a murmur of melody; and the glowing
heavens looked as if predicting our happy future. Then M-hen
ooTn<j monastery bell rang out in the clear sky, it seemed as if a
celestial voice were proclaiming to all our union of hearts, our
pledge *of constancy and love ; and that no earthly power,
secular or clerical, should have power to estrange our affections,
or sepamte us for ever more.
CHAPTER XL.
HIS LAST RITE.
r
** TTERE he is at last," said Mr. Casey calling to his daugh-
Ll. ter. "Our friend Valetti has just. arrived."
Jane left my side at once and entered the room ; I followed.
"John, this is our friend Monsieur Valetti. Monsieur,
our very old friend Mr. Fairband."
I made a for.^^al bow to my new acquaintance, and we both
muttered some common-place compliment. Jane, I could per-
ceive, was not very demonstrative, but she received her father's
friend with every show of respect.
" Only reached the city this afternoon," said Mr. Casey, re-
peating the words of his friend. "You ought to have been
here yesterday. You know the pontifical blessing is worth a
journey of a thousand miles, and many I suppose came farther
than that to see his Holiness."
" Oh I should much wish to have been here yesterday, but
I was keep — detained — in le grand city of Paris too long.
Mais — but — I should be irreverence enough to preefer coming
more for de society of your lovely daughter an yourself den
even for de pope — ha — ha."
"Bravo !" cried Mr. Casey, "That is true French gallantry
all out. But, after all, as a good Catholic you would of course
choose to kneel to His Holiness before you would to the fairest
lady in Christendom."
Hia Last Rite.
453
o his daugh-
d."
I followed.
Monsieur,
,nd we both
could per-
her father's
Casey, re-
have been
is worth a
Lme farther
)erday, but
too long.
fer coming
urself den
gallantry
of course
the fairest
I did not hear Valetti's reply, for the sound of his voice had
engaged all my attention. I had surely heard that voice before.
The light through the thickly-curtained windows was too
dim to enable me to see his features distinctly, but I could
notice that he glanced furtively at me several times, and I
fancied that he was dissatisfied at my presence. I sat listen-
ing to his colloquy with Mr. Casey for a short time longer, and
then, making some excuse, I withdrew from the room and went
down stairs, all the time trying to discover why Valetti should
be associated in my mind with any other person, place, or thing.
While pacing up and down the large lower hall of the hotel,
I saw two persons enter. Thoir appearance struck me at once.
They addressed one of the attendants in Italian, and during
the time they were speaking, I grew, for some reason, suspicious,
and watched them closely. Just then one of the large lamps
was lit up, and, behold ! there was the stout man and one of
the other persons I had seen with him the previous day leaving
the albergo. They now sat together on one of the large forms,
following with their eyes those who passed along the street,
and commenced to smoke cigars. They conversed in an under-
tone, and in less than ten minutes, to my further surprise,
they were joined by Valetti, who had, I presume, shortened his
visit and just taken leave of his friends up stairs. He did not
notice me, for I stood some distance away. He appeared to
be earnestly conversing in the same low tone with the other
two, and when he turned his face to the full light he must
have seen me ; but what was my amazement when I recognized
in Valetti, the young priest with whom I had travelled to
Paris ; one of the three whom I had seen leave the albergo ;
and, actually, the serenader who had charmed me with his fine
singing just before I chanced to fall in with Father Ambrose.
What a discovery ! Here it was evident that he was at least
iif
454
Family Greeds.
m
u
hi
5; »
It:
If-;.!
4^' ■ i ■
Ul
one of the three unscrupulous adventurers — if a worse name
for them would not be more applicable — who evidently lived
by imposing on strangers and travellers, and assuming diflfer-
ent characters to deceive and plunder the unwary. That my
friend Mr. Casey had not been already despoiled was in my
opinion owing to some deeper plot which had been laid, and
which they had hoped that time and perseverance would have
made successful. How fortunate that I was in a position to
satisfy Mr. Casey as to the real character of the man who had
been, no doubt, for a long time watching his movements, and
paying such apparently disinterested attention to him and his
daughter, in full expectation that he should at last be the ac-
cepted suitor of Miss Casey. He had, by certain means known
to professional impostors, obtained information as to the posi-
tion and circumstances of my friend, and having alleged that
he was the son of a mei'chant, with whom the late firm of
Fairband and Casey had dealt, succeeded by this story, and by
a respectful demeanor, together with other artful means, in im-
posing on Jane's father who was not naturally suspicious. He
had been followed from place to place by these men who had
watched him closely, and, from what I had overheard in the
albergo, they must have expected to be able to accomplish all
they desired.
