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 FATHER CLEMENT^ 
 
 A ROMAN CATHOLIC STORY. 
 
 By grace KENNEDY, 
 
 AUTHOE OF "THE DECISION," " DUNALLAN," &C' 
 
 "La carita e paziente, ebenefica; la carita non e astiosa, non 
 e insolente, non si gonfia. Non e ambiziosa, non cerca il proprio 
 interesse, non si muovea ira, non pensa male. — A tuttos' accomoda, 
 tutto crede, tutto spera, tutto sopporta." 
 
 MartinVs Trans, from the Vulgate. — 1 Gor. xiii. 4, 5, 7« 
 
 EIGHTH EDITION. 
 
 EDINBURGH: 
 
 WILLIAM OLIPHANT AND SON, 
 
 7, SOUTH BRIDGE STREET. 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS, GLASGOW; VV. CURRY, JUN. & CO. DUBLIW; 
 AND HAMILTOX, ADAMS, & CO. LONDON. 
 
 M.DCCC.XXXIV. 

 
 Kdiiibursh : J'riDttd by A. IJalfour ami Co. NuMiy Sheet.
 
 PR 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 II commandaraento mio e questo, che vi amiate I'liu altro. — 
 Martini's Trans.— iolxn xv. 12. 
 
 -Fruit and wine had been set on the 
 
 table — the last old grey-haired domestic had 
 left the room — the broad-backed spaniel no 
 longer watched for food from the fair hands 
 which now ministered to his privileged old age, 
 but had waddled to seek repose on a spot where 
 the sun shone bright on the cai-pet — and 
 cheerful family chat, and careless merriment, 
 went round — while Sir Herbert Montague, the 
 father of the circle, sat almost in silence, lean- 
 
 -1 ">^^-i ^:c)o
 
 " FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 ing ])ac'k In liis cliair^ half listening and smil- 
 ing — lialf absent to -what was passing — or at 
 times addressing an observatiolL to the old 
 chaplain^ who sat next him, and with whom 
 lie seemed to he on the most intimately friend- 
 ly footing. At last, one piece of intelligence 
 lie mentioned attracted the attention of the 
 •whole party. 
 
 " Younjj Clarenliam is returned," said Sir 
 Herbert, " and I rejoice he is so, for his poor 
 mother's sake." 
 
 " Young Clarenham returned !" repeated 
 the younger jNFontague, who sat next his fii- 
 ther ; " well, I wonder what sort of a fellow 
 he is now. He used to he too grave and stu- 
 dious for me. He W\\\ probably still suit your 
 taste best, Ernest," addressing his elder bro- 
 ther. 
 
 " I fear he will not suit any of us," replied 
 Ernest, gravely. " Did you see him. Sir V 
 addressing his father. 
 
 " I did. I met him on his way to the Cas- 
 tle, just as I returned from my ride before 
 dinner, and should have passed him as a stran- 
 ger, had he not stopped his horse, and named 
 me. I soon recollected him when he spoke
 
 FATIIl^R CLEMENT. / 
 
 and smiled. He is a pleasing-looking youth, 
 though much altered," 
 
 " What a meeting for his mother !" ohserv- 
 cd Lady ^lontague, her eyes filling with tears. 
 " An only son, whom she has not seen for five 
 years !" 
 
 " Was he alone ?" asked Adeline, Sir Her- 
 bert's eldest daughter. 
 
 '' No ; he was accompanied by a young man 
 of foreign appearance, whom he, however, in- 
 troduced to me by an English name, Mr. Dor- 
 mer." 
 
 " Young !" repeated Adeline, '' It could 
 not then be Father Clement." 
 
 " Father Clement ! And who may he be, 
 Adeline ?" asked Sir Herbert, looking inquisi- 
 tively at his daughter. 
 
 She blushed : — " Maria Clarenham inform- 
 ed me, Sir, that the Father who has superin- 
 tended her brother's education ever since he 
 went abroad, and who also travelled with him 
 for the last year, accompanies him home, and 
 is to remain as chaplain at the Castle, Poor 
 old Father Dennis has been appointed, by his 
 order, to another situation." 
 
 " Call no man on earth, in that sense, Fa-
 
 8 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 ther, Miss Adeline/' said Dr. Lowtlier, the 
 chaplain, gravely. " These are words of Scrip- 
 tui*e." 
 
 Adeline blushed again; and smiling affec- 
 tionately to her old monitor, " Well, my dear 
 Dr. Lowther, old Mr. EUiston is going away 
 a few weeks hence. He only remains to per- 
 form, or offer up — or what shall I call it — 
 some more masses for the soul of old Mr. Cla- 
 renham." 
 
 " How sad !" exclaimed Lady Montague. 
 " And what a change for Mrs. Clarenham ! — 
 Her son's society to chann away her thoughts 
 from those gloomy ceremonies ! I met her 
 this morning, returning from a \'isit of charity 
 to poor Alice Dawson. She seemed very un- 
 fit for any fatigue — hut, the less so, the more 
 meritorious, according to her spiritual guides. 
 I would not have put myself in her way for 
 the world, as she has not chosen to see me since 
 Mr. Clarenham's death, and I attempted to 
 avoid doing so by turning into a briery little 
 path which led into the road ; but she saw my 
 intention, and immediately hastened towards 
 me, looking, — Oh so thin and pale ! I could 
 not help bursting into tears when she ap-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. W 
 
 |n-oaclie(l : She was overcome also, and could 
 only press my hand and Imrry on. I just stood 
 and wept where she left me, thinking how 
 little consolation she could receive from that 
 religion which aggravated instead of lessening 
 sorrow, by teaching that, when we close the 
 jeyes of those we love most on this side the 
 grave, it is only that they may leave suffering 
 here to enter into greater." 
 
 " The idea is softened to the minds of really 
 pious Roman Catholics," said Ernest, " by the 
 belief that the eff'ect of that suffering is altoge- 
 ther purifying, and guided by a Father's love : 
 and also by the belief that it is possible for 
 friends on this side the grave to mitigate and 
 shorten it." 
 
 ^'^ Xay, Ernest, if your charity goes so far 
 as to defend the doctrine of purgatory," sai4 
 Rowley, his younger brother, laughing, "I 
 shall soon expect to see you on the road back 
 to Rome." 
 
 " I am not defending the doctrine, Rowley. 
 I know it is contrary to Scripture, and wa8 
 never heard of in the Christian Church till it 
 had become full of corruptions : but I think 
 ^vc Protestants are too a})t to consider the Ro-
 
 10 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 misli faith as destitute of those resources on 
 which a sensible and feeling mind can repose. 
 We regard it as^ on the part of the priest, a 
 system of hjnpocrisy and fraud — and, on that 
 of the people, of gloomy and absurd delusion. 
 I only wish to be candid." 
 
 " I like no such candour/' said Sir Herbert, 
 in a voice of vexation. 
 
 Ernest seemed hurt. "My dear Sir, I 
 have learned that candour from the advice 
 you have so often and so kindly given us all, 
 never to judge of any subject till we know 
 something about it. After ha\ing, in some 
 degree, got acquainted with the gross errors 
 of the system, I have only attempted to dis- 
 cover what could be its attractions — " 
 
 '' Attractions !" repeated Sir Herbert, fid- 
 getting in his chair. 
 
 " My dear Sir, " said Dr. Lowther, mildly, 
 ''all hearts are naturally formed ahke. We 
 never become truly devoted to any thing but 
 through our affections. Your son has examined 
 this subject as a philosopher." 
 
 "Well, well," interrupted Sir Herbert im- 
 patiently, " I am sure no one pities the poor 
 souls more than I do. I wish not to say aught
 
 FATHER CLEMENT^ 11 
 
 against them. That lad Clarenham, however, 
 does not look as if there was any thing very 
 attractive in his religion, though I hear he is 
 a perfect bigot already. He is a pale melan- 
 choly-looking youth, with a smile that makes 
 him look sadder instead of memer: and his 
 companion ten times worse — a tall, gaunt 
 spectre, with the same sad smile." 
 
 Adeline and Rowley laughed. " Wliat an 
 engaging pictm-e you have drawn. Sir !" said 
 Rowley. 
 
 "I hope none of my family "will find any 
 realities engaging at the Castle," replied Sir 
 Herbert sternly, and glancing both towards 
 Ernest and Adeline. 
 
 '' Miss Adeline," said Dr. Lowther, vaih. 
 an arch smile on his cheerful old countenance, 
 " You will be able to tell me whether this new 
 confessor is of the society of Jesuits ?" 
 
 "He is," rej)lied Adeline, looking timidly 
 at her father, " and is eminent, Maria tells me, 
 for his sanctity." 
 
 Dr. Lowther's countenance was, in his turn, 
 immediately overcast, and he sighed deeply. 
 Sir Herbert, on his part, seemed rather to en- 
 joy the effect this intelligence had on his old
 
 12 FATHER CLE^IENTo 
 
 friend. He said notliing, however, but rose 
 from table, and smilingly addressed Lady 
 Montague, — " The evening is fine, my dear : 
 What would you think of leaving this Popish 
 party ■with Dr. Lov>ther, and going out with 
 me on the lawn !" 
 
 Lady Montague immediately consented ; 
 and, soon after. Dr. LoAvther and the young 
 party also separated. 
 
 At the period at which our story com- 
 mences, though all religions were professedly 
 tolerated in Britain, yet the principles on 
 which that toleration was granted were not so 
 well knoAvn, or so generally ajiproved of, as 
 they now are, particularly with regard to Ro- 
 man Catholics. By every denomination of 
 Protestants they were regarded with suspi- 
 cion: and even the most truly religious and 
 benevolent of their opponents regarded it as a 
 sin, in many instances, to permit the observ- 
 ances of their church ; which they considered 
 so idolatrous as to call on the strong arm of 
 power to suppress them as offensive to Hea- 
 ven. At this time the Roman Catholics bare- 
 ly enjoyed what could be called toleration; 
 for though no longer subjected to punish-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 13 
 
 ment for refusing to join in forms which were 
 forbidden by their churchy and allowed un- 
 molested to attend their o^YJi private chapels, 
 yet, nevertheless, many severe laws continued 
 in force against them, and placed them on an 
 entirely different footing, in almost every re- 
 spect, from their fellow-subjects. In this state 
 of things they naturally associated, almost ex- 
 clusively, with each other. The families of 
 Clarenham and Montague were, however, re- 
 latives ; and for this cause kept up a certain 
 degree of intercourse. Lady Montague and 
 Mrs. Clarenham were first cousins. — Mrs. Cla- 
 renham the daughter of a Roman Catholic 
 gentleman, of old family — Lady Montague the 
 daughter of his sister. Wlien very young', 
 that sister had manied a Protestant — soon 
 adopted his faith — and carefully educated her 
 family in the same profession. Mi-s. -Claren- 
 ham had, by her father, been with equal care 
 nurtured in the Romish faith. Lady Monta- 
 gue's father had, in his opinions regarding ex- 
 ternal forms, leant to puritanism ; and, in his 
 younger days, had, on several occasions, been 
 ])oth fined and imprisoned for nonconformity 
 to the Church of England : and though, after
 
 14 FATHER CLE3IENT. 
 
 the Revolution, he had joined that church, 
 because he considered it somewhat less likely 
 than formerly that its higher clergy would be 
 permitted to meddle in the earthly govern- 
 ment of the country, and might therefore be 
 expected to devote themselves to the spiritual 
 improvement of the people, still Lady Mon- 
 tague had been nurtured in the opinion that 
 the church to whicji she belonged, though 
 pure in its articles of faith, still required fur-^ 
 ther reformation in its forms and ritual, and 
 that though its clergy might be preferable to 
 an uneducated ministry, dependent on the ca- 
 price of their flocks, still they too much resem- 
 bled, in their domination over their brethren, 
 and their gi-eat earthly riches, that corrupt 
 church from which they had in other matters 
 withdraAMi : she, therefore, was easily recon- 
 ciled to Sir Herbert Montague's slight differ- 
 ence of opinions. Sir Herbert was a Pres- 
 byterian. His family had been long settled 
 in the north of England. He had constantly 
 resided there — had been educated by a cler- 
 gyman of the Church of Scotland, forced by 
 the persecution of the times to leave his coun- 
 try and his flock, and was closely connected
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 15 
 
 with many Presbyterian families in Scotland. 
 Sir Herbert had, from these circumstances, 
 long regarded Episcopacy as almost as anti- 
 christian as Popery. A great change had, 
 however, taken place in his views a few years 
 before our story begins. The Church of Scot- 
 land had then become settled and prosperous, 
 but she did not extend her influence beyond 
 the Tweed ; and thought there was a Presby- 
 terian place of worship near Illerton Hall, yet 
 the superintendence and instruction of the 
 parish necessarily devolved on a clergyman of 
 the Clim'ch of England. The clergyman who 
 had filled that situation for the last few years, 
 had convinced Sir Herbert that a minister of 
 that church could really be zealous, steady, 
 and laborious, in fulfilling the duties of his 
 parish ; and, gradually and imperceptibly, 
 the Rector of Illerton became a fiiend and fa- 
 vourite at the Hall ; and what was most sur- 
 prising of all, particularly so mth Dr. Low- 
 ther, the Presbyterian chaplain. One point 
 of imion between these two Protestant clergy- 
 men, was their constant dread of the influence 
 of Mr. Elliston, the Roman Catholic chaplain, 
 at Hallem Castle, commonly known by the
 
 16 FATHER CLE3IENT. 
 
 name of Father Dennis. This priest was 
 e<iually indefatigable in mtikiiig proselytes, 
 and ingenious in evading the laws whieli 
 were in force against the encroachments of 
 jiis ch.urch: and tlie only means hy which 
 the two Protestant clergymen found they 
 could meet his efforts, was by exerting equal 
 zeal on their parts. In this contest the fami- 
 lies at the Castle and tiie Hall took a deep in- 
 terest ; because each was devoted to religion, 
 and believed the otlter in dangerous error. 
 Lady Montague had been married only a feAV 
 months before Mrs. Clarenliam ; and when 
 the two cousins found themselves settled so 
 near each other, while at a distance from their 
 fjtlier relations.^ ^^^^J ^^^^^ with feelings of sis- 
 terly kindness, and eontinued to feel the same 
 affectionate and confiding regard during the 
 2nany years they had remained in close 
 2ieighbourhood. During those years they had 
 passed tbrough many similiar joj's and sor- 
 3-0WS. They had both become the mothers of 
 lovely and engaging children; and they had 
 each mourned over several of their graves. 
 They liad sympathized deeply in each other's 
 sorrows ; but they had done so apart : for it
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 17 
 
 was in times of sorrow only that they did not 
 wish to meet. In such times rehgion was the 
 refuge and consolation of both, and on that 
 subject alone they could in few points agree. 
 They had each, in their younger and more 
 sanguine days, attempted the conversion of 
 the other, but each had failed ; and the feel- 
 ings of coldness and alienation, which had fol- 
 lowed those unsuccessful attempts, had been 
 so painful, that, for several years, disputed 
 points had been tacitly avoided on both sides ; 
 and excepting in hours of sorrow, the two 
 cousins met as tried and affectionate friends. 
 Sir Herbert and Mr. Clarenham had, how- 
 ever, felt less suited to each other, during those 
 years of intercourse between their families, 
 and never sought to meet, excepting when 
 absolutely obliged to do so as neighbours and 
 relations ; and both gentlemen dreaded the 
 effects of close intimacy amongst their chil- 
 dren, though neither, on his lady's account, 
 chose to prevent it. The young people, how- 
 (iver, were early aware, that, by their respec- 
 tive fathers at least, their intercoui'se was suf- 
 fered on the score of relationship, but not ap- 
 proved of. Mr. Clarenham had constantly
 
 IS FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 said to his cliildren, — " Bring tlie young Mon- 
 tagues as much as you ^vill to the Castle, I 
 shall be always glad to see them ; hut do not 
 on any account — no, not for an instant — ^go to 
 the Hall without my permission ; " and that 
 permission was always so unwillingly and so 
 ungraciously given, that it w^as a penance to 
 ask it. Sir Herbert, on his part, expressed, 
 on all occasions, similar wishes : — " What on 
 earth, my dears, can you find to attract you 
 to that old Popish Castle ? Cannot you bring 
 your young cousins to the Hall, where you 
 may be as merry and happy as you please, 
 instead of going where that Jesuit priest \vi\l 
 be watching every opportunity to infuse some 
 of his Popish poison into your young minds ? 
 You must love and associate with your young 
 relations, but do try to bring them to visit 
 you." These difficulties, though they had 
 not rendered the intercourse of the young 
 people less agreeable or interesting, had made 
 it less frequent ; and during the absence of 
 young Clarenhiim, it had, on the part of the 
 young men, ceased almost entirely. The 
 young jMontagues had also been absent ; — 
 Ernest to obtain that finish to his education
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 19 
 
 ■vvliicli it was then, and it i& now^, thought 
 could only he acquired hy travelling; and 
 his younger brother at college, in the hope, 
 on his father's part, that he might acquire a 
 taste for study, instead of what seemed much 
 more congenial to his nature, — an eager pro- 
 pensity to hunt or shoot, or do any thing that 
 required the use of his body rather than his 
 mind. Adeline and little Maude, Mrs. Cla- 
 renham's name-child, had continued to visit at 
 the Castle, and that more frequently since the 
 death of Mr. Clarenham; Sir Herbert mak- 
 ing little objection : — " as to be sure, it could 
 not be expected that the Clarenham girls^ 
 poor things, would leave their mother."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 «* Dissegli Gesu : lo sono via, verita, e vita: nessuno va al Padre, 
 se nou per me." Martini's Trans. — John xiv. G. 
 
 " No doubt some of you will tliink it pro- 
 per to pay a ^dsit at the Castle^, this forenoon," 
 said Sir Herbert to his family as they were 
 separating to leave the breakfast-room, on the 
 morning after our story begins. 
 
 " I thought of doing so/' said Ernest. 
 
 *^ Yf ell, my boy, do go. I would myself 
 accompany you, to welcome the poor lad back 
 to his home and country, but am afraid his 
 mother might think it right to see me; and 
 somehow I would rather not meet with, her 
 yet. Say what you like from me to Claren- 
 ham, and invite him to come and see us." 
 
 " x\nd Mr. Dormer, Sir, whom he introduc-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 21 
 
 ed to you — sliall I include liim in the invita- 
 tion ?" asked Ernest, smiling. 
 
 " If he is a friend of Clarenham's, certainly ; 
 but if you discoTcr him to be the new confes- 
 sor, on no account whatever. You know old 
 Elliston never crossed my hall-door ; why 
 should a young successor be treated with more 
 respect ?" 
 
 " I thought, Sir, you had regretted having 
 slio^\Ti old Mr. Elliston such marked inci\'ility?'* 
 
 " Then you thought ^sATong," rephed Sir Her- 
 bert, shortly ; ^"^ I never regretted any such 
 thing." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Sir ; I had misunder- 
 stood you." 
 
 " You may have heard me say, Ernest, that, 
 to do the man justice, he deserved no blame 
 for having zealously acted up to his own prin- 
 ciples. I have said so, because such thoughts 
 do at times, as it were, flash upon my mind ; 
 and I am too apt to say what I think, mthout 
 waiting to consider. I know not whether it is 
 so or not, however ; for the man has lived in 
 the midst of light ; and if he has continued 
 zealous in promoting darkness, perhaps I am 
 not justifiable in saying he deserves no blame ;
 
 22 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 but tliat is not my affair. I do, however, for 
 our own sakes, regret some uncharitable acts 
 of zeal with which we hare been chargeable 
 against him ; and, before the man goes away, 
 I shall compel myself to ask his forgiveness. 
 You could never hear me regret, however, 
 Ernest, that I had not given a Jesuit priest ac- 
 cess to my house." 
 
 Ernest said no more ; and an hour or two 
 after, Adeline and Maude accompanied him 
 across the lavni — then through a wooded walk 
 which led to the top of the hill, where was the 
 boundary which separated the grounds belong- 
 ing to the Hall from the domains of Hallem 
 Castle. From this hill, Ernest and his compa- 
 nions, for a time, viewed the beautiful scenery 
 of the latter, as it lay before them. 
 
 *' "What makes one feel so sad," said little 
 Maude at last, " when one looks at that old 
 Castle ? I am sure I have often been very 
 merry within its walls ; y-et I could almost 
 weep now, when I look at its grey towers ris- 
 ing from amongst those trees mth their young 
 gay foliage ; — and that old -window of the cha- 
 pel does look so gloomy ! Perhaps it is be- 
 cause papa said Basil Clarenham looked so
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 23 
 
 sad ; and poor Mrs. Clarenliam looks so sad 
 now — I think there is something sad about all 
 the Clarenhams, excepting Maiia perhaps — 
 she is merry enough ; but Catherine — Oh ! 
 how sad to think that in one year she is to 
 leave her mamma, Maria, Bazil — all of us, to 
 be shut up for ever in a nunnery ! But I be- 
 lieve you have not seen Catherine since you 
 retm-ned home, Ernest ; and she was abroad 
 when you went away. 
 
 " I have not seen her for a long while," re- 
 plied Ernest — " not since she was a child ; and 
 then she was about as sad as you, Maude, now 
 are." 
 
 IMaude laughed. " Ah ! you ^^ ill see a 
 change then, Mr. Incredulous," turning play- 
 fully away from him, but only walking a few 
 steps homewards, and, when joined by Adeline, 
 slyly returning on tiptoe to follow her grave, 
 thoughtful brother, in order to ornament his 
 back with a long streamer of clinging wild 
 flowers. Ernest caught a glimpse of her as she 
 approached, and turned round just in time to 
 receive her, and catching the garland, wound 
 it round and round, and pressed it to her, and 
 then making a run, vaulted over a fence into
 
 24 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 tlie Hallern grounds, and looked liack to laugh 
 at the little sentimentalist disentangling her- 
 self from the weeds. 
 
 It was not because Ernest felt differently 
 from little Maude when she discovered that 
 there was something sad about all the Cla- 
 renhams ; but the looks and languajre in 
 which the light-heartetl child, expressed the 
 yery feelings which he himself at that mo- 
 ment painfully experienced, which, for an 
 instant, stiiick him forcibly with a sense of 
 the ridiculous ; and, as he again pursued 
 his way to the gi-ey old Castle of the Claren- 
 hams, the same feelings resumed their in- 
 fluence. 
 
 It has been remad^ed that religious young 
 men are generally melancholy. The truth of 
 this, as a general remarl^:, may certainly be dis- 
 puted, but in Ernest's case it was just. He 
 was grave and melancholy, and religion was 
 the leading subject of his thoughts. He had 
 from early childhood been taught to regard it 
 as '^the one thing needful;" and, according 
 to the method of instruction followed in those 
 days by the di^dnes of the church to Avhich he 
 belonged, he had also been early led to the
 
 FATHER CLEaiENT. 25 
 
 study of tliose deep and mysterious doctrines 
 wliicli are more particulariy tauglit by the 
 Calvinistic reformed churches ; and which, as 
 they lead directly to the contemplation of the 
 character and ways of God himself, the source 
 of all other being and action, are calculated to 
 absorb all the powers of a reflecting young 
 mind ; or at least subordinate them all to this 
 mighty and infinite subject. Still, however, 
 that system of religion which, in its first prin- 
 ciples, habituates the mind to regard all it 
 contemplates as connected with that govern- 
 ing will of God, however powerful it may be, 
 must necessarily lead to melancholy, while we 
 observe and feel so much evil, and ignorance, 
 and soiTOW, within us and around us. No- 
 thing is more certain than this, — that the 
 more ^ve study the divine character, as it is 
 revealed to us in the Bible, the more impossi- 
 ble is it for us to believe that it is not alto- 
 gether holy, and altogether lovely: and the 
 question, — " "Why are evil, and grief, and 
 sorrow permitted to exist ?" accompanied as 
 it is by a feeling of apprehension respecting 
 the perfection of that goodness, which, at 
 the same time, we cannot endure to doubt,
 
 26 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 may be, and is with many for a time, the 
 source of the deepest melancholy. It had 
 been so with Ernest: and now, though he 
 could in general rest with peace in the belief 
 that his difficulties, in reconciling the visible 
 administration of Providence with the perfec- 
 tion of the divine character, arose from his in- 
 capacity to judge of the vast plans of an infi- 
 nite mind, — still every object which excited 
 melancholy feelings led his thoughts directly 
 to the first cause and soui'ce of all things. As 
 he approached Hallern Castle, every object 
 excited those feelings. All around him wore 
 the appearance of desolate neglect. The 
 groves of fine old trees scattered over the 
 park, were become thickets, from the briers 
 and underwood which had been suffered to 
 grow in tangled masses amongst them. The 
 turf Avas roughened everywhere with, weeds, 
 rushes, and mole-hills ; and no living thing 
 was to be seen, excepting at times a startled 
 hare bounding from the thicket where it had 
 been disturbed by Ernest's passing footstep, 
 to seek shelter in one more distant, or a few 
 deer timidly watching him from a distant part 
 of the park. All this desolate state of things
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 2? 
 
 had been occasioned by the last Mr. Claren- 
 ham's adherence to what, in Ernest's opinion^ 
 was a bad government, and a false religion : 
 and how perplexing, in the search after truth, 
 is the fact, that men suffer to the last in defence 
 of error; and how unavoidable, how unan- 
 swerable, are the questions, — " What is truth ? 
 What is error ? " Often, before, had these 
 questions presented themselves to Ernest's 
 mind ; and the only answer on w^hich he could 
 rest, became more and more satisfactory every 
 time they recurred — '' There is but one source 
 of truth in the world — that is the Bible. The 
 more deeply we drink at that source, the more 
 does error and darkness on all subjects vanish 
 before us. And thus far we may at least see 
 without a cloud, — that the system which 
 would debar the mind from free access to this 
 only source of light must be a system of 
 which the end is not the promotion of the 
 knowledge of truth." 
 
 So reasoned Ernest as he approached the 
 Castle. The sun now shone bright upon its 
 old towers and battlements ; still, in his eyes 
 it looked dark and melancholy: and not the 
 less so from the contrast produced by the
 
 28 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 briglit heraldic colours of an escutclieon placed 
 upon its front to mark the death of its late 
 master. Ernest stopt to contemplate this em- 
 ])lazoned record of the antiquity and honours 
 of the Clarenhams, whose fortunes were now 
 so comparatively fallen ; and even Avith him, 
 valueless as his relijnon taught him such ho- 
 Hours were, their contemplation, contrasted with 
 the present state of things, added to the power- 
 ful interest he already felt. He had been 
 ohserved, and a servant in deep mourning 
 appeared to await his approach. Ernest hasten- 
 ed up the few broad steps to the wide landing- 
 place, where the man stood ; and on inquiring 
 for Mr. Clarenham, was shown into an apart- 
 ment, which appeared, from the books and la- 
 dies' works which lay on the table, to have been 
 recently occupied by the family. 
 
 " My young master and the ladies are in the 
 Chapel, Sir," said the servant ; " but my mas- 
 ter will be with you immediately." 
 
 " Perhaps I have come at an unseasonable 
 liour," said Ernest ; '' I do not wish Mr. Clar- 
 enham to be disturbed, if he is engaged in re- 
 ligious duties." 
 
 '' Oh no, Sir ; my nuister is only seeing some
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 29 
 
 new pictures put up in the chapel ;" and the 
 man crossed himself, with a look towards Er- 
 nest, which seemed to say — '^ let me show the 
 heretic gentleman how devout I am." He then 
 left the room, and Ernest took up one of the 
 books which lay on the table. It was a Ro- 
 man Catholic book of devotion ; and on look- 
 ing over a page or two, he found it so alto- 
 gether unlike those familiar to Protestants, 
 that he was perusing it with considerable in- 
 terest when yoimg Clarenham entered. 
 
 The cousins had not met for five years, and 
 the consciousness, on both sides, of difference 
 in opinion on the two subjects considered at 
 that time as the very tests of character, reli- 
 gion and politics, joined in both to natural re- 
 serve, threw a kind of restraint over their 
 manners to each other, which, however, each 
 made an e\ident effort to overcome : and af- 
 ter a few rather formal attempts at conversa- 
 tion, Ernest said more easily, — 
 
 ^' I had got interested in this book the few 
 minutes I was here before you came. Who 
 is it written by V 
 
 Clarenham looked anxiously at the book— 
 ^' Oh, it is one of Francis Xuvier's," appear-
 
 30 FATHER CLE3IEXT. 
 
 iiig relieved. '"^I believe those of our com- 
 munion are not singular in admiring his writ- 
 ings." 
 
 " I am entirely unacquainted "vvith them," 
 replied Ernest, " as I indeed am with all 
 yom- devotional writings. I have been sup- 
 plied by Dr. Lowther Avitli some of the con- 
 troversial Amtiiigs of the Romish Church," 
 glancing towards Clarenham a look that ex- 
 pressed his own recollection of their boyish 
 days, on naming Dr. Lowther : " but these are 
 never attractive." 
 
 " Allow me to send that small volume for 
 your perusal," said Clarenham, reddening. " If 
 you find it interest you, either Father Clement, 
 Mr. Dormer I mean, or I, can furnish you mth 
 all the ^M^tings of the author." 
 
 Ernest immediately accepted of the offer : — 
 " And may I venture, when I have read it, to 
 express my opinion of it ?" asked he. 
 
 " Certainly. How can you ask such a ques* 
 lion ?" replied Clarenham, again reddening. 
 
 " I have been led to believe that the mem- 
 bers of your communion carefully avoid free 
 discussion on the subject of religion." 
 
 Clarenham was thoughtful for a few mo-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 31 
 
 ments, then answered frankly — " I see, Mon- 
 tague, tliat the subject has not lost its interest 
 to you — neither has it to me, I assure you. 
 I trust, however, that I am now better pre- 
 })arecl to meet you than I was before we part- 
 ed as boys. Yet I may avow that subjects 
 which must afterwards make a part of our 
 confessions are naturally avoided by us. You 
 know our spiritual fathers examine us very 
 
 narrowly respecting our intercourse with " 
 
 he hesitated. 
 
 '^ Heretics," said Ernest, smiling. 
 Clarenham also smiled, then said — '^ I am 
 quite ^Wiling to discuss any subject with you ; 
 only I think it but fair to warn you, that you 
 will have another person to combat also; for 
 I have no concealment from Father Clement ; 
 and in these matters I feel happy in having a 
 director so able." 
 
 " May I ask you one question V 
 " Certainly." 
 
 '' Were Father Clement to lead you into an 
 eiTor, — say one so dangerous as to involve the 
 safety of your soul, would his soul suffer in 
 your soul's stead ?" 
 
 '^You suppose an impossibility. I am a
 
 32 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 member of the tnie Cliurcli. Should a priest 
 of that chui-ch wilfully mislead me, he has 
 committed mortal sin; but mine has merely- 
 been a sin of ignorance, which cannot endan- 
 ger the soul of a Catholic. It is one of the 
 proofs that the Catholic Church is the only 
 tnie one, that she boldly undertakes to an- 
 swer for the safety of those souls who enter in- 
 to her communion. — No Protestant Chmch 
 ventures so far." 
 
 ^'Heaven for])id they should/' replied Er- 
 nest with gi-eat seriousness. " Protestants are 
 taught that ^Aej/ only are of the one true church 
 who beHeve in and obey Jesus Chiist ; and are 
 exhorted by their pastors to examine whether 
 they are so, not by the creed of one or other 
 communions of those who profess themselves 
 Christians, but by the infallible word of God." 
 "But the intei-pretation of that word/' 
 said Clarenham, "must belong to the church. 
 Private judgment must eiT in a matter so dif- 
 ficult." 
 
 " Why, then, is it said of the Jews of Berea, 
 to whom onQ of the apostles himself preached, 
 ^ These ^vere more noble than those of Thes- 
 (s^lonica, in that they received the word with
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 33 
 
 all readiness of mind, and searched the scrip- 
 iiires claih/, whether those things "were so ; 
 therefore many of them believed.'* Do not 
 these "vvords point out the duty of the teacher, 
 and of the hearer, and the result to be expect- 
 ed when both are fulfilled V 
 
 " I do not recollect ever having seen that 
 passage," replied Olarenham. 
 
 Ernest marked the place from Avhence he 
 had taken the passage on a bit of paper, and 
 presenting it to Clarenham : " May I request 
 of you to ask Mr. Dormer's explanation of that 
 passage ?" 
 
 " Assuredly, — but now I must deliver my 
 mother's message to you. She understands 
 you are an admirer of good paintings, and de- 
 sired me to say — that, if you would enter a 
 Catholic chapel, it would give her pleasure to 
 show you some which are now there/' 
 
 "To see paintings I can have no objection 
 to enter the chapel," replied Ernest. " Indeed, 
 I shall perhaps ask your permission to be pre- 
 sent on some other occasion. Would you ad- 
 mit me on Easter-day, 1 think you call it, if 
 it is not past ?" 
 
 * Acts xvii. U,
 
 34 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " It is not. It falls very late tliis year/' an- 
 swered Clarenham, putting his arm kindly 
 within Ernest's, as they together proceeded to 
 the chapel;, ^'^and I im-ite you to he present 
 whenever you choose. Before you go I wiU 
 make you acquainted vdih the entrance to a 
 small private gallery, which is never occupied 
 now, and from whence you may witness the 
 service without yourself being observed. All 
 my cousins are equally welcome to do so. In- 
 deed I wish to convince you that we have no 
 secrets — ^nothing but what we consider the ser- 
 vice of God in its purest form in our chapels." 
 
 A low covered way led from the castle to 
 the chapel. This was coarsely paved, as w^as 
 also the little court surrounding the chapel, 
 and there was nothing to lead any one to ex- 
 pect, from its exterior, more than a common 
 rude little place of worship. So the persecu- 
 tions some years previous to this period, had 
 tau^fht the Roman Catholics to avoid those 
 temptations to pillage which might have fol- 
 lowed a more open display of the rich orna- 
 ments with which they adorned their chapels. 
 After passing over this rough court, however, 
 and through a short low-roofed passage into
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 35 
 
 the cliapel, an imier door appeared, on open- 
 ing -vvliichj, every object assumed a totally dif- 
 ferent character. The apartment into -wliicli 
 tliis door led seemed only to be an outer court 
 to tlie more sacred place of worship. It was, 
 however, exquisitely ornamented. It was light- 
 ed by a large Gothic window, the painted glass 
 of which threw a glow, resembling that of the 
 setting sun, upon the beautifully sculptured 
 arches which formed the roof, and upon the 
 many paintings on the walls. The apartment was 
 paved with marble, and everpvhere ornament- 
 ed with sculpture and mouldings of the finest 
 workmanship. Ernest paused an instant. In his 
 boyish days he had been strictly prohibited from 
 entering this chapel — of late he had not visited 
 at the castle, and never till now had been with- 
 in the receptacle of all that was held most sacred 
 by the Clarenhams. He now looked around and 
 above him with evident feelings of admiration. 
 
 " How beautiful !" exclaimed he, pointing 
 to the sculptured roof. 
 
 Clarenham appeared much gratified : " Sure- 
 ly," said he gently, " we do not err in bestow- 
 ing whatever we can command that is most 
 perfect in ornamenting the temple of God."
 
 36 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " Perhaps not," replied Ernest, '' but those 
 living stones which alone compose the true 
 temple of God, must be sculptured by a di- 
 vine power, to make that temple a fit abode 
 for him. What are our most perfect sculp- 
 tures or oniaments to him who looks only on 
 the heart ?" 
 
 '' But," answered Clarenham, " we thus 
 prove our devotion of heart to him." 
 
 '' Does he mIio sees the inmost recesses of 
 our hearts require that we should sculpture 
 their feelings on stone to coniince him of their 
 sincerity ? Ah no ! — the proofs of love to him 
 which he requires are of another nature. Is 
 there not a secret, or, I believe, in your church, 
 an avowed expectation, that men may thus add 
 to their own merits in his sight ?" 
 
 " And is not love to God the first and great- 
 est of all merits ?" asked Clarenham. 
 
 " It is the first principle of holiness in a re- 
 generated soul," replied Ernest ; " but, my 
 dear Clarenham, what you have mentioned as 
 a proof of love to God, is nowhere described 
 or inculcated as such by Christ or his apostles, 
 and may very easily be perionned by those 
 to whom there is not a feeling of any thing
 
 FATHER CLE3IENT. J/ 
 
 but a slavish dread, and an ignorant hope 
 that such services may propitiate an offended 
 God." 
 
 " You have adopted the doctrines of the 
 mystics, I perceive/' said Clarenham, smiling. 
 " I liave found them too attractive ; but you 
 know the church has condemned them. I 
 must not be tempted to Hsten to you." 
 
 " I am not conscious of having adopted their 
 doctrines/' repHed Ernest ; " indeed I know 
 very Httle about them, and am not aware of 
 having adopted any doctrine not clearly de- 
 clared in the Bible. What have I said to 
 lead you to suppose me a mystic ?" 
 
 " I do not know that you have exactly ex- 
 pressed any of their doctrines," replied Claren- 
 ham, advancing towards the door of the cha- 
 pel ; " but what you have said leads directly to 
 their opinions." He seemed anxious to avoid 
 sapng more, and, approaching the delicately 
 sculptured door of the chapel, and softly open- 
 ing it, Avithdrew his arm from Ernest's, and 
 slowly and reverently made the sign of the 
 cross. Ernest looked at Clarenham as he did 
 so, with feelings of affectionate interest. The 
 expressioit of his comitenance, and of every 
 gesture, was so full of humility and sincerity.
 
 38 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 that lie could not^ for a moment, doubt that 
 they proceeded from true devotion of heart to 
 the Being he worshipped, whatever errors 
 might mingle ^vith that worship. Ernest's at- 
 tention, however, was soon diverted from his 
 companion to the group witliin. ]\Irs. Cla- 
 renham immediately approached to meet him. 
 She wore the deepest weeds, which made the 
 almost unearthly paleness of her countenance 
 the more striking. She was at first nearly 
 overcome, but struggled to recover herself, and 
 in a few moments succeeded ; and holding out 
 her hand to Ernest — 
 
 " I am very glad to see you once more, cou- 
 sin," said she kindly ; then looking alternately 
 at her son and at him, — " Basil is more chang- 
 ed than you are, Ernest. Italy has robbed him 
 of his looks of health. I hope our English air, 
 however, may restore them to him." Mrs. Cla- 
 renham then turned to her daughters : — '* You 
 and !lMaria have not, I believe, met lately. 
 Catherine, do you remember yom- cousin ?" 
 
 Maiia frankly and affectionately received 
 her old play-mate. Xot so Catherine. On 
 turning from Maria's cordial reception, to her, 
 she drew back, and casting her eyes on the 
 ground, curtsied coldly and distantly. Ernest
 
 FATHER CLEMENT, 39 
 
 reddened, and his looks were instantly as cold 
 as her own. His nature was not one to recover 
 quickly from a repulse where he had felt only 
 kindness ; and his bow to Mr. Dormer, who was 
 next introduced to him, was cold and stiff. 
 Dormer, however, had nothing in his appear- 
 ance to excite coldness, hut the contrary. To 
 Ernest's distant and formal bow, he returned 
 one of polished and respectful courtesy, and 
 then turned again to join old Mr. Elhston, who 
 was busily arranging a painting so as to have 
 the light throMTi advantageously upon it. 
 With Dormer's assistance he soon succeeded 
 in placing it in the most favoui'able situation. 
 Both priests then retired a few steps, and re- 
 verently knelt for a moment before the paint- 
 ing. Clarenham glanced towards Ernest, red- 
 dened, but followed the example of his spiri- 
 tual guides, while Catherine made an extrava- 
 gant display of reverential gestures. When 
 Ernest looked towards ]\Irs. Clarenham, she 
 was standing mildly contemplating the pic- 
 ture; and on Maria's lively countenance he 
 thought he perceived an expression of ridicule 
 mingling with her assumed looks of gravity. 
 
 Mrs. Clarenham turned to Ernest. " Is it 
 not very fine ?" asked she in a low tone bf
 
 40 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 voice, as if tlie venerated subject of the paint- 
 ing had himself been present. 
 
 *' I believe it is very well painted/' replied 
 Ernest ; " but the subject is so little agreeable 
 that I cannot admire it much." 
 
 " It is a St. Francis !" said ^Irs. Clarenham, 
 with surprise ; — ^' but you perhaps do not 
 know, his history. It was fastings, and morti- 
 fication, and penance, which reduced him to 
 that emaciated state." 
 
 Ernest smiled, and replied gently, " You 
 know, my dear Mrs. Clarenham, we Protes- 
 tants see no religion in such self-inflictions, 
 consequently they excite no feelings of respect 
 or sympathy in us." 
 
 '' Do Protestants, who appeal to Scripture 
 in support of all doctrines, see there no injunc- 
 tion to fast ?" demanded Dormer, in rather an 
 authoritative tone of voice, and looking at Er- 
 nest with an expression of mingled dignity 
 and displeasure. 
 
 *'They see there no iiij unction whatever 
 about fasting, " replied Ernest ; " and the 
 fasting which is commended in the New Tes- 
 tament forbids any such display of its effects, 
 as that " — pointing to the emaciated painting. 
 '' Our Lord himself savs, ' when ve fast, be
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 41 
 
 not as the liypocrites, of a sad countenance ; 
 for tliey disfigure their faces that they may 
 appear unto men to fast. Verily, I say unto 
 you, they have their reward. But thou, when 
 thou fastest, anoint thy head and wash thy 
 face, that thou appear not unto men to fast, 
 but unto thy Father which is in secret, and 
 thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward 
 thee openly.' " 
 
 Dormer listened with fixed attention, as 
 EiTiest gi-avely and emphatically repeated the 
 words of Christ. 
 
 '' You have described the purest and most 
 holy mode of fasting," replied he, his coun- 
 tenance and manner assuming an expression of 
 polished mildness. " And do not suppose, 
 Mr. ]\Iontague, that I mean to question in how 
 far those of your communion thus fast ; but 
 allow me to say that our Catholic and Aposto- 
 lic Church has shown her heavenly wisdom, in 
 the care she has taken that none of her chil- 
 dren shall neglect the performance of this holy 
 duty ; and those who have, as that saint did, 
 (pointing to the picture,) far exceeded the 
 injunctions of his church, in fasts and other 
 mortifications, have attained to that angelical 
 degree of purity which makes them glorious
 
 42 FATHER clemp:nt. 
 
 models for us^ and >vliicli has, according to the 
 decision of the church, given them such favour 
 with God, as to encourage us to trust in the 
 efficacy of their intercessions for us." 
 
 " All — all ahsolutel}^ contrary to Scripture," 
 replied Ernest, with deep seriousness of voice 
 and manner. *^^ Those open, kno^ni, stated, 
 prescribed fasts, meritorious in proportion to 
 the degi'ee in which they disfigure, and ema- 
 ciate, and make useless the human frame, and 
 the neglect of which subjects the person to 
 punishment from his church, are in direct con- 
 tradiction to that private act of devotion and 
 humiliation, known only to God and the soul, 
 which is commended by the Lord and Head 
 of the true chm-ch : and the belief that the in- 
 tercession of the spirits of men can avail us any 
 thing, hesides the many absurdities it involves, 
 is in absolute opposition to the plainest decla- 
 rations of Scripture. St. Paul says," — 
 
 "You understand Latin, Mr. Montague," 
 interrupted old Elliston. '' Be so good as 
 quote from Scripture in that language." 
 
 Ernest looked at Clarenham, and smiled. 
 He reddened — Dormer also reddened. "Fa- 
 ther Dennis is right," said he, " we do not al- 
 low the correctness of vour translation."
 
 FATHER CLEMENT* 
 
 43 
 
 " I do not speak Latin in the presence of 
 ladies/' said Ernest, turning away from tlie 
 priests; ''but/' addressing Clarenham, "you 
 will find the passage I meant to quote in St. 
 Paul's Epistle to Timothy/"' and it must 
 surely be found most coiTectly given, — not in 
 ]^atin, but in the original Greek." 
 
 Clarcnham promised to examine the pas- 
 sage ; and Ernest, perceiving that he had, by 
 his remarks, produced a degree of restraint in 
 tlic mamiers of every one, now regarded in si- 
 lence the different paintings which w^ere busily 
 displayed by old Elliston, only remarking the 
 excellencies of the different masters by whom 
 they were done. The priests and Catherine 
 still seemed prepared to feel delight, and to 
 express their feelings by gestures of — what 
 Ernest thought — adoration, on the appearance 
 of every new subject of the many legends of 
 their church. Each painting was view^ed with 
 so much interest and tediousness, that Ernest 
 had time also to examine the chapel, the ex- 
 treme richness and beauty of which astonished 
 him. His Protestant feelings, however, led 
 him to look with dissatisfaction on almost 
 * 1st Epistle to Timothy, chap. ii. ver. 5.
 
 44 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 every object which surrounded him ; and he 
 felt indignant as lie regarded the busy^ bust- 
 ling, old Elliston, and the polished, and he 
 could not help confessing to himself, singular- 
 ly interesting-looking Dormer, whose influence 
 had thus dra^vn upon the ebbing fortunes of 
 the half-ruined house of Clarenham, to support 
 a system, which, if not one of idolatry, was at 
 least completely addressed to the senses ; and 
 which, in his opinion, only served to place a 
 barrier between the soul and God. The paint- 
 ed windoAvs of the chapel — the sculptured 
 roof and pillars — the masterly paintings — the 
 beautiful marble pavement — and, above all, 
 the altar, were of the most exquisite order. 
 The steps up to the altar — the whole space 
 around it — the altar itself, most delicately 
 sculptured, were all of marble of the pui'est 
 white. A large crucifix, of the same material, 
 and beautiful workmanship, stood on the altar, 
 amidst the various articles used in the Roman 
 Catholic worship — some of wdiich were of 
 WTOught gold, others covered with jeAvels. 
 
 " That is surely foreign sculpture," said 
 Ernest to Maria, on finding himself near her, 
 and pointing to the altar.
 
 FATHER CLExMENT. 45 
 
 " It is/' replied slie^, " it was brought from 
 Kome." 
 
 "It is quite beautiful/' remarked Ernest. 
 
 " It is thought so/' answered Maria with 
 indifference. 
 
 Catherine approached, and put her arm 
 within that of her sister. " Come a little this 
 way, IVIaria/' said she ; " 8t. Catherine is di- 
 vine when seen in this light." 
 
 Maria seemed teased, but went with her. 
 She did not, however, join in the marks of 
 reverence paid by Catherine to the picture of 
 this saint, whose legend was kno-s^Ti to Ernest, 
 and regarded by him, as it is by all Protestants 
 who know it, most blasphemous and disgust- 
 ing. Maria soon returned, and again stood by 
 Ernest. 
 
 " The altar-piece has been removed to make 
 way for another," said she : " You will assist 
 us, cousin, to choose between two paintings 
 which Father Clement and my brother have 
 brought home. They are considered equally 
 appropriate. Do, Father Dennis," continued 
 she, turning coaxingly to the old priest, "let 
 us now choose for the altar. We can see all 
 these saints at another time."
 
 46 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " I did not expect to hear my dear daughter 
 speak so lightly of the saints," said Elliston 
 affectionately. 
 
 " It was not of the saints, Father ; it was 
 only of their pictures," replied Maria ; " and, 
 indeed, Father, I should not have spoken of 
 the old paintings which are to be removed from 
 the chapel, with any disrespect ; but these new 
 ones, though they mean to represent the same 
 persons, are so utterly unlike the others, that 
 they seem a company of entire strangers — " 
 
 " Pardon me. Miss Clarenham," interrupted 
 Dormer, " if I say that such levity, on such a 
 subject, and in such a place, is not common 
 amongst the tnie members of our church." 
 
 "Fie, Maria," said Mrs. Clarenham; "you 
 allow your spirits to get the better of your 
 good sense very unseasonably." 
 
 Catherine crossed herself, and Maria blush- 
 ed deeply, and remained silent. Mr. Elliston, 
 however, did not seem pleased to hear his 
 lively young friend chidden, and immediately 
 required Dormer's assistance to bring forward 
 a large painting, and place it in a proper light. 
 They then retired a few steps, and both reve- 
 rently made the sign of the cross. The paint-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 47 
 
 ing was a crucifixion by one of the first mas- 
 ters, and most forcibly and mo\angly repre- 
 sented — so much so, that Ernest could almost 
 have joined Maria and her mother in the pos- 
 ture of adoration they immediately assumed. 
 Without, ho-svever, thus far ^^elding to sym- 
 pathy of feeling, he was so evidently moved, 
 that Clarenham, who had narrowly observed 
 him all the time he had been examining the 
 pictures, now approached, and said in a low 
 tone of voice — 
 
 " Surely such representations are calculated 
 to move our feelings and excite our devotion, 
 and cannot therefore be Avrong." 
 
 Ernest sighed deeply to relieve his breast 
 from the oppression that the contemplation 
 of the painting had gathered there. 
 
 " I could almost agi'ee with you, Claren- 
 ham," replied he, in the same tone of voice ; 
 ^' but when I look at those," waving his hand 
 towards the other paintings, *• I perceive the 
 wisdom of God in liaHng so positively prohi- 
 bited all such representations." 
 
 " But if rightly used ?"— 
 
 "Nothing can be rightly used that is so 
 plainly forbidden."
 
 48 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " Forbidden !" repeated Maria Clarenliam ; 
 '^ Does tlie Bible forbid their use ?" 
 
 "Protestants say so," answered old Elliston 
 quickly; then turning to Mrs. Clarenliam^ 
 " Madam, it sui-prises me to hear the authority 
 of the church held as nothing in the very sanc- 
 tuary of the Clarenhams. Have they indeed 
 suffered so much for her in vain V 
 
 Mrs. Clarenhara looked alarmed : but Maria 
 ansAvered quickly, "Surely two Catholic 
 priests, and four members of the true church, 
 may find means to answer convincingly the 
 erroneous opinions of one — heretic," — hesitat- 
 ing, and looking at Ernest for forgiveness 
 as she pronounced the word. 
 