I returned up stairs at once. I had not been absent more
than about twenty -five minutes. I inquired why Valetti had
left so soon. Mr. Casey informed me that his friend had
merely called according to promise to pay his respects, but that
a matter of business would oblige him to postpone his longer
stay until the next evening. " The fact is," said Mr. Casey,
" Valetti only arrived in Rome this afternoon, and he met un-
expectedly two friends who had been at Naples. On their way
from that city it seems they were unfortunately robbed of all
W
His Last Rite.
455
worse name
dently lived
iming differ-
\ That my
was in my
en laid, and
would have
I position to
lan who had
ements, and
him and his
it be the ac-
leans known
to the posi-
alleged that
ate firm of
ory, and by
leans, in im-
icious. He
n who had
eard in the
omplish all
bsent more
^aletti had
friend had
8, but that
his longer
tfr. Casey,
le met un-
their way
bed of all
the money in their possession, and, in his gootl nature, wishing
to relieve them from their unpleasant difficulty — they being
persons of distinction — offered at once to place a sufficient sum
at their disposal so as to enable them to continue their tour
without the inconvenience of having to delay for a remittance.
Singularly however Monsieur Valetti did not happen to have
a sufficient amount on hand — a cheque on his banker at Paris
would probably delay them too long — and as a favor he
merely wished me to loan him, only for a day or two, say a
thousand scudi — a less sum might answer, but as they were
men of affluence, he did not like to ask them to accept it."
" You have not given the money 1" cried I almost in alarm.
"No," replied Mr. Casey, not noticing my excitement, "for
the very same reason that he offered himself. I have not that
much money here with me — well on towards two hundred
pounds you know — but I told him I should also have to send
to Paris ; yet to save delay I thought I should be able to ob-
tain it from you and send it to him in the morning."
" The scoundrel shall never have a shilling from me, nor from
you either," I exclaimed to the great surprise of both Mr.
Casey and Jane. " I have said so," said I, looking at both with
the most determined expression of countenance. " The villain
shall not get any money from me, or from you, or from any one
else, if I can prevent it. He and his two friends from Naples
should be arrested and sent to a treadmill for years."
" Upon my word," said Mr. Casey, " you really surprise me !"
"No doubt I do, but it would not be a very pleasant sur-
prise, had you given that man the loan he asked, to find that
he was a swindler."
Jane now appeared to be as much astonished as her father,
and, to satisfy them, I related all I knew, and all I had dis-
covered of the so-called Valetti and his companions, and, fur-
456
Family Creeds.
ww^
thermore, of what I believed was his intentioi; respecting her,
and, when I had finished my strange story, both Jane and her
father found some difficulty in believing that they had been de-
ceived to such an extent.
" If you are certain that you saw him yesterday," continued
Mr. Casey, " why, I have no more to say ; but are you posi-
tively sure?"
*' I am not only certain that I saw him then, but I believe
now that he came to the city the very day you came yourself ;
that he has watched you, or has had some one else to do so ever
since — for I remembered having seen two of them looking up
at the hotel windows — and I would not be surprised if he was
the very thief who stole my handkerchief."
Here both Mr. Casey and Jane could not keep from laugh-
ing, the idea seemed so ridiculous ; and they remarked that
never before had they seen me so excited.
"Well, I admit I feel rather indignant, but of this you may
be assured, that had that man not seen me in your company on
the Corso the other night, and here this evening again, he
would not have asked money from you ; he would have pur-
sued his old course ; he would have accompanied you to Flor-
ence, and his worthy friends would have followed. My being
here has changed the aspect of affairs. I saw that he looked
upon me with suspicion, and it is my strong impression that
you have seen the last of Valetti."
" But won't he come for the money 1" asked Mr. Casey. " I
promised to try and have it for him to-morrow."
" Oh, no," I replied, " you won't catch him stepping into a
trap. As a last chance he may send for the money which he
scarcely expects to receive, but he will take good care not to
make his application in person."