 He smiled. " The opinions of the heretic. 
 Miss Clarenliam, were they merely his own, 
 would have little chance of success in such a 
 contest ; but the words of God find so power- 
 ful an advocate for their truth in the human 
 soul, that one — I shall not say heretic," again 
 smiling — "but one Chiistian, availing him- 
 self of them, need not shrink from combating 
 a host of adversaries, who, in opposition to 
 those words, only appeal to human authority." 
 " I am not surprised that Protestants should 
 rcfrard the authoritv of fhc'ir church as hu-
 
 FATHER CLE3IENT. 49 
 
 man," observed old Elliston, quickly ; " It is 
 the character of the true churcli, that her au- 
 thority is divine." 
 
 " Protestant clergy claim no authority/' re- 
 plied Ernest, "for which they have not the 
 plainest grounds in Scripture, and can support, 
 not by human power, but by appealing to those 
 Scriptures in the hands of their people : Their 
 authority is thus, to all who believe the Bible, 
 plainly evinced to be given them by the Divine 
 and only Head of the true church, Jesus Christ. 
 That authority which cannot be thus support- 
 ed, and which shrinks from such examination, 
 I call human, merely human. And I need 
 not tell Mr, Elliston, that Protestants consider 
 the authority of the Romish priesthood of 
 the last description. But forgive me. Madam," 
 added Ernest, turning to Mrs. Clarenham, 
 " I have been unintentionally led into this 
 conversation." 
 
 " We ought ratlier to ask your forgiveness, 
 cousin," replied Mrs. Clarenham. " You are 
 our guest ; and such subjects cannot be agree- 
 able to you, and were introduced by us." 
 
 " Unless, — as we must ;dl allow has just 
 been the case," — observed Donner, with his 
 
 E
 
 50 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 usual mild politeness, " the consciousness of 
 having apparently had the best side of the ar- 
 gument could make them so. I hope Mr. Mon- 
 tague vtlW, however, on some future occasion, 
 give Father Dennis or me an opportunity to at- 
 tempt doing away the unfavourable opinions 
 he entertains of the Catholic clergy." 
 
 Ernest modestly assented, while Dormer's 
 very respectful address excited the thought — 
 
 " This artful Jesuit piiest means to blind me 
 by addressing himself to my vanity." 
 
 The party still continued in the chapel ; and 
 Catherine's devotion to one or two more paint- 
 ings which were displayed, particularly to one 
 of the Virgin Mary, continued unabated in ar- 
 dour. Ernest's attention, however, though he 
 could not altogether withdraw it from this young 
 enthusiast, as he considered her, was yet great- 
 ly more engaged by Dormer. He found, \dt\\ all 
 his prejudices, that there was something strange- 
 ly prepossessing about this priest — this Jesuit. 
 He acknowledged to himself, that, had he wish- 
 ed to find a model for the exterior of a Christ- 
 ian minister, he could at once have fixed on 
 Dormer*; and nothing but tlie appellation Fa- 
 ther Clement, and the recollection that he was
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 51 
 
 a Roman Catliolic and a Jesuit^ would have 
 prevented Ernest from at once yielding to the 
 interest he inspired, and seeking that place in 
 his regard Avhicli his manner ])espoke him pre- 
 pared to give. Ernest, however, as a duty, re- 
 sisted those kindly feelings. Still his eyes fol- 
 lowed Dormer, and he listened ^vith interest to 
 all he said. There was, too, in the devotional 
 gestures used by Donner, something altogether 
 different from those of Catherine and the elder 
 priest. He seemed to look beyond what was 
 visible, while they appeared completely engros- 
 sed with the present representation. To Ernest 
 he seemed an interesting visionary, and they 
 pitiable idolaters. Dormer did not appear more 
 than thirty — tall, thin, and pale ; his forehead 
 high and finely formed ; his hair and eyes very 
 dark ; his countenance marked, and full of ex- 
 pression ; but its leading character, mild, grave, 
 chastened, and lowly. His manners, though un- 
 usually polished, partook remarkably of the same 
 character. The only time since Ernest had en- 
 tered the chapel, and observed him, in which he 
 had for a moment appeared otherwise, was that 
 in which he had defended the fasts enjoined 
 by his church ; and, as Ernest now regarded
 
 52 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 liim, he tlioiiglit it likely that he had felt warm- 
 ly on that point, from its being one of the duties 
 which he practised with extreme strictness. 
 
 Ernest at last took leave of his interesting 
 cousins and their equally interesting chaplain. 
 Mrs. Clarenham very kindly invited him to re- 
 turUj, and also expressed a wish to see Lady 
 Montague. Maria cordially shook hands vnih 
 her cousin, and intrusted him with a note she 
 had wi-itten with a pencil to her friend Adeline . 
 To Catherine he bowed stiffly ; but she was, or 
 pretended to be, too deeply engaged to observe 
 his departure. Old Elliston nodded as he would 
 Jiave done to a schoolboy, and Dormer stood 
 apparently mildly waiting to return any court- 
 esy Avhicli might be bestowed upon him. Er- 
 nest bowed respectfully, and then Dormer still 
 more so. Clarenham left the chapel with his 
 young friend, and conducted him to the small 
 gallery he had mentioned, again warmly in^dt- 
 ing him to be present at the services in the 
 chapel, on any occasion in which he could find 
 himself sufficiently interested to be so. The 
 young friends then walked together across the 
 park, and separated with mutual assurances of 
 their intentions to meet soon again.
 
 CHAPTER Iir. 
 
 "— E quand' ebbi visto eudito, mi prostrai a' piedi dell' Angela, 
 che tali cose mostravaini, per adorarlo. E dissemi : guardati da far 
 cio ; adora Die." Martini's Trans.— Rev. xxii. 8. 
 
 '' Do corae^, and walk mtli me^ Adeline/' 
 said Ernest to his sister, on the evening of the 
 day on which he had visited the Clarenhams. 
 " The air is halm — every thing is lovely ; and 
 I have a thousand questions to ask you." Ade- 
 line most willingly consented, and was soon 
 ready to accompany him. Hours were much 
 earlier in those days ; and, though only in the 
 middle of April, Ernest and his sister had a 
 long evening hefore them, ere they must return 
 to family worship and supper ; the last, at that 
 time suhstantlal meal, occuiTing about the same 
 hour at which families of similar rank now 
 meet at dinner.
 
 54 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 The air was indeed balm^ and all around 
 was the loveliness of spring ; hut Adeline and 
 her hrother soon forgot all else in the earnest- 
 ness Avith which they talked of the Claren- 
 hams. 
 
 " Tell me/' said Ernest, " something ahout 
 that affected girl, Catherine. I am certain 
 there is as much aftectation as enthusiasm in 
 her character." 
 
 " Do not ask me ahout her/' replied Ade- 
 line; '^ she has treated me with so much con- 
 tempt and rudeness, that I cannot he just to 
 her." 
 
 Ernest laughed. " Then we are equally in 
 her good graces. Is it because we are Protes** 
 tants she thus scorns us ?" 
 
 " Entirely. Maria tries to persuade me that 
 it is a matter of conscience with her ; and that 
 I ought to forgive it in one who is so soon to 
 give up the world, and who dreads having her 
 affections in the smallest degree drawn hack to 
 it by any one, particularly by those of a differ- 
 ent faith." 
 
 *' Poor thing !" said Ernest compassionately. 
 
 " do not waste your pity on her !" return- 
 ed Adeline : *' she regards herself as quite su-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 00 
 
 j.»el-ior to us all. You ^voukl be provoked if you 
 heard how she lectures and reproves ^laria ; 
 and, after all, I think Maria more under the 
 influence of true religion than she is." 
 
 *' And how does Maria receive those re- 
 proofs and lectures ?" 
 
 " Most amiably. She has been in the habit 
 of regarding Catherine as far superior in sanc- 
 tity to herself. She believes also that she has 
 a call from heaven, so devoted is she already 
 to the life to which she is destined, and there- 
 fore listens to her with deference. But I 
 shall tell you some of those saintly deeds 
 which raise her so highly in her own opinion, 
 and that of her family." 
 
 " And how do you happen to know them ?" 
 '^ Maria tells me. She does so in the hope, 
 I believe, of converting me; and, in return, 
 I tell her my opinions, always supporting 
 them by passages from Scripture, to which 
 Maria listens with extreme interest; and I 
 think, though she may not avow it to herselfj 
 that these passages have already succeeded in 
 at least weakening her belief in the efficacy 
 of some of those superstitious rites taught by 
 Popish priests."
 
 >'>(> FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " In the efficacy of paying reverence to the 
 pictures of saints, I am sure, from what I saw 
 this morning, she has no faith," observed Er- 
 nest. " Yet she was ignorant of its being pro-= 
 hibited in the Bible." 
 
 " 1 have not yet ventured to tell her that it 
 is," answered Adeline. " I dreaded that, had 
 I shown her the ten commandments, as they 
 are really written in the Bible, and told her 
 that her priests absolutely dared to suppress 
 one altogether — di^dding another into two, in 
 order to blind their people, — and all this to 
 support the system of image w^orship, she 
 would not have credited me, and would have 
 felt herself obliged to mention the circum- 
 stance to Mr. ElHston at her next confession, 
 who would probaljly have found means to pre- 
 vent our having any further intercourse." 
 
 " You have acted very prudently, dear Ade- 
 line ; much more so than I. This forenoon, 
 and in the chapel, before both priests, I told 
 Clarenham that it was so." Ernest then told 
 his sister what has passed. 
 
 *' I rejoice to hear it," re])lied Adeline. " I 
 ain glad Maria heard you, and expressed her 
 surprise before Mr. Elliston. I have often
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 57 
 
 told lier that Scripture forbids many tilings en- 
 joined by her priests ; and tliat I did not tell 
 her half the Avicked things done by the Rom- 
 ish clergy to support their authority, because 
 she would not believe me. I say such things 
 laughing, but they make an impression." 
 
 *' But does she admit the correctness of the 
 English translation of the Bible ?" 
 
 '^ She says not ; but I think I have convin- 
 ced her judgment that it is impossible it should 
 be incorrect, considering that it is the very 
 leading principle of Protestantism to lay open 
 the Bible to every one, and to innate, and in- 
 culcate, and entreat its examination, while it 
 is the leading principle of Popery to shut it 
 out of the sight of all but the clerg}'. Maria 
 has been carefully instructed regarding the 
 many diiferent opinions amongst Protestants ; 
 but she knows also that there is quite as much 
 learning amongst those different sects as in 
 her own communion, therefore she is too sen- 
 sible not to perceive, that the learned men be- 
 longing to these sects would proclaim it to the 
 world, did those differing from them venture 
 to coiTupt the translation. But we have for- 
 gotten Catherine."
 
 58 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " No, indeed/' replied Ernest laughing, " I 
 shall not very soon forget her." 
 
 " You hear much malice for one offence," 
 said Adeline ; " but listen, and I am sure you 
 will feel pity also. You know the poor girl 
 retires in less than a year to her convent to 
 take the veil. It is usual, I believe, for those 
 in her situation to spend this last year with 
 their friends cheerfully, and partaking of their 
 innocent amusements and pleasures. Not so 
 Catherine. Hers is to be a term of the most 
 rigid mortification ; and this entirely of her- 
 self; for Mr. Elliston, though he does not 
 forbid, by no means encourages her in it. Eve- 
 ry hour she devotes to some occupation con- 
 sidered pious or meritorious by the Roman Ca- 
 tholics. At three in the morning, in every 
 kind of weather, she proceeds, with a lamp in 
 her hand, to the chapel. Sometimes, as a mor- 
 tification to her natural feelings of repugnance 
 to such exercises, she obliges herself to pass 
 with naked feet across the rough com-t of the 
 chapel, and along its cold marble pavement. I 
 may, in recounting them, misplace her different 
 acts of devotion ; but, if I recollect aright, she 
 first repeats what is termed a litany before the
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 59 
 
 picture of the Virgin Mary, or some saint. 
 Her favoui'ite iS;, I believe, one named St. Ca- 
 therine, as she herself hopes to be. To this 
 litany some prayers are added called matins ; 
 and, if I mistake not, they too are directed to 
 the Virgin. Indeed, excepting some Pater- 
 nosters, which are Latin, I do not recollect 
 that Maria mentioned to me one prayer in all 
 her sister's devotions, which was addressed to 
 God. Those prayers continue an hour, at the 
 close of which Catherine retires to bed, some- 
 times, she tells her friends, so chilled, that no- 
 thing short of a miracle prevents her catching 
 cold ; but this she owes, her family and her- 
 self believe, to St. Catherine." 
 
 " How deplorable !" exclaimed Ernest ; 
 '^ there is no rational evidence that any such 
 person as St. Catherine ever existed : and, if 
 she did, how blasphemous is it to ascribe to a 
 human spirit those attributes which belong to 
 God alone ; for this idol, set up by the Church 
 of Rome, has many votaries in different and 
 distant parts of the world, and therefore must 
 be regarded by them as present, and able to 
 knoAv the wants of her many and distant peti- 
 tioners at the same moment. How astonish-
 
 CO FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 iiig is it, tliat rational j^eoijle can continue In 
 a church ^vhich teaches such unscriptural 
 and dehasing absurdities ! But go on, AdeHne." 
 
 "Well," resumed Adeline, "after Cathe- 
 rine's miraculous escape from cold, — which, 
 however, she does not always escape, for she 
 has had attacks of it often of late, — she re- 
 turns to bed for two hours. She then rises 
 for the day. When dressed, another hour is 
 spent in repeating as many Paternosters and 
 Ave Marias, and other prayers, as there are 
 beads on a long string. This string of bead- 
 remembrancers is called a rosary. Most, or 
 all of these prayers, are in Latin, which she 
 does not understand." 
 
 Ernest sighed deeply. " What a mockery !" 
 exclaimed he sadly ; " Poor thing ! what a la- 
 bour which can bring no improvement to the 
 soul ! — no retuni whatever, but a delusive 
 hope that she has thus fulfilled a duty, while 
 she has only been doing that which C^hrist po- 
 sitively enjoined his disciples not to ^o-y' us- 
 ing vain repetitions as the heatlien di^ 'Who 
 thought they would be heard for their much 
 speaking.' One heartfelt confession of un-. 
 worthiness to Him who is ready to forgive — -
 
 FATHER CLKIMENT. 0*1 
 
 one ardent prayer for pardon in his name, 
 who is the only jMcdiator and Intercessor — 
 one believing aspiration after renovation and 
 holiness of spirit, by the grace of the Holy Spi- 
 rit — how different would be the return ! Ade- 
 line, we who hare the Bible can scarcely con- 
 ceive a mind in such a state as you have de- 
 scribed that poor girl's to be — and you say 
 she thinks highly of herself : — But go on." 
 
 "Forget what I have said," replied Ade- 
 line ; " I am ashamed of myself." 
 
 "I will, Adeline; and also my own dis- 
 pleasure at her contemptuous treatment. So 
 pray go on." 
 
 " Still," resumed Adeline, " she has an- 
 other religious service to attend before break- 
 fast — that is ]\Iass. But ^Maria said little to 
 me regarding that, except that it was perform- 
 ed every morning. I believe, since old Mr. 
 Clarenham's death, there are some additional 
 observances w^hich are to benefit him in some 
 way ; but I could not, you know, ask any 
 questions on that point." 
 
 " No, certainly," answered Eniest ; " but 
 we all know what effects Roman Catholics as- 
 cribe to that service when performed for the
 
 62 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 dead. But does Catherine spend the whole 
 day in such acts of devotion ?" 
 
 '^^ No ; the forenoon is dedicated to deeds of 
 charity. Immediately after breakfast she re- 
 pairs to the cottages of one class of poor peo- 
 ple at Hallern village — those afflicted with 
 sores. I need not tell you that the people of 
 that village are remarkably poor, and almost all 
 Roman Catholics. ]\Iany of them are pension- 
 ers of the Clarenhams, and are in some mea- 
 sure portioned out to the different members of 
 the family. Those afflicted with sores have 
 been selected by Catherine since her return 
 home, because she is very easily disgusted and 
 made sick by any object that is loathsome ; 
 and because she finds herself particularly so 
 just after breakfast, that is the time she chooses 
 to commence her attendance on her poor pa- 
 tients. She is frequently obliged, IMaria tells 
 me, to leave their cottages "vvhen she has only 
 opened the dressings from a sore, to breathe 
 the air for a moment, and then returns just to 
 be obliged to go out again. She, however, 
 perseveres, and some days is able to per- 
 form what she wishes. So anxious is she to 
 overcome these, as she considers them, im-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. ())? 
 
 charitable and sinful feelings, that she has left 
 nothing untried that she could think of for 
 that purpose ; and I really cannot help feeling 
 admiration for that part of her conduct." 
 
 "All depends on the motive in such ac- 
 tions," replied Ernest. "If Catherine's mo- 
 tive is love to Christ, and, for his sake, to poor 
 Christians, then it shall be said to her — ' In- 
 asmuch as ye have done it unto one of the 
 least of these my brethren, ye have done it un- 
 to me.' But if she hopes, by such acts of kind- 
 ness to the poor, to merit heaven, or atone for 
 her sins, which is the common opinion amongst 
 Roman Catholics — then she is putting them 
 in the place of Jesus Christ, vrhose blood alone 
 atones for sin, and whose merits alone are 
 sufficient to deserve heaven." 
 
 " I do not know her motives," replied Ade- 
 line ; " but IMaria believes that such deeds not 
 only secure the salvation of the person who per- 
 forms them — if that person belongs to the 
 Romish Church — but that, if he performs very 
 many of them, that is, more than God is sup- 
 posed to require of one individual, it is in the 
 power of the chui'ch to transfer the overplus 
 to another person to add to his merits; and
 
 64 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 out of that fund of the surplus merits of saints, 
 which the churcli falls heir to, she draws those 
 indulgences which she grants. Maria has told 
 me all this, though she now begins to be 
 ashamed of it, as a part of her creed ; she saw 
 that it struck me as so utterly ridiculous." 
 
 " So utterly impious," observed Ernest. — 
 "■ This doctrine of the Romish Church at once 
 sets at nought God's whole method of salvation. 
 Does poor oMaria really believe what is so com- 
 pletely irrational, and so utterly without the 
 foundation of authority from Scripture, which, 
 is directly opposed to it, from beginning to 
 end, both in letter and spirit ?" 
 
 '^ I ought rather to say, that Maria once be- 
 lieved it;," replied Adeline. " I think her 
 faith has been staggered on many points since 
 she ventured to listen to my cjuotations fi'om 
 the Bible, and to converse freely on the sub- 
 ject." 
 
 " Do you think she mentions those conver- 
 sations in her confessions to Mr. Elliston ?" 
 
 " She does not confess often. That omission 
 is one of the sins for which Catherine reproves 
 her, even before me. IMaria has acknowledged 
 to me, that she has had an invincible repug-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. (iO 
 
 nance to confession ever since she began to con- 
 sider herself bound to perfomi it as a duty ; 
 and that nothing but Mr. ElUston's aftection- 
 ate kindness to her could have made it toler- 
 able. She has always been his fayourite of the 
 Avhole family, and is much attached to him. 
 She has detennined to confess to him before 
 he goes. That was the purport of the note 
 you brought from her to me this morning." 
 
 Adeline gave her brother the note, which 
 was as follows : 
 
 "Do come and see me to-morrow, dearest 
 Adeline. Come in the evening. Basil and I 
 shall walk home with you, and Ve shall to- 
 gether see the sun set from the hill. I say 
 the evening, because I shall confess to-morrow, 
 and know not at what hour I may get Father 
 IJennis ; and to him I must confess before he 
 goes, for I every day more and more dread 
 Father Clement, who, on his part, I think, 
 already regards me with suspicion respecting 
 my devotedness to the authority of the priests. 
 Your brother has just been saying strange 
 things in our chapel. Ever yours, M. C,"
 
 66 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 * 
 
 "Will you meet us on the hill to-morrow 
 evening, Ernest ?" asked Adeline. 
 
 " I will with pleasure^ if you assure me of 
 being welcome to all." 
 
 " I can assure you of welcome ; and do put 
 your Greek Testament in your pocket. IMaria 
 will soon lead to the sul)ject, and Basil may 
 not listen to our translation." 
 
 " You are very ardent in proselyting, dear 
 Adeline." 
 
 " Oh Ernest ! if you loved Basil as I love 
 Maria, you would feel what a continual weight 
 upon the heart the idea is, that the soul of your 
 most beloved friend may not be safe." 
 
 Ernest made no reply for an instant. Ade- 
 line had touched on one of those subjects which 
 led to a train of thought, in the depths and 
 mysteries of which he too often found himself 
 involved. " You are surely right in using the 
 means, Adeline, " said he at last. " The eifects 
 are with God." 
 
 " Were you pleased with young Clarenham?" 
 asked Adeline. 
 
 " Extremely so. He is very prepossessing, 
 both in manners and appearance." 
 
 '' Ah ! then I hope you will soon feel as 
 deeply interested in him as I do in IMaria."
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. C7 
 
 " And poor Catlierine V said Ernest, smil- 
 ing. 
 
 " She is so fenced round by tlie good opi- 
 nion she has of herself/' replied Adeline, " and 
 so full of contempt for us poor heretics, -who 
 dare read the Bible, that I do not feel at all 
 inclined to attempt meddling with her opinions 
 — but if you do — " 
 
 *^ I would far rather make a convert of ^Mr. 
 Dormer," replied Ernest. " But this is a 
 foolish way of talking ; and now I think it must 
 be late, the sun has got so low." 
 
 It was indeed getting late, and Ernest and 
 his sister hastened homeward, as it w^as Sir 
 Herbert's invariable custom to proceed 'vvitli 
 .w^hatever was the stated occupation of the 
 hour in his family, whoever might be absent ; 
 and they dreaded that family w^orship might 
 be commenced before their return. It was 
 indeed the hour at which it usually commen- 
 ced, ere they came in sight of the house ; but, 
 to their great surprise, on leaving a wooded, 
 and now almost dark little path they had 
 chosen as the nearest, they perceived Sir Her- 
 bert and Dr. Lowther at a short distance, lei- 
 surely approaching on horseback.
 
 t)b FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " What on earth can be the matter !" ex- 
 claimed Adeline. '' My father detests riding 
 at this hour, and Dr. Lowther always spends 
 it alone, and \s\\\ not suffer himself to be dis- 
 turbed. Something must have happened." 
 
 Both parties reached the house together. 
 Ernest held the bridle of his father's horse while 
 he dismounted. 
 
 " My dear Sir, this is a very unusual hour for 
 you to ride." 
 
 " And I have been at very unusual business," 
 replied Sir Herbert. 
 
 "^oi unpleasant, Sii", I hope." 
 
 " Less so than I expected. — Dick, take the 
 horses," turning to the groom, — then looking 
 at his watch, *^ just lead them all to the stable, 
 and return yourself, for it is the hour for family 
 worship." Sir Herbert then put his hand kind- 
 ly on Ernest's shoulder, as they entered the 
 house, but continued silent. 
 
 Adeline had been more successful with Dr. 
 Lo>\i:her, who told her that Sir Herbert, hav^ 
 ing discovered that old ]Mr. Elliston was to leave 
 Hallern Castle in three or four days, had sent 
 to say that he and Dr. Lowther wished to see 
 hiiu in private for half an hour, and would
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 69 
 
 call at any time lie appointed. He had fixed 
 that evening. 
 
 " And we have just been with him, my dear 
 Miss AdcHne/' continued Dr. Lowther, '' to ac- 
 knowledge our faults, and ask his forgiveness, 
 as yoa heard Sir Herbert say this morning he 
 was determined to do." 
 
 ^' But surely, dear Sir, Mr. Elliston had more 
 cause to ask yours, and my father's forgiveness." 
 
 " That was not to prevent us, my dear, from 
 acknowledging that w^e had acted unsuitably to 
 our profession. We must not leave those sins 
 which we are led into by our pride and evil 
 passions to be charged on our religion." 
 
 " But how did ]\Ir. Elliston receive my fa- 
 ther ? My dear father ! — I can scarcely con- 
 ceive his submitting to — and you, dear Dr. 
 Lowther — and that old priest does at times 
 look so haughty." 
 
 " I have not time to tell you now, my dear 
 Miss Adeline, but he w^as not haughty — at least 
 not after he knew the nature of our visit. But 
 we must now join Sir Herbert," 
 
 Family w^orship occupied rather more time 
 in those days than it usually does now, as it 
 was then thought essential, at least among
 
 70 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 Presbyterians and tlie descendants of noncon- 
 formists, to train their young people, and tliose 
 they considered under their charge, by a much 
 more laborious and deep course of religious 
 study than is thought necessary in our more 
 enlightened days ; and young people or those 
 who had but recently begun to take an inter- 
 est in religious subjects, from this notion, that 
 time and study were necessary to the acc[uire- 
 ment of knowledge on that, as on other sub- 
 jects, were sadly kept back, and prevented, in 
 those dark times of systematic and heayj^ di- 
 vinity, from teaching, and deciding, and dic- 
 tating on disputed points, as they do now, with 
 so much benefit to others, and to themselres. 
 Ernest and Adeline took notes of the expla- 
 nation given by Dr. Lowther to the passage of 
 Scripture he had selected for the evening, and 
 into the meaning of which he entered at consi- 
 derable length, and apparently with much in- 
 terest and anxiety that it should impress his 
 hearers. Lady IMontague also took notes oc- 
 casionally : and even Sir Herbert recorded 
 on his tablets two or three strong and original 
 remarks made by his old friend ; while the 
 domestics listened with looks of intelligent
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 71 
 
 attention ; and, ^vlien the service was over, it 
 did not seem as if it had been an interrup- 
 tion, from wliicli every one afterwards return- 
 ed to more congenial occupation, but to have 
 so arrested the attention, and engaged the mind 
 and feelings, as to impress its own character on 
 what followed. 
 
 " How true your remark was, my dear 
 friend," said Sir Herbert to Dr. Lowther, re- 
 femng to part of the recent lecture, — " that the 
 pain attendant on performing any plain duty, is 
 not in the act, but in the imaginary evils which 
 precede it !" 
 
 '^ The duty of this evening has not then 
 proved painful," said Lady Montague, looking 
 more to the well known expression of Sir Her- 
 bert's countenance for an answer, than listen- 
 ing to his words. 
 
 " No, my love," replied he, with that soft- 
 ness of expression w^hich his countenance never 
 wore to any but herself, and with a smile which 
 conveyed to her, that she should afterwards 
 know whatever she chose of his least expressible 
 feelings. 
 
 Adeline had seated herself next to her Either, 
 and now unconsciously watched his counte- 
 nance. He continued to converse with Dr
 
 7^ FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 Lowther and lier mother without seemlnsf to ob- 
 serve her. At last, turning abruptly round, and 
 looking her full in the face, " Well, Adeline, 
 you have studied my looks for the last half hour, 
 what have you discovered ?" 
 
 " Nothing, Sir," replied Adeline, casting 
 down her eyes and blushing. 
 
 " At least nothing you wish to discover, Addy. 
 But, come now, confess the truth ; you can 
 think of nothing else from your anxiety to know 
 how your father made out to ask forgiveness of 
 an old Jesuit priest." 
 
 " I have discovered. Sir, that it has made him 
 look so mild and benignant," replied Adeline 
 archly, " that I am in hopes he will gratify my 
 curiosity." 
 
 Sir Herbert smiled ! " Well, Addy, I will 
 tell you thus far, — ^)^ou need never dread doing 
 what is right : for you may trust, that if you 
 are determined to deny yourself, and obey God, 
 he will make your way plain and smooth be- 
 fore you." Then turning to Ernest, " You are 
 right, my dear boy, in trying to discover what 
 is attractive, or Avorthy of a rational being's 
 love, in those religions which differ from your 
 own. We are too apt to consider those who op- 
 pose us fools and hypocrites. Poor old Ellis-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 73 
 
 ton ! I am sure he is neither. Yet I have 
 thought him a hypocrite for the last t\vcnty 
 years, because I coukl not conceive that a man 
 of liis sense and shrewdness really credited all 
 the nonsense taught by his church : but I must 
 now lay the blame elsewhere, for I am certain 
 he himself is deceived." 
 
 " I low did he receive you. Sir ?" asked Er- 
 nest. 
 
 " lie supposed we had come with some com- 
 plaint or threat about his attempt to proselyte 
 the labourers who have lately come to the new 
 cottages near my stone-quarry, and received U9 
 ver}' stiffly. I Avas rather at a loss how to com- 
 mence what I had to say, and he began the 
 conversation by saying rather haughtily, — "I 
 suppose. Sir Herbert, you and Dr. Lowther are 
 come to accuse me of the crime of having at- 
 tempted to bring some of the heretics on your 
 domains back to the true church." 
 
 " Provoking old fellow !" said Rowley in- 
 dignantly. '^ I wonder you could proceed. Sir." 
 
 "I felt more hurt tlian angry, Rowley, be- 
 cause I meant kindness only. I just said, 
 that I had not come to complain of any part 
 of his onduct; but, before his departure, to
 
 V4 FATHER CLKMENT. 
 
 acknowledge how sensible we were of having 
 on some occasions acted in a very unchristian 
 manner towards hini;, and to ask his forgive- 
 ness ; and then what a change there was in the 
 old man's looks and manner !" Sir Herbert 
 seemed moved even at the recollection. 
 
 " Certainly I never witnessed such a change," 
 said Dr. Lowther : '' and when Sir Herbert 
 held out his hand, and asked his forgiveness, 
 the old man wept. He tried to overcome his 
 softness, and said he had prepared himself for 
 a scene so different — that he was already 
 moved by the thoughts of so soon parting from 
 a family who were too dear to a man who had 
 taken the vows he had — and then he had so 
 many confessions to make of unchristian con- 
 duct towards us ; — and, in the fulness of his 
 softened heart, acknowledged that the very 
 intention of instituting his order was to reclaim 
 heretics; that their vows tended to that one 
 point ; and that on their success depended all 
 they valued ; — and then he asked our forgive- 
 ness so earnestly — in short, my dear madam," 
 said Dr. Lowther, addressing Lady Montague, 
 "Sir Herbert, Mr. EUiston, and I, paited hke 
 brothei-s/'
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. JO 
 
 "And does he go so soon as we heard he 
 did ?" asked lady Montague. 
 
 " The day after to-morrow is what they call 
 Good Friday," I'eplied Dr. Lowthen " It is a 
 busy day -v^-ith Roman <^atholics : so is the 
 Sabbath following ; and on Monday Mr. Ellis- 
 ton leaves the Castle. He is appointed con- 
 fessor to a rich old English gentleman, who 
 resides generally at Florence." 
 
 " Poor old man !" said Sir Herbert^ com- 
 passionately, " how cruel to remove him from 
 those young people whom he must feel for as 
 if they were his o^^^l ! What an iniquitous 
 system that is, which denies to the minister 
 of God that relation to any creature which the 
 Divine Being has marked out as so honour- 
 able, by constantly appropriating the charac- 
 ter to himself — that of a Father! Did you 
 remark the expression of poor old EUiston's 
 countenance. Dr. Lo^viher, when he asked you 
 for your sons and daughters, and how many 
 grandchildren you had ?" 
 
 " I did — there was a strange mixture of sar- 
 casm and sadness in it." 
 
 The reader must be informed, that though 
 Dr. Lowther now generally resided at Illerton
 
 76 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 Hall, lie Iiad done so only for two years. Pre- 
 vious to that period he had dwelt in his own 
 house near his church. A few months before 
 that time, however, he had lost his wife. His 
 three sons had been honourably settled in dif- 
 ferent situations before their mother's death, 
 and his two daughters happily manied in his 
 o^yn parish. When his home thus became 
 sad aiid lonely. Sir Herbei5 had tried every 
 means to induce him to re'sfdelat Illerton. He 
 had got his books carried thither, and, by de- 
 grees, prevailed on him to prolong his \Tlsits, 
 till at last, though he still considered his own 
 house his home, he was never suffered to be 
 there, but spent his time either with some 
 member of his own family, or as a chaplain at 
 Illerton Hall.
 
 CHAPTER iV. 
 
 " Imperocche Dip fe uno, uno anche 11 mediatore tra Dio e gU 
 uomini, uomo Cristo Gesu." Martini'^ Trans.— 1 Tim. ii. 3. 
 
 It was strll two hours from sunset on the 
 following day, when Ernest proceeded to the 
 appointed hill where he was to meet Adeline 
 and the two young Clarenhams. He walked 
 slowly and thoughtfully to the place of meet- 
 ing, his whoie soul absorbed by one subject of 
 desire and hope — the conversion of his young- 
 relations, and of their interesting chaplain. 
 The conversion of the last seemed almost hope - 
 less ; and Ernest, when he recollected, in his 
 modest estimation of himself, how little he 
 knew of those arguments by which Roman 
 CathoUes defended their faith, shrunk from 
 tlie idea of entering on the subject ^vitli one
 
 78 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 "vvliose appearance and manner conveyed so 
 much sincerity and devotion, and who, he had 
 heard, was as eminent for learning and talents 
 as for sanctity. Not that he felt a doubt as to 
 his being in eiTor ; " for any argument must 
 be sophistry," reasoned he, " however subtile, 
 which defends a system, the basis of which is 
 so utterly unscriptural as that of the Romish 
 faith. — Denying free access to the word of 
 God — ordaining prayers to be offered up in 
 a language not understood by the people — 
 prapng to departed spirits — setting up images 
 and pictures in the churches for the people to 
 prostrate themselves before : — No argument 
 could prove these to be agreeable to Scriptm-e." 
 Ernest walked slowly as he thus reasoned, his 
 arms crossed on his breast, and his eyes fixed 
 on the ground. " Impossible ! no argument 
 could prove it ;" said he aloud. Some one 
 passed as he spoke : he looked up and saw — 
 Dormer. 
 
 Ernest started and stopt. Dormer also stopt. 
 He looked slightly embanassed, but said, with 
 liis usual mildness — 
 
 '^ I beg pardon, Mr. Montague. I have 
 interrupted you. The extreme beauty of the
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 70 
 
 views seen from this hill has perhaps led me 
 too far. Am I hcyond the bomids which 
 separate the domains of lUerton from Ilallern ? 
 I do not exactly know them." 
 
 " If you were, Mr. Dormer, sm'cly you can- 
 not possibly suppose tluit you are not perfectly 
 w^elcome." 
 
 " I can suppose nothing of Mr. Montague 
 hut what is benevolent and kind," replied 
 Dormer, feelingly. Then smiling, — " I per- 
 ceive I have passed the boundary." 
 
 " It is at the top of the hill," replied Er- 
 nest : " but one of the finest >Tews is seen a 
 little lower down on this side. If you will 
 permit me, I will conduct you to the place." 
 
 Dormer seemed to hesitate. 
 
 *' I assure you it is finer than any you have 
 yet seen," said Ernest, 
 
 •'I doubt not that," replied Dormer, "but 
 whether I ought to indulge myself by en- 
 croaching on your time and kindness." 
 
 There was something so perfectly simple 
 in Dormer's mamier, polished as it was, that 
 it conveyed the most in-esistible conviction of 
 sincerity: and Ernest now iei)lied, with 
 warmth, that no ^vay in which he could at
 
 80 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT, 
 
 that moment employ liis time would give him 
 equal pleasure — and the next instant he found 
 himself walking aiTn in arm ^nth that same 
 most interesting Jesuit priest who had so 
 deeply engaged his thoughts a few minutes 
 before. They walked on for a time in silence. 
 Ernest felt embarrassed — and Dormer seemed 
 not quite at ease. At last Dornier broke the 
 silence — 
 
 " I think, Mr. Montague, I ought in lio- 
 ncstj to tell you how much I overheard of 
 what you, in the depth of thought, and you 
 supposed in solitude, said, as I passed you a 
 little ago. Your words were — ' Impossible ! 
 no argument could prove it.* I heard no 
 more." 
 
 '^I was indeed very deep in thougbt,^' re- 
 plied Ernest, reddening as he recollected on 
 what subject. 
 
 " Your family are ■Caiviriists, I believe, Mr. 
 Montague ?" 
 
 " They are," replied Ernest. *' They pro- 
 fess the doctrines of the Church of Scotland." 
 
 " And of Holland and Geneva/' said Dor- 
 mer.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 81 
 
 <^« Yes — and of the puiitans and noncon- 
 foraiists of England and America." 
 
 " It is, I know, a wide-spread creed," replied 
 Dormer; "and I have remarked that those 
 •who are educated in its doctrines, if they take 
 an interest in religion, learn to he very deep 
 thinkers." 
 
 " It is not surprising they should," replied 
 Ernest. " They are early led to the contem- 
 plation of very deep mysteries. It was not any 
 doctrine of my o^^^ti church, however, which 
 occupied my thoughts when I met you, Mr^ 
 
 Dormer. It was " Ernest hesitated for a 
 
 moment, then said frankly, "I was endea- 
 vouring to discover what could he said in de- 
 fence of some of the doctrines of your church." 
 
 Dormer looked surprised, hut pleased. " In 
 defence of them !" repeated he. 
 
 " Yes," replied Ernest. " I am acquainted 
 with what, by Protestants, are considered the 
 eiToneous doctrines of your church : But I do 
 not believe I am acquainted Avith what wise 
 and good men of the Romish faith say in their 
 defence." 
 
 " Do you, a Protestant and Calvinist, be-
 
 o2 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 lieve that there are wise and good men at tKis^ 
 day in the church of Rome T' 
 
 "I assuredly do." 
 
 *' And men of real religion ?" asked Dormer. 
 Ernest was silent. 
 
 " You cannot go so far/' said Dormer. 
 
 " That was the very difficulty I was attempt- 
 ing to soItc/' replied Ernest. " I must he- 
 Keve that there have certainly been truly reli- 
 gious men in the Romish Church. Who can 
 read the >\Titings of Fenelon and Pascal, and 
 not believe it ?" 
 
 A slight motion of Dormer's arm made Er- 
 nest look in his face. There was a passing ex- 
 pression of displeasure, but he said nothing ; 
 and Ernest instantly recollected how little 
 agreeable to a Jesuit it could be to hear Pascal 
 singled out for praise. Ernest felt eonfused — 
 " I certainly cannot doul>t that there have 
 been, and consequently still may be, truly reli- 
 gious men in the church of Rome. But, Mr. 
 Dormer, may I ask you the same question : 
 Do you believe there are men of real religion 
 among Protestants V 
 
 " I will answer you with perfect frankness, 
 Mr. Montague," replied Dormer, " though I
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 83 
 
 would rather you had not, so early in our ac- 
 quaintance, asked me that question, lest the 
 answer I must give you should lead you to 
 suspect me of bigotry. But let me ask you — 
 do you think there is more than one right Avay 
 of understanding any subject ?" 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 " And whatever deviation is made fi'om that 
 one right way is error ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 '^ And you are not one of those, Mr, Mon- 
 tague, who regard error in religious principles 
 as of no moment, provided your conduct to 
 your fellow-men is irreproachable V 
 
 "■ I am not. I look upon sound religious 
 principles in the soul as the only source from 
 whence conduct acceptable to God can pro- 
 ceed." 
 
 " Yes, soimd principles of religion ; but if 
 those which are supposed so are in fcict er- 
 roneous, is the person who is guided by them 
 safe r 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 Then I will answer your question. I can- 
 not suppose that Protestants are safe, because 
 I believe they are guided by a system of error.
 
 84 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 I cannot think a man, however I may love him 
 and desire his salvation, can be a truly reli- 
 gious man while his religion is error : and I 
 think Protestants are strangely inconsistent 
 Avhen they say that the Catholic church is full 
 of corruptions and errors, and yet allow that 
 her members may be safe." 
 
 " We do not say," replied Ernest, " that 
 those who are guided by the corruptions and 
 eri'ors of the church of Rome ai-e safe; but 
 that, corrupt as that church is, it still teaches, 
 though deeply mingled Avitli en'or, those truths 
 which, if believed and obeyed, save the soul. 
 In the writings of those members of your 
 church wiiom I have mentioned, they profess 
 to rest their hopes of salvation on those truths : 
 we, therefore, in charity, hope that they, and 
 all such as they, in the Romish church, arc 
 safe. It is, however, difficult for a Protestant 
 to conceive that state of mind, which, at the 
 same time, can believe the truths taught in 
 the Bible, and admit some of those doctrines 
 and observances insisted on by your church." 
 
 " IVIay I ask you to mention one of those 
 doctrines or observances ?" 
 
 " I need only remind you of Avhat I ^^ itness-
 
 FATHER CLE ■KENT. {j5 
 
 ed in your cliapel yesterday," replied Ernest. 
 *' St. Paul says expressly — ' there is one God, 
 and one Mediator between God and men, the 
 man Christ Jesus.'* The church of Rome 
 teaches the first gi'eat truth of this passage, — 
 * there is one God,' but in direct contradiction 
 to the inspired apostle says, that there are 
 hundreds of mediators — angels — the departed 
 spirits of men and women." 
 
 " But not in the same sense that Christ is 
 mediator," interrupted Domier, mildly. 
 
 " Allowing the distinction," said Ernest^ 
 *' which, however, Roman Catholics themselves 
 admit is not always made by the ignorant, — 
 and such in their communion always consti- 
 tutes the majority; — allowing such mediators 
 in any sense, is utterly an invention of the 
 church of Rome — ^^itllout one word or one 
 example in Scripture to authorize it — and cor- 
 rupts, and weakens, and dishonours those plain 
 Scripture doctrines, on the belief and right un- 
 derstanding of which our salvation depends." 
 
 '' I cannot perceive that it does," replied 
 Dormer, with the same perfect gentleness — 
 
 * 1 Tim. ii. 5. 
 H
 
 6b FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " Were Mr. Montague a member of the Ca- 
 tholic and apostolic church, I have already 
 heard so much of his extreme kindness to the 
 poor — of his anxiety to make all around him 
 good and happy — and I have seen so much of 
 zeal for what he considers truth — and felt so 
 grateful for his benevolent kindness to a stran- 
 ger, for whom all the prejudices of his education, 
 must have taught him to feel the contrary — 
 that I should humbly ask the benefit of his 
 prayers: and surely the prayers of the saints 
 in heaven may be entreated." 
 
 Ernest remained silent — not from being sa- 
 tisfied with Dormer's reply, for nothing could 
 be less satisfactory ; but from the modesty of 
 his nature, and the kindness of his heart. Had 
 he yielded to the last, he could almost have 
 embraced the interesting stranger who seemed 
 so grateful for common civilities ; but such di- 
 rect praise of himself mingled with a defence 
 so weak, of what appeared to Ernest gross su- 
 perstition in his church, checked his kinder 
 feelings, and reminded him that his companion 
 was a Romish priest and a Jesuit. 
 
 " Forgive me, Mr. INIontague," said Donner, 
 " if I have treated the subject we were tidk-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 87 
 
 ing of, as of less importance than it appears 
 to you." 
 
 " You certainly liave — ^but, now we have 
 reached the spot I mentioned/' — ^replied Er- 
 nest, as he and Dormer got clear of some 
 straggling trees and underwood through which 
 they had been passing, and pointing to the 
 widely extended view which now lay before 
 them — " I hope we shall not now differ in 
 opinion." Ernest retired a step or two, and 
 looked in a different direction from that to 
 which Dormer's attention seemed immediately 
 to be fixed, not so much to contemplate the 
 vicAV, as to watch the looks of his companion. 
 
 Ernest was an enthusiastic admirer of the 
 beauties and sublimities of nature ; so much so, 
 that an absence of the same taste in others led 
 him, in the common rashness of youth, to re- 
 gard such as deficient in all the lovelier quali- 
 ties of the human character. Dormer in this, 
 however, did not disappoint him, but seemed 
 as deeply susceptible of those beauties as him- 
 self. His looks — ^liis words — his gestures — 
 all expressed that deep feeling of admiration 
 which is produced by natural taste, joined to 
 adoration of that glorious Being who has still
 
 88 FATHEll CLEMENT, 
 
 left traces of his character wherever we look 
 around us in our sinful world. Tliere was one 
 point, however, to which Dormer's looks still 
 returned, and that point Ernest considered the 
 least beautiful of the whole landscape. Dor- 
 mer seemed to forget Ernest's presence — every 
 thing — while, as he looked earnestly in that 
 direction, his countenance gradually assumed 
 an expression of extreme melancholy. At last 
 recollecting himself — " I was not aware," said 
 lie, "that those hills," pointing in the direc- 
 tion to which his attention had been so earnest- 
 ly fixed, *^^ could have been seen from hence. 
 Amongst them is my birth-place, and the place 
 in which I spent my youth. . I supposed that 
 ■fifteen years absence had deadened every feel- 
 ing of attachment to its scenery ; but at this 
 moment it is all before me, and the effect is 
 strangely powerful." 
 
 " You have not, then, visited it since your 
 return ?" said Eniest. 
 
 " No ; nor shall I visit it. Strangers possess 
 it now. Tlie part my family took for their 
 church and king was too open and decided to 
 leave them witli lands and fortunes, while the 
 one is oppressed at home, and the other in
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 89 
 
 exile abroad. Tliey are all dispersed. For my 
 own part, I ought to rejoice, that, for many 
 years I have been separated from all natural 
 ties to this world. I ought the more perfectly 
 to feel myself what I profess to he, ' a stranger 
 and a pilgrim on the earth/ " 
 
 Ernest made no answer. He was plain and 
 sincere on all occasions ; but his feeling of in- 
 terest and s\Tnpathy for Donner could not 
 lessen his dislike to that cause for which his 
 family had suffered; and which was, in his 
 ©pinion, as bad as a weak, corrupt^ and arbi- 
 trary government, and a false ami intolerant 
 religion, could make it. 
 
 '^ You do not think the cause worth the sa- 
 ci'ifice, I perceive ! " said Dormer. 
 
 " I certainly do not in either case," replied 
 Ernest; "yet I hope you w^iil believe I can 
 fcel for those wdio do." 
 
 " I certainly cannot disbelieve it," said Dor- 
 mer ; " but I must not encroach longer on your 
 time and kindness." 
 
 ^' We may return together," said Ernest. 
 J promised to meet my sister at the bound- 
 ary before sun-set ; and may I beg of you, Mr. 
 Dormer, to have a better opinion of us than
 
 1)0 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 to believe we should not be gratified by your 
 finding it agreeable to you to walk or ride on 
 any part of the Ilierton grounds." 
 
 Dormer expressed his gratitude — ^looked 
 again earnestly towards the hills, and sighed 
 deeply ; then, putting his arm within Ernest's, 
 they turned towards the path to reascend the 
 hill. 
 
 " May I invite you, ]Mr. Montague," said 
 Dormer, as they walked, " to witness the 
 service in Hallern Chapel to-morrow ? I think 
 your once doing so would have more effect in 
 convincing you that the Catholic church has 
 judged wisely in exciting the devotion of her 
 childi'en, by those representations you seemed 
 so much to condemn yesterday, than any thing 
 I could say." 
 
 " I wish much to witness the service," re- 
 plied Ernest, "and shall willingly be present 
 to-morrow : ])ut hope I shall meet with no- 
 thing to reconcile me to what is expressly 
 prohibited in the word of God." 
 
 " We do not adore the representation," re- 
 phed Doi-mer; "we adore the reality only. 
 We do not, therefore, transgi-css any law of 
 God."
 
 FATHER CLE3IENT. 91 
 
 " Your distinctions are too nice/' said Er- 
 nest. " The words of the cominandment are, 
 * Thou shalt not make unto tliee the likeness 
 of any thing in the heaven above, or in the 
 earth beneath. Thou shalt not bow thyself 
 to them, nor worship them.' " 
 
 " Bow thyself to them to adore them, is 
 the translation of the church," said Dormer, 
 " and we do not transgress that law." 
 
 " Even alloA^ing that ti-anslation, which is 
 not literal, why thus come on the very verge 
 of disobedience? AVliy teach that which all 
 Roman Catholics allow may be so mismider- 
 stood as to lead the ignorant into the commis- 
 sion of that sin, more condemned than any 
 other in Scriptui'e, and consequently most 
 dangerous to their souls, — idolatry ? Why 
 are the Romish clergy so detcrminately bene 
 on this, that, where it is possible the people 
 may never discover that there is a law of God 
 on the subject, they suppress that law alto- 
 gether? Is it possible for Protestants, mth 
 the Bible in tl;eir hands, containing the law, 
 to know this, and not regard the clergy of the 
 church of Rome with distrust — and to apply 
 to them the words of Christ, ' In vain dp they
 
 92 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 Avorship me, teaching for doctrines the com- 
 mandments of men ?' " 
 
 ^' Protestants misundei-stand us," replied 
 Dormer, with unchanged gentleness, though 
 Ernest had become warm ; — " Come to-mor- 
 row to our chapel, Mr. Montague, and judge 
 for yourself." 
 
 Ernest again promised, and, soon after, he 
 observed his sister and her young friends ap- 
 proaching to meet him; and much to his sur- 
 prise, accompanied by Catherine, who walked 
 apparently in a very friendly manner, with her 
 ann within that of Adeline Montague. 
 
 Ernest was met by young Clarenham with 
 increased cordiality and kindness, and by Ma- 
 lia with the same unaffected expressions of 
 pleasure with which she had received him the 
 day before. He bowed to Catherine, but 
 scarcely looked at her, and was therefore un- 
 conscious of the change in her manner when 
 she returned his salutation. 
 
 '' How prettily you have kept 3'our appoint- 
 ment, Mr. Ernest !" said Adeline. 
 
 " I imagined I was keeping it." 
 
 "^ Look at the sun." 
 
 Ernest looked, and saw that it had sunk bc'
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 93 
 
 neath tlie horizon. " I had no idea it Avas so' 
 late." 
 
 " You must Llame me, Miss Montague/* 
 said Dormer ; " your brother had, I beheve, 
 nearly reached the appointed place of meet- 
 ing -when he met me wandering, I did not 
 know Avhither, and became my guide to view 
 the most atti'active scenery I have looked upon 
 for many years." 
 
 " 0, I forgive i/on, Mr. Dormer : but Er- 
 nest always finds means to spend his time 
 with the wisest and gravest people — " Ade- 
 line stopt and blushed — " I do not mean to 
 say that those were not wise with whom I 
 have passed my time, but it was scarcely fair 
 in you, Ernest, to leave one to combat three-" 
 
 " Combat !" repeated Dormer. 
 
 *' One against three. Father," said Maria 
 Clarenham cjuickly. " Surely we ought to 
 make converts; for strength of numbers, at 
 least, is always on our side." 
 
 " I wish you all success from my lieart, 
 daughter," replied Dormer, looking calmly 
 and gravely at Maria. " I trust you do not 
 forget how serious the subject is to wliich you 
 iillude r
 
 94 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " I liope not/' replied Maria, reddening ; 
 " and I must say," continued she, " that we 
 have been only two against one. Catherine 
 joined not in the argument." 
 
 " No," said Catherine, " I venture not on 
 such ground. I listen not to the words of 
 Inspiration but as they are imparted to me by 
 a priest. I presume not to use my o-wo. judg- 
 ment in matters so sacred. Yet I desire, as 
 much as any one, the return of lieretics to the 
 church — and most particularly the return of 
 my cousins." 
 
 There was an air of elevation and enthusi- 
 asm in Catherine's manner as she spoke, and 
 on ceasing, she approached Ernest, and lightly 
 touching his ami, said, " Follow me. I have 
 a message for you." Then turning, she again 
 put her aiTii within that of Adeline's, walked 
 to a little distance from the rest of the party, 
 and stopt. Ernest followed ; and noAv Ade- 
 line and he looked at each other, while Ca- 
 therine, withdraAAing her arm from Adeline's^ 
 placed herself before them — one hand raised — 
 and an expression of intense thought gath-ering 
 on her young broAv. 
 
 '' I will tell the truth," gaid she at last—
 
 FATHER CLE3IENT. 95 
 
 " 3'es, the -whole truth. Adeline, you have 
 thought me an unfeeling bigot !" 
 
 ^' No, no, dear Catherine, only an enthusi- 
 ast," said Adeline affectionately. 
 
 " Do not interrupt me. You are not quite 
 sincere. You at least thought I regarded my- 
 self as right j and while I >vas satisfied you 
 were in dangerous error, instead of pitjHing, 
 only felt for you contempt and dislike. You 
 thought the truth. I saw the ridicule with 
 
 o 
 
 which you regarded all the pains I took to 
 work out my own salvation. I knew that 
 31aria had acquainted you with my most se- 
 cret religious acts, because I had given her 
 leave to do so — still you seemed only to feel 
 that all were ridiculous. It is strange that I 
 should have felt so painfully my want of suc- 
 cess in con\ancing you of the superiority of 
 that sanctity practised by the religious of our 
 church ; but when I saw that you would not 
 be convinced — when I saw that you esteemed 
 Maria's regard far more highly than mine — 
 that you even thought her more tnily reli- 
 gious — that you felt my society an interrup- 
 tion, — I did not feel, as I ought to have done, 
 sorrow for you as a heretic, but displeasure at
 
 96 FATHER CLEMENT, 
 
 3'ou, and dislike of you. Since ycstei-day, 
 there has been the most wonderful change in 
 my feelings- It is a miracle- I know it is. 
 Yesterday," addressing Ernest, " when you 
 entered the chapel, I was displeased that a 
 heretic — a brother of the scoffing Adeline, — 
 should have been brought into our very sanc- 
 tuary. I could not prevent it, but deteimined 
 that I at least should not join in welcoming 
 you. I kept my uncharitable resolution in the 
 very presence of the cross. I saw that I had 
 wounded your feelings, and it gave me plea- 
 sure — but only for a time- You remained and 
 jcondemned our worship) — but there was no ri- 
 dicule, no scorn in what you said- It seemed, 
 even to me, calm, sober, unanswemble truth. 
 I was certain you were in error, and that I only 
 needed instruction from my confessor to be 
 convinced you Avere ; yet I felt the deepest 
 compassion for you taking possession of my 
 mind. Shame for my reception of you made 
 me avoid looking at you as you retired, but I 
 saw 3'our parting bow to Father Clement, and 
 felt sure that you did not scorn us. From thafe 
 moment, the thought of your's and of Adeline'* 
 conversion has occupied my ever}^ thought*
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 97 
 
 It prevented my sleeping ; and I rose an hour 
 earlier than usual, to bestow that hour in say- 
 ing Ave Marias for you to tlie Virgin. Ade- 
 line, I see you ready to smile, but I will never- 
 theless tell you the truth," 
 
 " You are unjust to me, Catherine," said 
 Adeline — " Who could feel any thing but gi*a- 
 titude for intentions so kind ?" 
 
 " No one could, indeed," said Ernest, 
 " Well, listen," continued Catherine. " I 
 had been thus employed for nearly the hour, 
 and a sweet cahn seemed to be breathed into 
 my soul, while I so earnestly longed for your 
 conversion. A cuiTcnt of morning air came 
 along the aisles so as to blow upon the lamp, 
 and I looked away for a moment from the 
 face of the Virgin to place it differently. Now 
 listen; When I looked again, there was a 
 smile ujjon her lips — I am sure there was — 
 and that smile approved of my wish for your 
 salvation, and is an assurance to you that she 
 will mediate for you, and that she longs to re- 
 gard you as her children. Will you refuse 
 her ? Will you not be persuaded, even by a 
 miracle, to return into the bosom of the true 
 church ? Ob, surely you will !" 
 I
 
 ^ FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 Ernest and Adeline were both silent from 
 sui-prise, and from comi^as&ion for the young 
 yisionary. 
 
 " You do not believe that I saw the Virgin 
 smile !" said she to Ernest. 
 
 " I belieYe^ my dear cousin," replied he, 
 " that you supposed you saw your most kind 
 and amiable feelings reflected in the counte- 
 nMice of the painting, I should make a most 
 unworthy return for the interest you take in 
 us, were I to say I believed more." 
 
 " You do not believe my word, because I am 
 a Catholic !" 
 
 " I do believe your word, Catherine. I be- 
 lieve that you felt natural displeasure when 
 you supposed Adeline treated with ridicule 
 those observances which you held sacred. I 
 believe that you really desire to have your 
 mind in that state whicli is most pleasing to 
 Ood, and that you therefore most readily ad- 
 mitted the first kind feeling which entered 
 it on behalf of your cousins. I believe also 
 that this kind feeling was much more agree- 
 able than unkind feelings had been, and pro- 
 duced that sweet calm of soul you mentioned ; 
 but I think, the state of your mind, and the 
 3
 
 FATHER CLEMENT, 99 
 
 l>elief that sucTi things had happened before, led 
 you to suppose you saw the painting smile. I 
 cannot believe that a piece of canvass smiled." 
 
 " But it was a miracle- Many such hap- 
 pened to me in the convent ; and Father Igna- 
 tius, my confessor, in most instances, assured 
 me I was not mistaken." 
 
 " Did you mention this last miracle to Mr. 
 EUiston?" 
 
 '' I did," 
 
 " And did he say you were not mistaken ?" 
 
 " He said I was right in mshing for the re- 
 turn of my cousins into the church ; and that 
 I was also right to pray to the Virgin for them, 
 — and did not say I was mistaken." 
 
 "^TheiL, Catherine," said Ernest, solemnly, 
 *' that priest has your blood on his head, if you 
 perish. ELe knows that God, in his word, has 
 said, ' There is none other name under heaven 
 given among men, by which we can be saved, 
 but the name of Jesus.'* Yet he teaches you 
 to pi-ay to the spirit of a woman — ^a creature. 
 He knows that the same inspired word declares 
 — that there is one jMediator between God and 
 2nan, the Man Christ Jesus : and nowhere 
 * Acts iv. 12.
 
 100 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 speaks of any otlier Mediator. Yet he encou- 
 rages you to hope in the effectual mediation of a 
 creature ; and to believe that miracles are per- 
 formed to support the gross delusion. These, 
 my dear Catherine^ are all inventions — mere 
 groundless fables of your piiestS;, entirely con- 
 trary to the Bible. Jesus Christ himself says, 
 ' God so loved the world, that he gave his only 
 begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him 
 should not perish, but have eternal life.'"" 
 * This is life eternal, that they might know thee 
 the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom thou 
 hast sent/'t ' He that believeth on the Son,* 
 said John the Baptist, ' hath everlasting life.':}: 
 And St. Paul says, ' Ye are all the children of 
 God by faith in Christ Jesus.' § The Bible is 
 full of passages to the same purpose ; while 
 there is not one from its beginning to its end, 
 which authorizes praying to any departed spi- 
 rits, asking their intercession, or any thing of 
 the kind ; but, on the contrary, the most severe 
 denunciation against every species of worship 
 that is not addressed to the only tme God.'* 
 
 • John iii. 16. -f- John xvii. 3. 
 
 $ John iii. 36. § Gal. iii. 26.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 101 
 
 " The church believes in the Son of God," 
 said Catherine, looking be^vildered, and half- 
 aiiirmed. 
 
 " Yes, my dear Catherine ; hut your church 
 greatly dishonours him, by representing him 
 as made more propitious by intermediate inter- 
 cessions. This is utterly opposite to the Bible. 
 He there invites all to come unto him — re- 
 proaches men for not coming to him, in word-j 
 of kindness and sorrow — ' Ye will not come 
 unto me, that ye may have life.' His office is 
 that of a Saviour. The office of his ministers 
 is to preach him as the Saviour : and, believe 
 mo, dear Catherine, they have not an adequate 
 knowledge of his character, who join creature- 
 mediation with the all-perfect mediation of the 
 Son of God." 
 
 Clarenham now approached — -' We must 
 leav-e you, Catherine. It is getting so late and 
 chilly that Maria can wait no longer." 
 
 Catherine looked toward the darkening sky. 
 " How rapidly time passes in such conversa 
 tion !" said she. 
 
 The party then took an affiictionate leave 
 of each other : Adeline and Ernest to hasten 
 home to evening worship — their cousins and
 
 102 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 Dormer to rctuni more leisurely through the 
 Park to the Castle. 
 
 The moon Avas just beginning to be seen 
 above the woods to the east, and its light gra- 
 dually becoming brighter than that produced by 
 the glow in the western sky. 
 
 '' What on earth were you saying with so 
 much earnestness to the Montagues, Cathe- 
 rine?" asked Maiia. ^' Two days ago you 
 would scarcely speak to Adeline, and to-day 
 you seem quite to love her — and now so long 
 a secret for these two heretics." 
 
 " I was -s^Tong in not v>'ishing to speak to 
 Adeline," said Catherine. " I am sure Father 
 Clement Avill say so : as my only motive was 
 her being a heretic, and her regarding my re- 
 ligion with that scorn which her education had 
 taught her to do." 
 
 " You were wrong, certainly, daughter," 
 said Donner, " yet you ought to be cautious of 
 bringing scorn justly on your profession, by 
 changes so rapid, and which, to those who may 
 not know your motives, must appear at least 
 whimsical." 
 
 " But I told my motives. I told the whole 
 truth."
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 103 
 
 '' And what was the truth, dear Catherine ?" 
 asked Clarenham. 
 
 " I wish to have no secrets from any of the 
 present party/' replied Catherine ; " and they, 
 I know, will believe me." She then told the 
 story of the Virgin smiling. 
 
 " And did you tell that to the young Mon- 
 tagues ?" asked Dormer -with alarm. 
 
 " I did. I thought truth would have more 
 effect than any thing I could say." 
 
 '' How imprudent ! How miserably ill 
 judged !" exclaimed Dormer with displeasm'e. 
 '' Did you not know, Miss Catherine, that 
 such things ought never to be mentioned to 
 any one till they have been communicated to 
 your confessor, that he may judge whether or 
 not the whole has been a work of the imagi- 
 nation ?" 
 
 " I did know it. Father, and told the whole 
 to Father Dennis at confession this morning." 
 
 " And did he permit you to divulge it ?" 
 
 " He did not forbid me ; and commended 
 my wish for the return of my cousins into the 
 true church." 
 
 Dormer made no answer, and the party 
 walked on for a time in silence.
 
 104 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 '^ If I have erred^ Father," said Catherine 
 at last, '' I beg you may tell me, that I may do 
 penance before to-morrow." 
 
 ^^ I interfere not, daughter. Father Den- 
 nis is your spiritual guide while he remains 
 here. You cannot require to do penance if 
 he a^Dproved of you." 
 
 No more was said on the subject, and each 
 one of the party seemed ■\Adlling to remain si- 
 lent, as they passed, by the calm moonlight, 
 over the rough and damp grass. 
 
 Mrs. Clarenham, sui-prised at their lateness, 
 sat at a window watching their return ; and, 
 before they could explain the cause of their 
 delay, anxiously hurried them away to change 
 those parts of their dress which she supposed 
 might be damp, and, in their absence, had a 
 large fire prepared to do away all effects of 
 cold. 
 
 A repast followed — not such as was usual at 
 that hour. It was a fast. Clarenham, slight 
 ill form, and scarcely yet in the strength of 
 manhood, but now looking animated, and the 
 glow of recent exercise in his countenance, ate 
 sparingly of vegetables : Catherine equally spa- 
 ringly — Maria, who, in every thing of Mhicli
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 105 
 
 she could see no use or spiritual benefit, was a 
 bad Roman Catholic, made a hearty meal of 
 such fare as the table afforded. Mrs. Claren- 
 ham seemed scarcely to know what she ate : 
 and Dormer, with the fast and service of the 
 following day before him, supped on a little 
 salad. Elliston Avas less abstemious, and re- 
 minded Dormer of the long fast which must 
 follow. Dormer thanked him, but only said, 
 " I have strength for it. Father." 
 
 After the spare repast was over, and the fa- 
 mily rose to separate for the night. Dormer 
 requested Elliston to remain for a few mi- 
 nutes, and then repeated to him what had 
 passed respecting the miracle. 
 
 " The child told me of no miracle," said 
 Elliston. 
 
 " Strange ! she assured me you had receiv- 
 ed her confession this morning — that she had 
 informed you of what she believed she had 
 seen, and that you had not forbidden her to 
 regard it as a miracle, or to mention it as 
 such." 
 
 Elliston thought for an instant. " I have 
 siimed, brother. I now have a confused re- 
 collection of her mentioning sometliing of ris-
 
 106 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 ing earlier than usual to pray to the Virgin 
 for her cousins ; but the truth is, my thoughts 
 were far distant. I know not what she con- 
 fessed. Her confessions hitherto liave s1io\\ti 
 her heart so true to the church, and have been 
 so like each other, that ^but I need not ex- 
 tenuate mj fault. I have sinned, and grieve 
 for the <;onsequences/' 
 
 '"^ It may be possible to prevent farther evil. 
 Father. This does not appear to me to have 
 been a mira-cle." 
 
 " A miracle !" repeated Elliston, looking 
 "with surprise at his brother priest — " If you 
 listen to that child, you will hear of a miracle 
 every day." 
 
 *' I think not. Father," replied Dormer, ra- 
 ther coldly. 
 
 ^' Well, well," said Elliston — " perhaps she 
 may become less of a saint under your guid- 
 ance than she has been considered hitherto ; 
 — ^but let me tell you, brother, if you suffer the 
 intimacy which seems again commencing so 
 ardently ^^dth the yoimg Montagues, to pro- 
 ceed, you will soon have neither saints nor Ca- 
 tholics among the young Clai-enhams." 
 
 ^' I should rather hope to liave by that
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 107 
 
 means botli Clarenliams and Montagues/* re- 
 plied Dormer. 
 
 " You do not know that family, brother, or 
 the man who has reared them in heresy," re- 
 plied Elliston. 
 
 " The true church ought not to shrink fi-om 
 those who are in error, as if error was stronger 
 than truth," said Dormer. '^ Young Montague 
 seems most amiably disposed, and, though pre- 
 judiced against the church, yet willing to listen 
 candidly to whatever is advanced in her be- 
 half: and I already have his promise to be 
 present at our ser\'ice to-moiTOW." 
 
 " It will make no impression, brother," re- 
 plied Elliston. " The boy is what he ever 
 was, thoughtful and clear-headed, mild, feel- 
 ing, and sensible, with rather a disposition to 
 melancholy. I have studied him from his 
 childhood ; and for long his conversion was 
 one of my most anxious wishes : But he has 
 been nurtured on the Bible — he is intimate 
 with the languages in which it was originally 
 written — his disposition has led him to study 
 it deeply ; and the Protestant system in which 
 he has been educated is the one, of all others, 
 most opposed to Catholicism."
 
 108 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " I know it is," replied Dormer, *^ and there- 
 fore feel the more ardently desirous to deliver 
 liim from its errors." 
 
 '' Well/' said Elliston, with rather a sneer 
 on his countenance, " you can try, brother. 
 Experience is not often trusted to by any but 
 those who can no longer profit by it; — but 
 surely every member of our church might know, 
 by this time, that there is no heresy so deep- 
 rooted and insurmountable as that wrought 
 in the mind by the free use of the Scriptures, 
 with the right of private judgment of their 
 contents. But good-night, brother; I shall 
 do away the evil effects of my negligence this 
 morning as far as I can — but if the Montagues 
 are to be the daily companions of my poor chil- 
 dren, it signifies little to attempt any thing. 
 That girl Adeline would ridicule the relics of 
 St. Peter. There is no hope of any of them 
 but the younger boy. He has no head for their 
 deep doctrines— and no heart for their strict 
 practice — and wearies to death of Dr. Lowther's 
 long preachings. He might be attracted by 
 the splendour of our service, — but good-night, 
 brother. You must take your own way."
 
 CHAPTER Y 
 
 " Iddio e spirito : e queij che I'adorano, adorar lo debbono in is- 
 pirito e verita." Martini's Trans.— John iv, 24. 
 
 The service in Hallerii Chapel, next day, had 
 been some time commenced before Eniest en- 
 tered the small private gallery which had been 
 shown to him by young Clarenham. This 
 gallery was in a dark recess, and had curtains 
 so disposed as to conceal the persons in it from 
 the congregation below, while all that passed 
 in the chapel was perfectly seen by those in the 
 gallery. 
 
 When Ernest entered the chapel, all was so 
 still, that he imagined the service was not be- 
 gun. On softly approaching the front of the 
 gallery, however, he was most forcibly struck 
 with the scene below. The chapel was nearly
 
 110 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 full of people — all, at that moment;, kneeling 
 on the pavement in profound silence — every 
 eye turned with apparently intense devotion 
 on the painting over the altar. It >vas that 
 crucifixion which had so powerfully moved 
 Ernest's feelings on his former "vasit to the cha- 
 pel. Amongst the worshippers were Mrs. 
 Clarenham, her son, and two daughters^, kneel- 
 ing also devoutly on the pavement, with their 
 eyes fixed on the painting. Dormer knelt 
 near the altar — ^liis hands clasped on his ])reast, 
 and his eyes fixed with an expression of ado- 
 ration on the sutfering, l)ut heautifully resigned 
 and affecting countenance of the picture. El- 
 liston was in the pulpit. He stood with his 
 hands also clasped on his breast, and apparently 
 adoring the representation. 
 
 The whole scene was powerfully imposing ; 
 ])ut, after the first moments of novelty, Er- 
 nest found it oppressively painful. It was 
 impossible not to believe that the feelings he 
 saw so powerfully depicted on every counte- 
 nance were real. He could scarcely bear even 
 to look at Dormer. His countenance — his 
 attitude-T— all expressed the most ardent, the 
 most unaffected feelings of devotion ; and v<?t, 
 3
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. Ill 
 
 — sujierior in intellect as lie AvaS;, — lie could 
 thus, in submission to the authority of his fel- 
 low-men, bend and limit his soul to a worship 
 so little spiritual. Ernest thought of that 
 glorious Being who has promised Himself to 
 be present wherever two or three are gathered 
 together in liis name, to bless them, and to do 
 them good; and he could feel no sympathy 
 with those who sought to worship him — a pre- 
 sent God — through a medium so unworthy ; 
 and yet Roman Catholics themselves defend the 
 use of these representations only on the ground 
 that they excite and inspire devotion. '' Is it 
 possi])le," thought Eniest, " that one thought 
 of His glory, who fills eternity, would not 
 have more effect, when recollecting what he 
 chose to suifer for our sakes, than those un- 
 wortliy attempts to move, not om* souls, but our 
 senses !" 
 
 Ernest's thoughts were at last interrupted, 
 and the profound silence of the chapel broken, 
 by Dormer, as he knelt, repeating, in a voice 
 of thrilling power, the words addressed to the 
 thief upon the cross : — " Verily, I say unto 
 thee, to-day shalt thou be with me in Paradise." 
 Elliston then began, in a strain of most vehi^
 
 112 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 ment declamation, to call tlie attention of the 
 people to these words. Some things he said 
 were good^ and Ernest listened to them with 
 pleasure ; hut the old man, hefore he conclud- 
 ed, had worked up his oa\ti and the people's 
 feelings to a state with which Ernest could 
 feel no emotion of sympathy. He and they 
 were in tears ; and the chapel resounded with 
 audihle sohs. Dormer, he however observed, 
 was not moved : neither were Clarenham and 
 IMaria : but Catherine and her mother were 
 deeply so. 
 
 Just as EUiston finished, the chapel began to 
 darken. Ernest looked towards the large Go- 
 thic ^^-indow by which it was lighted, and saw 
 a thick curtain gi-adually descending over it. 
 This, he supposed, was meant to represent that 
 miraculous darkness which accompanied the 
 last sufferings on the cross ; and he felt shock- 
 ed by an imitation which appeared to him so 
 profane. Soon all was in the gloom of depart- 
 ing twilight — all but the painting. A lamp 
 suspended above it, which Ernest had not be- 
 fore observed, now shed its pale rays on the 
 countenance, giving it still more the expres- 
 sion of suffering and exhaustion, and throwing
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 113. 
 
 on the figure tlie pallidness of death. The 
 darkness seemed to affect the people as if it 
 had been real. A sensation among them, as 
 if gathering together, had a powerful effect 
 on Ernest's feelinns. This was increased 
 hy Dormer's voice proceeding from the dark- 
 ened altar, and pronouncing the next sacred 
 Avords uttered by Christ. These again called 
 forth a vehement burst of declamation from 
 Elhston. Another and another sentence was 
 thus pronounced by Dormer, and declaimed on 
 hy Eliiston ; and Ernest began to feel wearied 
 of the sameness of his exaggerated expres- 
 sions, — and thought of retiring, when, after 
 another pause of deep silence, the next sen- 
 tence was pronouiiced, not by Dormer, but 
 by Eliiston ; and then Dormer ]jegan, not like 
 old Eliiston, with vehement, and unstudied 
 and ineloquent appeals to the feelings of his 
 hearers, but in a voice, calm, low, and thrill- 
 ing, to explain the words, and point out tint 
 instructions to be derived from them. Er- 
 aiest's attention Avas completely arrested : but 
 it required more than even Dormer's eloquence, 
 tliough every sentence seemed the result of 
 >5tu<1y and of conviction,— to prove what he
 
 114 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 attempted to prove. The words lie preached 
 on were those addressed by Christ to his dis- 
 ciple Joliiij on consigning to him the care of 
 his mother : — " Behold thy mother." The 
 Evangelist simply adds, as the consequence of 
 this charge — '' and from that hour that disciple 
 took her mito his own home."* Donner, from 
 these words, attempted to defend the worship 
 of the Virgin Mary ; and this, apparently, with 
 the most perfect sincerity. Perhaps he might 
 not have chosen this subject as the first on 
 which his young friend should hear him preach, 
 but it was a part of a service he wished him to 
 mtness, and could not be avoided ; and he at- 
 tempted to prove his doctrine from the words 
 of Scripture. The salutation of the angel to 
 Mary, " Hail, highly-favom-ed !"+ he said was 
 evidently worship. But Ernest recollected that 
 Christ had used the same form of salutation to 
 his disciples after his resurrection, '^'^AU hail!" J 
 And words implying still greater favour than 
 the words " highly favoured," had been ad- 
 dressed on three occasions to Daniel : — " Thou 
 
 • John xix. 27. f Luke i. 28. 
 
 + Matth. xxviii. 0.
 
 FATHER CLE3iENT. 115 
 
 art greatly beloved — O Daniel ! a man great- 
 ly beloved — man greatly beloved!"'"^ David^ 
 also, had been called "The man after God's 
 own heart." t And Abraham, "The friend of 
 God."J Dormer therefore spent eloquence in 
 vain, to prove, to one acquainted with the 
 Bible, that such words implied worship. — 
 Again, the words, '• The Lord is with thee," 
 Dormer attempted to prove had the same 
 meaning. But the same w^ords are addressed 
 to Gideon ;§ and those, "Blessed art thou 
 among women," || were said of Jael. 
 
 Though Ernest could not agree in any thing 
 Dormer said on this point, still he felt no in- 
 clination to depart. At last he was rewarded 
 for his long attendance. Elliston pronounced 
 the words, " It is finished." And never in his 
 life before had Ernest heard eloquence so 
 powerful, as that by w hich Dormer clearly, and 
 from Scripture, proved, that at the moment 
 these w^ords w^re uttered, the stupendous work 
 of redemption w^as finished. Ernest covered 
 
 * Daniel ix. 23; x. 11 ; and x. 19. 
 
 f Acts xiii. 22, % Isaiah xli. 8. 
 
 § Judges vi, 12. H Judges v. 24,
 
 IK) FATHEll CLEMENT. 
 
 liis face Avitli his liands, that he might see 
 none of those degrading a23peals to the senses, 
 by uliich the powerful preacher was surround- 
 ed. AVhen he again raised his eyes^ on Dor- 
 mer's concluding, the darkness was dispelled. 
 The congregation still knelt ; and, as if to 
 do away the impression produced by the Scrip- 
 tural and instructive truths he had just ut- 
 tered, Dormer began to repeat rapidly some 
 Latin prayers, while his fine and expressive 
 countenance, which had been lighted up by 
 the deep feeling of those important truths, 
 gradually sunk into an expression of the most 
 excessive exhaustion and languor: and Er- 
 nest, supposing the service near a close, softly 
 left the gallery, and, deep in thought, bent 
 his steps homewards. 
 
 " What a mixture of error and truth !" 
 thought he, as he slowly crossed the park. 
 " How fatally dangerous to give up the soul 
 to any doctrine taught only by man ! That 
 Dormer! — who could resist his eloquence, 
 ■were it alwiiys on the side of truth ? And that 
 man, with such powers to attract and win the 
 soul and atl'ections, instead of devoting those 
 p(jwers to j^rocliiim the nies'5a'j;e (jf Clod — tlic
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 117 
 
 Gospel — His mercy and glory wliom he calls 
 his JMaster, bends his soul to the wretched un- 
 profitable slavery of rhyming over a list of 
 prayers not imderstood by the starving im- 
 mortal souls who wait on his lips for instruction. 
 Oh ! if the Romish clergy would throw their 
 idols and their vain repetitions to the winds, 
 and preach as that man did this day! Not 
 once in the year — not mingled with the poi- 
 son of error — but all — all their system is so hope- 
 lessly full of eiTor \" Ernest gToaned aloud — 
 and then almost smiled at his om'u feelings. 
 " But that system/' thought he, "powerful, 
 complicated, — so sanctioned by a mixture of 
 truth as to make the thraldom of the soul a 
 thousand-fold more hopeless ; that corrupt 
 S3''stem shall one day be destroyed by the 
 brightness of His coming, who is ' Truth.' " 
 
 Several days passed without any further in- 
 tercourse between the two families. During 
 that time Elliston left the castle, and Dormer 
 took his place as chaplain. 
 
 In the Romish church, as well as in the Pro- 
 testant, there are those amongst the clergy, 
 Avho, though they profess to believe the same 
 creed, and are admitted into orders by the
 
 118 FATHER CLEMENT, 
 
 same forms, yet Avliose influence over tlieir 
 flocks, putting* out of the question all mere ex- 
 ternal pONvers of attraction, is altogether differ- 
 ent. The one leaves his people unimpressed, 
 and at ease, in the most careless state of world- 
 ly-mindedness ; the other rouses, and alarms, 
 and forces those under his charge to remember 
 they have souls Avhich must live for ever. 
 Poor old Elliston was of the first description : 
 Dormer was of the last. All his arrangements 
 as chaplain, and, in fact, as guide and ruler, 
 at Hallern Castle, convinced every inmate of 
 the family that the strictest discipline of his 
 church should he enforced. The young mas- 
 ter of the family was prepared to second all 
 his wishes. Had he not been secure of this, 
 Dormer, dearly as he loved him, would not 
 have been permitted by his Order, who \\A\ 
 knew his powers, to bury himself in the fami- 
 ly of tjie half-ruined Clarenhams. lint Eng- 
 land was too valuable ground to be deserted, 
 and too cultivated to be any longer trusted to 
 l)riests of the common order; and the only 
 way, at that period, open to the church of 
 I^ome, was to insinuate her doctrines into the 
 knowledge, and attention, and good-will of
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 119 
 
 lliose amongst -whom slie could find means to 
 place her clergy. It was at that time well 
 known, that the end principally proposed by 
 the Order of Jesuits was to gain converts to 
 the church of Rome, with which view they 
 had dispersed themselves in every country and 
 nation ; and, with unceasing industry and ad- 
 dress, pursued the end of their institution. No 
 dithculty was considered too great for them 
 to overcome — no danger too imminent for them 
 to meet — no crime, in the service of their 
 cause, of which they were not considered ca- 
 pable. The professed fathers of this Order 
 take the three solemn vows of religion pub- 
 licly ; and to these add a special vow of obe- 
 dience to the head of the church, as to what 
 regards missions, heretics, and other matters. 
 
 Dormer was a professed father of this Order ; 
 though the abhorrence in which the society 
 was at that period held in England, led the 
 Clarenhams to conceal the circumstance where 
 it was possible. Other members of the Order 
 were placed in English famihes; and also a 
 superior or provincial, through whose means 
 there was continual, direct, and rapid in- 
 tercourse with their General at Rome. All
 
 120 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 this was but partially known, even to the Ca- 
 tholic families where those priests resided ; 
 but their system of proselyting was zealously 
 pursued, and every impediment attempted to 
 be taken out of the way, while their well-laid 
 and cautious plans w^re carefully concealed ; 
 and it was scarcely known that any confessor in 
 any family did more than the simple duties of 
 his humble station. 
 
 Frequent confession was one of those duties 
 most strongly urged by Donner; and, ere a 
 week had passed, after old Elliston's departure, 
 each member of the family, excepting Maria, 
 had confessed to him. Maria confessed not — 
 neither did she join in that admiration of Dor- 
 mer's sanctit}^ which was the constant theme 
 in her family whenever he was not present; 
 neither did she listen to him as an oracle when 
 he w' as : and though she saw that he carefully 
 sought an opportunity to converse with her 
 alone, she with equal care avoided giving him 
 one. She was not insensible, however, to the 
 energy and zeal with which he had commenced 
 his care of souls, not only at Ilallern Castle, 
 but at the village, and wherever any one re- 
 sided, however poor, or in the meanest hovel, 
 6
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 1^21 
 
 ill the noighbourliood. Dormer liad already 
 A'isited them all — appointed different houses, 
 Avhere tlic okl and infirm, or sickly, might witli 
 ease come to him to confess. Particular times 
 were set apart for one or other mode of instruc- 
 tion in the Romish faith ; in short, nothing 
 was lieard of at the Castle, or in the village, or 
 amonjTst the cottajjers, hut the zeal and sanc- 
 tity of the new chaplain. The extreme stiict- 
 ness of his personal devotion was guessed to he 
 equal to his zeal for the souls of his flock, — 
 hut of this he made no display. It was known 
 only to himself and to his God. No inmate of 
 the Castle, however, though perhaps detained 
 to a late hour out of hed, ever saw the light 
 in Dormer's mndow extinguished; and the 
 attendant who perfonned the few services he 
 required, however early he offered them in 
 tlie morning, found him already at study or 
 devotion. Maria knew all this, yet still was 
 grave and cold when appealed to by the other 
 members of her family, to join in praise of 
 Dormer. Her mother ascribed this coldness 
 to her grief at parting from her old friend Mr. 
 Klliston : but Dormer seemed to judge more 
 truly: and seeing all his efforts to obtain a 
 
 L
 
 12i2 FATHER CLKMENT. 
 
 private conversation fail, at last, in liis usual 
 manner of gentle, biit calm authority, said one 
 morning, as the famil}'^ were retiring from the 
 breakfast-room, and Maria had inadvertentJy 
 remained the last — " Daughter, I must beg 
 of you to allow me a few moments' conversa- 
 tion with you." 
 
 Maria stopt, and became as pale as death. 
 '" I feel rather surprised, ]\Iiss Clarenham," 
 said Dormer mildly, but with great seriousness, 
 *' that of all the souls committed to my cliai-gx? 
 at Hailem, you should seem most careless of 
 those things necessary to your salvation. I 
 cannot feel that I am fulfilling my duty here, 
 unless I warn you of the danger of such ca;re- 
 lessness. I must ask you, daughter, whetlier 
 you confessed to Father Dennis immediately 
 previous to his leaving the Castle ?" 
 
 " I did not. Father. I intended to do so, 
 but always found him engaged with som« one 
 else at the time I wished to confess." 
 
 " Strange !" said Dormer. " Surely Father 
 Dennis" — he stopt, — then asked how long it 
 was since she had confessed ? 
 
 Maria hesitated. "■ Not for a very long 
 time, Father. The truth is," added she, a little
 
 FATHER CLEMENT, 123 
 
 recoToretl from licr alarm at finding herself 
 at last compelled to liave a private conversa- 
 tion with Dormer, " the truth is, Father, that 
 I have ever had the greatest repugnance to 
 confession. I could scarcely overcome it with 
 good old Father Dennis, whom I regarded as a 
 parent." 
 
 ^' That repugnance is sinful, my daughter ; 
 and, like other sins, the more you indulge it, 
 the more difficulty you will find in subduing it." 
 
 " But, Father, if I confess my sins to God ? 
 — He only can pardon them." 
 
 ^' God pardons those in his church through 
 the medium of his priests, daughter. The 
 church says expressly — ' A penitent person can 
 have no remission of sins but by su23plication to 
 the priest.' " 
 
 " Does the Bible say so. Father ?" 
 
 Dormer looked surprised, but said mildly — 
 " I am not in the habit of hearing it asked 
 wdiether the church is supported by any au- 
 thority in its decrees but its own." 
 
 " But if the church decrees what is con- 
 trary to the Bible V 
 
 Dormer looked still more surprised. " You 
 arc on dangemus ground, daughter. 1 have
 
 124 FATHER CJ.E^IKNT. 
 
 suspected that some serious error withheld you 
 from attending to your Christian duties. I 
 now ^^erceive tlie cause of your unwillingness 
 to confess; but beware, my daughter, of suf- 
 I'eiing your heart to be hardened by unbeliev- 
 ing thoughts regarding the power of the church. 
 Remember that Chiist himself said to his apos- 
 tles, — ' whose soever sins ye remit, they are 
 remitted ;* and also, ' whose soever sins ye re- 
 tain, they are retained.' That power is still 
 in the church ; and how awful must the state 
 of that person be, on whose own guilty head 
 the church retains his sins \" 
 
 These words, but still more the solemn tone 
 in which Donner pronounced them, made Ma- 
 ria cold all over, and her limbs tremble. 
 
 Donner perceived the impression his words 
 had made, and continued : " How dangerous, 
 my daughter, is tlie very first step in error! 
 Some enemy of the truth has sown the poison- 
 ous seed of unbelief in your heart. I have 
 seen you, daughter, delighted with the cavils 
 of a heretic. I have seen you turn looks of 
 contempt on the pictures of those saints who 
 now reign in heaven : and, last of all, you have 
 scorned the ministrations of tlie priest corn-
 
 FATHER CLE3IENT. 125 
 
 missioned b}' the church to teach you the way 
 of life. Daughter, you ought to tremble." 
 
 Alalia, hoAvever, trembled no longer ; but 
 looking at Dormer -svith an expression of re- 
 stored calmness and elevation — '^ That enemy 
 of the truth, Father," said she, " who has sow- 
 ed the 2)oisonous seed of unbelief in the power 
 of tlie church, in my soul, is the Bible ! Those 
 words of the heretic, to which I listened with 
 delight, were words from the Bible ; and 
 knoAvledoe of the Bible has taught me to look 
 with contempt on those pictures — those idols 
 -w Inch the Bible has forbidden ; and I have not 
 confessed to a priest, because there is no com- 
 mand in the Bible to confess to a priest, and 
 because the Bible says none can forgive sins 
 but God. Those apostles, to whom Christ 
 imparted the power of remitting and retaining 
 sins, also received the Holy Ghost, by whose 
 power alone they ahvays professed to act, and 
 by whom they wrote those Scriptures, by the 
 Ix'lief or disbelief of which our sins are still re- 
 mitted or retained." 
 
 The exertion of making this confession al- 
 jnost overpowered Maria, and she sank, j>ale 
 aiid trembling, on the nearest seat. Dormer
 
 126 FATHEil CLEMENT, 
 
 did not utter a word ; Lut after looking for A 
 moment or two at lier agitated countenance, 
 turned from lier, and walked slowly, and ap- 
 pearing unconscious of what he did, towards a 
 window, where he stood for some minutes in 
 deep thought. Maria also thought deeply and 
 painfully. The consequences of the avowal 
 she had made rose hefore her, — ahove all, her 
 mother's soitow : for v, ell she knew how deep- 
 rooted her devotion was to the Romish church : 
 and she was on the point of entreating Dormer 
 not to impart to her mother what she had re- 
 vealed to him, when he returned from the 
 window to the place where she still sat. 
 
 '^ Miss Clarenham," said he, " are you aware 
 of the terms on which you are considered the 
 eldest daughter in your family ?" 
 
 " I am. Father," replied Maria, " hut confess 
 I did not expect to hear i/ou remind me of a cir- 
 cumstance so altogether worldly at this moment." 
 Dormer reddened. 
 
 " I know, Father," continued Maria, " that 
 my uncle left his fortune to the eldest daughter 
 of my father, provided that, on her coming of 
 age, she declared herself a Roman CaUiolic. 
 I know that I must forfeit that fortune if I
 
 rATHER CLEMENT. 127 
 
 leave the clmrcli, or many any but a C;itliolic, 
 or at any time change my faith. I know all 
 this, Father ; hut the Bible says, ' What shall 
 it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and 
 lose his own soul V " 
 
 '• True, indeed/' said Dormer emphatically. 
 He then asked whetlier the Bible Maria had 
 learnt so much from was an English one ? 
 
 '' It is," replied Maria. 
 
 " But you surely must know, IMiss Claren- 
 ham, that the English Bible is so translated as 
 to faA'Our the Protestant heresy, with regard to 
 those passages respecting Avhich Protestants are 
 at variance with the church of Rome." 
 
 " I thought so. Father," rej)lied Maria ; " and 
 until Basil's return, I supposed those passages 
 which seemed to me to give a character so dif- 
 ferent to the true church, from that in which 
 I had been educated, must have been changed 
 by Protestants; but, since Basil's return, I 
 asked him to translate some of those passages 
 literally from the Greek, for me. lie has also 
 told me the translation of the church ; but al- 
 lowed, that, as far as he knew, the same words, 
 when occurring in ]>rofaiie autliors, were never 
 translated as the church translated them."
 
 12^ FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " I should like to know some of" those pas-" 
 sages you mentioned to him ?" said Dormer. 
 
 " I have mentioned several/' replied Maria. 
 " For instance, some of those which the church 
 translates — ' Do penance :' and from which 
 our clergy assume the right of enjoining pe- 
 nances. The English Biljle translates the word 
 — ' Repent ;' and Basil says, that is the uni- 
 versal meaning put upon the word, except by 
 the church." 
 
 '' It may," replied Dormer ; " hut the church, 
 in her heavenly wisdom, has given a depth of 
 meaning to that word which the common 
 translation cannot convey. ' Do penance,' in- 
 cludes both the internal and external act of 
 repentance." 
 
 *' Very often only the external act, I assure 
 you, Father," said ]Maria. 
 
 Dormer's thoughts seemed absent, while he 
 noAv conversed witli IMaria. He looked half 
 displeased, half sad. 
 
 " And so your brother has been your assist- 
 ant in learning error f said he at last, sigh- 
 ing heavily as he spoke. 
 
 " lie has answered my questions," repUed 
 Maria, '' but he is still devoted to llic hurch.
 
 FAT II Ell CLEMENT. 121) 
 
 '• Still !" replied Dormer, fixing liis eyes on 
 Maria, as if to read lier very soul ; " but you 
 liope he too soon will be perverted. You per- 
 haps know of plans for his perversion, as there 
 probably have been for yours." 
 
 '' I know of no plan. Father," replied Maria, 
 " but to induce him to read the Bible. That 
 is ip.y plan. O Father !" added she earnestly, 
 '^ surely that church must be in error which 
 shuts up the word of God from the people." 
 
 " You are now intimate with the Protestant 
 Bible, daughter," said Dormer. " Do you re- 
 member the ^vords of Christ, ' Upon this rock 
 will I build my church, and the gates of hell 
 shall not prevail against it ?' " 
 '' I do. Father." 
 '^ Do you believe them ?" 
 " Assuredly." 
 
 " Yet you seem disposed to be led astray by 
 the eiTors of Protestants. Now where was 
 the Protestant church two hundred years ago ? 
 If the gates of hell never were to prevail 
 against the true church, where had it vanished 
 to for the fourteen hundred years before it 
 came to light in the form of iha Protestant 
 church ?"
 
 130 FATIIKR CLEMENT. 
 
 Maria hesitated, and then remained sik^nt ; 
 for she coukl not answer the question. 
 
 Dormer stood patiently hefore her, waiting 
 for her reply. 
 
 '^ Father, I cannot tell Avhere it was," said 
 Maria. 
 
 " Neither can Protestants," answered Dor- 
 mer, an expression of pleasure brightening 
 his countenance. '^ And will you, daughter, 
 lightly conclude that the Catholic church can 
 be in error — that church which has descended 
 regularly from the apostles — which has been 
 the mother of mart^TS and saints innumerable ! 
 and against which the machinations of a thou- 
 sand heresies have never prevailed ?" 
 
 " Father," replied INIaria, '' you must be 
 aware that in that church alone, situated as I 
 am, can I look for this world's happiness. My 
 mother is devoted to it. ]My whole fjimily are 
 so. If I leave it, I shall be without fortune. 
 I shall l^e regarded in my own home as an 
 alien from all they love and value in this world, 
 and from the hopes of heaven. If you will 
 convince me. Father, that ours is the true 
 church of the Bil)lc, I sliall not cease to thank 
 God for the dav in which vou were sent to
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 131 
 
 ILillem: but tlioiigli I cannot answer your 
 last question, neither can I, at the command 
 of the church, part with the Bible ; for it is 
 impossible for me to believe that the true 
 church would prevent its members from know- 
 ing and searching the revealed will of God." 
 
 '* The church docs not prevent her chil- 
 dren from knowing the revealed will of God, 
 daughter ; she only guides them, particularly 
 tlie young and ignorant, into the right mean- 
 ing of that will. Is it possible, daughter/' 
 added Dormer with extreme gentleness, ^- that 
 you can suppose the meaning which you, al- 
 most a child, and almost on a first reading, 
 put on the words of inspiration, can be equal- 
 ly just with that which has been the result of 
 the study of councils, and fathers, and mar- 
 tyrs of the church ?" 
 
 " Perhaps I ought not, Father." 
 
 " Most assuredly you ought not, indeed, 
 daughter." 
 
 '^ I shall then, if you please. Father, consult 
 you on those passages whicli do not appear to 
 me to agi-ee with what is taught by our church." 
 
 AVould it not be better for you, daughter, 
 hum])ly to receive those instructions from Scrip-
 
 132 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 tiire, wliicli tlie clmrcli thinks fit to impart to 
 tlie young and weak in faith ?" 
 
 '' Fatlier, you must allow me to think over 
 this in private." 
 
 " I would indulge you, daughter, with plea- 
 sure, did I think it for your soul's good ; but 
 you have already trusted too much to your 
 private judgment. That judgment has led you 
 into much presumptuous error. Could I he 
 perfoiTuing my duty, as your spiritual father, if 
 I left you to be further misled by it ?" 
 " What then, Father, must I do V 
 " You must return from the en-or of your 
 ways, and again submit to the holy guidance 
 of the church." 
 
 " I desire to do so," said Maria, breathing a 
 deep sigh as she spoke. 
 
 " Not with your whole heart, I perceive, 
 daughter." 
 
 " Father, are you peiTiiitted to read the 
 whole Bible, as freely as you choose ?" 
 
 **■ I am," replied Dormer. " Every priest 
 
 IS. 
 
 " And in reading it. Father, do you always 
 find your judgment agree with that of the 
 church ?"
 
 FATHER CLEMKNT. 133 
 
 '' I think, daiigliter, tluit question tencU 
 more to the g-ratification of idle eiirloslty tlmii 
 to profit/' repHed Dormer, -v^^ith some severity. 
 
 " No ! no, indeed, Father !" said Maria 
 earnestly, and her eyes filling ^\ith tears ; " nor 
 would I care what answer some who are con- 
 sidered saints might give to my question ; hut 
 if you would condescend to answer me. Father, 
 perhaps I might attempt to do what yau hare 
 found succeed with yourself." 
 
 Dormer seemed doubtful of complying witli 
 her request. At last he said gently, " I de- 
 sire your confidence on religious sunjects, my 
 daughter. I begin to hope, too, that your 
 errors hare proceeded less from presumption, 
 than from a real interest on the subject of re- 
 ligion, and an earnest, but ill-directed desire 
 for knowledge. Tliis desire is most natm-al, 
 particularly in youth ; but it is also most dan- 
 gerous, if without an infiilliljle guide. In an- 
 swer to your question, — Priests do not receive 
 peiTnissIon to read tlie Scriptures freely, till 
 they have sworn their belief respecting the 
 proper interpretation of them. Every priest 
 does so on his entering into holy orders ; and 
 also takes a most solemn oath, not only that he 
 
 M
 
 134 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 liiinself thus believes, but tliat he will maiu- 
 tain_, defend, and teach the same to the people 
 under his charge." 
 
 " And what is your belief respecting the 
 jH'oper intei'pretation of Scripture, Father?" 
 
 " I have sworn solemnly, that I do admit 
 the Holy Scriptures, in the sense that Holy 
 Mother Church doth, whose business it is to 
 judge of the true sense and interpretation of 
 them. These are the words of the vow Avhich 
 every priest takes on this point." 
 
 " And if your judgment differs from the 
 church, Father ?" 
 
 '' I know it errs, daughter, and seek earnest- 
 ly to bring it into subjection." 
 
 " And does it ever differ ?" asked Maria, 
 earnestly. 
 
 '^ But too frequently. Pride, and arrogance, 
 and self-will, are too natural for every heart ; 
 but the church does not leave us ignorant of 
 those methods by which such sins may be mor- 
 tified and subdued." 
 
 Maria gratefully thanked Dormer for hav- 
 ing answered her question : and then begged 
 him to point out the course she ought to pursue. 
 
 " I tliink, daughter, in order to mortily that
 
 rATIIKR CLEMEXT. 135 
 
 anxiety for knowledge, which has led you for 
 a time to east off the authority of the church, 
 1 must insist on your first delivering to me that 
 English Bible, which you have so misunder- 
 stood as to wrest some of its passages, as the 
 ignorant and uidearned always do, to lead you 
 into the path of destruction." 
 
 Maria started. All that Adeline had ever 
 said to her on the necessity of keeping up the 
 Scriptures from the people, if their priests 
 would prevent their leaving the Romish church, 
 flashed upon her memory. Dormer, however, 
 did not seem to observe her, and proceeded, — 
 '^' I know^ not from whom you received that 
 Bible ; but those w ho are so anxious to dis- 
 tract the church, by introducing their heresies 
 into her bosom, ought to show first their own 
 title to the name of a church. But I shall 
 know more of all this, daughter, when I re- 
 ceive your confession, which I shall be ready to 
 do before mass to-mon-ow^ morning. And now"," 
 added he, gently, '' do not detain me. I shall 
 w^ait till you return, but must meet my poor 
 people a quarter of an hour hence." He then 
 turned away, and ]Maria left the room ; and 
 hurrvincr to her own, opened her most sacred
 
 136 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 depositoiy ; and from thence took a small Pro- 
 testant Bible. This Bible she had got without 
 the knowledge of any one, even of Adeline 
 Montague. 
 