We discussed this singular matter for some time longer.
It-'
His Last Rite.
457
)ecting her,
ane and her
ad been de-
" continued
e you posi-
it I believe
le yourself ;
3 do so ever
looking up
d if he was
from laugh-
larked that
is you may
ompany on
again, he
have pur-
ou to Flor-
My being
he looked
ssion that
asey.
((
ing into a
which he
ire not to
le longer.
Mr. Casey was now perfectly convinced that a deep design had
been formed to do him a great injury, and he and Jane agreed
with me, that the sooner we quietly left the Roman capital
the better, and that if we could only induce Father Ambrose
to accompany us back to Ireland, we should take our departure
as soon as he was able to travel.
The priest was asleep when I got back to my lodgings that
night. I was glad of this, for rest would now do more for him
than medicine. I looked at his pale, care-worn face for some
time, and all that I had heard of his pitiful history came back to
my remembrance. If it affected me almost to tears, how much
more must his ov/n thoughts of the dreadful past have worn
down a once vigorous frame, and broken a spirit once animated
by the most delightful pictures of the future 1 Would that his
melancholy case were but a solitary instance of the cruelties
perpetrated in the name of religion ! There he lay — a poor,
faded, old man — sufiering from the effects of that most terrible
of all bereavements, the extinction of hope. What a sad life
his must have been ! I could fancy him, as an ardent young
man, going to meet her on whom his early affections had been
placed, and walking hand in hand with the innocent and con-
fiding Mary Kittson, along the green banks of some clear,
winding stream, in the quiet evening time. I could hear their
pledge of love, their promise to wed, and listen to them speak
of their pleasant anticipations of the future. I could see them
as they stood side by side, many a fine, clear night — like Jane
and me — looking up at the bright stars and thinking of heaven.
Ah me ! What was the next scene 1 Clouds and gloom —
the shadow of Loyola across their pathway. Father Gabriel, the
Jesuit, arrives, with his dark dress, his piercing eye, and his
profound learning — knowledge which but sharpened the weapon
he uses against humanity. His treason to nature is whispered
30
458
Family Creeds.
i:^^'-
m
in cunning words to Mary's mother, and his pious, flattering
deceptions are uiado most agreeable to her father. And hero
enters Don Jose, the rich, dark-featured ga'.Iant, affecting to bo
fascinated with Mary's beauty, preying upon her blushes, and
hinting remote suspicions as to Henry's fidelity. There are
vipers on the hearth which lie hiding in ashes of piety. Next,
the two Jesuits in council plotting the eternal separation of
Henry and Mary, and reading their intercepted lett«TS. Next
Mary's reluctant abandouuient of the worhl to become a nun,
followed by the pitiful scene which ended the ceremony of her
" taking the veil," and, lastly, a few months later, came the
saddest scene of all, when Henry could be seen weeping over
her while she lay coffined in the cathedral, and surrounded by
a glare of lights. Shocking ! All this done ostensibly for so-
called religious purposes — this painful tragedy brought about
to serve the interests of the Church.
These scenes passed before mo while I still watched the hap-
less victim of ecclesiastical iniquity ; and then remembering
what he had once lately said in reference to an overruling
Providence, I almost shared his doubts that an omnipotent
Power could remain passive and permit such infamous designs
to become successful. The more I dwelt upon this, and the
more I urged Reason to account for the seeming indifference of
an Almighty Being to the prevention of cruelty and injustice,
the more I became perplexed. Ponder on this as I would,
Reason could, however, give no satisfactory reply, and my only
resource was to accept the usual orthodox explanation — that it
was one of the sacred mysteries which were beyond our limited
comprehension.
I awoke early next morning. I was anxious to acquaint
Father Ambrose of our plan, and to request him to accompany us
to Ireland. I saw to my regret that he appeared much weaker,
Hia Last Rite.
459
IS, flattering
And hero
Fecting to bo
hluHhcH, and
There are
ioty. Next,
^paration of
.t«TH. Next
omo a nun,
uony of her
r, came the
eoping over
■rounded by
libly for so-
jught about
ed the hap-
Bmembering
overruling
omnipotent
ous designs
lis, and the
ifference of
I injustice,
I would,
ad my only
3n — that it
)ur limited
acquaint
ompany us
ch weaker,
but ho assured me with a smile that nothing now would afford
him greater pleasure than to return to his native land whenever
we were ready to go. ** I have not much longer to remain,
John," said he, taking my hand, " I should like to stand V>y her
grave once more, and to have a place by her side when I depart."