 There was in the village of Illerton a small 
 shop, which contained a great variety of very 
 lieterogeneous goods for sale. This shop was 
 ker)t by a Protestant, an excellent pious man ; 
 and the Rector of Illerton and Dr. Lowther took 
 care that one part of it should be appro2)riatcd 
 to a good stock of Bibles, which the man was 
 directed to dispose of to whomsoever should 
 wish for them, without asking any questions. 
 Of this Maria had been informed by Adeline, 
 and soon after had written for a New Testa- 
 ment, and sent a half-idiot boy to fulfil her 
 commission, she herself waiting for him as 
 near the place as she dared venture to be seen. 
 This had happened aljout a month before Dor- 
 mer's arrival at llallern Castle; and every 
 spare moment since that time had ]\Iaria spent 
 in reading this heaveidy but forbidden trea- 
 sure. At first she had done so with a feeling 
 of guilt ; but that feeling had soon given place 
 to others of a far dift'erent character — to anxiety 
 respecting the safety of her soul — to doubts.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 137 
 
 Avliich soon arose to certainty, that if the word 
 of God was truth, she had been educated in 
 gross error. To love and adoration of that 
 kSaviour, of whom she read there all that was 
 calculated to draw the sinner to trust his sal- 
 vation simply, joyfully to him — hut of whom 
 she had heard in her own church, as a Saviour 
 indeed, and as the Son of God — ^Ijut as a distant 
 Sa>dour — One whose death had purchased, for 
 those who were baptized, salvation from the 
 sin of their natures, and grace, with which, if 
 they used it aright, they might work out their 
 own salvation — a Saviour who would be more 
 propitious, if approached tlirough other media- 
 tors. Of all this she found nothing in the 
 New Testament ; and now these thoughts, and 
 the character she had there found of that all- 
 glorious Saviour, returned to her recollection 
 \vitli over^vhelming force. She, however, could 
 not stop. Donner's mild, earnest, sincere, 
 and authoritative manner, and, above all, the 
 confidence he had reposed in her, could not be 
 lesisted ; and, taking the sacred little volume, 
 she hunied Ixick to the apartment where Dor- 
 mer waited for her. The words of St. Paul 
 to the Galatians, " Tliouf>h we, or an aiiaol
 
 138 FATHER CLE.MKKT. 
 
 from heaven, preach any other gospel unto you 
 than that which ^ye have preached unto you, 
 let him be accursed/' returned to her recollec- 
 tion. " How, tlien/' thought she, ^' dare any 
 cliurch preacli things as matters of faith so ab- 
 solutely different from what St. Paul preached, 
 as our cliurcli does ? " Her hand was on the 
 lock of the door as she thought thus; and, 
 while slie paused, she heard Dormer's step 
 approaching within. He opened the door. 
 " Daughter, I thought I should have been 
 obliged to go before your return." He held 
 out his hand for the Bible, saying " Do not be 
 late to-morrow morning. I may have much to 
 say to you." 
 
 Maria put the Bible into his hand, saying 
 in a voice almost inaudible from emotion, 
 " Father, if I sin in parting with this, my sin 
 must be on you." 
 
 " Fear not," replied Dormer, with extreme 
 gentleness : " Humility, submission to the 
 church, camiot be sin." He tlien put the little 
 volume in his pocket, bowed, and left her. 
 
 Maria instantly hastened to her own room — 
 locked her door — and, kneeling down in the 
 place wliere she for «ome ti:ue previous had
 
 FATllEll C LAMENT. 139 
 
 knelt to read her Bible, she covered her face 
 and hurst into an agony of tears. She could 
 not pray^ however; for Ilim to whom she had 
 Ijeen learning to pray, in tlic language and spi- 
 rit of the New Testament, she had given up — 
 had forsaken. She had consented lo deprive 
 herself of that pure instruction which she had 
 learned from his omti blessed word, and which 
 she had felt so powerfully effectual, and again 
 to sulyect her mind to the guidance of a fellow- 
 sinner. She remembered the words of Christ, 
 *• In vain do they worship me, teaching for 
 doctrines the commandments of men;" and 
 she recollected that those observances most in- 
 sisted on in the Romish church, were only com- 
 mandments of men, and without any authority 
 wliatever from Scripture. Such was confession 
 to a priest, on which Dormer so determinately 
 insisted. On this point Maria had searched 
 her New Testament with the most persevering 
 earnestness ; and from its beginning to its close, 
 had found — not one precept — not one injunc- 
 tion — not one single word on the subject. The 
 only passage which seemed even to have a rc- 
 ll'rcnce to it was the following from St. James : 
 — '* Confess your faults one to aiiotlicr, and
 
 140 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 pray one for another, that ye may be Iiealed :"'"' 
 — and here no priest, no minister of rehgion, 
 >vas mentioned. The injunction was addressed 
 to all believers. With regard to confession of 
 sin to God, and His method of remission, 
 all, on the other hand, was clear and simple. 
 *' If we say we have no sin, we deceive our- 
 selves, and the truth is not in us. If we con- 
 fess oui' sins, God is faithful and just to for- 
 give us our sins, and to cleanse us from all 
 unrighteousness." t — " My little children, these 
 things write I unto you, that ye sin not. 
 And if any man sin, we have an Advocate 
 with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous : 
 and He is the propitiation for our sins.":j: 
 — " The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from 
 all sin."§ 
 
 As Maria remembered these words, they 
 were a healing balm to her agitated spirit. 
 She wrote them down, and recalling other 
 passages to the same effect, wrote all she dis- 
 tinctly remembered; and noAV they seemed 
 more than ever precious. 
 
 * James V. 1(J. t 1 .fului i. 8, 0. 
 
 ■\: 1 Julin ii. J. § 1 Jului i 7.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 141 
 
 '' I have sinned, grievously sinned," thought 
 she. " How shall I approach that Holy God, 
 whose ^^'o^d I have put away from me even 
 when I was feeling its sacred power ? I have 
 an Advocate with the Father — an Advocate 
 Avhom tlie Father heareth always — an Advocate 
 Avho has himself suffered as a propitiation for 
 my sins, whose blood cleanseth from all sin." 
 
 Maria was soon again on her knees; and 
 while she confessed, and searched her heart, 
 that she might not leave one sinful thought or 
 wish unconfesscd, she felt how suitable, how 
 attractive, how softening and purifying, that 
 way of returning to God was which he himself 
 had appointed ; — how sweet the peace Avhicli 
 followed ; — how calm and secure that state of 
 mind in which God alone was exalted and glori- 
 fied ; and the sinful spirit relying in love and 
 confidence on his word alone for his promised 
 cleansing and forgiveness ! — how w^ondcrful the 
 fulfilment of that promise in the taking away 
 of the sense of guilt, and in restoring peace, and 
 strength, and activity to the soul ! 
 
 '' Never shall I confess to any but God," said 
 I\Iaria, as she rose from her knees. She then 
 sat down to write. " I must find an ans>ver
 
 142 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 to Father Clement's question. I shall not again 
 venture to converse Avith him. He is in the 
 habit of ruling and commanding. He overaws 
 me, — and yet he surely is sincere. He struggles 
 to resist those doubts Avhich rise in his mind. 
 He believes, or seeks earnestly to believe, all 
 he asks me to believe ; and if he seeks to sub- 
 ject his powerful mind to what the higher 
 teachers of the church impose, shall I dare to 
 use my poor judgment?" 
 
 Maria Avas staggered l)y this consideration, 
 till she again recollected some passages in her 
 precious New Testament. It was the poor to 
 whom the gospel was eft'ectually preached — the 
 poor in spirit. It Avas the common people who 
 heard Christ gladly. The scribes and phari- 
 sees, and teachers of the people, rejected Him. 
 It was of them Christ had given that character 
 which struck her as so forcibly applying to her 
 own clergy — " They taught for doctrines thfe 
 c<^mmandments of men," — and, therefore, he 
 pronounced their worship to be vain ! It was 
 they of Avhom] Christ had said, " They made 
 the commandments of God of none effect by 
 their traditions." " '' O ! " thought Maria, " if 
 
 • Mattli. XV. G.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 143 
 
 Clnist -vvas now on earth, what could he say- 
 more applicable to our church ?" — She remem- 
 bered, too, that Christ had returned thanks to 
 God, '' because he had hidden those things from 
 tjie wise and pi-udent, and had revealed them 
 unto babes." 
 
 All these recollections, however, did not 
 assist JMaria in finding an answer to Dormer's 
 question, — " Where was the Protestant church 
 two centuries before ? " All her knowledge of 
 history could not furnish her with this ansv/er. 
 She had indeed learned from thence, — though 
 EUiston had, from her childhood, been the 
 only person from whom she was suifered to 
 receive books, — that her church had found it 
 necessary to combat heresy by force of arms ; 
 and when she had read St. Paul's words, " The 
 M'eapons of our warfare are not carnal, but 
 mighty, through God, to the pulling down of 
 strongholds, casting down imaginations, and 
 every high thing that exalteth itself against 
 the knowledge of God, and bringing into 
 captivity every thought to the obedience of 
 Christ ;"■"■ — when she read that description of 
 St. Paul's method of warring with error, she 
 
 • 2 Cor. X. 4, 5.
 
 144 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 could not suppress her feelings of inJIgnani 
 contempt for the empty pretensions of lier 
 OAvn cliurcli, wliicli, having no power from 
 God to bring doAvn strongholds of what they 
 called error, or to bring any thought into 
 the obedience of what they called ti-uth, fought 
 only with carnal weapons to any effect, and 
 made war only after the flesh, — yet she could 
 not venture to meet Dormer on this ground. 
 At last, after in vain attempting herself to find 
 any answer to his question, it struck her, that 
 though Dormer had said Protestants could 
 not answer it, he could only mean in such a 
 way as to convince Roman Catholics ; for, 
 othervriso, so many good and sensible people 
 could not remain Protestants. No sooner had 
 this idea struck her, than she determined to 
 apply to Dr. Lowther for a solution of her 
 difficulty : and, full of this plan, she soon after, 
 with a mind almost at ease, obeyed the sum- 
 mons to meet the other members of the family 
 at dinner. 
 
 All stood round the dinner-table, wliile Fa- 
 ther Clement said rather a long gi'aee, in a 
 tone of voice and attitude of deep devotion — 
 but it was in Latin; and Maria ventured to
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 14') 
 
 thank God for his continued bounty, in her 
 heart, and in the language in wliicli she thought 
 and spoke. 
 
 " I have not seen you'all the morning, Maria," 
 said ]\Irs. Clarenham. " Have you been visit- 
 ing your cousins ?" 
 
 "Xo, mamma. I have been in my own 
 room all the morning. I have been very deep- 
 ly erigaged there, I shall, if you please, tell 
 )-ou regarding what at another time." 
 
 Maria glanced at Dormer as she spoke. 
 
 ^^ Miss Clarenham has, I believe, been very 
 properly engaged this morning," said Dormer. 
 
 '^ I rejoice to hear you say so. Father," said 
 Mrs. Clarenham, looking affectionately at Ma- 
 ria. 
 
 That kind and confiding look brought tears 
 into Maria's eyes, and it was with difficulty 
 she could swallow what she had taken on her 
 plate. 
 
 Dormer seemed to observe her emotion, and 
 changing the subject, soon attracted every one's 
 attention away from her. She felt grateful 
 to him ; but this rather added to the diffi- 
 culty she felt in overcoming the saddening 
 thoughts which crowded on her mind. Dor-
 
 146 FATHril CLEMENT. 
 
 mer's conversation, however, increased in in- 
 terest ; and, at last, she completely forgot all 
 other subjects while listening to him. He 
 seemed particularly anxious to gain her atten- 
 tion ; and though there was, as there ever was, 
 a constant something in his manner, and in 
 all he said, which reminded others that he was 
 of a diftereiit class of beings, so to speak, sepa- 
 rated from common feelings and common *sym- 
 pathies ; and also that he expected, as a mat- 
 ter of course, to guide in all opinions which 
 were in any way whatever connected with reli- 
 gion, — yet, on this day, he was so unusually 
 cheerful — so animated — and discovered so much 
 skill in drawing those he addressed into iii- 
 teresting and agreeable conversation, that even 
 ]\faria felt regret, when at last, "v^ith apj^arent 
 reluctance, he rose to leave the circle, on dis- 
 covering that the hour was come for one of his 
 many ministrations amongst his poor. 
 
 "And I, too, am forgetting an appoint- 
 ment," said Basil, " and also a message to you, 
 Maria. I promised to spend this afternoon at 
 Illerton ; and also to persuade you to accom- 
 pany me." 
 
 '' I shujl go with the greatest pleasure,"
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 147 
 
 said Maria joyfully. She glanced at Donner, 
 and saw that the expression of his countenance 
 immediately changed. 
 
 '' I think Mrs. Ciarenham regretted your 
 absence all the morning/' said he gently. 
 
 '^' Yes/' replied Maria, hesitatingly. 
 
 " Oh, do not mind me, my love/' said Mrs. 
 Ciarenham. " Catherine is at home. I shall 
 not miss you. 
 
 " I do not ^\dsh to go ; only wait, dear Ba- 
 sil, till I wTite a few lines to Adeline — ^that 
 will do much better," said Maria. '' I shall re- 
 turn with my note in an instant," 
 
 Dormer opened the door to let her depart ; 
 and, as she passed, said, " You will not regret 
 this self-denial, daughter." 
 
 " Oh, Father, I am not acting from the mo- 
 tive you suppose," replied Maria earnestly. " I 
 would not deceive you. Father, for a single mo- 
 ment. I am not in the state of mind you ima- 
 gine," and she huiTied past him to her owti 
 apartment, and there wrote to her friend : 
 
 " I entreat you, dearest Adeline, while Ba- 
 sil is ydi\\ you .this evening, to request Dr. 
 Lowther to Amtc a short, but strong reply for
 
 148 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 me to tlie following question^ — ^ Where was 
 tlie Protestant Clmrcli two liimdred years 
 ago ?' Tell clear, excellent, kind Dr. Low- 
 ther, that I venture to intrude on his precious 
 time to give me this answer, because I have 
 learnt from the Protestant Bible, that a mi- 
 nister of Christ is instructed by his Lord to be 
 patient, and ^ apt to teach,* — and I am sure he 
 is a true and faithful servant of his Divine 
 Master. 
 
 " Ever yours, M. C." 
 
 Maria delivered her note to Basil, and took 
 his promise that he w^ould not return without 
 ])ringing her an answer. 
 
 When again left with her mother and Ca- 
 therine, they began, as usual, to praise Dor- 
 mer. 
 
 '• Sm-ely," said Mrs. Clarenham, " we shall 
 all have much to answer for, if we do not be- 
 nefit by the instructions of a spiritual director 
 so highly gifted." 
 
 " Maria seems at last to have discovered liis 
 merits," observed Catherine; "^and he seems 
 wonderful! V anxious to obtain her regard and
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 149 
 
 confidence." Catherine said this Avith some 
 displeasui-e of manner. 
 
 " A good shepherd tries to make the fokl 
 pleasant to all his lambs/' said Mrs. Claren- 
 ham, soothingly. 
 
 " And those poor lambs, who already love 
 it;, and have given up all for it, must be satis- 
 fied without the kindness of the shepherd, I 
 suppose," replied Catherine, an indignant tear 
 starting into her eye. 
 
 " Catherine ! my love ! Is it possible you can 
 feel any thing but pleasure in seeing Father 
 Clement's anxiety to gain that place in your 
 sister's confidence which has hitherto been pos- 
 sessed by Father Dennis ? He cannot disap- 
 prove of her regret at parting from her kind 
 old confessor. He knows you have been less 
 at home, and were, consequently, less attach- 
 ed to our good old friend ; he has, therefore, 
 found no difficulty in supplying his place to 
 you. Surely he is most light and kind in 
 trying, by such winning gentleness^ to lead 
 your sister to confide in him as the guide of her 
 soul — the appointed shepherd over his little 
 persecuted flock." 
 
 "Ah," said Maria, '' he is a poor shepherd
 
 160 
 
 FATHER CLE31ENT. 
 
 for souls, who has not love, and attention, and 
 kindness enough to satisfy all the flock. Dear 
 mamma — dear Catherine — there is but one 
 Shepherd, who is infinite in all these — infinite 
 in loA'^e — infinite in compassion — infinite in 
 tenderness — infinite in power — ever present. 
 Surely, surely, mamma, we Catholics subject 
 our minds too decidedly to the guidance of our 
 fellow-sinners V 
 
 "Fellow-sinners!" repeated Mrs. Clarenhani 
 with astonishment. " We do not subject our 
 minds to the guidance of sinful men, my love, 
 but as they are ordained and commissioned by 
 that church which cannot en*. It is to the 
 church we submit, my dear. You seem get- 
 ting into strange errors." 
 
 " And what is the church, mamma, but a 
 number of men and women redeemed by Christ, 
 and prepared, by His sanctifying Spirit gra- 
 dually overcoming their sinful natures, to abide 
 for ever with him ?" 
 
 " Well, my love, allowing it to be so ?" 
 
 " Well, mamma, how can any of that sinful 
 number be infallible ?" 
 
 '' Tliey are not infalliljie as individuals, my 
 deaf, but from situation. Infallibility was be-
 
 KATHER CLEMENT. I5l 
 
 stowed on the rulers of the Church Ijy Christ, 
 and does not depend on the character of those 
 Avho fill the situation." 
 
 " Do not the rulers of our church appeal to 
 Scripture for the truth of all that, mamma V 
 
 " Assuredly, my love." 
 
 "^But, mamma, did it never strike you, 
 that it looks very like a system of — what shall 
 I call it ? deception — a design to keep up 
 something they are conscious they have no 
 very plain authority for in Scripture, their 
 making it a point of conscience that none but 
 priests — none but those Avhose interest it is to 
 keep up the delusion, shall read, and judge of 
 those Scriptures on which they pretend to build 
 their authority ?" 
 
 Here Catherine rose from her seat. " Mam- 
 ma, may I ask your permission to retire ?" said 
 she, formally. "It is painful to me to hear 
 Maria talk in that manner." 
 
 '^ You had better put me right then, Cathe- 
 rine," observed Maria smiling. 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Clarenham, " we shall 
 leave that to Father Clement — and you need 
 not leave the room, Catherine, for such con- 
 versation is also very painful to me. I have
 
 152 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 liati too miicli of it to-clay. Basil talked in the 
 same strain to me for more than an hour be- 
 fore dinner. One or two conversations with 
 his cousin, Ernest Montague, seems to have 
 regained to him that influence over the mind of 
 your brother, which he had so completely estab- 
 lished when they were boys ; and to do away 
 which, I consented to be separated from my 
 oidy son for five years. AVliat may happen 
 next I dread to think." 
 
 " Do you mean on the subject of religion, 
 mamma ?" asked Maria. 
 
 " Certainly, my dear. On what other subject 
 could I dread Ernest Montague's influence ? 
 On every other point, I know of no young man 
 wiio bears so high a character — one at least 
 which I consider so." 
 
 " Perhaps the ascendency you mention, mam- 
 ma, is the ascendency of truth over error \" 
 
 " You pay a compliment to my judgment 
 when you say so, certainly, Maria," replied 
 I\Irs. Clarenham. " I too, have a very dear 
 friend, who is a Protestant. Often, often have 
 we discussed, and argued, and differed, but 
 never has Protestant truth overcome my Ca- 
 tholic errors. I hoped my children would have
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 153 
 
 been equally steady to their faith — I begin to 
 tlread the reverse." 
 
 '' Mamma, may I ask you one question?" 
 
 " Certainly, my love." 
 
 " Is there a single indi\idual, Catholic or 
 Protestant, in the whole circle of your ac- 
 quaintance, whom, putting her religion, the 
 principle from which she acts, out of view — 
 you think, in every point, more truly good and 
 amiable than Lady Montague ?" 
 
 '' I mil answer you at once, my love : there 
 is not. And I will not ask you to put her re- 
 ligion out of \dew, for Lady Montague's cha- 
 racter could not be what it is on any other 
 principles than those of the Christian religion. 
 Humility — that is, a real, ever-present sense of 
 unwortliiness and weakness ; earnest, devoted 
 love to God her Saviour ; and a singleness of 
 ])ui'pose to do His will, and seek His glory in 
 all she does, — are the leading and principal fea- 
 tures of her character, and become more and 
 more so every day." 
 
 Here Catherine rose and left the room. 
 
 " Your sister loves not to hear me thus 
 ])raise a heretic," continued Mrs. Clarenham ;
 
 154 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " ]jut I cannot in justice answer your question 
 otlierwise." 
 
 "And, clear mamma;, may I ask you one 
 other cjuestion V 
 
 " AYliatever you will, love." 
 
 " Do you really believe, then, mamma, that 
 Lady Montague, loving God so devotedly — so 
 humbly trusting in Christ — so single-hearted 
 in seeking to obey Him — so kind to all — so 
 imboundedly charitable to the poor, — do you 
 believe that, because she cannot, when she 
 reads the Scriptures for herself, perceive those 
 groimds on wliicli our church claims to be 
 the only true and infallible church, and there- 
 fore rejects her pretensions, and will receive 
 no doctrines, targht by her, which she finds 
 not in the Scriptures — do you believe that, 
 for thus closely adhering to the revelation from 
 God, she will perish for ever ?" 
 
 ^' I hope, my dear, that before she is called 
 to another state, she may be led to see her 
 error in this, and return into the bosom of the 
 true church." 
 
 " But if not, mamma ?" 
 
 " My love, you will believe me Avhen I tell 
 you, that, respecting one I so dearly love, I
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. l.).') 
 
 liave often, often anxiously attempted to find 
 an answer to that question. Father Dennis 
 always evaded giving me a direct one, Avhich 
 I knew proceeded from his unwillingness to 
 pain me, but which plainly showed me his 
 opinion. I have already consulted Father Cle- 
 ment on the subject. He read to me the de- 
 cision of the chui-ch on this point, which is, 
 that there is no salvation out of the Roman 
 Catholic faith. He would not enter into the 
 subject farther. To him it seemed extremely 
 painful ; and he urged me not to seek to draw 
 aside that veil wliich God had in mercy 
 placed between us and the future, but to pray 
 earnestly and perseveringly for my friend, 
 and leave the rest to God." 
 
 " But, dear mamma, it is not God who 
 draws that veil over the future, on a subject 
 so interesting and momentous. The w^ord of 
 God says expressly, that those who believe in 
 Christ shall- never perish ; and St. Paul ex- 
 horts those, whose friends have fallen asleep 
 in Jesus, not to mourn as those who have no 
 hope — for, 'When Christ shall appear, they 
 shall appear with him in glory.' And the pos- 
 session of that ' faith which worketh by love,'
 
 166 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 is tlie only character given of that person's 
 state, -srho, in tlic New Testament, is consi- 
 dered a child of God. Indeed, indeed, mam- 
 ma, our church teaches ''many painful things 
 ^vhich are not contained in the Bible." 
 
 " My dear child," said Mrs. Clarenham af- 
 fectionately, " I entreat you to guard against 
 that self-sufficiency so natural to young people. 
 You have learnt a few passages of Scripture 
 from your cousins, and suppose you are now 
 capable to judge of matters the most profound- 
 ly difficult and mysterious. Open your whole 
 mind to Father Clement. Have no reserves 
 with him in spiritual matters. You will soon 
 learn, my love, that you are a mere babe in 
 knowledge. But we shall speak no more on 
 this subject." 
 
 IMaria submitted with reluctance to this 
 prohibition, for no other subject had now any 
 interest for her; and the time seemed un- 
 usually long, while, with her thoughts con- 
 stantly returning to it, she attempted to con- 
 verse on other matters. 
 
 When the evening had nearly closed, she 
 seated herself near a window to watch for Ba- 
 sil's return ; but though she continued strain-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 157 
 
 ing her eyes, that she might see liis approach 
 from the most distant verge of the park — twi- 
 light, and then bright moon-light^ succeeded, 
 ere she saw any living creature cross the lone- 
 ly distance. At last two figures slowly ap- 
 proached, their long shadows for a time leaving 
 her uncertain whether there were not many 
 more. They frequently stopped, and seemed 
 in earnest conversation. They thus continued 
 approaching, and then stopping to converse, 
 till they were within a fcAV steps of the house, 
 when one of the two, after showing, by the 
 energy of his gesticulations, that the subject 
 on which they conversed had been of deep 
 interest, shook hands warmly with his com- 
 panion, and, turning back, hastened across the 
 park. The other stood looking after him. 
 
 "It is Basil," said Maria, as she left the 
 room to meet him, and receive the anxiously- 
 looked-for answer to her question from Dr. 
 Lowther. Basil was slowly coming up the 
 steps, as she opened the hall- door. 
 
 " How late you are, dear Basil. Have you 
 brought an answer for me ? Who was tliat 
 ■who came so f\ir with you ?" 
 
 "^ I liave ])rought an answer — It was my
 
 158 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 friend — it was Ernest Montague -vvlio came 
 with me. Here is your answer." 
 
 ]\Iaria eagerly took it, and retired to her 
 own apartment. It was a large packet ; and, 
 on opening it, slie found a note from Adeline 
 — a letter from Dr. Lowther — and a New Tes- 
 tament. 
 
 Maria melted into tears on opening th'e last. 
 It seemed as if it had heen sent by a forgiving 
 God ; and she instantly knelt down, and re- 
 tmiied her ardent thanks — then carefully de- 
 positing it where she had kept the one she had 
 given up, she opened Dr. Lowther's letter 
 Vvhich was as follows : 
 
 " Do not ask, my dear Miss Clarenham, 
 where the Protestant church was two hun- 
 dred yeai'S ago ; but ask, where is to be found 
 the character of that church which God him- 
 self has declared to be the true church — that 
 church, which in spirit and in tiiith worships 
 Him. The true church, my dear young lady, 
 must ever bear one and the same character. 
 God has not left us without ample means to 
 know what that character is. His Spirit has, 
 in the Scriptures of truth, most plainly de- 
 scri))cd it : and thouirh various denominations
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 159 
 
 of men assume to themselves the exclusive 
 claim to it, that description of the character 
 of those "vvho alone compose it is still the same, 
 and will try all pretensions at that day when 
 each of us shall stand at the judgment-seat 
 of Christ. 
 
 *' Protestant, my dear young lady, is merely 
 a name which was attached, at the beginning 
 of the sixteenth century, (1529,) to those 
 Christians who protested against the unscrip- 
 tural corruptions of the Church of Rome. Such 
 witnesses for the truth have existed ever since 
 it was first preached ; and the a])ostate church 
 of Rome has the blood of thousands, and tens 
 of thousands, of such to answer for, at the great 
 day of account : Yet that fallen church, with 
 the vvdiole power of which she was once in pos- 
 session, has not prevailed against the truth. 
 
 ''I know, my dear Miss Clarenham., that 
 the question you have applied to me to answer 
 is made a difficulty, by the Romish clergy, in 
 the way of those who begin to perceive the 
 want of Scripture authority for many of the 
 doctrines of the church of Rome. Her priests 
 cannot procure authority from Sciipture : they 
 therefore appeal to tradition and antiquity, and
 
 160 FATHER CLEMENT* 
 
 tlms^ ill many cases, find a short and easy me- 
 tliod to stop all further inquiry. For what a 
 task presents itself, if it is necessar}^ before 
 deciding on this important point, to get ac- 
 quainted with the controversies of fourteen 
 centuries ! To a female this is impossible, I 
 think very few words will be sufficient, however, 
 to convince you how weak that religious cause 
 must be, which grounds its chief claim on anti- 
 quity. If antiquity be a proof of truth, the pre- 
 tensions of Mahomet are just about the same 
 antiquity with those of the Bishop of Rome to 
 supremacy over the other Christian churches. 
 Both began in the seventh centuiy ; and the 
 superstition of Mahomet is of far higher anti- 
 quity than many of the doctrines now taught 
 as a part of the creed necessary to salvation by 
 the Romisli church. The mass and purgatory 
 are two of those lately discovered doctrines. 
 
 " Again : If numbers, unity, and power to 
 suppress, by persecution to death, the profes- 
 sion of a different belief, proves than any set 
 of men are in possession of the truth, all 
 these can, in a greater degree, be claimed by 
 tlie followers of Mahomet than by the church 
 of Rome. How absurd, then, is it, to cleiim
 
 FATHER CLEMEiST, 161 
 
 the character of the true church, on grounds 
 so altogether unsubstantial, and which may 
 equally be urged by the worst systems of de- 
 lusion ! How much more absui'd, when those 
 very [Scriptures on which the Romish church 
 rests her first claim to the very character of 
 a church, are in the hands of those who oppose 
 her apostacies and corruptions, and prove 
 their accusations from those very Scriptmes, 
 while she finds it necessary to her very exist- 
 ence, to prevent her people from reading those 
 Scriptures ! 
 
 " Your spiritual guide will probably tell 
 you, my dear young lady, that the church of 
 Rome has transmitted the truth in a direct 
 line from the Apostles, particularly from St. 
 Peter, who, he will tell you, was Bishop of 
 Rome, and imparted the power he received 
 from Christ to his successors, — the Bishops of 
 Rome. Protestants allow none of all this. 
 They even deny the Romish church to prove 
 that St. Peter Avas ever l^ishop or pastor at 
 Rome : and Protestants, my dear Miss Claren- 
 liani, are quite as learned, and as capable of 
 discerning the truth, as Roman Catholics are. 
 
 *' Perhaps I ought to remind a Catholic, that
 
 1B2 KA'illEIl CLtlMEKT. 
 
 there is but one way of coming to the truth oil 
 such points — that of historic evidence. The 
 Romish church no longer ventures to appeal to 
 miracles in arguing with Protestants. Such 
 deceptions are now confined to conventS;, or to 
 the most ignorant of their own people. On 
 this historic evidence, Protestants firmly deny 
 that the church of Rome has for many centu- 
 ries, — and;, on the knowledge of its present 
 state, that it does now, — bear any resemblance 
 to the primitive church ; and, in proof of this, 
 appeal only to the account of the primitive 
 church in the New Testament : and the clergy 
 of the church of Rome subject themselves to 
 strong suspicions, when they refuse their peo- 
 ple the right of judging of their pretensions 
 by that rule. Protestant clergy desire to be 
 judged by no other. 
 
 '^ You must, I think, my dear Miss Claren- 
 ham, perceive in what very dift'erent situations 
 this places the Protestant and the Popish pas- 
 tor. The Protestant teacher appeals, — for the 
 truth of all he inculcates, for his title to de* 
 mand your belief, and for authority to demand 
 your obedience, — to the word of God. The 
 Popish pastor appeals only to the authority of
 
 I^'ATIIEK CLEMENT. 163 
 
 liis cliurch, or of tlie Scriptures as explained 
 by that church. And what is the churchy ac- 
 cording to a Roman CathoHc priest ? Ask 
 your spiritual guide this question. He may 
 notj however, choose to tell you, that whatever 
 unity may he demanded from the people Avith 
 regard to the reception of those doctrines which 
 the rulers of the Romish church have agreed 
 to impose upon them, there is no unity amongst 
 those rulers themselves regarding the answer 
 to the question — Where does the authority and 
 infallibility of the church of Rome reside ? 
 Some of the clergy assert that it resides in the 
 Pope ; others in general councils approved by 
 the Pope ; and others, in general councils, 
 whether approved of by the Pope or not. But 
 to prove that the rulers of the Romish church 
 do not themselves really believe that infallibi- 
 lity resides in any of these : — Popes with coun- 
 cils have rejected the decrees of preceding 
 Popes with councils : Popes mthout councils 
 have done the same : and also councils with- 
 out Popes. Yes, my dear Miss Clarenham, 
 this undefined infallibility, this imposing delu- 
 sion, is what your spiritual guide asks you to 
 subject your mind to instead of those Sciip-
 
 164 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 tiires wliich all 3'om' clergy allow to be a re- 
 velation from God. Read these Scriptures, 
 my dear young lady : Kead them for yourself ; 
 they are not addressed only to the learned. 
 Were they so, a very large number of those 
 priests of the Romish church, to whom the 
 guidance of souls is committed, ought to be 
 excluded from their perusal ; for any well edu- 
 cated person — your brother, Mrs. Clarenham, 
 you yourself — are, I am sure, far better in- 
 formed than many of them are. Do not be 
 imposed on by high-sounding pretensions. 
 Were you, my dear ^liss Clarenham, really and 
 intimately acquainted with the Bible^ and had 
 imbibed its pure and unearthly spirit, the 
 whole structure of the church of Rome would 
 appear to you, as it docs to all Bi]}le Chiistians, 
 a system of the gi'ossest worldliness, supported 
 by earthly power — made attractive by earth- 
 ly splendour — governing by earthly means, — 
 holding out earthly lures to the ambition of its 
 ministers ; and the higher they attain in its 
 rank, surrounding them with more and more of 
 what is altogether earthly, until at last they 
 reach that pre-eminence of gross earthliness, 
 -where we find him, who stvles himself the head
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 165 
 
 of the church, the Vicar of Christ, the repre- 
 sentative of Him ^ who had no where to lay his 
 head' — in the most gorgeous of palaces — the 
 representative of Him ' who is of purer eyes 
 tlian to behold iniquity/ surrounded by all that 
 painting and sculpture can represent, addressed 
 to depraved sense — all that heathen art could 
 do to clothe in attraction the crimes of their 
 idols, or the real abominations of men whom 
 they had deified. Thus surrounded, the head 
 of the Romish church reigns over her ; and is 
 regarded by Bible Christians as the most de- 
 plorable of all self-deceivers — as the weak 
 instrument of the prince of darkness — or as 
 the most profane and audacious of charlatans. 
 
 " I enclose you a New Testament. Remem- 
 Ijcr, my dear young lady, that every word in 
 it was inspired by God. The way of salvation 
 revealed in it is the only way revealed by God. 
 It is a plain way ; search it yourself. Search 
 first for any commission given by Christ to his 
 Apostles, or by those the Apostles appointed 
 to succeed them in feeding the flock of Christ, 
 by wliich they are directed to withhold the 
 Scriptures from the people ; and when you 
 find St. Peter — he whom your church unscrip-
 
 160 FATHER CLEiMENT. 
 
 turally exalts above his brother Apostles — 
 Avhcn you find him saying to those to whom 
 he addressed his first epistle, *^As new-born 
 babes, desire the sincere milk of the word, that 
 you may grow thereby' — -judge yourself whe- 
 ther your spiritual guide holds out the same 
 nourishment for your soul. You have only to 
 ask youi'self this question, ' Shall I trust God's 
 o^WL Avord, as it was written by His inspired 
 servants, to direct me to the knowledge of His 
 character and will : or shall I rather trust to 
 the word of my priest, who tells me he gives 
 jne the right meaning of the word of God, but 
 will not allow me to read it for myself, neither 
 can tell me satisfactorily where that infollibi- 
 lity of intei-pretation resides, on which he 
 insists that I shall rest the salvation of my 
 soul V 
 
 " I entreat you earnestly, my dear Miss Cla- 
 renham, to pray to God, that He may enable 
 you to make the right choice. I shall join my 
 prayers to yours, that he may enable you to 
 make that choice which is agreeable to his 
 will, and give you strength to abide by it. I 
 commend you to His love and guidance. ' He 
 loves those who love Him;' and has promised
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 167 
 
 in His word, tliat *^ those who seek Ilim early 
 shall find him.' Your sincere friend, 
 
 '^ Tho3ias Lowther." 
 
 jVIaria read this letter quickly, but with 
 deep attention ; her resolution, after finishing- 
 it, was soon taken. " I shall certainly not 
 confess," said she ; and instantly wrote to 
 Mr. Dormer : — 
 
 " Forgive me, Father, if I led you to sup- 
 pose I meant to meet you at confession to- 
 moiTOAv morning. I cannot. I must do what 
 appears to me the will of God, whatever fol- 
 lows. I ought also to inform you, that I have, 
 I think providentially, received another New 
 Testament. I -v^dsh not to deceive you. Fa- 
 ther. Oh that you would yourself instruct 
 me from that sacred source ! 
 
 " Maria Clarenham." 
 
 It was so late when Maria finished this 
 note, that she every moment expected to hear 
 the hell ring for evening prayers. It did not, 
 however ; and she still had time to read Ade- 
 line's also :-—
 
 1G8 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " I gave your request to Dr. LoM-tlier, dear 
 Maria, and he has just sent his answer to j^our 
 brother. He tells me that he has sent you a 
 New Testament. Dear Maria, will you read 
 it ? I entreat you do. You cannot, I am sure, 
 otherwise understand what Dr. Lowther has 
 written. my dearest friend, how incon- 
 ceivable it seems to me, that any one should 
 know that there is a revelation from God ! the 
 Creator ! the Preserver ! the Judge of all ! and 
 yet rest satisfied without having read, and 
 searched, and earnestly studied that revelation ! 
 David said of that small portion of it which 
 existed in his day, that it was ' a lamp to his 
 feet, and a light unto his path ;' that ' it con- 
 verted the soul, and made the simple wise ;' 
 that ' the words of the Lord were pure words, 
 as silver tried in a furnace of earth, purified 
 seven times ;' and ' were sweeter than honey 
 and the honey-comb, and rejoiced the heart.' 
 HoAv much fuller and more j^recious is that 
 revelation in our day ! 
 
 " Forgive Dr. Lowther, dearest Maria, if he 
 has said harsh things of your church. I am 
 afraid he may ; as he always, from principle.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. ] 69 
 
 says ■Nvliat lie thinks the truth concerning it, 
 to whomsoever he may mention the subject. 
 Again adieu ! dearest Maria. Ever yours, 
 "Adeline Montague." 
 
 Maria had scarcely concluded this note, 
 when the bell rang; and putting up Dr. 'Low- 
 ther s letter, and taking her note for Dor- 
 mer, she hastened to the chapel. 
 
 Here all the family, and several of the peo- 
 ple who resided near the Castle, were assem- 
 bled. Dormer, with much devotion of voice 
 and manner, read prayers for about half an 
 hour. The people seemed to listen in the 
 posture of worship : but •with all, except Ba- 
 sil and Dormer, the heart and understandinjr 
 were unemployed, for almost every prayer 
 was in Latin. Maria's thoughts were most 
 busily engaged, as probably those of all pre- 
 sent were, except Dormer's and Basil's, by 
 the subjects which had been most interesting 
 before worship began. 
 
 At last the unprofitable ser^dce was finished, 
 and all slowly retired from the chapel.
 
 170 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 Dormer rarely joined the family after even- 
 ing prayers. On tliis night, as he politely took 
 leave of all, Maria put the note she had written 
 into his hand, and hurried past, that she might 
 avoid answering any question he might ask.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " Ne vogliate chiamare alamo sulla terra vostro Padre; imper- 
 occhc il solo Padre vostro e quegli, che sta ne' cieli." 
 
 Martini's Trans. — Matth. xxiii. 9. 
 
 During prayers in the cliapel next morn- 
 ing, ]\Iana never lifted lier eyes ; and ^vvlien 
 afterwards seated at the breakfast-tahle;, care- 
 fully avoided meeting Dormer's looks. Slie^ 
 however, remarked that he was almost entire- 
 ly silent. Basil, too, was unusually so ; but he 
 sat next to Dormer, and she dared not raise 
 her eyes in that direction to read his looks. 
 ^Irs. Clarenham and Catherine attempted to 
 draw Dormer into conversation : but though 
 his replies bespoke attention to what they had 
 said, and were in his usual mild tone of voice, 
 yet they were short ; and soon the party sunk 
 almost into silence. The instant that break- 
 fast seemed concluded, Dormer rose, and, after
 
 172 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 retuiuiiig thanks in Latin, requested Mrs. 
 Clarenham not to wait dinner, should he be 
 absent at the usual hour. He was going, he 
 said, to Sir Thomas Carysford's, and might be 
 detained till the evening. He then bowed 
 politely to all, and left the room. 
 
 '' Did you ever see any thing so grave as 
 Father Clement is this morning?" exclaimed 
 Catherine. " You really ought to ask him, 
 mamma, if any thing painful has happened ? 
 Perhaps some of the Carysfords are ill." 
 
 " Oh no," said Basil, " I am sure they are 
 not. Young Carysford passed the chapel while 
 we were at prayers. Did you not hear the 
 dogs?" 
 
 " I heard dogs, but how could I kno'sv they 
 were his ?" 
 
 " But I saAV them from the side window," 
 said Basil. " He galloped past, accompanied by 
 Rowley Montague." 
 
 "^ Young Carysford naturally feels himself 
 at home in our groimds," said Mrs. Clarenham, 
 looking at Maria. 
 
 Maria rose and turned away. This was a 
 painful subject to her. From her childhood it 
 luid been understood, in the families of Claren'
 
 FATHER CLEAJENT. 173 
 
 ham and Carysford;, that when she should come 
 of age, and according to her uncle's will, de- 
 clare herself a Itoman Catholic, she was to be, 
 on his making the same declaration, united to 
 the young heir of the Carysfords. While 
 younger, the pleasure with which this union 
 was always hinted at by her own family ; the 
 great respect vvith Avhich all the neighbouring 
 lioman Catholic families regarded the Carys- 
 fords ; the uniyersal acknowledgment that they 
 Avere the first family in the country of that 
 faitli ; their large fortune and high connexions; 
 and the superiority which the confessor in that 
 lamily assmned over his brother priests — had 
 dazzled her young imagination, while the un- 
 ceasing and indulgent kindness Avith which 
 young Carysford was eyerywhere received ; 
 the interest and anxiety expressed by all con- 
 cerning him as the future leader of their de- 
 creasing party, and their exaggerated details 
 of whatever appeared promising to their cause 
 in his character and conduct — increased her 
 pride, and gave her a feeling of self-exaltation 
 in tlie prospect of sharing with him the dis- 
 tinguished place he seemed destined to hold 
 amongst those Avhose regard she most highly
 
 174 FATHER CLE.MENT. 
 
 Valued. NoWj when she looked forward to 
 this hitherto-supposed happy lot, all was 
 changed in her feelings. The prospect had 
 lost many of its attractions; and Carysford's 
 pursuits and character were gradually sinking 
 in her esteem. Her thoughts on the subject, 
 however, were confused and painful; and as 
 it was, she supposed, still tAVo years before 
 she must decide, she generally got rid of them 
 as soon as she could: and now seeing Basil 
 about to leave the room, she followed him into 
 the hall, and putting her arm within his — 
 
 " My dear Basil, is there any thing the 
 matter? Perhaps I can guess one cause for 
 Father Clement's looking so grave — but you — 
 I hope nothing has happened to annoy you ?" 
 
 " Yes — much, dear Maria." They walked 
 towards the hall door, which was open, and a 
 groom in attendance near it, "with a horse for 
 Dormer. " I have displeased Father Cle- 
 ment," continued Basil, "and if you knew 
 what cause I have to love him, you would be 
 able to judge how painful it is to me to do so." 
 
 " But is he so unforgiving ?" 
 
 " Oh no, no. I have his forgiveness — his 
 kindest affection — he is all gentleness and
 
 •FATHER CLEMENT. 175 
 
 goodness to me, but I see I have deeply dis- 
 tressed him." 
 
 ^^How, dear Basil?" 
 
 "Let us go out, and I shall tell you all* 
 You too, Maria, have grieved him." 
 
 Dormer himself at this moment approached^ 
 " Do not allow me to interrupt you," said he, 
 politely, and passing quickly, mounted his 
 horse, bowed again with an expression of mild 
 kindness in his looks, and then rode off. 
 
 We shall leave Basil to tell his story to his 
 sister, and follow Dormer. 
 
 There is not perhaps a greater contrast in 
 any two states of mind w^here both are seeking 
 to know and serve God, than between those 
 of a thorough Roman Catholic and a Protes- 
 tant. So great is the contrast, that it is not 
 wonderful either should be willing to allow 
 that the other does indeed w^orship acceptably, 
 or love acceptably, or serve acceptably, the 
 same God whom he loves and serves. There 
 are some points, however, in which truly pious 
 Catholics, and truly pious Protestants, w^ould 
 they allow themselves to listen candidly to 
 each other, would find they could agree. Each 
 would acknowledge the deep, the profound
 
 176 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 awe, with wliicli lie regarded the character of 
 that ^'^High and. Holy One who inhabitetli 
 Memity." Each would allow^, that at times, 
 his inmost soul trembled at the remembrance 
 of his holiness — his justice — his power — his 
 omniscience. Each would acknowledge, that, 
 in his o^^^l eyes, he Avas utterly unholy ; and 
 .conscious that, if God should enter into judg- 
 ment ^nth him, he could not answer for one 
 of a thousand of his thoughts, his Words, or 
 actions. Tliey v/ould also find, that, to both 
 the character of God was infinitely, adorably 
 attractive : that those very attributes, the 
 remembrance of wliicli made them tremble, 
 still appeared to them altogether lovely and 
 excellent, and that they esteemed the favour 
 of this all-holy, all-just, all-gioripus God, to 
 be better than life. Thus far Protestants 
 and Cathohcs, if really the children of God, 
 are of one mind: but, in the solving of that 
 most important of all questions — How is that 
 favoui" to be obtained ? or rather — How are 
 apostate fallen creatures to be restored to that 
 favoiu'? their difi'erence of opinion becomes 
 almost irreconcilable. Thus far Donner felt 
 and believed, as everv child of God at some
 
 FATHER CJLEMENT. 177 
 
 period of his progress does ; but at this point 
 he became entirely Roman Catholic, and suf- 
 fered much of what is frequently sulfered by 
 sincerely pious Roman Catholics, while labour- 
 ing, as it were, "in the very fire," to merit 
 that favour which Protestants, at least truly 
 pious Protestants, believe, is bestowed only 
 through the merits of Him who took the na- 
 tui-e of fallen man, that He might in that na- 
 ture, and in the place of fallen man, fulfil that 
 law men cannot fulfil, and " bring in for men 
 an everlasting righteousness." This was not 
 a doctrine taught by Dormer s church : j^nd 
 if at any time the comfort it was calculated to 
 convey, to a mind agonizing under a sense of 
 sin, flashed upon his, he would reject it as 
 unauthorized by his church, and as a tempta- 
 tion of the enemy of his soul to lure him from 
 the path of self-denial. His church taught 
 that it was in the power of fallen man him- 
 self to merit favour from God. She taught 
 that good works, done for the love of Jesus 
 Christ, are available for the remission of sins 
 — that they obtain from God an increase of 
 grace in this life, and the reward of ever- 
 histing happiness hereafter. What these good
 
 178 FATHER CLE3IENT. 
 
 works were^ she also tauglit : Fasts, penances, 
 mortifications, repetitions of prayers ; — such 
 were the works by which Dormer hoped to attain 
 to everlasting life. His church taught also, 
 that it was in the power of fallen apostate man 
 to do even more of such works than were ne- 
 cessary for salvation : Imt Dormer's conscience 
 demanded far more than he ever could perform. 
 No mortifications, however strict, which he 
 imposed uj)on himself, could prevent thoughts 
 and wishes, which, when on his knees before a 
 holy God, appeared to him altogether earthly 
 and unholy. No penance, however severe, 
 could prevent him from again, in some un- 
 guarded moment, giving Avay to the same feel- 
 ings of pride or of ambition, or to the same 
 indulgence of worldly dreams which his con- 
 science had told him were imholy. No fast, 
 however long, produced the spiritualizing ef- 
 fect he looked for. To him the gospel was no 
 glad tidings. He did love Christ, ardently 
 loved him; but, as yet, to him Christ was 
 only his supposed Saviour ; for he laboured 
 constantly, and with a continual sense of un- 
 worthiness Aveighing down his spirit, to be his 
 own saviour. The h\\\, however, not of his
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 17^ 
 
 cliurcli, but that law of God written on his 
 heart;, became more and more strict in its de- 
 mands, the more he sought to obey it. 
 
 On this day, as in deep thought he proceed- 
 ed to consult the Catholic priest who resided 
 at Sir Thomas Carysford's — self-reproach em- 
 bittered and saddened his spirit. Every ne- 
 glect of which he had to accuse himself dur- 
 ing all the time that young Clarenham had 
 been under his tuition, seemed to rise before 
 him ; and the fact, that five years superinten- 
 dence on his part seemed to have done so lit- 
 tle, that a few hours conversation mtli a Pro- 
 testant boy had done away its whole effect, 
 filled him ^yith. the most painful and humbling 
 sense of self-condemnation; while the disap- 
 pointment of those sanguine hopes with which 
 he had undertaken the spiritual guidance of 
 the family at liallern, depressed his spirit. 
 
 In this state of feeling Dormer was intro- 
 duced into the presence of Mr, Warrenne, the 
 Roman Catholic chaplain in Sir Thomas Carys- 
 ford's family ; and who, though unknown to 
 be so, even to most of the Roman Catholics in 
 tlie neighbourhood, was superior over all the 
 Jesuit Pri'Csts in tliat part of England.
 
 180 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 Dormer Avas detained for a few minutes in 
 an anti-room, till Warrenne's own domestic 
 sliould usher him into the presence of his mas- 
 ter ; for no servant in the family was permit- 
 ted to intrude into his privacy. 
 
 The priest's servant soon appeared, and 
 silentl}^ but with much respect of manner, 
 conducted Donner across a long passage into 
 another apartment, and then respectfully mo- 
 tioning him to stop, advanced and softly open- 
 ing a door opposite to the one at which they 
 had entered, just far enough to admit him- 
 self, closed it after him. In a minute or two 
 he again appeared, held the door open [for 
 Dormer, and softly closed it immediately after 
 lie had entered. 
 
 The apartment into which Dormer was con- 
 ducted was large and handsome, and furnish- 
 ed with massive splendour. At the farther 
 end of it, near a door which was a little open, 
 sat Warremie on a large chair covered with 
 crimson velvet. A footstool of the same rich 
 exterior supported one foot ; and a table, also 
 covered with crimson velvet stood before him, 
 on which lay many books and papers. 
 
 Warrenne rose not on Dormer's ' trance,
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 181 
 
 but bowing slightly, addressed him with the 
 air of a superior ; — " Brother, I am glad to 
 see you." 
 
 Dormer approached, and humbly kneehng 
 before him — "Father, I entreat your bless- 
 ing." 
 
 ^Varrenne laid his hand upon Dormer's 
 head, and rapidly repeated the usual benedic- 
 tion, then motioned to him to be seated on a 
 plain chair near him. 
 
 " I wish to consult you. Father," said Dor- 
 mer, humbly, " on a subject, regarding which 
 I find my own judgment too Aveak to decide." 
 
 " Private ? or regarding our order ? or the 
 church ?" asked Wan-enne, his quick eye and 
 utterance seeming to demand a brief reply. 
 
 " The church, Father." 
 
 " Heresy ?" 
 
 " I fear so. Father." 
 
 " Among the Clarenhams ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " The lady or the young people ?" 
 
 " The eldest son and daughter." 
 
 " The eldest son ! your own pupil ?" 
 
 Dormer reddened. ''You know, Father, 
 Q
 
 182 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 the cause of his being sent abroad. He had 
 at that time imbibed heretical notions. The 
 society of his Protestant cousin has again re- 
 vived those notions; but Chirenham is great- 
 ly more devoted to religion now; and he will, 
 I fear, ere long, determine to judge in this 
 matter for himself." 
 
 " It must not be. Clarenham cannot be 
 spared at this crisis. The example would be 
 most injurious. Oiu: interest in this part of 
 England must on no account be lessened. I 
 must hear more of this youth. A remedy 
 suited to his temper must be discovered with- 
 out delay." Warrenne here abruptly rose — 
 kicked the footstool aside — and entered the 
 room the door of which was open near him. 
 In this room two young priests were busily 
 engaged in writing. Warrenne rapidly gave 
 directions first to one, then to the other — turn- 
 ed over one or two papers they presented to 
 him — wrote like lightning his signatui'e to 
 some, and a cipher to others — then retuiiied, 
 and closing the door on the two priests, seat- 
 ed himself, Avith his forehead resting on his 
 hand, and his dark penetrating eyes fixed on 
 Dormer,
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 1 83 
 
 " Tell me the disposition of this youth, bro- 
 ther." 
 
 "^' Extremely amiable," replied JDonner ^vitli 
 wanntli. 
 
 " Ardent V 
 
 " No — gentle, modest, refined, delicate, fear- 
 ful of inflicting the slightest uneasiness — yet 
 firm." 
 
 Warrenne was thoughtful for an instant — 
 
 " Is he thoroughly loyal to the cause of oui" 
 exiled king ?" 
 
 " As yet I think he is entirely so." 
 
 " And can you answer for his honour and 
 fidelity ?" 
 
 " I can unhesitatingly." 
 
 " And now, on what points has he been 
 corrupted ?" 
 
 " Principally with regard to private judg- 
 ment in reading and examining the Scrip- 
 tures." 
 
 " The most formidable of all — time for re- 
 flection will only increase the evil. He must 
 be employed in some affairs suited to his dis- 
 position — and, above all, he must be instantly 
 separated from his Protestant relations. I 
 shall think on this matter, and send you my
 
 184 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 instructions as soon as I have decided. Now^ 
 teli me of the daughter. Is it the one intend- 
 ed for the nunnery ?" 
 
 " No, the eldest." 
 
 " Ha ! the intended wife of Carysford ! 
 Brother Dennis ought to have been removed 
 years ago. I dreaded that liis partiality for 
 those children had weakened his zeal for the 
 church. But this too must be stopped. Have 
 you discovered the character of the girl ?" 
 
 " She is uncommonly lively and acute, with 
 a quick sense of the ridiculous ; and appears 
 to have an ungoveraable disposition for in- 
 quiry. Her understanding seems very supe- 
 rior to what is usual in her sex ; and she has 
 much confidence in her own judgment. All 
 her ovm family — the domestics — and those 
 people around the castle, whom I have heard 
 speak of her, seem to be ardently attached to 
 her, and to regard her with great respect. To 
 me she has always shown reserve and cold- 
 ness." 
 
 " And what, think you, are her eiTors ?" 
 
 ''The same as those of her brother with re- 
 spect to the Scriptures ; but she has boldly be- 
 come possessor of a New Testament; which he
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 185 
 
 has not ventured to do. She lias iilso refus- 
 ed to confess." 
 
 " Yeiy bad — very Lad. I must tliink over all 
 this. I shall send you the result of my thoughts. 
 In the mean time, brother, if possible, keep 
 tlie young cousins apart. I shall now bid you 
 good morning." 
 
 " Father, I wish to confess." 
 
 "Again, brother ! Certainly, if you wish it." 
 An expression of impatience passed over War- 
 renne's countenance. He, however, immedi- 
 ately retired with the lowly-minded Dormer, 
 who, kneeling before him, confessed mth sor- 
 row and contrition, those earthly feelings, and 
 sins of thought, which weighed do-wn his spi- 
 rit, but his sorrow for which appeared, to 
 the ambitious and worldly fellow-sinner to 
 whom he thus humbled himself, as the mor- 
 bid result of a melancholy and too sensitive 
 temperament. Warrenne, however, advised 
 as a superior, and concluded by pronouncing 
 the follo-wing absolution : 
 
 "God forgive thee, my brother: the merit 
 of the pai]Sion of our Lord Jesus Christ, and 
 of blessed Saint Mary, always a Virgin, and 
 of all the saints; the merit of thine order;
 
 186 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 the strictness of tliy religion, the Immillty of 
 tliy confession, and contrition of tliy heart ; 
 the good works which thou hast done, and 
 shalt do for the love of Christ, — be unto thee 
 available for the remission of thy sins, the in- 
 crease of desert and grace, and the reward of 
 everlasting life. Amen." 
 
 This absolution, repeated by Warrenne so 
 rapidly as to be scarcely intelligible, was ea- 
 gerly drunk in by Dormer, as that which was 
 to lighten his soul of the load by which it was 
 oppressed. 
 
 " You will pay a visit to the family, I hope, 
 brother," said Warrenne. " Your first visit im- 
 pressed them, and the friends who were pre* 
 sent, very highly indeed in your favour, and has 
 already produced two applications for chaplains 
 from our order. It is of consequence that this 
 favourable impression should be increased." 
 
 Dormer bowed his acquiescence, and then 
 WaiTenne rang and left the room. His ser- 
 vant immediately appeared, and, at Dormer's 
 desire, conducted him to the apartments occu- 
 pi.'Ml by the family. 
 
 The hour which Dormer had sj>ent with his 
 Sfuperior had been one of j'ainiid humiliation :
 
 I'ATHER CLEMENT. 18? 
 
 the next was of a very different character. He 
 Avas received by Sir Thomas and Lady Carys- 
 ford with the utmost possible respect; and 
 every word he uttered listened to as if he had 
 been a messenger direct from heaA^en : and, as 
 his gentle and conciliating manners won more 
 and more upon their affectionS;, their entrea- 
 ties to prolong his visit became so urgent, that 
 it was evening before he was again on his re- 
 turn to Hallern Castle. 
 
 Warrenne had joined the family at dinner;, 
 and appeared much pleased again to meet his 
 ])rotlier^ to whom his manner was then entire- 
 ly changed. He indeed seemed altogether a 
 different person. The quick, impatient looks, 
 and rapid utterance, were exchanged for man- 
 ners and expressions of the most polished sua- 
 vit}^ ; and, to domestics and common observ- 
 ers, Father Adrian only exhibited the charac- 
 ter of the mild, affectionate, and indulgent 
 chaplain. He, however, remained but a short 
 time AA^th the family, and Dormer had scarce- 
 ly dismounted from his horse, on his return, 
 to Hallern Castle, when he was overtaken by 
 a messenger with a dispatch from his inde- 
 fatigable superior. The man, as he delivered
 
 188 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 it into Dormer's hand, said, in a low voice, 
 " secret." Dormer put the packet into his 
 bosom, and, after spending half an hour with 
 the family, retired to his o^\ti apartment, and 
 broke the seal. The envelope enclosed the 
 following directions "written in a peculiar ci- 
 pher : — 
 
 " Brother, 
 
 "You will, as soon after receiving this as 
 you possibly can, prepare young Clarenham to 
 proceed with secret and important communi- 
 cations to the coui't of the exiled king ; and 
 from thence to proceed, if necessary, to Rome. 
 You may impart what your prudence suggests 
 respecting the present state of affairs in Scot- 
 land ; and rest the high confidence reposed in 
 him on the expectations of the suffering but 
 lawful party from the representative of the ever 
 noble and honourable house of Clarenham. 
 
 "Also prepare Mrs. Clarenham to hear 
 shortly of a communication from Rome, dis- 
 pensing with that part of General Clarenham's 
 will, in which he makes it necessary that his 
 niece should be of age before her marriage ; 
 and an advice to hiing about, without delay,
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 189 
 
 a union between the houses oi Carysford and 
 Clarenham. I shall put matters here in such 
 a train as will soon produce subjects of thought 
 for the young lady, which I have no doubt will 
 be more attractive than religious controversy. 
 
 '' In the mean time, avoid all religious dis- 
 cussions with the young Clarenhams ; and 
 your success in the part allotted to you, bro- 
 ther, in bringing back those stray lambs to the 
 fold, may, I hope, be such as to confirm our 
 belief, not^^^thstanding what has happened, in 
 your zeal for the church." 
 
 The signature to these instructions was, to 
 Dormer's smi^rise, in Warrenne's owa hand. 
 
 These directions from his superior, Dormer 
 read again and again, with increasing imeasi- 
 ness and alarm. About this period (1715) 
 the rebellion in favour of the House of Stuart 
 was on the eve of breaking forth, both in 
 Scotland and in the North of England. Every 
 Roman Catholic family, whether actually in- 
 volved in this rebellion or not, ardently wished 
 for its success. Priests of the same faith 
 naturally felt deeply interested in the issue ; 
 and, from the constant and rapid intercourse 
 >vhich they, and particularly those of the order
 
 190 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 of Jesuits, maintained with the continent, it 
 was ever found that intellifrence was most 
 expeditiously communicated through their 
 means. 
 
 Dormer was perfectly informed respecting 
 the preparations for this rebellion; and, had 
 his superior directed him to proceed ^^dth any 
 mission in favour of the cause, he would have 
 undertaken it with ardour, had it been at the 
 hazard of his life ; and he would even have 
 offered himself in the place of young Claren- 
 ham, could he have entertained the slightest 
 hope that his offer would have been accepted ; 
 but he w^as well aware, that the real ob- 
 ject of this mission was to give a new turn to 
 Clarenham's thoughts — to lead him from tlie 
 study of religious subjects altogether — and 
 to involve him, while still under age, in what, 
 were his party unsuccessful, might bring him 
 to the scaffold ; and the voice of that law writ- 
 ten on Dormer's heart, which no recollection 
 of the authority of the church for a time could 
 stifle, declared the end to be daring and un- 
 justifiable, and the means diabolical. But such 
 thoughts Dormer struggled against, as full of 
 guilt. He had solemnly vowed obedience
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 191 
 
 to his church, and to regard her interests 
 above all others. He had also taken a vow of 
 obedience to the superiors of his order ; and 
 any feeling of reluctance to fulfil the vows 
 seemed to him the abandonment of religion, 
 and a criminal indulgence of his own unhal- 
 lowed affections. This struggle was intense- 
 ly severe. Young Clarenham's anxiety to 
 submit to his guidance, which had induced 
 him, notwithstanding his present apprehen- 
 sion that he was leading him into error, to re- 
 fuse to read the Scriptures but with him, — 
 all those amiable and endearing qualities 
 which, for the last five years, had won, even 
 more than he was aware of, upon Dormer's^af- • 
 fections, and the unbounded confidence reposed 
 in him by Clarenham, — were now dwelt up- 
 on in sad remembrance. The widowed mo- 
 ther, whose spirits seemed to have revived 
 from day to day since the return of her feel- 
 ing and most attentive son, — she, too, must be 
 called to bear the anguish of another separa- 
 tion : And for what ? Lest Clarenham should 
 read the Bible, and discover that the power 
 assumed by his church was not given her 
 there. The thoujjht merelv flashed for a mo-
 
 192 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 ment on Dormer's mind, and was immediate- 
 ly followed by the deepest sense of guilt. He 
 threw himself upon his knees before a cruci- 
 fix, which stood in that part of his small apart- 
 ment where he usually performed his devo- 
 tions ; and as his church taught, that, by " a 
 thorough soiTOw you may utterly destroy and 
 put an end to sin," and that such sorrow is to 
 be obtained " hj begging it humbly and fre- 
 quently through the merits of a Savioui'," he 
 ardently sought that soitow ; and while doing 
 so, the questions " Why is the Romish church 
 so eager to shut up the Scriptures from the 
 people ? Wliy does she discourage their close 
 and frequent study even by the priests ?" 
 mingled with his petitions, and were regard- 
 ed by him as the suggestions of the evil one. 
 He spent nearly two hours in this state of 
 wretchedness, and was then obliged to meet 
 the ftimily in the chapel, there to repeat in 
 Latin the usual formulary. He looked ex- 
 hausted and depressed ; and after the service 
 was over, Mrs. Clarenham and Basil entreated 
 him, ^^•\\\\ the utmost kindness and urgency, 
 to join the family, and partake of some refresh- 
 ment.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 193 
 
 " You hare ate nothing since dinner — I 
 entreat you, Father, do not refuse to join us/' 
 said Basil earnestly, and folloAving him after 
 he had got away from the others, 
 
 " I must fast still longer, my son," replied 
 Dormer. " This night must be spent in fast- 
 ing and devotion for us both." 
 
 *^*^ Is it on my account you thus suffer, Fa- 
 ther ?" asked Basil, becoming pale as he spoke. 
 
 " It is, and for my own unsubdued feelings 
 regarding you." 
 
 " Then, Father, allow me at least to partake 
 in your humiliation. Suifer me to be with you." 
 
 '' No, Basil. I must be alone. Your pre- 
 sence would not lessen my disquiet. In the 
 morning you will oblige me by joining me as 
 early as you please. I shall then inform you 
 of the very painful duty which awaits us 
 both." 
 
 " Painful duty !" repeated Basil anxiously. 
 
 " Yes, my dear Clarenham, to me altoge- 
 ther painful — to you, if I know you, it ^'^dll at 
 least partly be so : But good night — prepare 
 your mind to fulfil an honourable, but, in some 
 degi'ee, self-denying duty." 
 
 ^^ Father," said Basil earnestly, " do not im- 
 n
 
 194 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 pose any duty on me that you have any sus- 
 picion may excite a scruple in my conscience. 
 You would not, if you knew the extreme pain 
 it gives me to dispute your guidance in any 
 point." 
 
 " The duty is not a religious one," replied 
 Dormer — " but again good night. I wish not 
 to enter on the suliject till we can do it fully." 
 
 " If it is not religious/' replied Basil, affec- 
 tionately kissing Dormer's hand^ " I am sure 
 of having the hapj)iness of doing as you wish." 
 
 Very early next morning, Basil was admit- 
 ted to the small apartment where Doimer had 
 passed the night without any sleep but what 
 he had taken when quite exhausted, by lying 
 down for two hours, vvithout undressing, on the 
 hard pallet which at all times was his only 
 bed. He looked even more pale, and depress- 
 ed, and worn out, than the night before. He 
 was, however perfectly calm, and immediate- 
 ly began the subject: — 
 
 " Clarenham, you still, I am persuaded, feel 
 devoted to the cause of our absent king ?" 
 
 " Still, Father ! Most assuredly I do. Can 
 you suppose me so base as to desert it ?" 
 
 " I hope not : but you know that, in these
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 105 
 
 days, many people^ whom we considered good 
 and honourable, have forsaken the cause of an 
 unfortunate king." 
 
 ^' I understand you. Father ; but I assure 
 you upon my honour^ Ernest Montague — no 
 Montague — or any person whateyer, has come 
 on the subject with me since I returned to 
 England." 
 
 " It is well," said Dormer ; '' for great de- 
 votion to the cause is expected, by the friends 
 of the king, from the representative of your 
 family, Clarenham." 
 
 ^' I think I shall not disappoint their expec- 
 tations. Father, if devotion to the cause is all 
 they look for from me." 
 
 " Young as you are, then, Basil, you have 
 been fixed upon to convey intelligence of great 
 importance to the king." 
 
 Basil's countenance brightened up. " I 
 shall rejoice to fulfil the mission," said he, ar- 
 dently. " But my poor mother," — his looks 
 saddened : '^ Is it Tvished that I should go 
 immediately ?" 
 
 " Immediately." 
 
 " Well, I am ready. I need not be long ab- 
 sent. But why. Father, did you consider this
 
 196 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 duty so painful ? and, to you, why should it 
 be painful to you ?" 
 
 " Because it is accompanied with some dan- 
 ger to you, Clarenham. I have much to tell 
 you : and, till you have heard all, do not make 
 yoiu' determination," 
 
 Dormer then gave a sketch of the plan of 
 rebellion as far as he knew of its aiTangement, 
 carefully avoiding all allusion to the interests 
 of the church, and only addressing those feel- 
 ings of loyalty and compassion to the exiled 
 house of Stuart, which he perceived were now 
 powerfully awakened in the warm heart of his 
 young pupil. Dormer did so, from that deter- 
 mination to deny his o^^^l feelings, and sense 
 of right, and to submit to his church, to which 
 he had excited himself by the severe exercises 
 of the night ; and, as he proceeded, and ob- 
 served his success, he alternately felt that he 
 was acting the part of a devoted self-denying 
 saint, and that of a deceiver and a murderer. 
 The first feeling, however, predominated ; and, 
 amidst the conflict within, he preserved a per- 
 fect calmness of manner. 
 
 " I have but one thing farther to suggest to 
 you, Basil," said he at last. '' I think it Avould
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 197 
 
 be dangerous for you yourself to inform your 
 cousins, the Montagues, of your intended ab- 
 sence. They might ask questions you would 
 find it difficult to answer. Will you then, if 
 you wish to see them before your departure, 
 do so Avithout mentioning it ?" 
 
 " I will. But, if I go soon, I need not see 
 them again. Ernest is gone to Edinburgh, I 
 suspect, on this very business. I thought 
 something was the matter the last day I was 
 at Illerton. The whole family was even more 
 than usually kind to me; and Sir Herbert, 
 though he generally treats me as a mere boy, 
 reminded me that I was within less than a 
 year of being of age, and that I already had 
 a part to act which might mark my future 
 chai'acter and fate ; and that, in all I did, 
 I ought to recollect that, whoever was my ad- 
 viser now, I must bear the consequences here- 
 after." 
 
 Dormer rose abruptly, and tui'ned away. 
 " My watch," said he, after seeming to search 
 for it, — " O, here it is, and it is not so late as 
 I thought. I beg your pardon for interrupt- 
 ing you. Sir Herbert, I fcai-, must havcj got 
 some intelligence of what is going on. l>id
 
 l98 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 lie say any thing more Avhicli would now lead 
 you to suppose so ?" 
 
 " No ; he only reminded me in the kind- 
 est manner, of the nearness of our relationship, 
 and entreated me to regard him, on every oc- 
 casion, as one who felt for me as a father." 
 
 Dormer was silent for a few moments, then 
 asked what had led his young friend to sup- 
 pose Ernest Montague was gone to Edinburgh 
 on the business he had mentioned ? 
 
 " Because," replied Basil, " he told me it was 
 to receive correct information respecting some 
 very painful intelligence which had reached 
 his father ; but, as he did not tell me what 
 that intelligence was, I supposed it of a private 
 nature, and did not press him on the subject : 
 but, after the religious conversation I have al- 
 ready mentioned to you. Father, I now recol- 
 lect that he somehow led to the subject of civil 
 war, and most strongly urged the misery and 
 crimes that must ever accompany it ; and the 
 responsibility of those who in any way assist- 
 ed in producing or promoting it." Basil look-- 
 ed thoughtful after this recollection, then said, 
 " But our cause is so just, I cannot hesitate* 
 I am ready whenever my services are wished
 
 I'AtilER CLE.MENT. l90 
 
 for. Ami now. Father, miiy I impose on you 
 the painful task of informing my mother ? She 
 will require to have the intelligence softened 
 to her hy the aid of religious consolations." 
 
 Dormer undertook this : and, before that 
 mournful day had closed, he saw the widowed 
 mother, almost heart-broken, carried in a faint 
 to her apartment, after having strained her 
 eyes to catch the last glimpse of her son, as he 
 rode across the park, on his way to Sir Thomas 
 Carysford's ; — his sisters in the deepest gi'ief ; 
 and that gloom again thrown over every coun- 
 tenance at Ilallern Castle, which had been 
 passing away amidst the brighter hopes which 
 had been inspired by the presence and engag- 
 ing qualities of young Clarenham. 
 
 Dormer had, early in the day, infonned 
 WaiTcnne of the promptness with which his 
 young charge had undertaken his proposed mis- 
 sion ; and had very soon received an answer 
 requesting Basil's immediate presence ; and 
 saying, that suspicions were already afloat ; 
 and that, uidess he set out immediately, his 
 going miglit be prevented altogether. Lord 
 Derwentwater (a leader in the rebellion,) was 
 that day to be at Sir Thomas Carysford's, and
 
 200 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 Wan-enne said, wished to meet witli young 
 Clarenliani. The lure succeeded, and though 
 Basil's gentle nature was deeply moved by the 
 grief his departure occasioned, still he felt gra- 
 tified by the confidence "which he believed was 
 reposed in him, and attempted to lead forward 
 the hopes of his mother and sisters to those 
 brighter days which still awaited the house of 
 Clarenham. " And, whatever happens," added 
 he, " this I feel assured of, that we shall have 
 sufficient interest with our friends to secure 
 the ]\Iontagues from any injury/*
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 " Rispose Gesu, e disse ; in verity vi dico, die non v'ha alcuno, 
 il quale abbia abbandonato la casa, o i fratelli, o le sorelle, o il padre, 
 o la madre, o i figliuoli, o la possessioni per me, e per vangelo, che 
 non receva il centuplo, — e nel secolo avvenire la vita eterna." 
 
 Martini'^ r/-n;i.s.— Mark x. 21), 30. 
 
 "Weeks now passed away, and still Dor- 
 mer's account of Mrs. Clarenliam's state of spi- 
 rits and health prevented "Warrenne from hop- 
 ing that any proposal regarding the speedy 
 union of the houses of Carysford and Claren- 
 ham would meet with her approval. He had 
 himself visited her several times^ and had suc- 
 ceeded in exciting at least a feeling of grati- 
 tude in her gentle natm-e. At his desire also^, 
 Lady Carysford had urged Mrs. Clarenham 
 and her daughters to pay a visit of a few days 
 at the Park. Tliis Mrs. Clarenham positively
 
 202 FATHER CLE3IENT. 
 
 declined ; and "Wan-enne was annoyed by dis- 
 covering, that, tliough she thus shrunk from 
 the society she would have met there, she 
 seemed pleased and comforted by that of Lady 
 Montague and her daughter, who were fre- 
 quently with her. 
 
 During this period the rebels had appeared 
 in arms, in the North of England, under Lord 
 Derwentwater and Foster, and troops were 
 collecting to meet them and defend the coun- 
 try. 
 
 At last, on some soldiers being quartered at 
 Hallera village, and reports reaching Mrs. 
 Clarenham that others would soon be quarter- 
 ed at the Castle, and alarmed by the accounts 
 related to her of their insolence and disorder- 
 ly conduct, she yielded to Sir Thomas Carys- 
 ford's urgent entreaties to put herself and her 
 daughters under his protection. 
 
 On the day after giving her consent to this 
 proposal, jMrs. Clarenham, the very picture of 
 soiTOW and depression, and her daughters, with 
 looks also full of anxiety and apprehension, 
 left the Castle. Many of the villagers having 
 heard exaggerated reports of the danger which 
 occasioned their departure, were gathered
 
 FATHER CLEMKNT. 203 
 
 round tlie carriage which was to convey them 
 away, and stood ready to add to their depres- 
 sion, by their affectionate, but sad and forebod- 
 ing exclamations. 
 
 " Oh, our dear Lady ! how pale she looks. 
 Holy Maria bless her !" exclaimed some. 
 
 " Jesu Maria ! could the Protestant WTetches 
 be so cruel-hearted as to hurt her, or the sweet 
 young ladies ?" exclaimed others. 
 
 " Blessings, blessings from holy Mary and 
 all the saints follow them !" 
 
 " We will defend the Castle to the last," 
 said the men. " We mil not forget our kind 
 young master." 
 
 " Oh, what will become of the poor now ?" 
 said some. 
 
 " Father Clement is to remain among you," 
 said Maria kindly to the people. " You think 
 too seriously of our going away. I hope we 
 shall very soon retmn; and, in the mean 
 time, Fatlier Clement will let us know all 
 about you." 
 
 " Blessings on you, dear Miss Clarenham. 
 You always cheer our hearts. Blessings on 
 holy Father Clement for stajdng with us." 
 
 Dormer raised his hand to motion silence.
 
 204 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 and in an instant tlie clamour ceased, and the 
 old coach slowly drove away. 
 
 Mrs. Clarenham had detennined, on her 
 w^ay, to call at Illerton, herself to inform the 
 Montagues of her removal to Sir Thomas 
 Carysford's, and to take leave for a time of her 
 Protestant, but most beloved of all friends. 
 
 Sir Herbert and his Lady were in astonish- 
 ment on seeing Mrs. Clarenham ; and still more 
 so on her telling the cause of her leaving that 
 retirement, which, a few days before, they would 
 have regarded as the most painful exertion. 
 
 "Absurd!" exclaimed Sir Herbert. "Sir 
 Thomas must know that at present there is 
 no danger of more soldiers coming to this 
 neiofhbourhood. Those now at Hallern are 
 to leave it to-day. Lord Derwentwater has 
 taken the field, and all the soldiers that can be 
 mustered will be in requisition to meet him. 
 And, at any rate, my dear cousin, you would, 
 at present, be much safer with us. Why not 
 remain at Illerton ? The Carysfords are no 
 relations. JMatters cannot go well with the 
 rebels." (Mrs. Clarenham became paler than 
 she was before.) " At least," continued 
 Sir Herbert, "it is time enough to leave us
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 205 
 
 wlien Sir Thomas can offer a more sure pro- 
 tection." 
 
 " Let us leave my mother and Sir Herbert 
 to settle that matter/' said Maria Clarenham, 
 taking her friend Adeline aside into one of 
 those deep recesses in which it was common 
 at that period to have the windows. " I wish 
 from my heart/' continued Maria, " that Sir 
 Herbert had thought of proposing our coming 
 here some days ago ; but now it is too late. 
 I have all along, Adeline, suspected that ex- 
 aggerated accounts were purposely brought 
 to us of the unsettled state of the country 
 around this, and of the bad conduct of the few 
 soldiers at Hallern." 
 
 "But why, dear Maria, should any one be 
 so cruel as to add to the sufferings of your 
 mother, — your dear, patient, gentle mother !" 
 Adeline's eyes filled, as she glanced at Mrs. 
 Clarenham while she spoke. 
 
 ^' I begin to suspect who could be so cruel," 
 replied Maria indignantly. " I may perhaps 
 think I see more than is to be seen ; but I am 
 greatly mistaken if that wily, inquisitive, do- 
 mineering WaiTcnne, has not succeeded in 
 sending one unsuspecting, noble-minded, dear
 
 206 FATHER CLE3IENT, 
 
 dupe, out of the way of Protestant influence, 
 and is now manoeuvcring, in a way lie regards 
 as equally secure of success^ to involve another 
 in iiTevocable trammels. But he knows her 
 not : at least I trust she now leans on a 
 strength before which all his efforts will fall 
 hannless. But, dear Adeline, I have a re- 
 quest to make to you. Dr. Lowther, you 
 know, sent me a New Testament. It is the 
 treasure and light of my heart and soul. But 
 it has made me desire more light. The vo- 
 lume he sent me has a great number of refer- 
 ences to other parts of Scripture on the margin 
 of every page. Those references have been 
 of the utmost use in teaching me to under- 
 stand w^hat I read. I have found that the Bi- 
 ble explains itself. A passage may seem so 
 obscure in its meaning, that you may read it, 
 — at least I found it so, — over and over, and 
 not be able to comprehend it, when, if you 
 turn up a few other passages, it seems as light 
 as day : but many of these references are to 
 the Old Testament, and I have not been able 
 to procure one. Will you, dear Adeline, be- 
 stow an Old Testament on me ?" 
 
 ^' AVill I ? dear, dear Maria !" Adeline
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 207 
 
 could not speak for tears. ''^Come/' said she 
 at last, " I think Dr. LoAvther must produce 
 an Old Testament to suit the New one he 
 sent you." "We shall return immediately/' 
 said Adeline to her mother, as she ajccompa- 
 nied Maria out of the room. They then pro- 
 ceeded to the door of Dr. Lowther's study. 
 
 " But I cannot think of disturbing Dr. Low- 
 ther," said Maria, laying her hand on Ade- 
 line's, as she was about to knock at the door. 
 '' I shall pass on, and then, if we are inteiTupt- 
 ing him, he will less scruple to tell you so." i 
 
 '' Ah ! you do not know Dr. Lowther," said 
 Adeline, retaining her hand, and tapping gent- 
 ly at his door. 
 
 The Doctor's kind and cheerful voice an- 
 swered by an invitation to enter. 
 
 " Well, my dear Miss Adeline, what is it ?" 
 asked he, without raising his head. A large 
 Bible was before him, in Avhicli he seemed to 
 be searching for some passage. 
 
 " Are you very busy, my dear Sir ?" asked 
 Adeline. 
 
 " Yes — very busy," replied the Doctor, in 
 an absent manner, and glancing intently 
 down one column, then another. " I am pre-
 
 208 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 paring my lecture for next Lord's Day, my 
 dear ; and there is a passage, — I am sure there 
 is, — to the point, but it is not marked in my 
 concordtftice, and I cannot find it." 
 
 *' Do not let us disturb Dr. Lom ther," said 
 Maria earnestly, and drawing Adeline away. 
 
 The Doctor raised his head, and put up his 
 spectacles. 
 
 " Miss Clarenham ! my dearest young lady, 
 I beg your pardon." 
 
 " I ought to ask your forgiveness. Sir, for 
 this intrusion." 
 
 " No apologies, I entreat you, my dear Miss 
 Clarenham," inteiTupted Dr. Lowther, taking 
 Maiia's hand, and placing her in a chair by 
 him ; then retaining her hand in both of his, 
 and with the manner of the kindest father, 
 '"^Can I be of any service to you, my dear 
 young lady ?" asked he. " Nothing would give 
 me gTcater pleasure." 
 
 Maria's heart was full, and when she at- 
 tempted to speak, she could not. Dr. Low- 
 ther turned to Adeline, who in a few words 
 told her friend's wish. 
 
 Dr. Lowther was much moved. " It is the 
 Lord's own work," said he emphatically. "
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 209 
 
 how pleasant it is to see tlie effect of his own 
 powerful word upon the heart, without the 
 intervention of human teaching ! What is any 
 teaching compared to that word applied hy his 
 Spirit? 'What is the chaff to the wheat? 
 saith the Lord. Is not my word like as a 
 fire ? saith the Lord, and like a hammer that 
 breaketh the rock to pieces ?'* My dear 
 young lady, may I ask, can you thus love 
 God's word, and still join in the observances 
 of the Roman church ?" 
 
 " I do not join in any observance. Sir, which 
 I do not think I find inculcated, or at least 
 permitted in the Scnptures. I have never 
 confessed since I examined the New Testa- 
 ment on that point. I attempt to pray now, 
 but never merely repeat prayers. I regard 
 the Virgin Mary as only the most blessed 
 among women, because she was honoured to be 
 the mother of the human natuie of my Lord ; 
 but think it idolatry to worship or pray to 
 her, or to any of the saints : but I still attend 
 mass and the Eucharist," continued Maria, 
 hesitatingly, and looking timidly at Dr. Low- 
 
 * Jer. xxiii. 28, 29. ,
 
 210 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 tlier, "■ because^ though I wish the prayers 
 were in EngUsh, still I think the Catholic 
 chui-ch, — as I understand the Bible, — receives 
 that great mystery more simply and literally 
 than the Protestants do, who explain away 
 what appears to me the plain doctrine of the 
 real presence." 
 
 " We do not explain away the doctiine of 
 the real spiritual presence, my dear Miss Cla- 
 renliam ; but w^e say, that nothing but what 
 is spiritual or future is in the Bible made an 
 object of faith. The Romish church turns an 
 ol)ject of sense into an object of faith ; in other 
 words, asks you to believe in the presence of 
 a real substance — of real flesh and blood, con- 
 trary to the evidence of your sight — of your 
 touch — of your taste — of all your senses." 
 
 "But, my dear Sir, Christ says, 'This is 
 my body.' " 
 
 " True, my dear Miss Clarenham ; but when 
 he so said, and distributed the broken symbol, 
 his body had not been broken. He could there- 
 fore say so only in a figurative sense, as he is 
 elsewhere designated 'The Lamb slain from 
 the foundation of the world.'"* But I do not 
 
 * Rev. xiii. 8.
 
 J-^ATHER CLEMENT. 211 
 
 Wish to enter into controversy Avitli you on this 
 point. It is one on which the Romish church 
 builds so much error, while the people mingle 
 •with that error so much devotional feeling, 
 that the heart is engaged in its defence ; and 
 many pious souls have left this world, I hope 
 and believe for a better, with their heads in 
 confusion on the subject, while their hearts 
 were wholly devoted to that Saviour in whose 
 merits they put their only trust for salvation. 
 Only allow me to say a very few things to you 
 on this point, which your own mind would na- 
 turally suggest, but which, from early impres- 
 sions, you might regard as profane, though 
 they can only be so if the doctrine is tme ; 
 and I think they prove it to be false. You 
 are, I kno^^', my dear young lady, in your 
 books of preparation for, and devotions at, and 
 after receiving the Eucharist, exhorted to pre- 
 pare your heart ; and, as one of those books 
 says, ' If you find your conscience defiled with 
 any mortal crime, approach not this dreadful 
 mystery till you have first purified it in the 
 tribimal of penance : there it is the Apostle 
 wdll by all means have you examine yourself 
 before you partake of the Eucharist.' Are not
 
 212 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 such exhortations addressed to yoii^, Miss Cla- 
 renham, both in the books given you by your 
 spiritual guides^ and by themselves ?" 
 
 " They are, Sir, constantly ; and I perceive 
 how unscriptural the passage you have repeated 
 is. I remember St. Paul's words, ' Let a 
 man examine himself, so let him eat of that 
 bread and drink of that cup.'* There is no- 
 thing said of penance, — no tribunal but that 
 of the man's conscience before God. I have 
 attempted to follow this direction before at- 
 tending mass. Still, however. Sir, St. Paul 
 adds, ' Lest, coming unworthily, he eat and 
 drink damnation to himself, not discerning the 
 Lord's body.' Still, my dear Sir, the real bodily 
 presence" 
 
 "And how, my dear Miss Clarenham, do 
 Roman Catholics discern the Lord's body in 
 the Eucharist ?" 
 
 "They all firmly believe that it is really 
 there ; and show that they do so by adoring 
 the Host." 
 
 " But, my dear young lady, discerning and 
 believing are not the same. Discerning means 
 
 • 1 Cor. xi. 28.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 213 
 
 discriminating, distinguishing between one 
 thing and another ; and^, if you will read the 
 passage attentively, and putting away, as much 
 as you can, earlyprejudices, you willfind that St. 
 Paul was reproving the Corinthians for an im- 
 proper observance of the Lord's Supper. They 
 had partaken of it as of a common meal or feast. 
 lie says, ' For, in eating, every one taketh 
 before other his own supper, and one is hungry, 
 and another is drmiken.' He then reproves 
 sharply this profanation of the Lord's Supper, 
 and reminds them of the real pm-pose of the 
 institution, and warns them of the danger of 
 not distinguishing between a common feast 
 and that ordinance of the Lord, in which they 
 were to show forth his death till he came — 
 between that bread which was the symbol of 
 the Lord's body, and that used for common 
 food. But to retm-n to your books of devotion : 
 you are in them exhorted to remember, that, in 
 the Eucharist, Christ becomes as it were incor- 
 porated with you, by giving you his flesh to 
 eat ; and you are taught that the bodily pre- 
 sence of Christ in the communion is ' an ex- 
 tension of the incarnation.' Are you not, my 
 dear young lady, taught all this ?"
 
 214 FATHER CLE3fENT. 
 
 " Yes, Sir, constantly." 
 
 "And you are even told that jou receive 
 God into your heart ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 '' Do not be shocked, my dear Miss Claren- 
 ham, Avhen I point out the profanity of this 
 absurd doctrine. Our Lord himself explains 
 the meaning of the figurative language he had 
 used, when he taught the necessity of believ- 
 ing in his incarnation, and of trusting to its 
 efficacy, as the very sup]3ort, food, nourish- 
 ment of our souls. He says — ' It is the Spirit 
 that quickeneth ; the flesh profiteth nothing : 
 the words that I speak unto you, they are spi- 
 rit and they are life.'* Our Lord here plainly 
 declares, that all he had taught was spiritual : 
 yet the Romish church, disregarding this ex- 
 planation of Christ, support this doctrine of d, 
 literal presence, by those very words which our 
 Lord himself has declared he meant spiritually, 
 and which, he said, when applied to the literal 
 flesh, profiteth nothing. And mark the conse- 
 quence of this literal doctrine : — The church 
 of Rome avers that the thousands of her com- 
 
 * John vi. 63.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 215 
 
 munion who have partaken of the Eucharist, 
 ■worthy and unworthy, have really partaken of 
 the literal body of Jesus Christ. I shall just 
 mention one necessary, but most profane con- 
 sequence from such a doctrine. Thousands 
 and ten thousands of Roman Catholics, who 
 have thus received the flesh of Jesus Christ 
 to become incorporated with them, have died 
 and become the prey of corruption. JMany 
 every day are consigned to corruption. The 
 Scriptm-es say — ' Thou (God) will not suffer 
 thy Holy One to see corruption.""' St. Peter 
 explains this of Christ.t But the Romish 
 church profanely teaches a doctiine which 
 involves the blasphemous consequence, that 
 the real body of the Holy One of God is in a 
 continual state of coiTuption. I shall say no 
 more." 
 
 Maria looked shocked, but said — " I do not 
 think the church would allow that it taught 
 this consequence." 
 
 '' Certainly not," replied Dr. Lowther : " but 
 still it so necessarily follows from what she 
 teaches that, to get rid of it, she must very 
 nearly get rid of the doctrine also. She says, 
 
 * Psalm xvi. 10. f Acts ii. 31.
 
 216 FATHER CLEMENT, 
 
 ' Christ is not present in tins Sacrament ac- 
 cording to his natural way of existence, that is, 
 with extension of pai-ts, in order to place, &c. 
 but after a supernatural manner, one and the 
 same in man}' places, and whole in every part 
 of the symbols. This is therefore,' say they, 
 ^ a real, substantial, yet sacramental presence 
 of Christ's body and blood, not exposed to the 
 external senses, not obnoxious to corporeal 
 contingencies.' This explanation, if intelligible 
 at all, admits that Christ received in the sa- 
 crament is Christ received by faith into the 
 soul — that is, a spiritual reception — not the 
 literal body and flesh of Christ, but a superna- 
 tural body and flesh — a sacramental presence 
 — a whole Christ in every part of the symbol. 
 Thus, you perceive, my dear Miss Clarenham, 
 that when obliged to explain herself, the 
 church of Rome no more believes in a real or 
 literal presence than Protestants do ; and that 
 the latter teach, simply and scripturally, to all 
 the people the spiritual doctrine taught by 
 Christ ; while the church of Rome blinds her 
 votaries by pretending to teach what she is 
 obliged, wlien brought to reason with those 
 who oppose her, to explain away so as to
 
 FATHER CLKMENT. 217 
 
 have a meaning entirely different from that 
 generally received by her children. As to the 
 sacrifice vrhich you are taught to believe is of- 
 fered by the mass, it is a notion equally con- 
 trary to the Scriptures and to reason. The 
 Scriptures say, ' Christ is not entered into tlie 
 holy places made with hands, the figures of 
 the tnie, but into heaven itself, now to appear 
 in the presence of God for us ; nor yet that he 
 should offer himself often, as the high priest 
 (alluding to the temple service) entereth into 
 the holy place every year with the blood of 
 others ; for then must he have often suffered 
 since the foundation of the world : But now 
 once in the end of the world hath he appeared 
 to put aw^ay sin by the sacrifice of himself : and 
 as it is appointed unto men once to die, Imt af- 
 ter this the judgment, so Christ was o«ce offered 
 to bear the sins of many.'* St. Paul continuing, 
 in his address to the Hebrews^ to contrast the 
 figurative Jewish service with the reality ful- 
 filled in Christ, says, ' Every priest standeth 
 daily ministering, and offering oftentimes the 
 same sacrifices, which can never take away 
 
 * IIe])rc\vs ix. 24, '23, 2G, 27, 23. 
 T
 
 218 FATHER CLE3IENT. 
 
 sins ; but tliis mim^ after he had oftered one sa- 
 crifice for suiS;, for ever sat down on the right 
 hand of God. For by o?ie offering He liath per- 
 fected for ever them that are sanctified.'" If 
 we reason on tlie subject, let me ask you. Miss 
 Clarenham, wliat we mean w^hen we speak of 
 a sacrifice to take away sin ? Is it not con- 
 stantly represented in Scripture under the 
 character of an innocent victim, substituted in 
 the place of a guilty being, to suffer in his 
 stead ? Does not the very idea of receiving 
 forgiveness, in virtue of a sacrifice, denote that 
 our sins have been transfen-ed to the victim, or 
 substitute ? Sin, in the Scriptures, is repre- 
 sented as washed away only by blood — by suf- 
 fering. Then where is the virtue of that sa- 
 crifice your priests pretend to offer? Christ, 
 when '^He was otice offered for the sins of 
 many, was w^ounded for our transgi'essions. He 
 was bruised for our iniquities ; the chastise- 
 ment of our peace was upon Him, and with his 
 stripes w^e are healed.' t But this silly and profane 
 invention of a coiTupt church has no virtue, 
 no meaning. They call it an unbloody sacrifice ; 
 
 * Hebrews x. 11, 12, 14. f Isaiah liii. 5.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 219 
 
 but u bloodless is a useless sacrifice, since blood 
 alone can wash away sin : and bowing doAvn 
 to adore what is thus offered is the most child- 
 ish idolatry — the worshipping of the veriest 
 unworthy trifle ever made by men's hands, 
 «ind set up as a god. I shall only farther ask 
 3^ou to consider the uses to which the Romish 
 clergy put this doctrine — their masses for the 
 dead bought with money. But I need say no 
 more." 
 
 Dr. Tx)wtlier sought among his books for a 
 small Old Testament with marginal references, 
 and presented it to Maria. 
 
 '^ You must also accept from me the articles 
 of belief of the different Protestant churches/' 
 said he. '^You may hear much of the want 
 of union which exists among uSj as I know that 
 it is a point much dwelt on by those members 
 of your church who are kept in ignorance of 
 the truth on such subjects. Here is the Con- 
 fession of Faith of the Church of Scotland, 
 and also the Catechism taught in every parish- 
 school in that country : The articles also of 
 the Church of England. The behef of the 
 Swiss and Dutch Church is allowed to be the 
 same as that of Scotltind. You Avill find that
 
 FATHER CLKMENT. 
 
 there is scarcely a shade of difference in the 
 faith of all these churches. The minor sects 
 of Protestants also agree in those articles which 
 are by all considered as essential ; and, as the 
 Bible is the only standard of truth with all 
 Protestants, we may hope and trust that time 
 will do away those differences which all good 
 men amongst us lament, and which have been 
 produced by the pride and evil passions of 
 those who have mingled amongst professing 
 Protestants, and by that darkness and igno- 
 rance which a deeper acquaintance with the 
 Bible will do aAvay: and then that blessed 
 time may be hoped for, when true Bible Chris- 
 tians will alone be, as they alone are, acknow- 
 ledged by all as the only true Cliurch." 
 
 Here little Maude put in her head at the 
 door : " Mrs. Clarenham is going away, Maria, 
 and has sent me for you." 
 
 Maria immediately rose ; " Pray for me, 
 dear Dr. Lowther," said she earnestly. 
 
 " I A\Till, from my inmost heart, my dear Miss 
 Clarenham." 
 
 Slie held out her hand to him ; he took it in 
 both of his, and, raising his eyes to heaven, 
 prayed shortly but with much fervour, for her
 
 FATIIEK < LKMENT. 221 
 
 as a liunb of Christ's fold ; imploring guid- 
 ance, and light, and strength, and prudence 
 in conduct while amongst those still in dark- 
 ness, and peace and confidence in God. 
 
 Maria was much moved : " Precious En- 
 glish prayers !" exclaimed she. '' Oh how dif- 
 ferent from the rapid unmeaning words with 
 which our priests pretend to guide our devo- 
 tions ! Oh that I might remain in tliis house ! 
 But it must not be. Farewell — Farewell." 
 And she hastened aw^ay. 
 
 Mrs. Clarenham and Catherine were already 
 in the caniage ; and, after a melancholy drive 
 of several miles, during wdiicli they passed 
 through several villages and hamlets which 
 seemed as peaceful as usual, they arrived at the 
 massive old gateway which led into Sir Tho- 
 mas Carysford's grounds. Here Sir Thomas 
 and his son rode up to the carriage to wel- 
 come them. Young Carysford came to the 
 window next which Maria sat, and leaning 
 forward, " Good news !" said he joyfully, " all 
 the north of Scotland is in arms. Not a 
 false heart amongst them hut Argyle ; and he, 
 I hope, will share the fate of his covenanting 
 rebellious ancestors !"
 
 222 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 ''' Is Argyle against us ?" 
 
 " Yes. When did a Protestant Argyle fa- 
 vour the house of Stuart V 
 
 '•' One Protestant Argyle put the croA^^l of 
 Scotland on the head of a wanderer of the 
 Stuarts -when he had feAV friends besides, Ed- 
 ward/' said iMaria with warmth ; " for which 
 he was rewarded by losing his own when that 
 grateful exile came to poAver." 
 
 " That is the lUerton edition of the story/' 
 replied young Carysford, rather piqued. 
 
 " Is it not the true edition ?" 
 
 " He lost his head as a judgment for hav- 
 ing signed a covenant to suppress the Catho- 
 lic church/' answered Carysford, half play- 
 fully. "But now, I hope, we shall see the 
 heretic, covenanting Presbyterians unsettled 
 again, and the true church triumpliant in their 
 room." 
 
 " Many heads will fall in Scotland, Edward, 
 ere the Romish church shall raise hers there/' 
 
 " Are you become a prophetess, IMaria ?" 
 
 '^ It is only necessary to look back, not for- 
 ward, Edward, to prophesy on that point. A 
 land thirsting for education and Bibles pro- 
 jniscs ill for the success of our chui'ch."
 
 FATHER CLEMKNT. 223 
 
 "All — all — learnt at lUerton, that vile se- 
 ducing Illerton !" replied Carysford^, laughing 
 good-naturedly. 
 
 " True, sincere, happy Illerton !" said Maria, 
 smiHng at last also, "where every one may 
 venture to hear or tell hoth sides of a story." 
 
 Sir Thomas had, on the other side of the car- 
 riage, heen eagerly listened to by Mrs. Claren- 
 ham and Catherine, while he detailed the ex- 
 aggerated account of the state of affairs in Scot- 
 land, where, he seemed quite certain, such for- 
 ces were assembling, as must, at least, put the 
 house of Stuart in possession of that country. 
 
 The news was at last told, and the coach 
 again moved slowly along the beautifully-kept 
 road which led through the fine old park to 
 the magnificent mansion of the Carysfords. 
 All, except in extent, was in complete contrast 
 to Hallem. Not a withered leaf was left on 
 the smooth velvet turf. Every part of the 
 grounds was in the most perfect state of keep- 
 ing. Maria, from an early age, had been in 
 the habit of regarding Carysford Park as the 
 place of her future residence, and had become 
 warmly attaclied to its scenery. The thought 
 ihat she must no longer look forward to it as
 
 224 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 suchj HOW nilnglecl Avitli the many other sad 
 thoughts which at this moment had full pos- 
 session of her mind, and gave a melancholy 
 character to the masses of foliage with which 
 the fine old trees shaded the bright gi*een ver- 
 dure, and to the deep dells into which the park 
 was in some places broken ; and even to the 
 smiles with which young Carysford occasion- 
 ally addiessed her as he continued to rein in 
 his horse, that he might keep pace with the 
 heavy, old, long-tailed, broad-backed, state 
 cavalry, which, mounted by two not very 
 youthful postilions, dragged the massive coach 
 along the level gravel. 
 
 At length the solemn procession stopt be- 
 fore the splendid mansion, and in an instant 
 Lady Carysford was at the hall-door to wel- 
 come her guests. Every arrangement had 
 been made by her with kindness and feeling ; 
 and Mrs. Clarenham soon found herself mis- 
 tress of a set of apartments entirely appropri- 
 ated to her use, and separated from those oc- 
 cupied by the family ; and in which. Lady 
 Carysford assuied her, she would at no time 
 be disturljcd. From these apartments a door 
 led into a flower-garden, which she was also to
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. SJi} 
 
 consider as entirely her own. All promised 
 peace, and liberty to occupy licr time as she 
 chose ; and ^Irs. Clarenham warmly expressed 
 her thanks. 
 
 " I do as I would wish my friends to do to 
 me, my dear Mrs. Clarenham," replied Lady 
 Carysford. " Xohody shall come near you. 
 But the young people must not shut them- 
 selves up. I have engaged some companions, 
 to join them here. When you are disposed to 
 see Sir Thomas and me, or Father Adrian, we 
 shall make a quiet party, and let the young 
 folks amuse themselves. IMaria shall do the 
 honours for me. Ah, my dear Mrs. Claren- 
 ham, how often I long for a daughter ! every 
 female visitor must I look after myself Well, 
 my time may come," looking archly at Maria : 
 " but, my dear, I have heard strange reports 
 about you. I shall not mention them now ; 
 but you and I must have some conversation. 
 I am prepared for you. I do not fear a host 
 of Protestant arguments ; but I have come on 
 the subject which I did not intend." 
 
 So ran on Lady Carysford, but, after a few 
 more such speeches, left her guests, to go and 
 receive some other visitors.
 
 ClIAPTER VllL 
 
 " Chi auia suo padre, o sua niadre piu di me, non t degno di me ; 
 e chi ama il fislio, o la figlia, pifi di inc, non e degno di me." 
 