"Oh," said I, trying to cheer him, "you will, I hope, have
some happy years yet ; I want you to stay with me always.
Wo shall go back to the old house and you will get bettor."
To this he slowly shook his head, and then closed his eyes.
" Father Ambrose," whispered I to him, ** Mr. Casey and his
daughter are coming to see you to-day. You may have heard
of little Jane who used to be with us at Cove. Well, she will
be here, and she will nurse you and make you well again."
Ho thought for a moment. " I remember her, John, and I
have an impression that your happiness is some way con-
nected with her. I should like to see her, but no matter what
her skill may be, she cannot dela^ the approach of that which
is coming."
Noticing the despondency by which he was affected, I told
him, in a genial way, that Jane might possibly perform a miracle.
And in hopes that he might be more enlivened by another in-
fluence, I made haste to bring an angel to his side who might
in some degree be a resemblance to the one he had lost.
It was as I had predicted. Valetti had sent a trusty mes-
senger for the loan which I fancy he now scarcely expected to
obtain, but he kept away himself. A certain formal reply —
instead of the money — was however returned, which I believe
tended to relieve Mr. Casey from any further in.portunities,
and from another visit from his polite Parisian friend ; and to
make sure that he should have no more annoyance from such a
source, it was decided that we should leave Rome the following
morning.
460
Family Creeds.
•: 'I r
The spring flowers were in full bloom again when we got
back to our old house at Cove. My brotJier and Shawn were
there to meet us. Ah, what recollections ! Where was the
greeting of the lost ones ? The sound of those parental voices
was hushed forever. At his own request Father Ambrose
desired to occupy the big room, and he had it all to himself.
Daily his pulse became feebler, and his face more pale. But
he had one ministering angel almost constantly by his side ;
knowing his sorrows, Jane was ever near him ; in fact he
became more restless in her absence. Nij,I.t and day she left
nothing undone which it was possible to perform to make his
remaining days more er.sy and peaceful. The priest became
wonderfully attached to her, and he often told me that she
greatly reminded him of one that was in heaven ; and that she
must have been mysteriously sent to cheer his remaining days
upon earth.
One day after this when I was alone with Father Ambrose,
he said to me : " John, I have been talking to Jane's father
about you. I have noticed that your happiness is centered in
her, and, without you, I find that life would be to her a dread-
ful blank. I .shall not be a Jesuit and advise you to take holy
orders, and her to become a nun. O, God forbid ! I knovr that
any means you or she may have to s^^are, will be checj-fully
shared among the poor, and otherwise spent in doing good.
This will je better than to have it controlled by those who would
mostly spend it for the propagation of a creed which — I speak
from painful knowledge of facts — is dangerous in many respects,
dangerous, dangerous. Would that I had known it sooner !"
Here he was almost overcome, and he drew long, heavy inspir-
ations. " Now, John," continued he, "my strongest desire is
to see you and Jane united so that no earthly power can ac-
complish your separation."
His Last Rite.
461
tien we got
hawn were
re was the
mtal voices
ir Ambrose
to himself.
pale. But
y his side ;
in fact he
ay she left
make his
est became
lie that she
md that she
aining days
r Ambrose,
me's father
3entered in
er a dread-
take holy
inow that
ciieej-fully
oing good,
who would
— I speak
ly respects,
t sooner !"
,vy inspir-
desire is
iT can ac-
" You have judged my feelings rightly," I replied ; " but her
father is under the impression that she desires toenter a convent."
" He does not think that now," continued the priest, " for I
have assured him that 1 had olicittnl the confession from Jane's
own lips tlxat she loved you. This was not a spiritual confes-
sion. I shall never hear another of these, nor perform any other
priestly ceremony bu^ one, and I have Jane's consent already,
as well as her father's, tliat this shall be done by me ; and now
I know that I shall have yours."
" If it will afford you the least happiness, you know you
have only to name your request."