 Martini's T;-a«s.— Mattb. x. 37. 
 
 During a week passed at Carysford Park, 
 it was so managed that, for a considerable j)art 
 of each day, Mrs. Clarenham joined Sir Tho- 
 mas and Lady Carysford, and some of the el- 
 der visitors of the Park, while the young peo- 
 l^le were left to amuse themselves. Every 
 species of amusement to be found in the coun- 
 try was at the command of the young party ; 
 and Carysford's high spirits and good nature 
 made him particularly ingenious in varying 
 and contriving entertainments for his guests. 
 Still, however, he sought to discover what was 
 most agreeable to Maria in all he did ; and 
 with her only he was unsuccessful. All his 
 other young friends, including Catherine Cla-
 
 FATHER CLE3IENT. 227 
 
 leiiliain, entered, with ap})arent deliglit, into 
 liis plans, and a scene of gaiety and enjoyment 
 ■Nvas constantly around liim. Yet Maria, who 
 had formerly been the life of every such scene, 
 — except at short intervals^ when she seemed 
 to forget the sorrow that checked and saddened 
 her smiles, and the lively playfulness of her 
 fancy Avould give new life to all the others, — 
 except at such short intervals, JMarIa was 
 grave, and absent, and thoughtful. Sometimes 
 she would succeed in leading her light-heart- 
 ed companions to enter into the grave and 
 melancholy kind of conversation which suit- 
 ed her OMU state of spirits. This gradually 
 superseded, or at least always followed, gayer 
 hours ; and the two last evenings of the week, 
 on Lady Carysford joining the young party, 
 to see that all were amused and happy, she 
 found them sitting close together, in grave 
 and apparently deeply interesting conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 '^ No music ! no dancing !" exclaimed she, 
 the first evening she found them thus — and 
 then the conversation was interrupted, and 
 music and dancing commenced ; but, on the 
 second evening, all declared that they prefer-
 
 228 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 red those liours of quiet conversation to any 
 amusement. 
 
 Lady Carysford was surprised, but not 
 pleased. It was evident tliat Maria had ])een 
 the attraction in this grave manner of spend- 
 ing time. All were gathered round her, and 
 Lady Carj'sford had distinguished her ani- 
 mated voice as she entered the room. 
 
 ^' What on earth can you find to converse 
 about, tliat Is so very agi'eeable ?" asked Lady 
 Carysford. 
 
 '' Indeed, IMadam, you would not think it 
 so very agreeable," said Catherine. " Maria 
 does nothing but ridicule and undervalue all 
 those saintly virtues which Catholics look up- 
 on as most deserving of heaven. Here she 
 has just been leading us to define what we 
 thought most excellent and lovely in human 
 character; and, indeed, her own descriptions 
 have not one holy ingredient in them." 
 
 "That is, Catherine, they have no hours 
 spent in repeating what is not understood, — 
 no virtuous going without stockings or shoes 
 over cold marble, — no living without food in 
 the woods, like some of those whose stories 
 you believe, till they became so spiritual thai
 
 FATIIEll CLEMENT. 229 
 
 they arc seen telling their beads on their 
 knees a little ^vay up in the air. I see no- 
 thing in all that, but childish fabulous non- 
 sense." 
 
 All the young people laughed except Cathe- 
 rine. 
 
 " You may judge. Madam, of our conver- 
 sation, from the specimen JMaria has just 
 given," said Catherine, indignantly. 
 
 '' Oh, fie, fie," said Lady Caiysford. " Come 
 with me a little, my love," addressing ]\Iaria : 
 " and the others have still a little time to 
 dance themselves into spirits before prayers." 
 
 " Dance themselves into spirits !" thought 
 Maria. " I wonder what they would think 
 of that as a preparation for devotion at Iller- 
 ton." But she instantly recollected that Dor- 
 mer Avould approve as little of such a prepara- 
 tion as the Montaoues ; and she was settling 
 in her own mind, how much true devotion of 
 lieart had the same effect on the conduct of 
 all Avho were influenced by it, when she found 
 herself alone with Lady Carysford in her 
 dressing-room. 
 
 " ]\Ty dear I\Iaria," said Lady Carysford 
 very affectionately, " I did not wish to hurt 
 u
 
 230 FATHER CLEMENT, 
 
 your feelings by alluding sooner to this sub- 
 ject; but really, my dear, -when I recollect 
 the near tie -which is to unite you to me, and 
 the very prospect of which has already made 
 you dearer to me than almost any other person 
 on earth, I can refrain no longer." 
 
 " You know, my dear Madam," said Maria, 
 ^' that connexion cannot take place if you 
 are at all dissatisfied -with me on the point 
 to which you allude." 
 
 '^ Maria ! my child ! my daughter ! do not 
 utter such words. You mil break my heart. 
 You will break all our hearts. You have been 
 misled by those Protestant cousins of yours : 
 but you are too good, too sensible, to remain 
 long in error. And now, my love, I have got 
 something I wish you particularly to read." 
 
 '' I shall read most attentively whatever 
 you recommend, my dear Lady Carysford." 
 
 "That is like youi'self, my o^vn dear girl. 
 This is what I wish you to read, my love," 
 continued Lady Carysford, drawing a large 
 pocket-book from her ample pocket, and se- 
 lecting, from many papers and letters, one 
 paper, beautifully -vmttcn, and richly gilt and 
 emblazoned. '^^It is a letter, written by
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 231 
 
 the Duchess of York," said she, '' who was 
 careftilly educated by Protestant preceptors in 
 the faith of the Church of England." 
 
 " My dearest Lady Carysford, I have read it 
 a hundred times." 
 
 " Have you, my dear ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and you must not be angry if I say 
 that I think it very silly." 
 
 "Silly?" 
 
 " Extremely so. She does not give one rea- 
 son for changing her religion that could satisfy 
 any sensible person really in search of truth. 
 She says she could discern no reason why the 
 Protestants in England separated from the 
 Church of Rome, but because Henry VIII. 
 chose to renounce the Pope's authority, when 
 he would not give him leave to part with one 
 wife that he might marry another. Now, my 
 dear Madam, it is this sort of nonsense which 
 we Catholics are nursed upon, and which 
 makes us appear so ignorant, and priest-led, 
 and childishly ridiculous in the eyes of Pro- 
 testants, who, on this point, have only to ask 
 us, while they cannot refrain from laughing at 
 our silly credulity, — wdiat induced so many 
 Protestants to prefer being burnt to death ra-
 
 232 FATHKll CLEMENT. 
 
 tlier than return to the bosom of the church a 
 few years after, under the reign of the Pious 
 Catholic, as we term her ; but as they, I think, 
 more justly designate her, ' the Bloody Mary.' 
 Henry VIII. took advantage of the times, 
 when the light of the Reformation was becom- 
 ing too powerful for the church of Rome. He 
 then succeeded in setting up his own despotic 
 power in opposition to hers ; but, as to religion, 
 ours suited his character best, and he continu- 
 ed to profess himself a member of our church 
 to the last : and he is regarded by Protestants 
 as a wicked, half-mad t}Tant. Then those 
 Bishops of the church of England, whom the 
 Duchess of York mentions having consulted, 
 a tolerably instructed Protestant child would 
 tell you, that if they believed what she says 
 they beUeved, they were not Protestants. 
 You must give more conclusive arguments, 
 my dear Lady Carysford, in favour of our 
 church, or I fear I must consider her cause a 
 weak one indeed, when put in competition 
 with that which appeals only to the Bible— 
 which urges you to try its truth by God's own 
 word — to search that word as for hid treasures 
 — ixnd to receive no doctrine from men but
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 233 
 
 wliat they can plainly show you is written 
 there." 
 
 " But, my love, our church does not ask 
 you to believe any thing that is not in the Bi- 
 ble." 
 
 " My dear Madam, she asks us to believe 
 many things that are not in the Bible. Does 
 she not command us to receive, as matters of 
 faith, necessary to salvation, " First, What in 
 Scripture is plain and inteUigible. Secondly j 
 Definitions of General Councils, on points not 
 sufficiently explained in Scriptui-e. Thirdlij, 
 Apostolical . traditions, received from Christ 
 and his apostles, (and we all know how easy 
 it is to make that a wide belief.) Fourthly, 
 The practice, worship, and ceremonies of the 
 church in confinnation of her doctrines V 
 
 '' My dear child, I must give you over to 
 Father Adrian upon these matters. You have 
 got into strange errors j but now I must re- 
 tui-n to your mother. You really have taken 
 extraordinary fancies into your young head. 
 But come with me, till I find out what ac- 
 counts of our cause Sir Thomas has received, 
 that I may be able to tell your mother. He 
 left us some time ago to receive letters from a
 
 234 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 messenger who would deliver them to none 
 but himself. I was on my way in search of 
 Sir Thomas when I looked in on you^, and for- 
 got every thing else on hearing what you had 
 been conversing about." 
 
 Sir Thomas was still in the apartment in 
 which he had received the messenger, and 
 looked gi-ave and dissatisfied. 
 
 " What is the matter, my dear V asked 
 Lady Carysford. 
 
 " Bad news — very bad news. Our friends 
 have been obliged to lay dovm. their arms, and 
 are made prisoners as rebels. Our cause for 
 the present, is lost in England. Poor Der- 
 wentwater is a prisoner. There is little hope 
 for him." 
 
 " How, Sir ! what !" exclaimed Maria,^ 
 " \\i]l he suifer as a traitor V 
 
 " I fear, — I fear too soon. They will make 
 an example of him. There is not, I fear, one 
 ray of hope that any mercy will be shown to 
 him." 
 
 Maria clasped her hands. " And my brother, 
 he will be returning to England : it may be 
 known that he was the bearer of dispatches 
 from Lord Derwentwatcr !"
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 235 
 
 " He must be pi evented returning at this 
 crisis/' said Sir Thomas anxiously. " I must 
 see Father Adrian." 
 
 At this moment he entered the room. 
 
 *' No grave looks — no gathering together, 
 as if some disaster had happened — no exciting 
 of suspicion/' said he quickly. " No eye, no 
 car amongst the domestics must be counted on 
 at present. Do, my dear Miss Clarenliam, set 
 the young people to dance. Let the sound of 
 cheerful music be heard — then let us all meet, 
 as usual, in the chapel." 
 
 " But first. Father, -will my brother be re- 
 turning about this time ? is there any chance 
 of suspicion falling on him ?" 
 
 " Your brother, my dear young lady ! he is 
 at Rome." 
 
 " At Rome ! when did he go there. Father ? 
 Why does my mother not know ?" 
 
 " He proceeded there on a confidential mis- 
 sion. I shall tell you all about it at another 
 time. You see what a mercy it was that we 
 thought of sending him there. I shall -write 
 this very night to delay his return." 
 
 Maria looked inquisitively at Warrenne, but 
 Lis countenance baffled her sldll in attempting
 
 236 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 to read its expression. She was, however, re- 
 lieved on hearing that Basil was, at least for 
 the present, in safety; and went to engage 
 her young friends to put on the semblance of 
 mirth. She, in a few^ words, told them her 
 errand ; and soon sounds of gaiety were heard, 
 while whispers of anxiety and alarm were in- 
 terchanged by the young dancers, who were 
 soon relieved by hearing the bell for evening 
 prayers. 
 
 One glance at her mother's pale countenance 
 proved to JMaria that she was suffering from a 
 new cause of alann and anxiety. Wan-enne 
 himself repeated the prayers ; which, without 
 seeming more rapid than other priests in his 
 utterance, he always contrived to finish in 
 half the time. 
 
 AYhen the service was closed, all the party, 
 excepting Mrs. Clarenham, assembled at sup- 
 per. She found herself quite unable longer 
 to wear the exterior of calmness, and retired 
 to her own apartment. She was soon joined 
 by Maria, and a short time after by "VVaiTenne, 
 who requested a few moments' conversation 
 with her. He was immediately admitted, and 
 hastened to inform her, as he said, of tlie na-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 237 
 
 ture of her son's mission to Rome. She listen- 
 ed in silent acc|uiescence. It was on allairs 
 which, he said, were important to the English 
 Catholics. She scarcely understood their na- 
 ture, after his professing to explain it to her ; 
 but, if it was to advance the interests of the 
 church, she could not object ; and she was 
 thankful that God, in his gracious providence, 
 had so ordered events, that, whatever she 
 might suffer from his absence, Basil at least 
 was safe. 
 
 While this conversation was going on, JMaria 
 intently watched the expressions of AVarrenne's 
 countenance, and saw, or thought she saw, 
 that ^vliile he spoke a species of cant to her 
 mother, his thoughts were at times far away. 
 In this supposition she was soon confirmed. 
 After rising to take leave, Warrenne, seeming 
 as if he had suddenly recollected something, — 
 
 " Ah !" said he, " I was sui'e I had forgot- 
 ten something — but these matters are so little 
 a part of my duty. Madam, I received, some 
 days ago, an intimation from Rome, that, in 
 the present state of our affairs in this unhappy 
 erring country, every means ought to be taken 
 to conliect, by the closest ties, those flimi-
 
 238 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 lies who still adhere to the ancient faith. 
 Amongst other instructions tendino- to further 
 this fatherly plan, I am informed that his ho- 
 liness, as General Clarenham left him a power 
 in his will to do so, chooses to dispense with 
 that clause which makes it necessary that Miss 
 Clarenham should be of age before the union 
 of the tAvo families, and wills that union to 
 take place without delay. I have told you 
 this. Madam, in your daughter's presence, be- 
 cause I know there are some clauses in Gene- 
 ral Clarenham's will, regarding which she may 
 perhaps find it necessary to have some conver- 
 sations with me, that I may be satisfied she is 
 ready to comply with them." 
 
 " So I am to be deprived of all my chil- 
 dren !" said Mrs. Clarenham, in a voice of the 
 deepest dejection. " Well," added she, '' my 
 God, thy vdW. be done." 
 
 " It is not God's will, my dearest, ever dear- 
 est, kindest mother !" exclaimed Maria. " God 
 has commanded me to love and honour you, 
 not to leave you in grief and solitude j and no 
 Pope shall oblige me to disobey the plain com- 
 mands of God, and the feelings of nature." 
 
 "My dear young lady," said Warrenne,
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 239 
 
 soothingly, " I am sure you will be indulged 
 in whatever you wish hy Sir Thomas Carys- 
 ford's family. Whatever aiTangement Mrs. 
 Clarenham may propose " 
 
 "No, no. Father," interrupted iVIrs Cla- 
 renham, " I shall propose nothing. Wliy 
 should I ^\4thdraw an only son, an only 
 child, from his parents ? I never will. God 
 sees that I am too, too much A\Tapt up in these 
 earthly blessings : therefore he means to wean 
 me from them. Shall I not bow in submission 
 to his will ?" 
 
 jMaria stood up, and, raising her eyes to 
 heaven with an expression of awe, remained 
 silent for a few moments, then said solemnly, 
 but calmly, " Hear me. Father, while I plain- 
 ly declare that I cannot, in my present state 
 of mind, fulfil my uncle's will. I cannot pro- 
 fess that I firmly believe in the doctrines of 
 the church of Rome. I cannot promise to re- 
 main in her communion. Hers does not ap- 
 pear to me the faith of the Bible ', and I am 
 prepared to give up my title to all my uncle 
 left me. That I give up without a feeling of 
 pain. I cannot say so with regard to all I 
 must resign. I am ill prepared for a change 
 in the feelings of those who have hitherto
 
 240 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 loved, and esteomod, and rested hopes on nie ; 
 but I tliink I could even meet that cliango — 
 all changes — death itself — sooner than give 
 up the Bible." 
 
 Warrenne seemed struck mute with asto- 
 nishment. 
 
 '' jMaria ! my child ! what do you mean ?" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Clarenham, scarcely able to 
 believe she had heard distinctly. 
 
 " I moan to remain with you, my dearest, 
 dearest mother ; to devote myself to you ; to 
 show you what the Bible teaches those who 
 simply obey its precepts. Catherine may pos- 
 sess my fortune. I will remain ^^ith you." 
 
 '' It must not be, my ovm. best, ever kind- 
 est child. Leave us. Father Adrian. For- 
 give us. Our minds are weakened, and our 
 spirits are broken by misfortune." 
 
 Warrenne bowed, and in silence left the 
 room. And Maria, after two hours' earnest 
 conversation ^ritli her mother, left her, though 
 not reconciled to her change of views, yet 
 deeply alive to the warmly devotional feelings 
 now almost for the first time expressed by 
 Maria in her presence, and soothed by her 
 affection, and the hope that, for a time at 
 least, they would not be separated.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 —•'Che giova air uomo di guadagnare tiitto il mondo, se jw 
 perda I'anima ?" 
 
 Martini's T/-«?M.— Matth. xvi. 26. 
 
 Maria had not courage to meet tlie family 
 at breakftist next morning; yet^ as it was 
 known tliat INIrs Clarenham, even at liorae, pre- 
 ferred spending her mornings alone, she had no 
 excuse for lier absence. After several times, 
 however, leaving her room some steps on 
 lier way to the hreakfast-room, her heart still 
 failed, and she returned again and again to 
 reason herself into composure. At last, find- 
 ing the effort vain, she went to her sister's 
 room, to ask her to apologize for her absence. 
 
 Catherine's life, since coming to Carysford 
 Park, had been spent in alternate acts of de- 
 
 X
 
 242 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 votion and scenes of amusement. Ever - since 
 Doraier had become her spiritual director^ she 
 had been gi-adually becoming less remarkable 
 as a saint. He had given her spiritual direc- 
 tion and advice altogether different from that 
 she had been accustomed to receive from her 
 foreign confessor, or from Father Dennis. He 
 had disregarded and discouraged tlie visionary 
 turn of mind which had been cherished in her 
 convent, and the dreams to Avhich old Ellis- 
 ton had not troubled himself to listen; and 
 had spoken to her of the danger of self-exal- 
 tation ; of the necessity of self-knowledge ; of 
 the lowliness of heart w^hich ever accompa- 
 nied it ; and urged her to contemplate, as the 
 only, altogether perfect pattern of holiness, 
 the character of Jesus Christ. And every 
 penance he imposed had tended to mortify 
 and check all those desires after the attain- 
 ment of a certain species of saintship, which 
 had hitherto been fostered by her spiritual 
 guides. Domier had thus succeeded tin low- 
 ering Catherine's opinion of herself, but he 
 had not taught her to pray for that new heart 
 which alone loves tlie things of the Spirit. 
 That, his church taught, was bestowed in bap-
 
 FATHER CLExMENT. 243 
 
 tism ; and he only urged her to use a power^ 
 of which poor Catherine was still destitute. 
 When that earthly distinction at which she 
 aimed, and the means by which she hoped to 
 attain it, were lessened in her estimation, all 
 that she knew of religion lost its attraction; 
 and now she became every day less able to 
 fulfil the round of observances she had imposed 
 on herself. 
 
 On this morning, though it was not early, 
 Maria found Catherine with her beads still 
 half unsaid. She seemed vexed at being de- 
 tected thus remiss, and Maria turned away, 
 and stood at a window, with her face from 
 her, till she had repeated the remaining pray- 
 ers, not one of which she understood. 
 
 " Well, Mai'ia," said Catherine, rather sharp- 
 ly, ^^ to Avhat am I indebted for this visit ?" 
 
 " Is it not the breakfast hour, Catherine ?" 
 
 "If it is, you do not usually require my 
 assistance to reach the breakfast-room." 
 
 " Xo ; but I am come to beg you will apolo- 
 gize for my not appearing there this morning." 
 
 " What, dear Maria, are you unwell ?" ask- 
 ed Catherine, immediately softening into kind- 
 ness.
 
 244 FATHER CLE3IENT. 
 
 " Only in iiiiiid, dear OatJierine. T3ut I can- 
 not explain just now. Indeed it is nothing 
 new to you ; sO;, good bye/' — and slie kissed 
 Catherine and left hei% 
 
 JMaria continued in her own room for a time, 
 attempting, but with httle success, to dissipate 
 the cloud which had gathered on her spirits. 
 iShe then joined her mother. 
 
 Here Catherine soon followed in search of 
 her, " You must come, Maria. It was you 
 yourself who proposed the sailing party for 
 to-day. Every one asks for you, excepting 
 Edward, — he, indeed, would always have you 
 indulged." 
 
 " Do go, my love," said Mrs. Clareuham. 
 '• You must again meet your friends." 
 
 " Did Lady Carysford say any thing when 
 I did not appear at breakfast V asked Maria. 
 
 " I do not know what is the matter with 
 Lady Carysford," replied Catherine, You 
 know Sir Thomas says nothing will make her 
 take an interest in public affairs ; yet we know 
 of notliing distressing besides which has hap- 
 pened, and she looks as if she had wept all 
 alight. When she heard you were not in spirits 
 to join the breakfast party, her eyes again iill-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 245 
 
 ed with tears, and she rose, and said she would 
 come to you. Sir Thomas stopt her with one 
 of his peremptory ' No, my dears/ and down she 
 sat again ; but I thought every good thing on 
 the table was to be sent to you." 
 
 " Dear Lady Carysford !" said Maria, in vain 
 endeavouring to restrain her tears. She, how- 
 ever, got ready, and accompanied Catherine to 
 join her young friends. 
 
 All received her as the life and joy of the 
 party, and with kind attentions and inquii'ies 
 — all but young Carysford : his address was 
 cold and hurried : and he immediately disco- 
 vered that he must, for some reason or other, 
 go on board the boat which awaited them on 
 the lake ; nor did he return to oiBFer his assist- 
 ance to Maria, which, on similar occasions, 
 was regarded by all as a matter of com'se. An- 
 other gentleman assisted her into the boat ; 
 and Carysford had placed himself to act as pi- 
 lot, in order, apparently, to avoid her. An- 
 other boat, with music, kept at a little distance. 
 The air was balm. Scarcely a breath of \nnd 
 passed over the glassy lake : and the scenery 
 which bounded its smooth expanse looked even 
 more than usually lovely and magnificent.
 
 24(i FATHER CLE3IENT. 
 
 Maria regarded it Avitli feelings of extreme 
 sadness ; and, at that moment, slic knew 
 something of Avhat that suffering is, which is 
 described by "leaving all." Exclamations of 
 delight and admiration were every moment ex- 
 pressed by her young companions, while the 
 music, softened by the distance, tended to 
 ileepen her sadness. At last she was appealed 
 to by a young friend, — 
 
 "You are silent, Maria Clarenham. Is it 
 possible one can become so accustomed to 
 those scenes as to be insensible to their beau- 
 
 " Ah, no," replied Maria, unconsciously 
 speaking in a tone of voice full of sadness ; 
 " that is not the effect produced by such scenes. 
 I am sure, wherever my lot may be cast, I shall 
 ever regard them as the loveliest and most 
 attractive on the face of the earth, and oidy 
 admire others as they resemble them." 
 
 " Ilaggertson, Jerningham, pray how long 
 do you mean to leave me at the helm without 
 having the grace to offer me assistance V said 
 young Carysford, with something of his usual 
 cheeriulness. lie looked towards Jerningham 
 who was seated next Maria^ and his eyes met
 
 FATHER CLE3IENT. 247 
 
 hers. He imniediiitely looked away, but she 
 saw that the cold distaut expressions with 
 Avhich he had before regarded her had given 
 place to those of happier and kindlier feel- 
 ings. She was conscious of the power she 
 possessed over liis affections, and tears filled 
 her eyes as he took Jerningham's place by her. 
 He seemed to have observed them, for he did 
 not address her ; but his attentions, his looks^ 
 his whole manner, seemed to entreat her for- 
 giveness : and she felt deeply and bitterly, 
 that, however painful it may be to separate 
 from, and give up for ever, what is lovely and 
 attractive in natural scenery, it is altogether 
 nothing when compared to the breakmg up of 
 those living attachments wdiich have become a 
 part of our nature. Never, till now, had she 
 known that she felt so kindly for Carysford ; 
 but still one rapid glance into the future con- 
 vinced her that she must either prepare to se- 
 parate her affections from him, or give up what 
 she no longer had the power to give up — tiiat 
 knowledge of truth which made it impossiljle 
 for her to believe in many doctrines of his 
 church. Such thoughts mingled Avitli all that 
 l>assed during the time the part}- continued on
 
 248 FATHER CLE3IENT. 
 
 the lake. When they landed^, Carysford, as 
 usual, Avas at her side, and offered his arm. 
 She accejJted his offer, but felt emhaiTassed, 
 and they walked on in silence. — Maria at last, 
 on coming to a path which led to the flower- 
 garden, from whence was an entrance to her 
 mother's apartments, Avithdrew her arm, say- 
 ing she would shorten the distance by taking 
 that path. 
 
 " We shall see you at dinner, I hope ?" said 
 Carysford, apparently unwilling to leave her. 
 ^' Certainly." 
 
 He walked on a few steps to open a little 
 gate that was in her way ; then observing his 
 mother approaching, he left her. 
 
 Maria looked anxiously at Lady Carysford, 
 as she advanced, to read in her countenance 
 the reception she might expect to meet wdth 
 from her. She seemed in deeper thought than 
 was at all usual for her, and did not perceive 
 Maria's approach till she had almost reached 
 her, then tried to assume an air of coldness 
 and said — 
 
 '' I have just been with your mother. Miss 
 Clarenham, and find she is determined to leave 
 us this evening."
 
 FATHER CLKiAIENT. 240 
 
 '' So S0011 !' said ]Maria, aii^Plier eyes iill- 
 etl with tears. 
 
 Lady Carysfoivl's countenauce immediately 
 softened. 
 
 " Are you sorry, then, to leave us after all, 
 Maria?" 
 
 " I pray God, Lady Carj'^sford, that no mem- 
 ber of your family may feel half the sorrow I 
 do/' replied Maria^ bursting into tears, and at- 
 tempting to pass. 
 
 Lady Carysford caught her hand — " What 
 does all this mean, my deai-est 3Iaria ? You 
 have only to say you are what you used to be — 
 you have only to say you will give up your 
 cousin, and return to us. We shall never think 
 more of this little estrangement — all shall be 
 as it was before. Do not leave us — do not 
 again see your cousin. You cannot — you do not 
 feel for him as you soon will for Edward." 
 
 " What on earth do you mean, my dearest 
 Lady Oarysford," interrupted Maria. "You 
 are altogether mistaken. What" — 
 
 " My dearest girl, I will say no more about 
 it. I do not wish to pain you. Oh, that we 
 might never, never have one thought more on 
 the subject !"
 
 250 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " What sufllct^ my dear madam ? Indeed I 
 must ask you to explain what you mean^ I am 
 sure you are in some strange error." 
 
 " No no, my dear. Do you think I am so 
 blind as not to see what is so plain, and what 
 it was so natural should happen ? Your young 
 cousin, Ernest Montague, is a fine youth. His 
 character stands high in every one's opinion. 
 Are not all the strangers who come to this part 
 of the country taken to see Illerton callage ? 
 So much industry — such admirable schools — 
 not a pauper to be seen in the village, while 
 Hallem and our tillages ai-e full of them. 
 Not an idle creature ; and such fields and gar- 
 dens, and so forth ; and all brought to this 
 state of perfection by the Montagues and their 
 chaplain, but, above all, by young IMontague. 
 Oh ! it was most natural that your young mind 
 should be dazzled by such representations, and 
 knoAving, too, the pleasing, sensible youth ;[ but 
 Edward will do whatever you choose in these 
 kind of things." 
 
 " My dearest Lady Carysford," interrupted 
 Maria, " I entreat you to hear me. My cou- 
 sin Ernest is no more concerned in what I de- 
 clared before Father Adrian last night than
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 2i)l 
 
 liis sister is. They liave led me to examine 
 the Bible ; hut I have no preference what- 
 ever for Ernest, that I might not retain were 
 I your daughter ; and he never gave me the 
 shglitest cause to suppose that he regarded me 
 in any other liglit than I have been regarded 
 by all others, — as the affianced daughter of 
 your house." 
 
 Maria spoke with emphatic solemnity, and 
 Lady Caiysford listened with sui-prise in her 
 looks. 
 
 " Then, my dear, what is all this ? what 
 are we differing about ? You attend prayers 
 in the chapel — you attend mass — ^you eat no 
 meat on fast days — I am sure neither Sir Tho- 
 mas nor I -will suffer you to be prevented as- 
 sociating vdth. your amiable young cousins if 
 you choose, or from reading a few Protestant 
 books, if you msh it — or what is it you do 
 wish V 
 
 " You know, my dear madam, my hav- 
 ing fortune depends entirely on my declar- 
 ing myself a decided member of the church 
 of Rome. Now, I do attend prayers in 
 the Chapel; but when Father Adrian or 
 Father Clement repeat what I do not under- 
 6
 
 252 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 stand, I attempt to pray to God in my lieai-t, 
 for It is tlie heart God regards, I do attend 
 mass ; for, on tliat j^oint, though I begin to 
 hesitate, I am still more of a Catholic than a 
 Protestant; and I do not eat meat on fast 
 days, beeanse it i& the same to me whether 1 
 do so or not ; and in a matter so perfectly in- 
 significant, I do what those around me do ; 
 but I do not believe in the infaliibrlity of the 
 Romish Church. On the contrary, I begin to 
 suspect she is the most corrupt of all the- 
 Christian churches." 
 
 '' jViy love, how strangely you speak I AIT the 
 Chrisfkm churches ! Surely there can be ])ut 
 one tine Christian church." 
 
 "I shall say churches professing Christianity 
 then, my dear ]\radam r But you remember 
 Christ himself addresses the Seven Churches 
 of Asia as Christian churches, and reproves 
 and threatens several of them for the corrup- 
 tions into which they had fallen, yet addresses 
 all as if there were tioie Christians in each. 
 Such, I hope, my dear Madam, is still the case 
 with the Christian churches of our day : but I 
 cannot partake in the sins of any of them, after 
 I see that thev arc sin?;. — The Bible has been
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 253 
 
 my guide in this, and must be my guide in all 
 things ; and I cannot give up reading the Bible 
 for myself." 
 
 " Hush, hush, my love ! that will never 
 do." 
 
 " And therefore, my dear madam, I cannot 
 declare myself a Roman Catholici" 
 
 Lady Carysford looked much distressed. 
 
 " Father Adrian is so determined on hurry- 
 ing; this business," said she, " and Sir Thomas 
 is so completely led by him — and they have 
 been tormenting poor Edward, — proposing 
 your sister Catherine to him, as it seems your 
 fortune goes to her if you leave the church ; 
 and he vows, that if such a proposal is ever 
 again made to him, he will go abroad next 
 day. He declares he can love none but you, 
 and that he cares not for fortune — that if you 
 choose to become a Protestant you may ; and 
 that it was neither to your religion nor to your 
 fortune he was engaged, but to yourself; and 
 that though you may tliink yourself at liberty 
 to break that engagement, he regards it as 
 quite as sacred as if it had been fulfilled ; and 
 that, as long as you are unmarried, no power on 
 earth can induce him to think othcvwip.e ; and
 
 254 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 that, if you marry, he mil never be happy 
 again. In short, the poor boy was half dis- 
 tracted last night — and so jealous of young 
 Montague : one time he would blow his Pro- 
 testant brains out, and then he would not hurt 
 a hair of his head, if it would give you pain ; 
 and his father was angiTj, and Father Adrian 
 contemptuous. Such a scene ! But Sir Tho- 
 mas swore a Protestant should never be his 
 daughter. So, my dear, what is to be done V 
 
 Maria thought for a few moments, then said, 
 — ^" Edward is right ; we are engaged. I have 
 no title — I have no wish to break that engage- 
 ment. I can say no more ; but assm-e him" — 
 
 " Here he comes," said Lady Carysford. 
 
 Edward had lingered at a distance till his 
 mother should join him. She now motioned 
 to him to approach, and going to meet him, 
 said in a low voice — '' It is all a mistake about 
 Ernest Montague. Maria cares not for him. 
 She has told me so herself. She does not wish 
 to break her engagement with you, but she 
 cannot declare herself a Roman Catholic." 
 
 '^I cannot, indeed, Edward, for I am not 
 one," said IMaria, who had heard Lady Carys- 
 ford's last words as she approached.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 255 
 
 Pleasure beamed in young Carysfoid's looks, 
 while lie said half reproachfully — "And can 
 tfou, jNIaria, he so ungenerous as to desert our 
 cause at this moment, when her friends are 
 feAv, and all seems going against her ? Were 
 the church in her fonner state of prosperity, 
 we might then do as we chose." 
 
 '^ Nay," replied Maria, smiling, " were she 
 in her former prosperity, I should be burnt." 
 
 It had become habitual to Maria, in her in- 
 tercourse mth young Carysford, to evade, by 
 a kind of playful sauciness, those allusions 
 which he was continually making to their pe- 
 culiar situation ; and now her lively counte- 
 nance had again brightened, for a moment, into 
 its usual playful expression. 
 
 " AVell, I am rejoiced to see you both like 
 yourselves again," exclaimed Lady Carysford 
 with deUght. " Now do not let that sad face 
 return, JMaria ; for you are, next to Edward, 
 the light, the very sunshine of my life. Say 
 to me, my dearest child, my daughter, that 
 you will give up these new fancies, and let us 
 all be happy once more. Now the cloud re- 
 turns — well, let us say no more. Let U8 
 wait" — •
 
 256 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " Yes, dearest madam, let us ^vait/' inter- 
 rupted Maria. '' I can say nothing." 
 
 "Yes, Maria," said Edward, "you can say 
 you will not desert a falling cause." 
 
 " If it is a bad cause, Edward, why should 
 it not fall?" 
 
 " But such a time to discover it to be a bad 
 one !" 
 
 " Do you mean the cause of the Stuarts, or 
 that of the church of Rome ?" 
 
 " Both." 
 
 " I do not desert the Stuarts. I wish them 
 success — at least I have been in the habit of 
 doing so, as all my friends, or at least most of 
 them do. I have thought little on the sub- 
 ject, for I can neither aid nor injure them ; 
 but it is different, Edward, when the safety of 
 the soul is at stake." 
 
 " But even Protestants allow that members 
 of our church may be saved." 
 
 " Yes ; those who, in the midst of her er- 
 rors, rest their hopes on the truths she still 
 teaches — ^those who have never had it in their 
 power to know her errors ; but not those who 
 have been made acquainted with the Bible,
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 257 
 
 and yet choose to be guided by what is eon- 
 trary to its precepts." 
 
 " Well, Maria, whatever misery it may cost 
 me, I cannot desert our friends at such a time. 
 I ^Yill not seek to judge for myself, and I will 
 not listen to you on the subject — ^but I will do 
 no more — ^j'^ou shall, in all things, be your own 
 mistress." 
 
 "Stop, Edward — such arrangements can- 
 not be made by you, nor by me. We both have 
 parents. Your mother has left us, (she had 
 walked on,) but she has told me that Sir Tho- 
 mas has sworn that he never will receive a 
 Protestant into his family as a daughter." 
 
 " My father cannot keep such a resolution, 
 I shall l(?ave home till he changes it." 
 
 " Oh, Edward, how wrong !" 
 
 " Why so ? Is he to make me wrctched, 
 and expect me to think of nothing but his 
 gratification? I should not have been idle 
 here, and all our friends in arms, but for him. 
 Can this last for ever ? And he to dictate to 
 me in the nearest ties ! You leave this to- 
 day, JMaria — I go to-morrow, unless he al- 
 lows me to follow you with his perniiission to 
 make what arrangements you choose," 
 1
 
 258 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " Xo no, no, Echvard. I will not agiee to 
 this. I mil arrange nothing. Promise to do 
 me one favour, Edward." 
 
 " What, Maria r 
 
 " Say not one word further on this suhject, 
 unless your friends oblige you, until my bro- 
 ther's return. Nothing could induce me to 
 leave my mother till then ; why, therefore, do 
 any thing ?" 
 
 "I will promise, on condition you sufter 
 me to see you daily, and consult with you on 
 all that passes." 
 
 " I will, provided I find 3'our friends do not 
 object." 
 
 '^And will you make me one promise, 
 ^laria ?" 
 
 " What r 
 
 " To remember, while you are gaining more 
 acquaintance with the Protestant religion, how 
 long your flimily, our family, all our ances- 
 tors have suffered and struggled for the an- 
 cient faith ; and ask yourself whether a Cla- 
 renham ought to abandon it." 
 
 *' Yes, Edward, provided you will some- 
 times ask yourself^ Avhether a rational being 
 >vill ],)e able to answer at the ^acat dav, for
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 259 
 
 having, in the most momentous of all con- 
 cerns, given up the mind and soul God gave 
 him to the guidance and direction of a fellow- 
 sinner, -without ever having employed that 
 mind to know the yvWl of God, in that revela- 
 tion of it which he has given to man ?" 
 
 Edward smiled, but promised ; and shortly 
 after the young friends parted : and, after 
 again meeting at dinner, where, from Sir 
 Thomas Carysford's stiff and pompous man- 
 ner, all was embarrassment and restraint, Mrs. 
 C'larenham and her daughters set out on their 
 return to Ilalleni Castle.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 — •' Verra tempo, che chi v' uccider^ si creda di rendere onore a 
 Dio." Martini's Trans. — John xvi. 2. 
 
 Several weeks passed away, dming which 
 each individual of the family at Hallern Castle 
 was occupied Avith subjects of the deepest in- 
 terest and anxiety. On one point, however, 
 certainty or peace seemed as distant as ever. 
 There were no letters from young Clarenham, 
 — no accounts of him. Mrs. Clarenham was 
 ■wretched. Dormer seemed equally so ; and 
 his answers to her inquiries, though intended 
 to remove her anxiety, were so unsatisfactory* 
 and the expression of his countenance, when- 
 ever Basil was the subject, so mournfully grave, 
 that though he attempted to do away her un- 
 easiness, she felt certain he himself participat- 
 ed in it. His health, too, had become A^Tetch- 
 ed ; and his abstemiousness increased, not from 
 religious motives, but from utter loss of appe- 
 tite. His person was becoming every day more 
 emaciated ; and the expression of his counte-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT, 261 
 
 nance, habitually melancholy, was now marked 
 by extreme dejection. 
 
 Maria observed all this ; and it increased 
 her anxiety respecting Basil, while it excited 
 a feeling of sympathy and regard for Doi-mer, 
 which was every day increased by her obser- 
 vation of his unremitted exertions to fulfil all 
 those religious duties which he considered him- 
 self bound to peifomi. Amidst this anxiety 
 regarding her brother, and cares for her mo- 
 ther, and compassion for Dormer, Maria had 
 to guide, and check, and sooth the unrestrain- 
 ed, undiscipHned spirit of young Carysford. 
 Till now he had known nothing but unbound- 
 ed indulgence ; and his impatience, while a 
 doubt seemed to hang over the completion of 
 his dearest wishes, made him, lilce other spoiled 
 children, throw every source of happiness 
 from him, and torment himself almost into 
 madness regarding that which seemed a thou- 
 sand-fold increased in value, by the difiiculty 
 throAvn in the way of its attainment. Each 
 morning Carysford rode over to Hallern, full 
 of some new scheme by which he was to com- 
 pel his father to accede to his wishes, or some 
 argument ])y which he was to persuade Maria
 
 262 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 to give up her iieAv religion. And, again, when 
 Maria would no longer remain absent from her 
 mother, to converse with him, returned home, 
 soothed — more rational — convinced that Maria 
 alone could render him happy ; and determin- 
 ed to imitate her in that resignation to the pre* 
 sent an-angements of Providence, which she 
 attempted to convince him could not be broken 
 through, without committing sin against that 
 God who could in a thousand ways compel 
 them to wait the decisions of his v/ill ; but the 
 evenings spent with his father and WaiTcnne 
 — the one cold and dictatorial, assuming too 
 late an authority he had never possessed, — the 
 other acute and sarcastic, levelling his irony 
 against Protestantism — did away all the ef- 
 fects of the happier morning, and sent him 
 back to Maria unchanged. 
 
 The evenings spent so wretchedly by Carys- 
 ford were the least unhappy hours of Maria's 
 day. Some of the Montagues spent those 
 hours generally at Hallern. Lady Montague, 
 carefully avoiding every point on which they 
 could diifer, was again the friend from whose 
 society Mrs. Clarenham received her chief plea- 
 sure ; and Adeline spent hours in reading the
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 263 
 
 Bible ^v'itli Maria, and giving lier Dr. Lowther's 
 explanation of those passages, wliicli, on former 
 evenings, they had not perfectly understood. 
 IMaria, however, was cautious in receiving any 
 explanation which did not appear obvious to 
 herself, and sometimes would venture to ap- 
 ply to Doi-raer to explain what appeared to 
 her made no plainer by Dr. Lowther. On 
 such occasions. Dormer was ever ready to give 
 the explanation put upon the passage by his 
 church: but also seemed to consider it his 
 duty to speak with warmth against the pre- 
 sumption of venturing the salvation of her soul 
 on the decision of her ovm private judgment. 
 He seemed, however, rather desirous to en- 
 gage her in such conversations ; and she, too, 
 had pleasure in conversing with him : for, 
 whatever his subjection of mind might be to 
 his fellow- men — his superiors in the church — 
 she felt that he was more devoted to the ser- 
 vice of God — more lowly in heart — more fear- 
 ful of the slightest levity on religious subjects 
 — more in continual awe and recollection of 
 the presence of a holy God than she was. 
 
 Sometimes Dormer would remain when 
 Lady Montague came to spend the evening
 
 264 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 •^^ith lier cousin — at first for a short time, and 
 as if to observe her st^de of conversation : but 
 gradually his stay became longer. Lady Mon- 
 tague's lowly;, fervent piety — her frank but re- 
 spectful manner to himself — and her cheerful- 
 ness, seemed to overcome his reserve ; and 
 while Maria and Adeline sought earnestly for 
 insti-uction from the Bible in another apart- 
 ment, the two elder ladies and Dormer con- 
 versed, with openness and increasing mutual 
 regard, on those religious subjects with which 
 we become acquainted only by experience. 
 The perverseness of the human heart — its deep- 
 rooted aversion — its determined alienation from 
 that holiness required by God ; the necessity 
 of chastisements and afflictions to wean the 
 affections from the world ; on such subjects 
 Dormer spoke with a feeling, and eloquence, 
 and experience, to which Lady Montague list- 
 ened with deep and evident interest ; and she 
 with humility acknowledged how slight her 
 impressions on those subjects were, compared 
 to what they ought to be, and compared to 
 those expressed by him. He, on his part, 
 would listen with earnest attention when she 
 s]>oke of the effects produced by belief in tlic
 
 t'ATlIER CLE3IENT. 265 
 
 love of God — that love -wliicli he manifested 
 in Christ ; of its powerful influence in subdu- 
 ing sin, and winning the heart to obedience ; 
 and to the receiving of every dispensation, 
 however afflictive, as sent in fatherly love, to 
 purify and prepare the heaVt for heaven. 
 
 Ernest Montague now frequently joined in 
 these conversations. For a time he had been 
 constantly and actively employed, with other 
 gentlemen in the north of England, in taking- 
 measures to secure the safety of the country, 
 in the expectation of the Scotch rebels pene- 
 ti-ating into England. But that alarm was 
 now over. The cause was losing ground in 
 every quarter ; and those gentlemen who had 
 most ardently come forward to oppose it, were 
 again returning to their usual quiet piu'suits. 
 
 One evening Ernest had accompanied his 
 mother to Hallern, and had found the conver- 
 sation so interesting, that he asked permission 
 to return; and, young and reserved as he 
 was, his mind did not seem far behind those 
 Avith whom he conversed, in the experience 
 of that discipline which, in one way or other, 
 is common to all Christians. 
 
 Ernest, on these occasions, was struck with 
 z
 
 266 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 Dormer's looks; and he and his motliei' 
 agi-eed, that, whatever might he his errors, 
 his heart was so evidently, so deeply, so 
 touchingly humhle and devoted to God, and 
 his health declined so fast, that he appeared 
 to them hastening to a hetter world. 
 
 During this period, Catherine spent much 
 of her time at Carysford Park : not that it was 
 hoped young Carysford w^ould transfer his af- 
 fections to her, at least by any but Sir Thomas, 
 — for, ever since the idea had been suggested 
 to him, she seemed to have become his aver- 
 sion, and Lady Carysford's also ; but War- 
 renne had a new plan in view, to w^hich her 
 devoted inclination was also necessary. War- 
 renne's plan was to have a nunnery endowed 
 in that part of England. He had long been 
 aware, that imwillingness in parents to send 
 their children, particularly their daughters, 
 abroad for education, had exposed them to in- 
 tercourse with Protestants at that age when 
 the mind is most alive to religious impressions, 
 and from the influence of which his church 
 had lost many members. His plan now w^as, 
 to induce Catherine to devote the fortune he 
 foresaw, if he hurried matters, would be hers,
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 267 
 
 to this purpose. He soon succeeded in ob- 
 taining the influence he desired over Cathe- 
 rine's mind. He became her confessor ; and, 
 in a very short time, she again was as great a 
 saint as ever. Under the pretence of warning 
 Iier against the worldly temptations that might 
 await her, he had hinted at what were her fu- 
 ture prospects, and set forth the merit of de- 
 voting wealth to the church; and afterwards, 
 in conversation, praised, as the greatest saints, 
 those who had spent tlieir fortunes in endow- 
 ing such institutions, and expatiated on the 
 holy, happy state of a young lady abbess. All 
 was exactly suited to Catherine's turn of 
 mind; and visions of future eminence again 
 rendered all her mortifications, and penances, 
 and prayers, as easy as ever. 
 
 One evening, as Ernest Montague was pro- 
 ceeding in his usual thoughtful manner to Hal- 
 lern Castle, deeply engaged in following out a 
 subject he had entered upon with Dormer the 
 last evening they had met, he was startled in 
 the darkest part of the wooded path through 
 which he was passing, by a man coming from 
 among some trees, and placing himself in the 
 j>ath before him. The suspicious-looking
 
 268 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 stranger was completely muffled up in a large 
 cloak, and his hat drawn over his face. Er- 
 nest paused, and stood on the defensive. 
 
 "I wish to speak to you, Mr. Montague," 
 said the man in an under-tone of voice : " but 
 I must on no account be seen here." 
 
 *' Are you from Scotland ?" asked Ernest, 
 approaching nearer. " You may speak. No 
 one is near." 
 
 The man looked around him from under his 
 hat — then, seeming assured that he was not 
 observed, he drew the mufflings from his 
 face, and, to Ernest's surprise and instant 
 alarm, discovered himself to be the confiden- 
 tial servant who had gone abroad with Basil 
 Clarenham. 
 
 " Ainsworth !" exclaimed Ernest — '' And 
 your master ?" 
 
 " I entreat you. Sir, be cautious. My mas- 
 ter is lost if I am seen here." 
 
 "Lost!" repeated Ernest, in a suppressed 
 tone of voice— " What ! where is he ?" 
 
 " In a prison of the Inquisition at Rome," 
 replied Ainsworth. 
 
 Ernest was struck mute. An Englishman 
 of the present day would smile at the supposi-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 269 
 
 tion that a foreign inquisition would venture 
 to secrete an Englishman, of a well-known 
 family, as he does at many things he hears as- 
 ciibed to the church of Rome, by those who 
 have studied her character as it was displayed 
 in the days of her power ; but Ernest lived 
 nearer those days, and was aware of the ex- 
 treme difficulty Avith which deliverance was 
 obtained from {he prisons of that mysterious 
 but powerful tribunal. 
 
 " Are you certain of what you have just told 
 me, Ainsworth ?" asked he at last in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " Perfectly so. Sir. I myself was also a 
 prisoner." 
 
 " But that does not prove him, of whom 
 you spoke, to be so, Ainsworth. It is not the 
 custom of that tribunal to let its actions be 
 known to any but the individual who is the 
 subject of them." 
 
 " Ti-ue, Sir : but I know my master was in 
 the same prison. I am not at liberty to say 
 more ; for I was hberated only on taking a so- 
 lemn oath never to divulge what I witnessed 
 there. I am a Catholic, Sir. I abhor all he- 
 resy ; and I think you, ]\Ir. Ernest, have the
 
 270 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 guilt of misleading my young master — but I 
 have been about him ever since he was a child — 
 they did not take my oath regarding aught but 
 ■what I Avitnessed in the prison. If you, Mr. 
 Montague^ betray my ha\dng been in this 
 country, the intelligence will instantly be con- 
 veyed to Rome, and my master will be re- 
 moved;, where those who now might serve him 
 can have no influence." 
 
 " Has your master been long where he 
 now is ?" 
 
 *'' He was, on his first going to Rome, lodg- 
 ed in the Monastery of , where he soon 
 
 found he was to be considered as a prisoner, 
 until the Fathers should attempt to overcome 
 those notions against the faith which he had 
 learnt from you, Mr. Ernest. He was, how- 
 ever, treated with gi'eat respect, and was per- 
 mitted to amuse himself as he chose within 
 the walls, till it was found that he spent most 
 of his time in the library, and was detected 
 various times reading books forbidden by the 
 Inquisitors; and, at last. Sir, a New Testa- 
 ment, with the prohibitory mark of the Holy 
 Office upon it, was found in his apartment ; 
 and when the Fathers remonstrated with my
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 271 
 
 master, aud removed the book, lie said they 
 coukl no longer prevent his knowing its con- 
 tents, for he had spent most of the time he 
 had been in the Monastery in committing a 
 great part of them to memory ; and they now 
 were, he said, in is heart, from whence they 
 had entirely banished the belief that the Ro- 
 mish was any other than the most cori-upt of 
 churches professing Christianity. I myself 
 heard him say so, Sir," continued Ainsworth, 
 " and you know, Mr. Ernest, where he first 
 learnt these notions." The man seemed to 
 struggle between indignation at Ernest, and 
 love for his young master. 
 
 "^ And then he was conveyed to a prison ?" 
 said Ernest, much moved. " Dear, dear Ba- 
 sil !" 
 