" Then," said the priest, taking my hand, *' it will 'be to
make you. (,s I think you will be, deservedly happy. It was
there," said he, pointing to th? re cesrj, " I said my last mass,
my requiem for your poor Aunt Mary's soul ; I have never
stood upon an altar since that. It was there I gave you your
second baptism — which I now believe was a useless rite — my
next ceremony will be one which you will not attend unv 1-
lingly ; it is there I wish to unite you in marriage to Jane."
" O, Father Ambrose, how good you are. You have relieved
me by mentioning the subject to Mr. Casey. I should on tliis
matter feel strangely diffident with him my.self. Most gladly
do I accept your kind offer, for when Jane and I kneel before
you, I have every expectation that conrubial happin(!Ss will
follow your last blessing."
Nothing more was said on this subject for nciarly a week.
Mr. Casey remained with us, and he repeatedly expressed his
gratification with our matrimonial arrangements. (Shawn, ap-
parently but little mor' <<i^ed t'.an when I first left iiome^ was
still the faitliful servant we had ever found him. Nelly Car-
berry — now a widow -we had got back again ; she was yet the
same affectionate creature. Business required that my brother
462
Pamity Creeds.
r
1'
\Mi
I£>
shouk! spend the most of his time in the city, but early one
morning Father Ambrose told me to send for him. The priest
had scarcely left his • >d for the last two or three days, and
Respite of all attention was evidently sinking.
** I had a dream last night," said he in a low voice to Jane
and me, "a beautiful dream. I saw them — your mother and
Mary — sitting on a sun-lit hill. They were looking towards
the west, while a clear river, which lay between us, could be
seen winding away in the distance. The sun seemed to be set-
ting, and with the red light, like a glory around them, they
beckoned me to come across. I heard them say that they
should await me, as I had but few hours more to remain on earth.
This dream has left an unusual impression on my mind. I feel
that I have not long to stay here. I have that last ceremony
to perform- -it must be done to-morrow, and then I shall be
ready to test the reality of the promised future."
It was a beautiful afternoon in May. Scarcely a leaf was
stirring, and the clear air was vocal with the songs of birds.
The fragrance of flowers from the garden entered the windows,
and a few roses decorated the recess. Father Ambrose, pale
and emaciated, antl wearing a soutaine and stole for the last
time, sat in a cusJiioned arm-chair within the space where the
altar had once been erected. Jane and I stood before him.
Mr. Casey and Shawn were at one side, and my brother and
Nelly Carberry on the other. I must own to a little nervous-
ness, for the solemn manner of the priest recalled to my mind,
even at that distance of time, his melancholy ghos- like appear-
ance that startled me on the day of my baptism. But the
ceremony was soon over ; he held our hands while giving us a
few kind words of admonition, and then having given us his
priestly blessing, he told all present that he had performed his
last oftice, and that 1 and Jane were husband nud wife.
m,
it early one
The priest
le days, and
ice to Jane
mother and
ng towards
s, could be
;d to be set-
thern, they
' that they
lin on earth,
ind. I feel
it ceremony
n I shall be
a leaf was
(s of birds.
e windows,
|l)rose, pale
lor the last
where the
)efore him.
Irother and
e nervous-
my mind,
ke appear-
But the
viag us a
en us his
rmed liis
CHAPTER XLI.
THE GREAT PKEACIIERS.
JT is now nearly four years since Father Ambrose ended his
'earthly career, yet still it seems but yesterday. He lived
*■ ■; io i ral days after our marriage ; but within two hours after
the J.W. Jormance of liis last ceremony he was taken to his bed,
and from thence to his grave. I cannot at present recall all
he said during that time, neither can Jane fully remember ;
but in his sleep, in his wandering, in his delirium, one beloved
name was repeatedly upon his lips, and at times, under the
imagination that he was young again, he would plead pitifully
with Mary's parents to have her liberated from the nunnery ;
he would warn them against the machinations of Fatlu^r
Gabriel, and tell all to beware of the designing, treacherous
Jesuits. His last moments were, however, singularly peaceful ;
and his last words, as if directed to some waiting angel, were —
" Wait ! I am free, I am free ! I shall be a pri(»st no longer."
We did not take from his hand the little picture. He had
looked at it frequently during hi.s last illness, and his dying
gaze faded on the features hs held before him. Tlie portrait is
now with him in his grave.
Another marria^^e ceremony since mine has taken place. My
brother is the husband of Bertha Reardon, and she is one of
the most devoted of wixcs. We were all plfaMcil with liis
wm
464
Family Creeds.
■J'
it j
it
*
i. >
W >i
5!
tifi
I! *
choice ; and I think he is supremely happy in her pos ession.
'J'hey reside in the city, and as they often visit us at the old
home, our family reunions are of the happiest kind.
My sister is still immured in a convent. I regret the choice
she has made — she may perhaps regret it no'v herself. Her
life is to some extent a dreary hlank ; and her black dress,
though intimating a seclusion from the world, does no*-., after
all, hide her from the anxieties which are the common lot of
all. One who knows tells me that the pious inmates of a
nunnery, from the mother abbess down to the latest novitiate,
have their cares, their strifes, their jealousies, and their envy-
ings. Go where we may, to the desert or to the city, to the
crowded thoroughfare or to the solitary glen, while life lasts we
are still in the world, and no one can run away from its in-
evitable trials and afflictions.
The oratory at Bristol is closed, and in the little yard where
" Rattry Jim " so often made his appearance, long slender gi-ass
is growing under the rotting benches. That which wass most
useful and humane in connection with my uncle's religious
efforts is no longer followed within that enclosure, and the
hungry poor who may happen to be near must pass without an
invitation to enter, and get a moutl^nl of bread. The aged and
unfortunate who once trod that place, who have not sunk in
despair, have turned their feeble steps for aid in some other
direction, and will n.^ver return to sit and wait in patience for
their scanty allov, ance.
St. Philip's is deserted. It is now a lonely place, its dooi'S are
closely fasteiv- '. locks and bolts are rusting, dust has gathered
on its windows, and smoke is never seen ascending from its tall
chimneys. Its apartments are desolate, and cobwebs hang in
its gloomy hall. No voice is heard witliin its walls, no echo is
awakened ; but, unless from occasional street sound.i, by day as
le
The Great Preachers.
465
well as by night, an oppressive stillness seems to prevail around.
What a change ! Since the death of the priest and prophet of
the oratory, one might think that St. Philip himself had
accompanied his ministering servant to the celestial gates and
had left his neglected homestead to ruin and decay. Alas, my
poor uncle ! Even those who ridiculed his religious teaching
and practices would admit, that if he was led away by delu-
sions, he was at least thoroughly sincere, and had a kind and
generous heart* Perhaps if his were not so susceptible he might
be still living. The story concerning him, which came to me
from an excellent source, was, that from the time of my depart-
ure, he had become, day after day, more and more attached to
his housekeeper, Mrs. Reardon. Between divinity and perhaps
foolish love his mind was very much disturbed. For a long time
Mrs. Reardon could hai-dly believe that he entertained any more
than a feeling of warm friendship for her, but when she had-
the assurance from his own lips, that she was his idol, and when
she felt compelled to refuse the most honorable offer he could
make, the poor man's intellect gradually gave way, ai.u before
long it waH found necessary to place him in an asylum. De-
pression aid melancholy followed, which soon ended his days.
I shoukl speak well of him, knowing his good intentions in
all that he did. To me h^ was, I may say, more than a father;
and, as a proof of his affection, he left me the largest share of
all he possessed. He bequeu,ti'ed a considerable sum to Mrs.
Reardon ; and, aware of his peculiar leanings, what surprised
me as much as anything else, was, that instead of giving money
for religious or ecclesiastical purposes, he was governed by
higli r motives, and humanely left the remainder — a handsome
amount — to the poor of the parish.
What shall I say of my respected tutor, Mr. O'Callaghan —
I shall not omit the " O " on this occasion. He still remained
466
Family Creeds.
F >
x*- t
!j"-
L.I-.
with ray uncle, but on account of one matter — their hearts pul-
sating after the same object — a feeling of alienation was engend-
ered between them, and this increased so much, that my uncle
entertained a serious inclination to dispense with his further
services ; still he allowed week after week to pass without
being able to dismiss one in whom he had for so long a time
placed confidence. However, when it came to the knowledge
of Mr. O'Callaghan that Mrs. Beardon had declined to become
my uncle!s wife, he felt strongly impressed that it must have
been some way on his account, and, after much painful cogita-
tion on the subject, he formed the desperate determination to
make a proposal to her himself. Alas for his foolish hopes !