 " It is not the way to do him any good," 
 said Ainsworth, also moved. "But I must 
 not stay here. Sir," 
 
 " Have you seen Mr. Dormer ? Does he 
 know what you have told me ?" 
 
 " Seen him ! No, Sir. He is the person I 
 most dread seeing. He must know wiierc my 
 master is. He persuaded him to go abroad. 
 He arranged every thing, and my master has
 
 272 FATHER CLE3IENT. 
 
 constantly corresponded with him ever since 
 he left home." 
 
 •^^ Not directly/' said Ernest sternly, on re- 
 collecting Mrs. Clarenham's anxiety for letters, 
 and Dormer's silence respecting those he was 
 now said to have received. 
 
 " No, Sir, all letters to the priests are sent 
 first to Father Adrian." 
 
 " Villain ! hypocrite ! true Jesuit I" mut- 
 tered Ernest, as he thought of Dormer. 
 " And M hat can be done ? Who can follow 
 the windings of such WTctches ?" said he aloud, 
 and eyeing the man Avith looks of disgust and 
 suspicion. " Confiding, amiable, excellent 
 Clarenham !" 
 
 " It is all your own doing. Sir," said Ains- 
 w^orth, indignantly. " Father Clement loves 
 his soul better than his present comfort. I 
 am not so good as he is : I can only be miser- 
 able till my master is at liberty. And now. 
 Sir, this is all I think can be done : — You 
 know there is what is called rebellion still iu 
 Scotland. Your fiimily are known to have been 
 very successful in gaining information which 
 led to the suppression of the rising in the north 
 of England. Father Clement will believe it,
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 273 
 
 Sir^ if you say you have gained certain intelli- 
 gence tliat it was he and Father Adrian Avho 
 sent my master abroad as bearer of confiden- 
 tial dispatches from Lord Derwentwater to 
 the King. Say, also, that you have further 
 information respecting Mr. Basil ; and that, if 
 you are not assured solemnly that he shall re- 
 turn in safety, in less than two months, all 
 shall be made public. One word from Father 
 Adrian is sufficient to release my master ; and 
 Father Clement will trust youi- honour, if you 
 pledge it, to reveal nothing, should my master 
 appear within the time specified. And now, 
 Sir, I must be gone. I shall not leave Eng- 
 land, but must depart from this neighbour- 
 hood ; yet you may perhaps soon see me 
 again.'' The man then turned into a by- 
 path in the wood, and was instantly out of 
 sight. 
 
 " Ernest stood motionless for a few minutes. 
 He knew not how to proceed, while he be- 
 came more and more alive to the danger of 
 young Clarenham's situation. Dormer's last 
 conversations, — his pale, sad countenance, 
 oidy lighted up when conversing on subjects 
 most deeply spiritual, — his chastened manners.
 
 274 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 expressive of the most constant, and severe self- 
 government, — the benignity and kindness with 
 which he had always treated himself, now re- 
 turned with softening influence to Ernest's re- 
 collection; and, still undetermined, he again 
 proceeded, but now at a quickened pace, to- 
 wards Ilallern Castle. He had not half-cross- 
 ed the park, however, before he had twenty 
 times changed his purpose, — Avhether at once 
 to reproach Dormer with his abuse of the con- 
 fidence reposed in him by young Clarenham 
 and his family, and endeavour to alarm him 
 into instant exertions for Basil's safety — or to 
 meet him as one led, by devotion to his spiri- 
 tual superiors, to do what threatened in the end 
 to endanger the life or intellects of the being 
 he loved most on earth, and which from un- 
 ceasing anxiety, and the struggle between sup- 
 posed duty and his natural feelings, was under- 
 mining the springs of his own existence. The 
 last supposition, on looking back, appeared to 
 him to be the true one ; and his heart readily 
 yielded to the belief that it was so, 
 
 " Can I see Mr. Dormer alone ?" asked he, 
 when a servant opened the hall-door. 
 
 The man hesitated. *' Father Clement de-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 273 
 
 Sired that he might not be distui-bed for an 
 hour. Sir," replied he. "He is particularly 
 engaged." 
 
 "I must see him/' said Ernest, rather per- 
 emptorily. 
 
 The man looked surprised, for Ernest's man- 
 ner was, in general, particularly free from every 
 thing of the kind. 
 
 " If you must. Sir, it is not my fault. I 
 shall tell Father Clement so." And he pro- 
 ceeded towards Dormer's apartment, followed 
 by Ernest, who stopped, however, at some dis- 
 tance, to allow the servant to announce his 
 approach. The man knocked gently at the 
 door of Dormer's room. Dormer himself 
 opened, it, and, in a tone of voice so mild as 
 to confirm Ernest in his favourable interpre- 
 tation of his conduct, answered the man's half- 
 indignant — » 
 
 " Father, I would not have disobeyed your 
 orders, if I could have helped it." 
 
 " I believe it, my son ; but do not detain me, 
 for at this moment my time is precious." 
 
 " Mr. Ernest Montague will not be denied 
 seeing you, Father." 
 
 Ernest approached. " I have busineJis, Mr
 
 27() FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 Dormer, of sufficient importance to excuse this 
 intrusion." 
 
 ^^I guess its nature, I believe, Mr. Mon- 
 tague/' replied Dormer, courteously inviting 
 him to enter. 
 
 For an instant Ernest forgot even his pur- 
 pose, on glancing round the apartment of the 
 dignified, polished Dormer. It was a small 
 square room, in one of the towers of the Cas- 
 tle. The floor, which was of stone, was un- 
 carpeted. A small iron bedstead, without 
 curtains, on which were a single blanket and 
 mattress, two wooden chairs, and a table, was 
 all the furniture it contained. One wide shelf 
 extended along a side of the room, on which 
 lay a good many books ; and in the window 
 which looked east was placed, as if in contrast 
 to the barrenness and poverty of the apartment, 
 a beautifully sculptured marble slab, support- 
 ing a crucifix of the most perfect workman- 
 ship, every agonized muscle and suffering ex- 
 pression of which was now seen in the bright 
 light of the evening sun, which glowed upon 
 it from an opposite window. 
 
 Dormer placed one of the small wooden 
 chairs for his guest, and seating himself nearly
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 277 
 
 opposite to him on the other — '' I believe, Mr. 
 Montague/' said he, ^' I have guessed the kind 
 motive which brought you hither. You have 
 heard of the suspicions which have fallen up- 
 on the Catholic priests in this neighbourhood, 
 and the search that is about to take place for 
 secret and rebellious instructions supposed to 
 be concealed by us ; and^ bad as your opinion 
 of our order is, there is still one of the number 
 you would rather should not suffer, and 
 you generously msh to warn him of his dan- 
 ger. You are silent. I see it is so, and I wish 
 I could find means to prove my gratitude to 
 you for this, and many, many other kind- 
 nesses you have shown to me. Of this danger 
 we have been apprised, and are prepared to 
 meet it. We are accustomed to such suspicion s, 
 and must bear them as we best can for the 
 sake of truth." 
 
 '' I knew not of these suspicions," replied 
 Ernest. " I deserve not your gratitude, Mr. 
 Dormer. My business is entirely of a differ- 
 ent nature." 
 
 ^' Is it of life and death then V asked Dor- 
 mer, with one of his sad smiles, — " for, if not, 
 I must ask you to wait till 1 have looked over 
 
 2 A
 
 278 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 some papers. It is wonderful what kind of" 
 tilings^ in my situation, may be construed into 
 treason." 
 
 " My business may be of life and death/' 
 said Ernest; "but I shall wait:" and he rose 
 and turned to the cross, to look more naiTowly 
 on its ever-interesting representation. Dor- 
 mer followed him with a look of alarm ; but> 
 on Ernest assuiing him that a short delay 
 would be of no consequence, he took do^^^l a 
 small portfolio from the book-shelf, and began 
 tapidly to look over some papers it contained, 
 while Ernest continued alternately to regard 
 him and the crucifix ; his thoughts, as usual, 
 being soon deeply engaged with the two sub- 
 jects, which as they then were to him, have 
 beeUj and still are, to informed and reflecting 
 minds, the most powerfully interesting which 
 can be offered for contemplation — the permis- 
 sion of evil, and the astonishing means employ- 
 ed to overcome it. In Dormer he thought he 
 saw the most mysterious difficulties personifi- 
 ed — ^a being panting after good, yet so under 
 the influence of Q\i\, as to be seeking that good 
 in a path wh^re he found only soitow and dis- 
 Rppointment so deep, as to wasto his very form
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 279 
 
 to the pale emaciated figure which now sat be- 
 fore him. The setting sun shed a glow of 
 something like health over his thin white tem- 
 plep as he stooped ; and the representation of 
 that which purchased redemption for men, 
 shed a something like the light of truth over 
 his system of religion ; but neither seemed to 
 reach his case. The expression of his coun- 
 tenance, as he continued to glance rapidly over 
 his papers, was so deeply marked by mental 
 suffering, as to betray a soul as far from peace 
 as his person was from health. Some papers 
 he burnt, lighting them at a taper which was 
 placed on the hearth, for there was no fire in 
 his room. One paper he put aside, after seem- 
 ing to hesitate whether or not to burn it, and 
 that more than once. 
 
 At last the examination was finished ; and, 
 after restoring the portfolio to its place, and 
 putting the paper he had reserved in his bosom 
 — " Now, Mr. Montague," said he, " if it is in 
 my power to serve you, believe me there are 
 very few things indeed which would gratify me 
 more." 
 
 " It is in your power, Mr. Dormer, and, I 
 believe, only in yours."
 
 280 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 Dormer warmly shook hands -with Ernest. 
 " Only tell me how, that I may do whatever you 
 wish." 
 
 Ernest grasped his hand. " Even if your 
 church should disapprove ?" 
 
 " Nay : that I cannot promise," replied Dor- 
 mer, gently. " Would Mr. Montague himself 
 be led, even by his most esteemed friend, to act 
 contrary to the dictates of his conscience ?" 
 
 '^ I hope not, Mr. Dormer, were I certain the 
 infallible word of God was the guide of my 
 conscience." 
 
 " The word of God is also the guide of the 
 church," replied Dormer. 
 
 *' No," said Ernest emphatically. " The word 
 of God plainly declares, of those who do evil 
 that good may come, ' that their damnation is 
 just ;'* but your church teaches that the end 
 sanctifies the means. The word of God says, 
 ' thou shalt do no murder :' but the church of 
 Rome says, it is justifiable to murder thou- 
 sands on thousands, provided the suppression 
 of what she calls heresy is the end aimed at. 
 Can 7joi(, ]\Ir. Dormer, in obedience to that 
 
 * Rom. iii. 8.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 281 
 
 fhui-ch — cau you^ in the hope to produce what 
 you call good, so blind your mind, as to sup- 
 pose God will not require at your hands an 
 account of the trust" — Ernest stopt. He could 
 not proceed, as he looked on Dormer's calm 
 holy countenance, who seemed mildly to wait 
 whatever he chose to say. 
 
 " Let me understand you, Mr. Montague. 
 I thought you were going to put it in my 
 power to serve you," said Dormer. " If you 
 begin by attacking my church, you must al- 
 low me to vindicate her." 
 
 " Not now, Mr. Dormer ;" then again 
 grasping his hand, but looking on the ground 
 as he spoke : — " It is impossible, Mr. Dormer, 
 to vindicate a church which demands from its 
 ministers a subjection so absolute as to compel 
 them, rather than suffer heresy from her dog- 
 mas, to involve a confiding fatherless youth 
 under age, the only son of his newly widow- 
 ed mother, the last hope of a falling house, 
 in a desperate rebellion, — ^then imprison him 
 in a convent, — and at last give him up to the 
 merciless tribunal of the Inquisition." 
 
 Ernest did not ventm'e to look at Dormer,
 
 282 FATHEIl CLEMENT. 
 
 as he concluded^ but turned away, and conti- 
 nued to gaze intently from the window. 
 
 In proportion to what Ave ourselves would 
 feel were we con^dcted of a deed of shame, do 
 we sympatliize with those, hitherto consider- 
 ed worthy of esteem, who are so convicted, and 
 still more if -vve are the means of that convic- 
 tion ; and it was long ere Ernest could turn to 
 look at the now silent Dormer. When, at last, 
 he did so, his stealing glance would, to an ob- 
 server, have bespoken him the criminal. Dor- 
 mer, however, did not see it. He sat leaning 
 against the table, his hands covering his face. 
 The veins in his forehead seemed swelled to 
 bursting, and his deep, quick, unequal respira- 
 tion, betrayed the tumult within ; but he 
 spoke not. Ernest regarded him with heart- 
 felt affection and compassion, but he shrunk 
 from breaking the silence. He felt as if by 
 doing so he would assume the part of one su- 
 perior in goodness, and entitled to reprove; 
 and when the point seemed already so hum- 
 bly yielded, who could have added one feel- 
 ing of de|)ression to the struggle that was ago- 
 nizing that lowly spirit ? 
 
 At last Dormer raised his head. His eyes
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 283 
 
 met Ernest's and fell under tliem, but instantly 
 raising tliem^ he said, with an expression of 
 haughtiness and resentment — 
 
 *' I would wish to be alone, Mr. Montague." 
 Ernest was instantly going, and bowed with 
 an expression of respect more than was even 
 usual with him, as he passed where Dormer 
 still kept his seat. But the momentary feel- 
 ing of sin was already checked. Dormer 
 started up. 
 
 " What a moment for pride !" exclaimed he. 
 '" How determinately bad are the first impulses 
 of the human heart where self-love is wound- 
 ed ! I give you cause to suppose I consider 
 n:iyself as guilty as you do, ]\Ir. Montague ; 
 and I can only account for the pain I feel in 
 discovering your knowledge of what you have 
 just mentioned, by avowing how highly I have 
 A'alued your good opinion, which, as you are a 
 Protestant, I must now lose. How you have 
 obtained your information I cannot imagine ; 
 but since you have, I wall only say, that, by 
 divulging it to Mrs. Clarenhcmi and her family,, 
 and making it known in this neighbourhood, 
 you may make the family miserable, — you may 
 oblige mc to quit England, — and you may
 
 284 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 throw worse suspicions than idready attaches 
 to it, over the character of a CathoHc priest ; 
 but you cannot secure the liberation, though 
 you may increase the danger of your young 
 friend." 
 
 " My information led me to believe that 
 you alone, Mr. Dormer, could procure the re- 
 lease of Clarenham. I have mentioned the 
 subject only to you. I wish to be entirely 
 guided by you ; and it is impossible for me to 
 believe you will not aid me." 
 
 " Were you a Catholic, Mr. Montague, you 
 would believe it. I have only fulfilled the 
 most solemn engagements in all I have done. 
 Every feeling of my nature has struggled to 
 overcome my sense of duty. The struggle, I 
 feel, cannot last much longer ; but I hope, 
 whatever may happen to accelerate its end, 
 that I may be enabled to fight the good fight, 
 and keep the faith. There are many kinds 
 of martyrdom, Mr. Montague ; and some feel- 
 ings are more dreadful than any external suf- 
 ferings." 
 
 " And Clarenham," said Ernest, " who lov- 
 ed, who trusted you more than all the world 
 besides ; A^ ho told me, the very last conversa-
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 285 
 
 tion I had AAdth him, that he could not con- 
 ceive himself happy, even in heaven, were you 
 not there : Still so young, so amiable " 
 
 " Stop, Mr. Montague," exclaimed Dormer. 
 " Do you not see in this emaciated body the 
 effects of such thoughts as you suggest ? Do 
 not at this moment urge me too far. Do you 
 know what it is to feel on the verge of mad- 
 ness ? Put your hand here." 
 
 Ernest gave his hand, and Dormer pressed 
 it on his temples. The full throb seemed un- 
 countable. Ernest felt alarmed, and Dormer 
 looked so also, but instantly took a phial from 
 the book-shelf, and swallowed part of its con- 
 tents. 
 
 " This is a desperate remedy," said he, 
 '' but it does the business, — and the body must 
 not be regarded, when losing the command of 
 intellect might endanger the interests of the 
 chm-ch." He did not say what it was he had 
 taken, but its effects were soon visible in the 
 languor and exhaustion which stole over his 
 countenance and person. 
 
 " Now you may say what you will, Mr. 
 JMontague, I shall ijot feel it deeply ; at least 
 not for a time."
 
 286 FATHER CLE3IENT. 
 
 " I shall say nothing, Mr. Dormer, but that 
 I -wash you knew the religion of the Bible. 
 Yours is a dreadful service." 
 
 '' I know/' said Dormer, in his usual gentle 
 manner, "that Protestants, particularly Cal- 
 \'inists, profess to believe that their own good 
 works cannot avail in obtaining their salva- 
 tion. Theirs may therefore be an easy ser- 
 vice; but, my dear Mr. Montague, that is a 
 tremendous eiTor." 
 
 " It is an en-or, then, taught by every page 
 of the Bible," replied Ernest : " but we can- 
 not discuss that subject now. Tell me, dear 
 Mr. Dormer, what am I to do? Must Claren-. 
 ham remain in danger ? I have, in some de- 
 gree, been the means of bringing him into it. 
 I entreat you for once — ^yield to the light of 
 conscience — to the spirit of love and gentle- 
 ness, which is the spirit of the Bible — to the 
 dictates of honour and integrity, which your 
 subjection to your church has led you to break 
 through, contrary to your own better feehngs. 
 Surely, my dear Sir, if Clarenham is in error, 
 your persuasions, your kindness, Avould re- 
 store him sooner than the insti-uctions or 
 cruelties of strangers. AVho ever heard of the
 
 JJ-ATHfiR CLEMENT. 287 
 
 soul being com^erted by compulsion ? It is an 
 impossibility. You may compel a man to 
 become a liar ; you cannot compel him really 
 to believe any thing." 
 
 Dormer shook his head, " Impossible — 
 impossible, Mn Montague. I can do nothing. 
 The church must guide in this matter. The 
 means she has devised must be the best, t 
 can only submit. Was it at the risk of my 
 o^vn soul that I could save his, you might 
 succeed in turning me ; but his soul is more 
 safe where he now is, than were he here, — 
 and, whatever it may cost me, I ought not to 
 remove him." 
 
 At this moment a bustle and noise of ap- 
 proaching footsteps were heard near Dormer's 
 apartment. He listened. Voices were now 
 also distinguished under the windows ; and a 
 command to " surroimd the house, and let no 
 one escape." 
 
 " It is the search I expected," said Dormer, 
 " and this paper — " 
 
 ^' Intrust it to me," said Ernest quickly. 
 
 '^ No, I must not. It was weakness to pre- 
 serve it : but I could not destroy what would 
 secure Clarenham's safety. I was wrong — ■"
 
 288 
 
 FATHER CLEBIENT. 
 
 Footsteps approached, and Ernest snatched 
 the paper from him and secured it. 
 
 " What have I done !" said Dormer, be- 
 coming as pale as death. 
 
 " You have done nothing," said Ernest, his 
 ejes sparkling with pleasui-e. 
 
 " Oh ! my will was not against it. I have 
 sinned." He raised his eyes with an expres- 
 sion of deep compunction to heaven — " If you 
 would restore me to peace, Mr. Montague, re- 
 turn it to me." 
 
 " No," replied Ernest — " I shall better se- 
 cure your peace by retaining it. I shall never 
 return it till Clarenham is safe." 
 
 At this moment the door of the room was 
 rudely bm'st open, and several officers of jus- 
 tice entered. Their leader seemed sui-prised 
 on seeing Ernest, whom he knew, and who 
 viewed his entrance with looks of displeasure. 
 He stopt short, and then Dormer, with his 
 usual mild dignity of manner, asked for what 
 he came ? 
 
 The man immediately showed his warrant 
 to search the apartment, &c. and person of 
 Clement Dormer, Catholic priest at Halleni 
 Castle.
 
 FATIIKR CLEMENT. 289 
 
 Ernest also read tlie Avarrant. " ^ly 
 friends," said he, '^you must do your duty; 
 l)ut remember every man in England is en- 
 titled to be considered innocent till he is found 
 guilty ; and every innocent person is entitled 
 to respect." 
 
 The men bowed, and proceeded to examine 
 minutely ever}" part of Dormer's small apart- 
 ment. The examination went on rapidly, till 
 the book-shelf became its object. Then each 
 book was examined with a suspicion and mi- 
 nuteness which showed that the examiners ex- 
 pected to find what would prove the necessity 
 of the search. Several Greek books, after 
 Ernest having marked their names, that they 
 might be returned, if found to contain nothing 
 treasonable, were delivered to the attendants, 
 to be conveyed where they might be inspected 
 by more learned eyes. The portfolio was also 
 conveyed away. A small press containing 
 Dormer's linen, was also carefully and mi- 
 nutely examined : and, at last, the officer ap- 
 proached to search his person. 
 
 Dormer shrunk from this for a moment — 
 then mildly prepared to submit to the indig- 
 nity. 
 
 2b
 
 200 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " Is this absolutely unavoidable V asked 
 Ernest. 
 
 '' Absolutely so, Sir," replied the officer. 
 
 Dormer smiled faintly, ''May I ask yon 
 not to leave me ?" said he to Ernest, who had 
 turned away. He immediately resumed his 
 place by him, and checked by his presence the 
 rude coarseness of the officer. 
 
 " "What have we here V said the man at 
 length; and Ernest's attention was as much 
 arrested as his, on seeing, when the officer 
 opened the breast of Dormer's shirt, that, be- 
 neath its white folds, he wore another of hair- 
 cloth. Domier smiled — 
 
 ''Mr. Montague will tell you, my fiiend," 
 said he, " that such things are common among 
 Catholics, and are no peculiar indication of 
 treason." 
 
 Ernest did so ; but the officer seemed to 
 consider himself obliged to examine a thing 
 so extraordinary with sciiipulous attention. 
 
 " And what is this, Sir ?" asked the suspi- 
 cious examiner, turning out the breast of the 
 haircloth shirt, and discovering a large cross 
 fixed within, so as to rest upon the heart of 
 the wearer. " It is thick. Does it open ? I
 
 FATHER CLE31KNT. 291 
 
 must examine it," said the man ; and Dormer 
 unfixed it, and put it into his hand, saying 
 gently, " I hope, my friend, you ^vill one day, 
 if you do not now, know its value." 
 
 The officer narrowly examined it, and Er- 
 nest observed that the side which had been 
 turned inward was sharpened at the edges ; 
 and, on glancing towards the place where it 
 had been Avom, he saw on Dormer's side, next 
 his heart, a large red scar, the fonn of the 
 cross, — the wound in some places appearing 
 unhealed. The man at last was satisfied that 
 the cross contained no treason, and returned 
 it to Dormer, who devoutly kissed, and then 
 replaced it and the hard shirt upon the scar. 
 
 At last the search was concluded, and Dor- 
 mer restored to his usual perfectly suitable 
 and dignified exterior, when the officer inform- 
 ed him that, till his books and papers had been 
 examined by the proper authorities, it was ne- 
 cessary that he should submit to be confined 
 to his^ipartment, with a guard over him. 
 
 Dormer mildly accjuiesced ; and, as he turn- 
 ed from the officer, Ernest observed him raise 
 his eyes submissively to heaven, and press the 
 «harp cross to his heart.
 
 292 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 The officer and his attendants noAv depart- 
 edj excepting one strong man who was left as 
 guard. Ernest felt inclined to remain with 
 Dormer ; for he was so well aware of the feel- 
 ings by wdiich a Roman Catholic priest was 
 regarded by the class to which his present 
 jailer belonged, that he believed his presence 
 might be of use. His impatience, however, 
 to see the paper which was to save Claren- 
 ham, that if possible he might immediately 
 make use of it, made him hesitate. 
 
 *^May I ask you, Mr. IMontague, to go to 
 Mrs. Clarenham V said Dormer. ^' She must 
 have been alarmed." 
 
 Ernest immediately assented ; but on draw- 
 ing near to ask permission to return, the 
 guard approached, and said his instructions 
 obliged him to prevent any secret communica- 
 tions. 
 
 " May I return to you, Mr. Dormer?" asked 
 Ernest aloud. 
 
 " You would very much oblige me by doing 
 so," replied Dormer, earnestly. 
 
 Ernest instantly promised, and then pro- 
 ceeded to join Mrs. Clarenham and the young 
 party. lie found all in a state of anxiety and
 
 FATHER CLE.MKNT. 293 
 
 alarm, wliicli he with difficulty succeeded iu 
 ealmiug. Dormer hud become an object of" re- 
 gard and interest to the Avhole family. The 
 servants had watched for Ernest's leaving his 
 room, and followed him to the apartment in 
 ^vhich he found the family, and all joined iii 
 entreating him to return to the prisoner. Er- 
 nest declared his purpose to spend the night 
 in his apartment, and was thanlved and blessed 
 by all for his kindness to — " Good Father 
 Clement — dear Father Clement — holy Father 
 Clement." 
 
 Before returning to Dormer, however, Er- 
 nest felt anxious to examine the paper in his 
 possession, and for that purpose w alked into the 
 park, that he might be aloue, On opening it, 
 he was disappointed on finding it Amtten in a 
 cipher of which he w^as ignorant. The only 
 part intelligible to him was the date and sig- 
 nature — "Carysford Park, 1715," and — " A- 
 drian Warremie." In vain he attempted to 
 decipher any other part of the paper. The 
 only person to whom he could apply to over- 
 come this obstacle, with any hope of success, 
 was Dr. Lowther, who, he knew, had become 
 master of some of tlioi^e ciphers in fsecret use
 
 294 
 
 FATHER CLEMKNT, 
 
 amoug the Romish clergy ; but lie hesitated 
 whether, by informing him, he might not in- 
 volve Dormer in danger. Determining at last, 
 however, to endeavour to get a promise of 
 secrecy from Dr. Lowther before he showed 
 him the paper, Ernest hastened towards Iller- 
 ton. 
 
 The difficulty in obtaining a promise of se- 
 crecy from Dr. Lo^vther was even gi'eater than 
 Ernest had anticipated ; and the evening had 
 long closed in ere the questions he had to an- 
 swer, before he attained his object, were con- 
 cluded ; and when at last his old friend ven- 
 tured, merely because he thought he might 
 trust one in whom he had never found his con- 
 fidence misplaced, and Dr. Lowther gave his 
 promise past recall, and the paper was laid be- 
 fore him, which he peiiectly understood, — it 
 Avas still some time before Ernest could escape 
 from his remonstrances and entreaties. 
 
 The paper was that in which AVarrenne had 
 given Dormer instructions regarding young 
 Clarenham's mission to the exiled king, and 
 Dr. Lowther conceived it to be Ernest's duty 
 immediately to make it known to the proper 
 authorities ; and this Ernest could not consent
 
 FATllKU CLEMENT. 
 
 295 
 
 to do. At last, after making himself master 
 of the cipher, and intrusting it to Dr. Lowther 
 to account for his absence, he again set out 
 for Ilallern. 
 
 As he crossed the park, he observed that 
 there were still lights in the castle ; and on 
 approached nearer, and looking towards the 
 tower in which Dormer's apartment was, he 
 observed a figure pacing slowly across the 
 windows. 
 
 A servant was in waiting to admit him to 
 the prisoner. lie found him, with his arms 
 folded on his breast, and an appearance of 
 languor in liis deportment which seemed to 
 call for repose, pacing the small bounds of his 
 apartment. Ernest apologized for his delay, 
 and expressed surprise at not finding Dormer 
 attempting to sleep. 
 
 " I Avaited for you," replied Dormer, '' and 
 have, with difficxdty, resisted the call of wom- 
 out nature for rest ; but it is always short with 
 me. Your kindness, Mr. Montague, to a stran- 
 ger and a Catholic, has emboldened me to en- 
 croach on your benevolence. May I ask you 
 to remain with me while 1 attempt to sleep, 
 and instantly to awaken me when what is re-
 
 296 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 fresliiiig seems past^ and tlie misery of the 
 mind has again regained its ascendancy over 
 the misery of the body ?" 
 
 Emestj much moved, gave his promise ; and 
 Dormer, after gi-asping his hand mth a look 
 expressive of the deej)est feeling of his kind- 
 ness, threw himself on his hard pallet. Ernest 
 placed liimself so as to screen him from the 
 light of the lamp ; and soon his sleep was so 
 profound and still, that as Ernest looked on 
 his thin pale countenance, it seemed calmed 
 into the repose of death. Not a sound broke 
 the silence, except, at intervals, the change of 
 posture of the guard, and even he seemed to 
 move with caution. Whatever had passed be- 
 tween him and Dormer, he seemed now to re- 
 gard his prisoner with compassion. He had 
 been amply supplied with provisions, which he 
 had evidently not spared ; but while Dormer 
 slept, they continued on the table before him 
 untouched. On the same table lay two pistols ; 
 the jailer's hand rested on one of them ; and the 
 light shone full on his coarse bronzed features, 
 expressive only of the feelings of human nature 
 in their rudest state. In the further end of 
 the room, the light of the moiv.i \VLi>i brigliter
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 297 
 
 than tliat of the lamp, and added to the feel- 
 ing of stilhicss. Ernest sometimes stopt breath- 
 ing, to Hsten whether Dormer breathed. 
 
 This cahn sleep continued for about two 
 hours. Dormer then began to appear distui'b- 
 ed, and once or twice uttered a few indis- 
 tinct words. Ernest stooped over him, and 
 hiid his hand gently on his arm. 
 
 ''-Yes, yes — I am ready!" exclaimed he 
 instantly. " Take me in his place. He is 
 so young. Harshness never succeeded with 
 him." 
 
 Ernest now perceived why Dormer had 
 dreaded falling asleep when left alone mth his 
 guard, and instantly attempted to awaken him ; 
 but worn-out nature was still unsatisfied ; and, 
 before he succeeded. Dormer exclaimed — 
 
 "^Is it for giving up the paper? I did not 
 give it. Father." And again. Will they not 
 release him ? Father Adrian will find means 
 to compel them. Penance ! I care not for pe- 
 nance — let it be as severe as you will — but I 
 gave it not, though I felt joy. I confess it. 
 Father — I felt joy. Not absolve me ? Dread- 
 ful ! IIoiTible!" 
 
 The uneasiness of awaking against the in-
 
 298 FATHER CLE31ENT. 
 
 clinations of nature rapidly supplied painful 
 images, and wlien^ at last, Ernest succeeded 
 in his attempts. Dormer's countenance express- 
 ed a mixture of anguish and horror. The 
 guard had approached, and muttered, as he 
 stood over his now conscious prisoner — 
 
 " Ay, ay, all the same — some black popish 
 work." 
 
 " Have you allowed me to speak ?" asked 
 Domier, with quickness and alarm. 
 
 "Not a word that I could prevent," an- 
 swered Ernest. 
 
 " Nothing that can injure you," said the 
 guard, — " but I have heard men say, that a 
 clean breast and the gallows before you, was 
 easier than a foul breast, though nobody knew 
 it. Make a clean breast. Sir. It is the only 
 thing will give you peace." 
 
 " You are right, my friend," replied Dor^ 
 , raer, Avith his usual mildness. " There can 
 fee no peace with a guilty conscience ; but I 
 belieye you mistake in my case." 
 
 " i hope 60, Sir," ansAvered the man, doubt- 
 ingly. He, however, returned to his seat, and 
 now began to make up for his lost time by com- 
 mencing a hearty meal, keeping his eyes fixed
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 299 
 
 on his prisoner and Ernest. The latter Avas 
 attempting to persuade Dormer again to sleep. 
 '' No, no/' replied he. " I have had all I 
 require to prevent my being overcome by my 
 exhausted body." He looked ^ATetchedly ill, 
 and acknowledged that he felt so, but posi- 
 tively declined again lying do^^Ti. 
 
 " But you, Mr. IMontague," said he, '' must 
 now leave me. I never meant to deprive you 
 of a w^hole night's rest : and, if you return ]>y 
 the passage which leads to this room, you will 
 find, just at its entrance, a door opening into 
 an apartment prepared for you." 
 
 "I will not sleep to-night," answered Er- 
 nest, " unless," glancing towards the iron bed, 
 " I try to do so on this Roman Catholic couch.*' 
 Domier smiled, and seemed pleased, but 
 said, " you will not sleep on a first trial." 
 
 Ernest stretched himself upon the bed, and 
 felt that it was not only hard, but that there 
 were bars across to render it uneven also. 
 
 " Xo, indeed, I could not sleep till after 
 many trials," said he, again rising; ''but is it 
 possible, ]\Ir. Dormer, you can suppose such 
 treatment of your body renders you more holy 
 in the sinfht of God ?"
 
 300 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 " Certainly. You know St. Paul says, ' I 
 keep under mv body, and bring it into sub- 
 jection.'" 
 
 '' True, my dear Sir, but surely not by such 
 means. St Paul says, <^ If ye live after the 
 flesh, ye shall die ; but if ye, through the Spi- 
 rit, do mortify the deeds of the flesh, ye shall 
 live.' It was by the grace of the Spirit of God 
 that he was enabled to govern his body, and to 
 resist and overcome those sinful inclinations 
 which would have impeded his course in that 
 heavenward race which he was describing. Any 
 other subjection of the body but to the guid- 
 ance of the soul, influenced by the grace of 
 God, seems to me to no purpose ; and I think 
 St. Paul says the same when he speaks of or- 
 dinances of men, ' which have a show of wis- 
 dom in will-worship and humility, and neglect- 
 ing of the body.'" 
 
 ^' The subjection of the body to the spirit is 
 assuredly the end at which all sincere Catho- 
 lics aim in all their mortifications," replied 
 Dormer. '' Our objection to the Protestant 
 view of the subject, is, that they use no means 
 to attain the end they alloAv to l)e necessary." 
 
 " You say sincere Catholics," said Ernest.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 301 
 
 '*■ Yoli must allow me to say, tliat sincere Pro- 
 testants do continually use means for the at- 
 tainment of that end." 
 
 " I know no Protestant whom I should con- 
 sider more perfectly sincere than Mr. IMonta- 
 gue/' replied Dormer. " He has seen one of 
 my methods of seeking that end : I should 
 like to know one of his." 
 
 Ernest reddened, and glanced towards the 
 guard. 
 
 Dormer smiled. " I would not ask your 
 confidence farther than you felt disposed to 
 give it me, Mr. Montague: hut though, on 
 that point, it was given me in the j^lainest 
 English, I helieve it would be as unintelli- 
 gible to some ears as if it were in Greek." 
 
 "I believe so too," replied Ernest, again 
 reddening : then, after a short pause — " I 
 
 'o > 
 
 think," said he, " Christ has mentioned two 
 ways of avoiding sin — ' watching and prayer.' 
 If we watch what our peculiar dispositions 
 find to be temptations to sin^ and pray for 
 grace to enable us to avoid and resist those 
 temptations, and continue to join Avatchfulness 
 with prayer, we arc, I think, following the di- 
 rections of Christ, and shall succeed in attain- 
 2 c
 
 302 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 ing our end ; we are also, in tliis -way, sub- 
 jecting our bodies to the guidance of our spi- 
 rits, while they are depending on Him, witli- 
 out whom, we are assured by himself, ^ we 
 can do nothing/ " 
 
 " But he speaks of self-denial, and of tak- 
 ing up the cross daily," replied Dormer. 
 
 " Certainly ; but it is the cross he sends I 
 am to take up and bear, not one of my ovm. 
 creating ; and I am to deny my OAvn inchna- 
 tions when they would stand in the way of 
 obedience to Him ; not to make a merit with 
 Him by mortifying them, merely because they 
 are my natural inclinations." 
 
 Dormer Avas silent. 
 
 " My idea is simply this," continued Er- 
 nest; "by believing in Christ, and receiving 
 him as my Saviour, I receive him as a complete 
 Saviour. He is infinitely perfect in all his 
 works, and is so also in his character and work 
 as a Saviour. I do not add any of my imper- 
 fect doings to that all-perfect work. I lay the 
 accomplishment of my salvation wholly into 
 His hands. I trust the everlasting safety of 
 my soul entirely to him. In so far as I, from 
 weakness of faith, or natural pride, withdraw
 
 FATHER CLE3IENT. 303 
 
 this trust and attempt to be my own Saviour, 
 I dislionour liim, and act as a fool ; for with- 
 out him_, he has himself assured mc^ I can do 
 nothing." 
 
 " But thus, my dear Mr. Montague, you do 
 away the necessity of good Avorks. If Christ is 
 to Avork out your whole salvation, why are you 
 exhorted to work out your own salvation ?" 
 
 " Let us have the whole passage," replied 
 Ernest. " St. Paul says to the Philippian 
 church, 'Wherefore, my beloved, as ye have 
 always obeyed, not as in my presence only, but 
 now much more in my absence, work out your 
 own salvation with fear and trembling : for it 
 is God that worketh in you both to Avill and 
 to do of his good pleasure.'* Paul exhorts this 
 church not to rest on his presence for assis- 
 tance, but to continue, as they had done in his 
 absence, to regard the matter of salvation as 
 between themselves and God. He wrought in 
 them both to will and to do, and it was their 
 part, disregarding all that man could do for 
 them, to unite themselves withGod in that work. 
 This is exactly what I desire to do. I have 
 
 • Phil, ii, 12, 13.
 
 304 FATHEU CLEMENT. 
 
 received Christ as my Saviour, not, as our cli 
 vines say, ' in my sins, but from my sins/ I 
 desire to follow his guidance of me — to study 
 liis providences regarding me — to receive his 
 chastisements — to bear his cross — to wait on 
 him for his grace — all in order to purify and 
 prepare me for himself — and while attempt- 
 ing, in dependence on his grace, to follow his 
 footsteps, and to walk even as he walked, I 
 am not, as our divines also say, ' working for 
 life, but working from life.' " 
 
 Dormer was ao-ain silent and thouohtful for 
 a time, then said emphatically : " Christians of 
 different communions ought to associate more 
 together. They would then know what true 
 charity, true love for mankind is. " A year ago 
 I shoidd not have believed it possible that I 
 could have felt as I now do in conversing 
 with a heretic — a Calvinist. Yet, my dear Mr. 
 Montague, I must think any error, whoever 
 holds it, most fatally dangerous, which at all 
 lessens the necessity of exertion on our part ; 
 and deeply as I believe you feel on the sub- 
 ject, and highly as I know ' your works praise 
 you,' yet the system you have adopted — the 
 system of Calvinism, assuredly does so."
 
 FATHi:il CLE31ENT. 305 
 
 '' Surely you misunderstand me/' replied 
 Ernest. " AVe do not deny the necessity of ex- 
 ertion on our part — we only deny that any ex- 
 ertion on our part can have the smallest efficacy 
 in justifjdng our souls before God. We say 
 tliat a perfect righteousness only can justify ; 
 that ours is never perfect ; and that the per- 
 fect righteousness of Christ is that on which 
 we rest our hopes of justification. Calvinists, 
 too, perhaps look more into the heart, the 
 som'ce of action, for evidences of their state 
 before God, than merely to their works ; yet 
 facts prove that Calvinists, and Calvinistic 
 communities, attain to as high, or higher per- 
 fection in works, than those who diii'er from 
 them. The Calvinist believes that he must, 
 as Christ says, ' be born again,' before he can 
 see even the nature of ' the kingdom of God,' 
 and before he can make any exertion pleasing 
 to God. A Calvinist, therefore, tries his own 
 character by that given in the Bible of one who 
 is bom of the Spirit. ' The fruit of the Spirit 
 is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, 
 goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.' ' The 
 
 * Gal. V. 22.
 
 300 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 possession of these graces and virtues are the 
 only e\T(iences to a Calvinist, that he is born 
 of the Spirit — that he has the Spirit of Christ* 
 And he knows that if he ' has not the Spirit of 
 Christy he is none of his ;'■• — and that if he is 
 not Christ's, ' he is without hope^ and without 
 God in the work!.' It appears to me, my dear 
 Sir, that the works a Calvinist regards as 
 necessary to prove to himself that he is even 
 in the path of safety, arc more pure and spiri- 
 tual than those which are regarded by your 
 church, and by many ignorant Protestants, 
 as sufilcient to justify them in the sight of 
 God." 
 
 Dormer held out his hand, and said^ smil- 
 ing, " I see you feel the necessity of good 
 works as much as I do. I shall soon believe 
 that real Christians differ merely in words." 
 
 " Xot quite perhaps at this moment," re- 
 plied Ernest ; " but I hope^, before we leave 
 this world of darkness and error, we shall both 
 have built our hope on that one foundation 
 which cannot disappoint us; and if on that 
 we have also attempted to build ' wood, hay* 
 
 * Koni. viii. 0.
 
 FATHER CLE.MENT. 307 
 
 Btubble/ — the day, the bright day of truth, 
 shall reveal to us oui* en-ors, and destroy them ; 
 but we shall, on that ' rock of ages,' still be 
 safe." 
 
 " God grant it may be so \" said Dormer 
 fervently. 
 
 The morning sun shone brightly into the 
 little apartment, gilding the edges of the cru- 
 cifix as it stood between Ernest and the glow- 
 ing sky. Dormer had revived while convers- 
 ing on that subject which seemed for him al- 
 V, ays fidl of interest ; but now he informed 
 Ernest that his hour of prayer was come, and 
 that the presence of no one must prevent iiis 
 observing it. Ernest immediately, though re- 
 luctantly, took leave ; and Dormer, kneeling 
 before the crucifix, in the presence of his jailer, 
 -spent the next hours in devotion.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 " Beati colore, che lavan le loro stole nel sangue dell' Agnello; 
 aOine d'aver diritto all' albero della vita, e entrar per le porta nella 
 citta." 
 
 Martini's Trans, — Rev. xxii. 14. 
 
 On Ernest returning to Hallern Castle the 
 following forenoon, he found that, about an 
 hour before. Dormer's books and papers had 
 been restored to him ; and as nothing had ap- 
 jjeared to justify the suspicions entertained, 
 he was again at liberty, and had gone out, 
 l^^rncst heard also that the search made at 
 Carysford Park had ended in the same manner. 
 He detemiined, therefore, immediately to pro- 
 ceed thither, demand an interview with War- 
 renne, and insist on his instantly procuring 
 the release of young Clarenham. 
 
 AVhcn Ernest had nearly reached the gate 
 leading into the Carysford grounds, he observed
 
 FATHER CLEaiENT. .309 
 
 Dormer approaching, and immediately quick- 
 ened liis horse's pace to meet and congratu- 
 late him. Dormer, liowever, seemed to feel no 
 pleasure on perceiving him, and received his 
 cordial congi-atulations as if he heard them 
 not, and then asked anxiously — whether Er- 
 nest was proceeding to the park ? 
 
 " I am/' replied Ernest ; " and if you will 
 allow me, I shall call at Hallern on my return, 
 and tell you what has passed." 
 
 " If you feel disposed to do so, jMr. Mon- 
 tague, I shall be prepared to listen to whatever 
 you have to say." Dormer seemed to wish to 
 say more, but after breathing a heavy sigh, or 
 rather groan, he rode on. 
 
 Ernest felt sui-prised, and also proceeded 
 on his way, attemjjting, as he went, to ac- 
 count for what had passed ; and thought he 
 had done so, when he recollected that Dormer 
 had himself probably been with Wanenne to 
 acknowledge the loss of the paper, and that 
 the displeasure of his superior now hung heavy 
 on his thoughts. 
 
 On Ernest reaching the house and giving 
 his name, he was immediately sliown into an 
 apartment, not sucli as that in which AVarrenne
 
 310 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 had received his inferior brother, hut one 
 almost as poorly furnished as Dormer's. Here 
 Warreniie received Ernest with extreme po- 
 liteness. Two young men in clerical habits 
 were in the apartment, busied apparently in 
 study. Warrenne placed a chair for Ernest 
 with his back towards them. He had, how- 
 ever, observed that they vrere two very strong, 
 athletic -looking young men ; and the thought 
 had crossed his mind — " Will fasting and pe- 
 nance reduce these robust youths to the state 
 in which Dormer now is ?" 
 
 " I wish to speak to you on business of a 
 private natm-e," said Ernest coldly to "War- 
 renne. 
 
 *' I believe I know its nature," replied he, 
 with politeness, but with an air of indifference. 
 " IMr. Dormer, the priest of Ilallern, has been 
 with me. He has thought too seriously of this 
 matter. My two young brothers "vyere present 
 when he was with me. His gloomy disposi- 
 tion has on this, as on other occasions, left an 
 impression on his mind regarding the contents 
 of the paper he mentioned, which they do 
 not QOiwQX. If you understood the cipher, 
 3Ir. Montague, you would be aware of this."
 
 FATHER CLKMEKT. 311 
 
 " Tlie paper has been deciphered to me/' 
 replied Ernest, coldly. " Its contents, I ima- 
 gine, must convey the same impression to 
 eveiy one." 
 
 A\"^aiTenne looked incredulous. '' Dormer 
 informed you that it would insure the ol)jcct 
 which you, Mr. Montague, wish to attain ; hut 
 all your information on this subject has been 
 with a view to deceive you. It is -vWthout 
 foundation. It is absurd." 
 
 Ernest rose. " I shall not allow myself 
 to be deceived now," said he. " I know the 
 contents of tlie paper, and shall merely say, 
 that they shall be made known to government, 
 unless you immediately give me your written 
 promise, witnessed by these gentlemen, tbat 
 young Clarenham shall return to his friends 
 before two months are past." 
 
 WaiTenne smiled. " If you know the con- 
 tents of the paper, Mr. Montague, may I at least 
 beg of you to make me acquainted with them ?" 
 
 Ernest did so. 
 
 *^ Impossible !" exclaimed "Warrenne. " I 
 cannot believe it. Dormer has been dreaming, 
 
 and your decipherer has imposed on you No- 
 
 tlii]!g short of ?,oeing my own signature to such
 
 312 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 a document could make me credit its existence ; 
 and even tliat would only convince me that 
 my enemies had succeeded in producing what 
 might ruin me." 
 
 "You know your o>mi cipher, I suppose/' 
 said Ernest, taking out the paper. 
 
 The instant he unfolded it, so as to dis- 
 cover the cipher, his arms were seized from 
 behind by the two young men, and Wanenne 
 himself darted forward to snatch the paper. 
 Ernest was, however, powerful and active 
 in person. He firmly grasped the paper, 
 and, with a violent struggle freeing his arm, 
 levelled one of the young men to the floor ; 
 then flinging off the other, he seized Warrenne, 
 who w^as making towards a bell near where 
 he had sat, and placing himself so as to pre- 
 vent its being iiing — 
 
 " I see your intended villany \" exclaimed 
 he, " and also your consciousness of guilt : but 
 recollect my words, for they shall be kept." 
 
 He then pushed WaiTcnue from him to the 
 opposite side of the room ; and seeing the 
 young man he had knocked down, again on his 
 feet, he glanced tov.ards the window, and per- 
 ceiving that it was near tlie ground, he flung
 
 FATHER CLE3IENT. 313 
 
 open the casement, and leapt from it. Ilis 
 horse and servant he saw not far distant, and 
 hurried towards them. He had scarcely mount- 
 ed, when a crowd of servants issued from the 
 house, and rushed forward to stop him : Imt, 
 putting spurs to his horse, and not regarding 
 throAving down one or two who attempted to 
 get in front of him, he was soon clear of the 
 grounds of Carysford Park, and began to slacken 
 his pace, and think of what had happened. 
 
 All had passed so rapidly, it seemed scarce- 
 ly a reality ; and he took out the precious pa- 
 lmer, to be certain that it was still in his pos- 
 session. It now struck him that Dormer must 
 have kno^^^l of the intended plan of forcing 
 the paper from* him, should he go to Carysford 
 Park ; and, recollecting his looks, and the groan 
 of anguish with which he had parted from him, 
 he could aofain trace the stnii^p-le between his 
 feelings and his subjection to his church ; but, 
 as Dormer seemed to regard it as a duty to 
 confess every thing to his superior, Ernest, 
 though he longed to tell him what had passed, 
 a3 he felt certain it would only give him plea- 
 sure, thought it prudent to inform him no fur- 
 ther till he had decided his plan of proceeding. 
 2 I)
 
 314 FATHER CLEHIENT. 
 
 His deteniiinatlon Avas to proceed to Rome the 
 instant he had procured a written promise from 
 Warrenne to release his young friend, and him- 
 self accompany him home. For this he must 
 gain his father's consent ; and that he was 
 sure he would not obtain, unless he made him 
 acquainted \yith. the whole affair. 
 
 While eno-aofed in tliese thoughts, Ernest, 
 in passing through Ilallern village, had a note 
 slipped into his hand by a woman m'Ho had 
 first attracted his notice by walking for a part 
 of the vray close to his horse. On opening the 
 note, he discovered it to be from Ains worth, 
 and containing a request to meet him that 
 evening, in the same wood in which they had 
 formerly met. Ernest determined to proceed 
 no further till this meeting was over : and on 
 returning to lUerton, attempted to gain all the 
 information in his power from Dr. Lowther, 
 who was well acquainted wih the manner of 
 proceeding and history of the Inquisition. 
 
 Ainsworth, in the sam3 disguise as former- 
 ly, was at the place of meeting when Ernest 
 reached it. 
 
 " Have you done any thing for my master. 
 Sir?" was his first question. 
 3
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 315 
 
 Ernest informed liim of all he tliouglit ne- 
 cessary, and tlie poor man ^vcpt for joy. 
 
 " Oh, Sir/' said he, " every thing will do 
 tut your leaving the country. You must not. 
 Sir. Father Adrian might go abroad — he 
 might leave Father Clement to bear all — Sir, 
 you must find means to keep him in England.'' 
 
 " But, Ainsworth, by leaving England, and 
 throwing all blame on Mr. Dormer, he would 
 equally ruin the cause of his order in this 
 country." 
 