Her answer nearly broke his heart. But, cast down as he was,
he summoned resolution enough to leave her dangerous pre-
sence, and he is now, I believe, a school-teacher in some remote
part of Canada. I have not heard from him yet, but I cannot
think that he will altogether forget his pupil — "the cardinal."
As for Mrs. Beardon herself, she is now living with her
daughter Bertha, and has lately become a yorng grandmother.
My brother savs that no mother-in-law was ever a greater
treasure in a family. Mr. Sliarp, her old friend, sometimes
calls on her. [* m is always glad to sec him, and I fancy, from
what he says, that were she to give him the least encourage-
ment in a certain way, she might receive another propo.sal.
But in order to keep hini fron\ committing himself, and to re-
lieve her from being under the necessity of giving pain to a
particular friend, I have given Mr. Sharp an indirect hint to
j>revent his further approach. T liave told him that I was
positively certain, having had it from the best authority, that
nothing could induce Mrs. Beardon ever again to change her
name.
Shawn — the faithful Shawn ! — is still witli us.
Hi' is, in one
Tlie Great Preachers.
4G7
Ic IK, moitc
respect, alone in the world. His wife and children are dead,
and we are now tlie only ones upon whom he depends for sup-
port when in his helpless age. He knows, however, that he is
sure of our protection ; our home would, in a manner, be deso-
late without him. Mr. Casey is very much attaclu^l to him, and
in the evening time they often stroll away togc^ther to a favor-
ite spot where they can look out upon the distant ocean and
speculate on the mysteries of eternity. Hhawn must have been
saying something in his own peculiar way on the sul)ject to Mr.
Casey, for I find that his views are in many respects greatly
modified. What a revolution in his opinions thei'e might have
been, had he had, during his early years, the opporkmity of
calm discussion even with such an humble philosopher as Shawn.
.lane and I, taking lessons from the past, are happily nearly
of one mind on most of the important concerns of life. W(!
encourage no perplexing thoughts as to what may follow upon
the close of our existence here. If there is to be a great, glor-
ious hereafter, we think that the best preparation for such a
state— that which wili best entitle us to future (uijoyment -will
be to do all the good we can to our fellow-creatunis while on
earth ; and we believe that any great Supreme Power, knowing
the weakness of the creatures He has made, will not judge them
as man would judge, or, in His dealings with fallible beings,
condemn and punish them with a vindictiveness purely human.
There are three graves, side by side, in a rural churchyard
which we often visit. Ah me ! what it is to look down upon
a mother's last resting-place ! They are eloquent raoun<Us which
solemnize our thoughts and bid us remember, that though now
in the pride of life, the time must come when some fond heart
may perhaps stand and sigh above the little spot where we our-
selves may be laid. And when after a glowing sunset we see again
cloud pictures in the sky, they serve to remind us how dreamy
408
Fwniily Greeds.
and evanescent in character are even the realities of life ; and
they warn us against the bright illusions which deceive so,
many. -ij^
The most profound intellect that ever suggested a thought
tells us that there are " sermons in stones. " But the preachers
who have most touched our hearts are the priests of the Sanc-
tuary of Ended Careers, who proclaim over the dead the vanity
of human ambition, and the folly of human strife — the mute
petrified monitors who stand up among the silent congregation
— the old crumbling tombs and monuments of a cemetery, from
which the wind and rain of centuries have rubbed out every • •
holy text, and eyery flattering inscription, leaving the stone
page clear and blank once more. These are the ministers of
peace who never contend for the superiority of a creed ; and •
whiL looking at them and imagining that they speak words of
wisdom to which we can listen, and while pondering on the
solemn lessons which they so eloquently convey, we little care
what some marble slab may tell of us when we too shall have
passed away.
THE END.
V
ties of life ; and
^hich deceive so
jested a thought
5ut the preachers
sts of the Sanc-
; dead the vanity
trife — the mute
mt congregation
t cemetery, from
tbbed out every
iving the stone
he ministers of
'f a creed; and
speak words of
ndering on the
\ we little care
too shall have
4