 '' No, Sir, no. But you do not understand 
 these things : and now we have not time. Fa- 
 ther Adrian must not leave the country. Sir. 
 My master will never come back if he does ; 
 a;nd nothing but your written promise of secre- 
 cy regarding what has passed, and also to re- 
 turn his paper when my master is restored to 
 his family, will be sufficient to make him feel 
 secure and remain in England ; and your pre- 
 sence. Sir, to watch his motions. Besides, Mr. 
 Ernest, you would not know how to proceed 
 at Rome, and I know every thing. Trust me. 
 Sir, to bring home my young master, and be 
 entreated to remain on the watch here. Do 
 not say any thing to Father Clement. Let
 
 316 FATHER CLEMEN^\ 
 
 him gain his information from Father Adrian. 
 BeHeye me. Sir, the more quiet every thing 
 is kept the hetter. Your absence woukl lead 
 to inquiries and talking. I can he at Rome 
 sooner than you. I know where my master 
 is ; I shall set out immediately. Ask nothing 
 from Father Adrian, but that my master shall 
 return. Leave the means to him, and my 
 master's comfort to me." 
 
 Ernest thought for a little — " I believe you 
 are right, AinsAvorth ; I think I may be satis- 
 fied that he cannot have one with him who 
 loves him more devotedly." 
 
 The man was moved. " You, too, love him. 
 Sir, but not in the right way for his souL" 
 
 It was then determined that Ainsworth 
 should set out on his return immediately to 
 Rome, and that Ernest shoidd w^ite what was 
 necessary to Warrenne ; and they separated. 
 
 In two days Ernest was in possession of 
 Warrenne's written promise to procure the re- 
 lease of Clarenham ; in return for which he 
 gave his -written promise of secrecy, and to re- 
 store the paper in cipher immediately after his 
 young friend rejoined his family ; and, in or- 
 der to secure instant intelligence, if Warrenne
 
 PATHEll CLEMKNT. 317 
 
 made any attempt to leave the country, Ernest 
 so far confirmed Maria Clarenliam's suspicions 
 regarding liim_, as to inform lier^, that he had 
 reason to believe that he was, in some degi-ee, 
 the cause of her brother's absence, and intrust- 
 ing to her the easy task of inducing young 
 Carysford to keep a constant watch upon his 
 motions, and instantly prevent him, should he 
 make any attempt to leave Carysford Park. 
 
 Again all went on as before at Halleru Castle. 
 Young Carysford was still a daily visitor, each 
 day to complain of his father's detennination 
 to treat him with the repulsive haughtiness of 
 newly-assumed authority, and still to be lec- 
 tured or charmed into submission by Maria. 
 Again the evenings were spent by Maria and 
 Adeline as formerly ; and Lady Montague also 
 sought to win Mrs. Clarenliam's thoughts from 
 the sad subjects by which they were occupied, 
 by her kindness and cheerfulness ; and had the 
 liappiness to observe, that she succeeded in 
 leading her cousin to brighter hopes than had 
 hitherto been indulged by her timid and de- 
 pressed spirit. Dormer and Ernest again joined 
 Lady JMontague and her friend in those con- 
 versations in >vhicli the subjects most interest-
 
 3lS FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 ing to all were alone introduced ; and each felt 
 the sweetness and profitableness of Christian 
 communion, though each felt also the imper- 
 fection of the purest earthly intercourse, while 
 conscious that on some points it was necessary, 
 even in the most confidential moments, to ob- 
 serve silence and reserve. 
 
 Dormer and Ernest, however, now felt that 
 they perfectly understood each other; and 
 though each regarded his friend as in error, and 
 in dangerous error, yet each believed in the 
 other's perfect sincerity ; and while anxious to 
 communicate his own views, so as to convince 
 his friend of the truth as he saw it, still the 
 warmest aifection and esteem existed on both 
 sides. Dormer, however, seemed on the way 
 to know first who was in the right. His 
 strength decreased daily ; but still, determined 
 to fulfil his duty as priest of Hallern, no en- 
 treaties would induce him to spare himself. 
 
 " Why should I not die at my post ?" repHed 
 he to Ernest's anxious remonstrances. 
 
 " But a little rest — a little ease — would keep 
 you longer at yom- post. We are not entitled 
 to throw away life." 
 
 '' The church gives no instructions such as
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 319. 
 
 these/' replied Dormer. " I remember none in 
 Scripture ; but I read of ' working while it is 
 called to-day/ and of that ' night coming whea 
 no man can work.' " 
 
 This conversation passed as Ernest accom- 
 panied Dormer to his apartment, after having 
 met him returning from the \41Iage almost over- 
 powered by weakness and fatigue. 
 
 On entering Dormer's little apartment, Er- 
 nest was startled on observing that near his 
 iron bed, there was now placed a coffin. He 
 stood fixed, gazing upon it. For a time he re- 
 sisted the admission of the thoughts inspired by 
 the sight ; and when he could no longer do so 
 — ^and the truth, that Dormer felt he could not 
 live, forced itself upon him, he was so com- 
 pletely overcome, that he had no power to re- 
 strain his feelings. 
 
 Donner was moved. '^ There was one being 
 on earth," said he, after a few moments of 
 silent emotion, "who I once thought would, 
 for a time at least, feel a blank in the world if 
 I was called away. His affections I have been 
 compelled to alienate from me. It is strange 
 te feel consolation in the belief that we excite 
 grief in others, — yet so it is, — and at this mo-
 
 320 1 ATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 ment, Mr. Montague^ I feel oppressed by a 
 sense of gratitude to you, for kindness so un- 
 deserved on my part." 
 
 Ernest could on no occasion find words to 
 express his deeper feelings, and now continued 
 silent, while his flushed forehead, and firm- 
 closed mouth, betrayed the efforts he made to 
 maintain the composure he had struggled to 
 
 '' I felt a strange shrinking from the foolish 
 gloomy accompaniments of death," resumed 
 Dormer, " in consequence, I suppose, of my 
 weak state of body ! and as you know it is my 
 way to use means for the attainment of the 
 ends I wish, I had this brought here, (point- 
 ing to the coffin,) to familiarize myself to what 
 long association has rendered so much an ob- 
 ject of gloom; and even that association I have 
 found wonderfully powerful in giving to this 
 last depository the greatest effect in solemniz- 
 ing the thoughts." 
 
 " It does indeed," replied Ernest, relieving 
 his breast by a long-drawn, heavy sigh. 
 
 " Yes," continued Dormer, "^when I lay my- 
 self in tliis coffin for my hours of rest, — and 
 all is dark around mc, — and I feel its narrow
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 321 
 
 bounds, — and recollect all that is combined with 
 being laid in it for my last long sleep — Oh ! 
 my thoughts are too, too clearly on the verge 
 of eternity. I could sometimes pray even for 
 annihilation — the future srems so a^^^ully mo- 
 mentous ! The question — am I safe ? without 
 an answer. The past so worthless, so misspent, 
 so inconceivably, so madly regardless of the 
 bearing time must have upon eternity \" 
 
 Ernest fixed his eyes intently on Dormer. 
 
 ^^And at such moments," asked he, "on 
 what can you rest your hope ? Do those 
 penances — those self -inflictions — those acts of 
 charity — those pious feelings and endeavours, 
 which your church teaches are to secure your 
 justification at the bar of Christ, return to 
 your recollection so as to give you courage to 
 meet your Judge with feelings of peace and 
 security ?" 
 
 " The church teaches that it is best for the 
 departing soul not to be secui'e," replied Dor- 
 mer. 
 
 "^But may I ask you to answer my question, 
 at least with regard to hope, if not security ?" 
 said Ernest. 
 
 " Yes, provided you do not take my answer
 
 322 
 
 FATHER CLEIiIENT 
 
 as one which would apply to those who are 
 really holy men in the Catholic church. For 
 me, no penance — no mortification — no fasting 
 — ^no means I have ever attempted, and I be- 
 lieve few ever have attempted more, who had 
 to support the external character imposed on 
 our order, — nothing has succeeded. Sin still 
 reigns, mingles, triumphs in all I do, and seems 
 to laugh at every effort I make to overcome it. 
 On looking back, therefore, in those a^^^ul mo- 
 ments, nothing returns but sin." 
 
 " In what, then, my dear Sir, do you find a 
 refuge from despair ?" 
 
 "Tis strange," replied Dormer, '^'^hoAv, at 
 such moments, one doctrine of our faith stands 
 forth so as to throw all the others into distance 
 and insignificance. The vastness of that sense 
 of want felt by the soul seems instinctively to 
 cling to the infinite vastness of the means ap- 
 pointed by God to supply it. The death of the 
 Son of God seems alone sufficient to blot out 
 sins aggravated and innumerable : — the right- 
 eousness of the Son of God alone so spotless 
 as to answer the demands of the perfect law 
 of God. Christ is seen to have -vsTought the 
 ■\vort alone, — and then the soul asks — for
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 3^3 
 
 'whom was it ^^TOUght ? For man, — for all 
 men, — ^for whosoever will : and for a time, a 
 glorious triumphant moment, the soul forgets 
 all but its Almighty Saviour, and its o^\ti safe- 
 ty — and can say, — ' my Lord, my Saviour, my 
 hope, my all. My own righteousnesses, when I 
 remember them in the light of that spotless 
 hoHness, appear as a covering of filthy rags. 
 Purge away their filth as thou wilt, I lay my- 
 self wholly into thy hands.' " 
 
 " You are, my dearest Sir, in those triumph- 
 ant, glorious moments, a Calvinist, a Bible 
 Christian," exclaimed Ernest, an expression of 
 joy lighting up his countenance. '' You once 
 asked me whether Calvinists could believe a 
 Roman Catholic might be truly and devotedly 
 religious : at this moment I do." 
 
 " Nay, nay, I am no Calvinist," replied Dor- 
 mer; "^but if you agree in what I have just 
 said, you are a Catholic ; for I have said that I 
 resigned my soul to that purification which 
 your chm-ch teaches is unnecessary." 
 
 '' You have said, that you desired to resign 
 your soul to Christ, as its only Saviour," said 
 Ernest ; " and that is what every Bible Christ- 
 ian does for both life and death."
 
 324 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT 
 
 Dormer smiled. " I do not wish to differ 
 from you, Mw Montague ; but this one thing 
 I feel assured of, that some change must take 
 place on my soul ere it can enter heaven. 
 What produces that change, our church has 
 decided to he a point into which w« ought not 
 to inquire. And I am glad it has done so ; he- 
 cause I feel pleasure in resigning its nature — 
 all, into the hands of Christ." 
 
 *" I should not dread the purgatory in which 
 you helieve, my dear Sir," said Ernest smil- 
 ing, "^ Yet," added he seriously, "^it is a per- 
 nicious error to teach that there is any purga- 
 tory. It is contrary so Scripture ; because, if 
 Christ's death, as you believe, Avas an all-suf- 
 ficient atonement for sin, — to make man suf- 
 fer also for that sin is either a contradiction, or 
 an assertion that more suffering is inflicted than 
 is necessary." 
 
 " I believe you are in error on this point ; 
 but I cannot argue with you," said Dormer 
 gently. " At this moment I would rather not 
 differ from you about any thing." 
 
 " Speak to mc, then, about your own health, 
 my dear Sir," said Ernest. " AVill you not con- 
 sult a physician V
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 325 
 
 " I have done so already/' replied Dormer. 
 
 Ernest looked anxiously for his sajnng more. 
 
 '' I will acknowledge to you^, Mr. Montague, 
 that for some days after I was infonned by 
 Father Adrian of what had passed between 
 you and him, — that the paper was still in your 
 possession, and that he had written letters 
 which would restore Basil Clarenliam to safe- 
 ty, — for some days after I knew all this, I felt 
 such a weight, such a mortal weight, taken 
 from my mind and thoughts, that it seemed 
 as if health, and peace, and enjoyment were 
 restored to me ; but still this relief from 
 anxiety had no healing effect on this poor 
 frame. The precautions I had taken against 
 the worst of maladies had destroyed its powers. 
 As misery had done before, joy only increased 
 the rapidity of their decay. I cannot sleep. I 
 every day become weaker ; and my physician 
 gives me no hope of recovery, but from using 
 means which I do not feel at liberty to use. 
 Perfect idleness — complete relaxation — and 
 such means, he confesses, only promise an un- 
 certain cure. He has in vain endeavoured to 
 reduce the fever which continually preys upon 
 me ; and I feel that I am hun-ying on to death. 
 2e
 
 22.6 FATHER CLEMf:NT. 
 
 I have no other wish. What charm can Ufe 
 hare for me, or for any Catholic priest who 
 devotes himself to his duty ? All my desire 
 is to labour incessantly while I am able. Why 
 should I spend the little time left me, in try- 
 ing by the indulgence of this decaying body, 
 to continue it a little longer, a clog to my soul, 
 and a useless burden on the earth ? No, no ; 
 The grave is the only place Avhere it is not sin 
 for a priest to indulge in rest." 
 
 Ernest made no reply — he could not. 
 
 Dormer had, on entering his room, sunk 
 down exliausted on his hard bed. Ernest sat 
 beside him, and the coffin was at their feet. 
 Ernest now stooped forward over it. 
 
 ' " Is this strange bed hard too ?" asked he, 
 putting aside a covering of haircloth Avliich 
 seemed to conceal somewhat which raised the 
 inner part of the coffin. It was a thick layer 
 of ashes. 
 
 Ernest looked up. " For what is this, my 
 dear Sir ?" 
 
 " A means of liurailiation," replied Dormer. 
 
 " You know I regard it as a duty to make the 
 body partake sensibly of mortitication. These 
 ashes are mv bed, and that haircloth is mv co-
 
 FATIhER CLEiMP:NT. S27 
 
 vering, when I am employed in those medita- 
 tions on death -vyhich I have described to you." 
 
 Ernest again looked thoughtfully doAvn on 
 the coffin and its accompanimentr., then said 
 emphatically, " How selfish is it to Avish to de- 
 tain you amongst these ' beggarly elements !' 
 How inexpressibly rapturous to you wall that 
 moment be, which at once t\t.11 convince you 
 that faith in Christ completely justifies — ^that 
 being absent from the body is to be present 
 with the Lord — and that to be present wiih. 
 Him is to be holy, to be ' like Him !' " 
 
 " How confidently you speak regarding me !" 
 replied Dormer. " How can you so greatly 
 reprobate, so utterly condemn a church, one 
 of whose least w^orthy members you believe 
 to be far more secure of heaven than he almost 
 can venture to hope for himself?" 
 
 *■' Because, my dear Sir, that member of the 
 fallen and coiTupted church of Rome has built 
 his hope, not on what she teaches, but on that 
 sure foundation which cannot fail ; and that, 
 amidst so much of the darkness and cnor 
 which his church teaches, that the light which 
 he follows proves its divine origin by overcoming 
 them all. Built on this foundation, Scrip-
 
 328 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 ture declares the soiil to be safe. You, my 
 dear Sir, liavc attempted to make your hope 
 more secure by adding your own inventions ; 
 — an iron bed, — a coffin with ashes, — a hair- 
 cloth shirt, — a wounding cross, — nights with- 
 out rest, — subjection of youi' mind to your fel- 
 low-men : but when everlasting day shall 
 dsLvra upon your soul, its light will show you the 
 vanity of such trifles, when it is attempted by 
 them to make more perfect the finished work 
 of the Son of God ; and all this painful la- 
 bour shall be lost — shall require forgiveness. 
 And those of your church who, disregarding 
 the true foundation, built their all on this 
 rubbish " 
 
 " Too, too many do," internipted Dormer. 
 
 "^ They are taught to do so," said Ernest. 
 
 '''Not by me — never by me," interrupted 
 Dormer warmly. 
 
 ''I believe not," resumed Ernest; "but 
 they are by the men to whom you subject the 
 guidance of your spirit. What else does War- 
 renne teach ? You must have observed how 
 that poor deluded girl, Catherine Clarenham, 
 is led by him to suppose herself a saint — a 
 peculiar favoiu'ite of heaven, in consequence
 
 FATHER CLKMENT. 329 
 
 of her observance of those unscriptural trifles ; 
 while the poor thing is vain and full of self- 
 importance, and irritable and impatient when 
 crossed or opposed in the most unimportant 
 matter." 
 
 " Poor child !" said Dormer, and sighed 
 deeply, but immediately changed the subject.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Un solo Signore, una sola fede — " 
 
 Martini's Tfans. — Ephes. iv. 5. 
 
 Days and weeks again had passed away^ and 
 still each member of the family at Hallem 
 felt, till Clarenham returned, as if waiting and 
 hoping for that which was to relieve them from 
 the languor and anxiety which accompanied 
 their continued uncertainty respecting him. 
 Still each day so much resembled the preced- 
 ing one that time passed away imperceptibly ; 
 for it is strange, but tiiie, that those days, 
 most full of interest and events, and during 
 which there has been no time for weariness, 
 seem longer in retrospect, than those in which 
 no event or variety has occuiTed to mark their 
 course.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 331 
 
 During this period, the rebellion in Scotland 
 had been so powerfully opposed, that the most 
 sanguine of those who had hoped for the re- 
 storation of the Stuarts had now given up that 
 hope. Amongst those was Sir Thomas Carys- 
 ford ; and as his visions of new honours and 
 royal favour to his house gave place to less 
 splendid realities, his hopes and affections again, 
 rested more entirely on his son ; and notmth- 
 standing WaiTenne's efforts to prevent it, he 
 at times expressed to Lady Carysford his re- 
 gret at losing so amiable a young creatui-e as 
 Maria Clarenham for a daughter. Tliis was 
 immediately repeated by his mother to young 
 Carysford, whose spirits were as rapidly raised 
 as depressed, and his affection and restored 
 gaiety seemed to give Sir Thomas new life. 
 
 During this time of tedious anxiety to the 
 inmates of Halleni Castle, the cloud which 
 seemed to rest upon them was made still dark- 
 er by the evident approach of the King of 
 Ten-ors to deprive them of one, whose minis- 
 trations amongst them had won to him the ve- 
 neration and love of the whole family. Dor- 
 mer, every day, became more and more weak. 
 When no longer able to discharge his duties
 
 332 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 in the village^ lie made liimself be carried out 
 on the lawn to meet his people, who, crowding- 
 round his couch, listened to his solemn and 
 affectionate expostulations — sometimes with 
 attention so deep as to suppress all emotion, at 
 other times with sobs and teai-s. The Claren- 
 hams and Montagues w^ere often at such times 
 amongst the listeners ; and once, when he was 
 carried to the A'erge of the park, that some old 
 people might be able to come and hear his 
 last instmctions, Sir Herbert Montague and 
 Dr. Lowther were seen stealing to the spot, 
 and, concealed by some bushes, listening with 
 evident emotion to the dying Catholic priest. 
 Now, howeyer, Dormer taught only the sim- 
 ple, powerful truths of the gospel. In listen- 
 ing to him, the Bible Christian alone could 
 have recognised his creed. 
 
 At length this exertion was also too much 
 for Dormer's strength, and he became too weak 
 to leave his room. Death seemed fast approach- 
 ing ; and EiTiest watched his couch, from day 
 to day, with increasing feelings of interest and 
 afi'cction ; while Dormer confided to him, with- 
 out reserve, his hopes and fears — his thoughts 
 and feelings in moments of darkness, and also
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 333 
 
 at tliose times when faltli enabled him to view 
 the near '^^dthdrawing of that veil which sepa- 
 rates between time and eternity^ ^yith. calm- 
 ness and hope. 
 
 One day, on which Ernest had been pre- 
 vented seeing him till towards evening. Dor- 
 mer, after receiving him with even more than 
 liis usual kindness and confiding afiection, 
 said, '' I had but one earthly wish, my dear 
 Mr. Montague. That was, once more to see 
 Clarenham. That wish will not, I think, be 
 granted. You can tell him that I have not 
 given him cause to abhor my memory, with- 
 out myself suffering. His forgiveness would 
 have calmed my last horn- as much as any 
 thing earthly could." 
 
 " You have that forgiveness, I am certain/' 
 replied Ernest ; " and I hope you will still 
 receive it from himself." 
 
 " No," replied Dormer — " No, dear Ernest 
 — my physician has permitted me this evening 
 to receive the last rites of the church. I de- 
 sire no earthly interruption after that is over." 
 
 It was now evening ; and, though the weak- 
 ness and brokenness of Dormer's voice seemed 
 to justify the opinion of his physician, yet his
 
 334 I ATIIER CLE3IENT. 
 
 mind seemed so calm^ and clear, and present, 
 that Ernest could scarcely believe all was so 
 near a change. He made no reply, but con- 
 tinued looking earnestly at Dormer, who lay, 
 supported by pillows, on his hard pallet — his 
 eyes raised to heaven, or at times speaking a 
 few words of kindness to Ernest, or repeating 
 aloud the Latin prayers of some holy men of 
 his order. Ernest did not feel satisfied. He 
 had witnessed the last moments of many dying 
 Christians of his own church, and it now seem- 
 ed unsuitable, at such a time, to abide by hu- 
 man forms of prayer. The words were ex- 
 cellent ; but to a Cahinist, no words short of 
 inspiration seem strong enough to lean upon, 
 when entering the " valley of the shadow of 
 death." 
 
 Dormer's hand was in his — it was cold, and 
 the pulse low and unequal. Ernest leant to- 
 wards him and repeated the words — " When I 
 pass through the valley of the shadow of death, 
 I will fear no evil j because thou art with mo, 
 and thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." 
 
 Dormer turned towards him. "1 am in 
 that valley, Eniest — I wish I could say I fear 
 no evil. Sin is tluit which gives its awful
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 335 
 
 oloom to tlie sliadow of approacliinnr death. 
 We know not^ Ernest, what sin is till that 
 shadow is upon us." 
 
 '^ But we have a promise/' replied Ernest, 
 " that as our duty is, so shall our strength be. 
 We cannot see the nature of sin so clearly as 
 Christ saw it when he died in our room. Our 
 seeing its vileness more clearly, does not prove 
 us more sinful ; it only ought to make us 
 cling more closely to Him Avhose blood clean- 
 seth from all sin, and wdio makes his grace 
 sufficient to meet every situation in which he 
 places his people." 
 
 " Yes," replied Dormer, " if they are of 
 those who merit that grace." 
 
 " Merit grace !" repeated Ernest : '' JMy 
 dear Sir, what do you mean ? What you merit 
 is no more grace, it is debt. What can you 
 mean ?" 
 
 *•' I mean that I look for nothing, because I 
 deserve nothing.- I humbly resign m3'self as 
 a lost sinner to Christ, to save me as he will. 
 JMy mind is at this moment more vividly clear 
 tiiiin ever. It suffers a dreadful struggle be- 
 tween terror and hope. Oh ! what a tremend- 
 ous thought is that of judgment ! Final judg-
 
 336 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 meiit ! A sentence for eteiTiity ! To appear 
 before Omniscient Purity ! To give an account 
 of the deeds done in tlie body ! To give an 
 account of my ministry — the care I have tak- 
 .en of souls — of immortal souls ! if I have de- 
 ceived — if I liave misled — to have their blood 
 upon me ! O ! who would undertake such a 
 charge if he saw its importance as I now see it !" 
 Ernest paused before he replied. Dormer's 
 state of mind was new to him ; and^ while he 
 wished to speak comfort^ he felt at a loss how 
 to proceed. During his evening conversations 
 Avith him he had constantly been distressed by 
 observing the confusion which prevailed in his 
 mind on that most important of all points, the 
 justification of the soul before God. This pro- 
 ceeded from the variance which existed be- 
 tween what he learned from Scripture, amply 
 confirmed b}" his own experience, and the dog- 
 mas taught by his church. At one time Dor- 
 mer would, in language, every word of which 
 was felt and understood by Ernest, declare his 
 hope of salvation to rest on the atonement and 
 merits of the Son of God : at another he would 
 express as much dread and anxiety at the 
 thought of appearing at the judgment-seat of
 
 FATHER CLE3IENT. 337 
 
 Christ, as if his salvation depended entirely on 
 the account he could then give of his own 
 ■svorks. Often had Ernest laboured to prove 
 the inconsistency of his faith and of his fears. 
 " If your justification shall depend on its being 
 found that you have obeyed any law/' he would 
 say, " then shall you have saved yoiu'self. If 
 Christ is your Saviour, then must he be a com- 
 plete Saviour. If you venture to the judg- 
 ment-seat of Christ, to be judged according to 
 his pure law, then you must perish, ' for by 
 the deeds of the law shall no flesh be justified 
 in his sight.' If you believe in Clirist for 
 your justification, then are you dead to the 
 law^ : It can demand nothing from you. Faith 
 in Christ makes you one with Him. He died 
 not for himself: He died for you. He obeyed 
 the law in your place : ' You are complete in 
 Him.' All you have to do is to examine, on 
 Scripture grounds, whether you believe in 
 Him. ' To those who believe, Christ is pre- 
 cious.' Is he precious to you ? Those who be- 
 lieve * delight in the law of God, after the in- 
 ner man ;' and though they know the truth too 
 well to say, ' we have no sin,' yet it is their 
 load. ' They groan ' under its influence, ^ be- 
 2f
 
 338 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 ing burdened.' Tliey cry out witli St. Paul, 
 * O wretched man that I am, ^vho shall deliver 
 me from the body of this death !' " 
 
 Dormer vrould listen with delight while Er- 
 nest thus spoke to the feelings and experience 
 of his mind, and would thankfully acknowledge 
 the possession of those evidences of faith : But 
 still his church taught, in direct contradiction 
 to St. Paul's plainest declaration, that it was 
 a dangerous error to believe that faith alone 
 justified the soid. St. Paul says, ' We being 
 justified by faith, have peace with God.' — ' By 
 grace are ye saved, through faith.' — ' Ye are 
 all the children of God, through faith in Christ 
 Jesus.' And Christ's own words are, — *^He 
 that believeth in me shall never perish.' ' This 
 is the work of God, that ye believe in Him 
 whom he hath sent. He that believeth in me 
 is not condemned. He that believeth in me 
 hath passed from death unto life.' 
 
 Dormer's church, however, not gi^'ing her 
 members the Scriptures to judge for them- 
 selves, have also given the character, favour- 
 able to their own usurpation of power over 
 their consciences, to the doctrine of faith. The 
 Bible teaches that the faith which unites the
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 339 
 
 soul to Christ, and justifies, necessarily receives 
 from that union his Spirit to produce that new 
 heart whose nature it is to bring forth good 
 works. But the church of Rome confounds 
 the faith which justifies, mth its effects : and 
 teaches, that, in addition to resting your faith 
 on Christ's finished work for salvation, you 
 must do so and so yourself. Dormer had sub- 
 jected his mind to these unsciiptural doctrines 
 of his church ; and, while his awakened con- 
 science showed him the imperfections of his 
 best performances, and his heart clung in love 
 and adoration to the Sa-vdour of sinners, still 
 his church demanded from him a round of ob- 
 servances, which he had indeed attempted to 
 fulfil, but which, on looking back, had been 
 accompanied by so many sins of heart, that 
 he dared not plead them as having any merit 
 before Ilim who looked only to the heart. 
 
 Ernest now again attempted to combat these 
 dangerous errors, — eiTors which have made 
 most miserable the last days of many awaken- 
 ed Catholics. Dormer listened, while Ernest 
 easily proved to him, what he so powerfully 
 felt, that every attempt to rest our hopes on 
 our own sinful Avorks must fail at the hour of
 
 340 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 death;, wlieu the soul kiiovrs any thing of the 
 comprehensiveness and hoHness of the law of 
 God. Our own works are then " shorter than 
 a man can stretch himself upon them^, narrow- 
 er than that he can wrap himself in them." 
 
 Dormer agreed^, and was listening to the 
 truths of the gospel brought forward by Er- 
 nest, ^^^th ejaculations to heaven that he might 
 be found interested in their peace-giving de- 
 clarations, when a servant softly entered to 
 say that Father Adrian was come. 
 
 " Why suffer him to distui'b you, my dear 
 Sir ?" said Ernest, rising as the servant retir- 
 ed, and leaning in sorrow over Dormer ; " O ! 
 trust your soul to Him A^ho can alone prepare 
 it for himself." 
 
 "^ Scripture commands this last unction," re- 
 plied Dormer, looking ^\dtli an expression of 
 mingled affection and soitow at Ernest. " Fare- 
 well. After Father Adrian has been mth me, 
 I shall regard myself as separated from all in 
 this world. Farewell, kind, dear Ernest." He 
 held out his arms, and made an effort to em- 
 brace Ernest, who folded his arms round him, 
 and wept upon his breast. Dormer laid his 
 hand upon his head, and prayed that God would
 
 PATHKR CLEMENt. 341 
 
 keep him in tlie tmtli, — or lead liira into it 
 where he still might err, — and again unite 
 them to each other, where there was no more 
 darkness, no more sorrow, no more separation. 
 
 Footsteps were heard approaching : Ernest 
 started up. " Must I leave you ?" asked he. 
 
 " I shall confess," replied Dormer. 
 
 ''To a man ! My dear, dear Sir, what can 
 he do for you V 
 
 " I shall soon know, Ernest. Once more I 
 shall confess to a priest ; and, if I am in en'or, 
 I must lay all on Him who will not ' cast me 
 out.' I cannot tliink or decide now ; life is 
 ehhing fast. You need not leave the room. 
 Go to the further window^ ; and when I want 
 support, give me your breast." 
 
 The door opened, and Warrenne entered 
 the room, accompanied by three other priests, 
 bearing various articles concealed under rich 
 coverings. 
 
 " Father, I shall confess." 
 
 Warrenne approached. " This young friend 
 wishes to be a witness of the last rites of our 
 church," said Dormer. 
 
 " Certainly," replied AVarrcnne, apparently 
 unconscious of what he sai<l, while he looked
 
 342 FATHER CLE3IENT. 
 
 with an expression of awe on Dormer, as he 
 lay "v^dth that last paleness on his countenance, 
 the sight of which appals the most worldly 
 and thoughtless, and particularly a worldly 
 clergyman. 
 
 " Father," said Dormer, fixing his eyes on 
 him, " eternity opens an a^vful prospect on 
 the soul." 
 
 " Yes, brother ; to him who is not in the 
 true chm-ch, or whose sins are mortal, or un- 
 confessed, it is an a-s^^ul thing to die ; but to 
 you, a member of our holy mother church — a 
 priest — one whose life has evinced such evan- 
 gelical purity — whose confessions, and fasts, 
 and penances — whose charity — whose self-de- 
 nial, and unwearied exertions for the faith, are 
 so well kno^vn to the true church — to you 
 death ought to have no teiTors. We shall of- 
 fer masses ; for we cannot withdraw the veil 
 to know whether they are unnecessary ; though 
 I think you may rest satisfied that few indeed 
 are required for you." 
 
 " Oh, Father, you know me not," said Dor- 
 mer ; " whatever is required to purge away sin 
 is necessary for my soul. You know me not." 
 
 ''- Would to G<xl I could exclumge with vou.
 
 rATHER CLEMENT. 343 
 
 Dormer !" exclaimed Warremie, as from his 
 imnost soul : — then recollecting himself, — 
 "Did you say you would confess V 
 "I did. Father." 
 
 Ernest and the other priests retired to the 
 further end of the small apartment, while 
 Wan-enne bent over Dormer, and received his 
 whispered confession. It was short, and the 
 ahsolution was pronounced by Warrenne. 
 Dormer's eyes were, however, raised to hea- 
 ven; and, to Ernest, he seemed praying for 
 absolution to him who alone could give it. 
 The priests then approached ; and after some 
 other prayers and ceremonies, the dying per- 
 son received the eucharist. 
 
 Dormer, after this, seemed much exhausted. 
 He looked towards Ernest, who immediately 
 went near. Dormer smiled, and held out his 
 hand. " Raise my head," said he faintly. 
 
 Ernest did so, and supported him on his 
 breast. The door of the room was open oppo- 
 site to the bed ; for the oppression of death 
 was on the patient's breast, and the priests, 
 as they brought near the sacred apparatus, 
 knelt on the coffin. 
 
 AVarrcnne himself anointed the dyiiig suffer-
 
 344 FATHER CLEMKNT. 
 
 er. He repeated the words in Latin from 
 wlience the institution is taken by the Romish 
 church : " Is any sick among you ? Let him 
 call for the elders of the church ; and let them 
 pray over him, anointing him Avith oil in the 
 name of the Lord ; and the prayer of faith 
 shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise 
 him up; and if he has committed sins they 
 shall he fol-given him." 
 
 Ernest listened to these words, so evidently 
 alluding to the gifts of healing imparted to the 
 iirst Christians, but so unmeaning in the church 
 of Rome, where none of the effects followed 
 which are ascribed by the Apostle to the ob- 
 servance, where the sick becomes more sick, 
 and, instead of being raised up, goes down 
 into the grave. AVarrenne, however, rapidly 
 pronounced the words, and repeated some La- 
 tin prayers, then touched with the sacred oil 
 the eyes, the lips, the hands, — Avhatever had 
 been the means of seeing, of hearing, of speak- 
 ing, of doing evil. 
 
 Ernest supported Dormer's head on his 
 breast, aaIuIc "Warrenne proceeded, repeating 
 prayers each time he applied the chrism. 
 
 At last all was concluded, and the last Avords
 
 FATHER CLEMENT.' 345 
 
 Supposed to prepare for entering on eternity 
 were about to be said^ "vvlien Dormer, starting- 
 forward, gazed earnestly towards the door, 
 and exclaimed, " Clarenbam !" then immedi- 
 ately fell back into Ernest's arms. 
 
 It was Clarenham, and in an instant he was 
 at the side of Dormer's bed. 
 
 " Father ! dearest Father !" He threw him- 
 self on his knees on the coffin, " Father, have 
 you forgiven me ? Oh, if I could have spared 
 you all 3^ou have suffered ! But you. Father — 
 you made me what I am — you taught me to 
 love truth." He would have taken Dormer's 
 hand, but Warrenne pushed him away.' 
 
 " The holy oil is upon that hand, Mr. Cla- 
 renham ; it must not be polluted by the touch 
 of a heretic." The priests drew further away 
 from Clarenham, and removed their things. 
 
 " Do you not forgive me. Father ?" asked 
 Clarenham, in a voice of despair. 
 
 Dormer looked earnestly at him, " I thought 
 I required your forgiveness, Basil." 
 
 Clarenham then threw himself on the bed. 
 " Oh, my beloved Father." He could say no 
 more, but burst into an agony of grief.
 
 346 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 '^ The service is not over, Mr. Clareiiliam/' 
 said "Warrenne -with displeasure. 
 
 Clareiiliam lieeded liim not. 
 
 " My son — my dear son/' said Dormer, *' I 
 have no time to lose. Suffer Father Adrian to 
 proceed." 
 
 Clarenham immediately rose and stood by 
 Ernest, endeavouring to be calm. Ainsworth 
 now stood near Dormer's bed ; and other faces 
 ■were seen in the dark passage which led into 
 his room. 
 
 Dormer himself, however, seemed now un- 
 conscious of what was passing. His eyes were 
 closed ; — an expression of heavenly calm was 
 on his countenance : the motions of his clasped 
 hands showed that he prayed mentally, but he 
 spoke not. 
 
 All stood in profound silence, every eye fixed 
 on the dying countemmce. The last prayer 
 was said, but no one stiiTed. 
 
 " Brother, in Avhat faith do you die ?" asked 
 Warrenne, with unaffected solemnity. 
 
 " In the faith of the only true church — the 
 church of Jesus Christ," answered Dormer, in 
 a calm, low tone of voice.
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 :u: 
 
 " You mean, brotlier, in the only true and 
 apostolic churcli of Rome ?" 
 
 " The churcli of Christ/' said Dormer, 
 quickly. 
 
 '^ Yes, brother ; but there are those now 
 present who regard other communions as 
 churches of Christ." 
 
 Dormer answered not — his thoughts seemed 
 away ; and, for a time, all again was silence. 
 The expression of his countenance at length 
 changed, and he opened his eyes, and raised 
 them to heaven with that fearfully anxious 
 look which so forcibly expresses the helpless- 
 ness of the soul as life recedes, and eternity 
 must be entered. 
 
 '' Lay me in the ashes," said he quickly. 
 
 '^ Why, why, dear Sir ?" asked Ernest in a 
 whisper. 
 
 Warrenne beckoned to the priests, who im- 
 mediately took the lid from the coffin, and pre- 
 pared to obey him. 
 
 " You will hasten his departure," said Er- 
 nest to them. 
 
 " You shall not," exclaimed Clarenliam. 
 
 " Lay me in the ashes — in the coffin," said 
 Dormer with a look of agony.
 
 348 FATHER CLE?,IENT. 
 
 The priests approached, and Clarenham no 
 longer opposed them, while they wrapped him 
 in his bkmket, and laid him in the coffin. Er- 
 nest, however, did not leave his place but him- 
 self supported his head, and, kneeling down, 
 again laid it on his breast. The priests looked 
 at him, and at Wai'reime ; but the latter did 
 not seem disposed to dispute his doing what he 
 would. 
 
 For a few minutes Dormer seemed insensible ; 
 he then asked, in a voice scarcely audible, 
 " Does Ernest still support my head ?" 
 
 " Yes, dearest Sir," replied Ernest, leaning 
 forward. 
 
 " Dear Ernest — dear Clarenham, farewell." 
 '' My dear Sir, is all peace ?" asked Ernest in 
 a whisper. 
 
 '' Yes— now." 
 " What disturbed you ?" 
 "^ One look to the past — sin, sin." 
 " But these ashes — what can they do ?" 
 "Nothing, nothing. It was a moment of 
 darkness." 
 
 AYarrenne approached. " Brother, you have 
 not distinctly declared your faith — at least you 
 may be misunderstood."
 
 FATHER CLEMP.NT. ^49 
 
 "I die tlie most imwortliy — tlio lowest, the 
 least profitable of all — yet a incmljcr of the 
 one true chiircli — saved only b}' Christ." 
 
 '' The church of Rome ?" asked WaiTcnne^ 
 putting his face close to Dormer's. 
 
 Dormer answered not. There were a few 
 long breathings, and then all was at rest for ever. 
 
 For some minutes every one remained as 
 still as he on whom they gazed. At last Er- 
 nest laid his hfind upon the pale forehead. The 
 chill of deatli wixs upon it. He then closed 
 the eyes — for an instant pressed the lifeless 
 form to his heart — kissed the cokl cheek ; then 
 gently resigned the body to its last naiTOW 
 house. 
 
 Clarenham knelt down, and would have em- 
 braced the remains, but "Warrenne seemed on 
 the watch to prevent him. 
 
 " No, My. Clarenham. The church must 
 prevent the pollution of that pure body; 
 though in the sleep of death, still united to the 
 one holy Catholic communion." 
 
 Clarenham would have broken from War- 
 
 renne's restraining hold ; but, after an effort, 
 
 fell back senseless into Ernest's arms. Ernest 
 
 immediately had him convcved from the apart- 
 
 2g
 
 3.50 FATHER CLE3IENT. 
 
 ment. Tlio servants were just entering to have 
 a last look of one whom they all had revered 
 and loved ; and were now prepared to approach 
 with that veneration mtli which the Romish 
 church regards the remains of departed saints. 
 The sight of their young master^, pale and in- 
 sensible, instantly changed the object of their 
 attention and anxiety, and all crowded round 
 him as Ernest had him conve} ed to the hall. 
 Maria Clarenham, who had beer, anxiously on 
 the watch, while at the same time attempting 
 to conceal from her mother the melancholy 
 rites which were performing in Dormer's 
 apartment, now also appeared. She had suf- 
 ficient presence of mind to restrain every ex- 
 clamation of alarm and anxiety, on the part of 
 the domestics ; and herself, pale and trembling, 
 stood over her brother, and assisted Ernest in 
 his attempts to restore animation. At last 
 Clarenham opened his eyes. 
 
 '^ What has happened? where ami?" ex- 
 claimed he, attempting to start away from Er- 
 nest, and looking wildly around. 
 
 " Dear Clarenham, recollect yourself," said 
 Ernest gently. 
 
 " Basil — dearest Basil — you are at home —
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 351 
 
 you are with those who love you/' said ^laiia 
 soothingly. 
 
 He thought for a moment — then, turning 
 away, as if all on earth had lost its power to 
 attract him — "^ And Father Clement — " 
 
 " Is at last w^here there is no sorrow/' said 
 Einest, gently but solemnly. 
 
 Clarenham immediately became calm. — 
 " Yes, yes — how selfish to wisli it otherwise !" 
 He looked at Ernest — then threw himself upon 
 his breast, and both wept, regardless of all 
 around them. 
 
 The servants now returned to the apart- 
 ment, Avhere the priests were busied in per- 
 formins: the last ceremonies over the dead. 
 
 o 
 
 These had been commenced by AVaiTenne im- 
 mediately on Ernest's leaving the apartment, 
 and were now hiuTied on, as if to secure to 
 his church that claim which Dormer's last 
 words had left more than doubtful ; and so in- 
 significant do such ceremonies appear to Bible 
 Christians, that Ernest had not even adverted 
 to them, but now proceeded with Clarenham 
 and ]\Iaria, to inform ]\Irs. Clarenham of the 
 event. And so deep had been her veneration 
 for Dormer — so enlightening, and consoling, 
 and heavenly had been his instructions and
 
 352 FATHER CLEMENT. 
 
 ministrations^ that even the return of lier son 
 could not overcome her sorrow^ though she 
 humbly and thankfully acknowledged how 
 graciously mercy and goodness were mingled 
 in every affliction sent by her heavenly Father. 
 Clarenham's appearance, however, excited her 
 alarm and anxiety. He was pale and thin to a 
 degree. His health seemed gi-eatly injured : 
 and to every question she asked regarding it, 
 his answer was — " I am already better than I 
 ivas, my dearest mother ; but ask me no ques- 
 tions, for I am under the most solemn vow to 
 answer none." 
 
 Ernest, at Clarenham's request, continued 
 with him and his family dm-ing the remainder 
 of the evening — all joining in deep and sincere 
 grief, but finding comfort in the recollection of 
 those many evidences, which all had witnessed, 
 of his devotedness and holiness, whose spirit they 
 now believed had entered into everlasting joy. 
 
 At night, before Ernest's departure he went, 
 accompanied by Basil, once more to contemplate 
 that countenance in which he had, for the last 
 few months, looked for the expressions of that 
 mind and heart which had become more in- 
 teresting and attractive to him than any other 
 he had met on earth.
 
 KATIIEU CLEMENT. 3;>3 
 
 The little apartment was already hung Avitli 
 black, and lighted with large wax tapers^ two 
 of which stood on the table , with the crucifix. 
 The coffin was placed upon the bed, and the 
 body clothed in rich vestments, but so dis- 
 posed as to display the haircloth shirt beneath, 
 and also the ashes on which it lay. The shai-p 
 cross which Dormer had worn in secret on his 
 heart was now fixed outside, and its edges dis- 
 played. His hands were clasped ,upon his 
 breast, and between them was placed a cruci- 
 fix. The fiice, however, was in the profound 
 }»eacefulness — the indescribable calmness of 
 death : The expression — that of complete re- 
 lief from suifering and sorroAv. This had 
 never been its living expression ; and Ernest 
 and Clarenham felt its calm enter into their 
 own souls. And when at last the hour came 
 in which the priests, and Roman Cathohc do- 
 mestics, who knelt around the dead, began to 
 repeat the prayers of their church, and Ernest 
 and his friend left the apartment, the last im- 
 pression of that countenance remained on their 
 memories as indelibly as that of his holiness, 
 and his gentleness, and his kindness, did upon 
 their aftections.
 
 CHAPTER XilL 
 
 — " quell' iniquo cui il Signore Gesii uccideia col fiato della sua 
 bocca, e lo annichilera con lo splendore di sua venuta." 
 
 Martini's Trans.— 2 Thessal. ii. 8. 
 
 For one week all were left undisturbed at 
 Ilallern Castle. During tliat week Dormer's 
 remains had been laid in the chapel, and his 
 grave continued to be surrounded by his flock, 
 who kneeling there, implored his intercession 
 with heaven. Warrenne favoured this, and 
 took pains, by his encomiums on the dead, to 
 convince the people that he had joined that 
 assembly of saints, to whom it is the unscrip- 
 tural and idolatrous policy of the Romish 
 church to direct the devotions of her members. 
 
 Before this week had closed, Basil Claren- 
 ham had publicly received the communion 
 from Dr. Lowther, and abjured the Romish 
 faith. To his mother he declared that the per- 
 usal of the Scnptures had convinced him of 
 the errors of her church. To Ernest he ac- 
 kno^Ylcdged his sense of gratitude to heaven,
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. 355 
 
 in having removed him from one to ^^•hom he 
 felt pleasure in subjecting his mind — and plac- 
 ing him where the degree of corruption into 
 "vvhich the Romish church had fallen was so 
 awfully evident, that he no longer could resist 
 the command, " Come out of her, my people, 
 that ye be not partakers of her sins, and that 
 ye receive not of her plagues." — *^^ Though," 
 added he, " before I left the Inquisition, I was 
 induced to take an oath of secrecy respecting 
 all I had witnessed there, too solemn eyer to 
 be forgotten or infringed." 
 
 Mrs. Clarenham seemed less grieved at this 
 change than her son expected, and positively 
 declined, for the time, Warrenne's proposal to 
 appoint a successor to Dormer. "My son is 
 now master here," said she. '^ If he continues 
 a Protestant, I must try to understand what 
 Protestantism is, at least so far as to learn its 
 doctrines of charity." 
 
 At the end of that week of peace which fol- 
 lowed Dormer s death, Warrenne asked a con- 
 ference with Mrs. Clarenham and Maria ; and 
 then read to them his instructions from the 
 court of Rome. These declared, that as the 
 lieirs of General Clarenham had been left 
 G
 
 356 FATHER CLK31ENT. 
 
 under tlie guardiansliip of certain cliurchmen. 
 subject in their decisions to tlie court of Rome^ 
 it had been decided, that, as heresy had en- 
 tered the family, both should be called on to 
 profess their faith, that their guardians might 
 act accordingly. 
 
 Maria instantly declared her willingness to 
 answer this call. The day was fixed ; and, in 
 the presence of Warreip^e and several of his 
 brother priests, she avowed her determination 
 to receive her faith only from the Bible, read 
 by herself, in a language she understood. 
 
 On the same day Catherine professed her- 
 self a humble member of the church of Rome. 
 
 In a few weeks it was decided that JMaria 
 was no longer heiress of her uncle's fortune — 
 which devolved on Catherine. 
 
 Three years after this decision, a convent 
 was endo>yed by Catherine, of which she, a 
 year or two afterwards, became the lady ab- 
 bess, and in her own opinion, the first of 
 saints, and most perfect example and guide of 
 the young sisters of her order : in the opinion 
 of Warrenne, the most easily managed of all 
 his tools. In her convent many miracles were 
 performed in those days, of which it was found
 
 FATHKJl CLEMENT. 357 
 
 equally easy to make her tlie subject;, or the 
 witness to their truth. 
 
 While Catherine enjoyed her authority, and 
 her ovm good opinion as lady abbess of the 
 
 convent in shire, Maria was, as the wife 
 
 of young Carysford, learning from her own ex- 
 perience, that to the heaii, which seeks to 
 know God, and humbly to love and serve Ihui, 
 his gi'aee renders all situations means ^f disci- 
 pline and improvement. Maria had consider- 
 ed herself bound to fulfil her early engage- 
 ment, as soon as Sir Thomas Carysford gave 
 his consent ; and had been received into his 
 family — with rapture by young Oiirysford — 
 v.ith unfeigned joy and aifection by his mother 
 — with pompous stiffness of manner, but real 
 pleasure, by Sir Thomas — with pretended sa- 
 tisfaction by AYarrenne — and with unbounded 
 joy by the domestics and people on the estate, 
 who all knew how much she was beloved by 
 those of their own class at Hallern. 
 
 Maria was a character warmly to feel and 
 participate in the joy and affection she inspir- 
 ed, — but her heart could not rest satisfied with 
 nothing more: and now she felt indeed her 
 dependence on that grace which could alone 
 enable her so to act, as to bring no reproach on
 
 358 FATHER CLE31KNT. 
 
 that purer faitli she professed amongst those 
 who regarded that profession as her only fault. 
 These considerations kept her close to her 
 Bible, and to prayer ; and gradually her lo^v- 
 liness and gentleness, amongst so many sur- 
 rounding temptations to pride and self-im- 
 portance — her engaging attentions to Sir Tho- 
 mas — her anxiety to be all a daughter could 
 be to Lady Carysford — the use she made of 
 her unbounded power over the affections of 
 young Carysford, to win him into a course of 
 actions the most beneficial to all around him, 
 and honourable to himself: — her talents and 
 information, and evident superiority, at least 
 in holiness of principles and knowledge of 
 Scripture, when conversing with "SVaiTcnne, 
 rendered her soon the person in the family to 
 whom each other member looked A^dth most 
 affection and esteem, or dread. The case was 
 the same with the domestics and the people : 
 The good and well-intentioned loved and es- 
 teemed — the ill-disposed and bad feared their 
 lady. 
 
 Perhaps some descendant of such a family 
 as that we have described under the name of 
 Carysford, may jje reminded of one whose cha- 
 racter has d('sc<nded to tlicni under the appcl-
 
 FATHER CLEMKNT. '.]^}9 
 
 lation of the Good Lady ; Avhose son was tho 
 first Protestant representative of the family, 
 and whose grave they may have often visited, 
 to admire the exquisite beauty of the monu- 
 ment and epitaph, as it is still seen in the 
 chapel near the mansion, once Roman Catholic, 
 now reserved as the lonely place of repose for 
 the dead. Perhaps the epitaph has been read 
 by some of the travellers permitted to view 
 the now ivy-covered little chapel : and, per- 
 haps, if they have visited a still more beauti- 
 ful chapel in the neighbourhood, a grave and 
 monument may have been pointed out to them, 
 to which, in the memory of the gi'andfathers 
 of those Avho showed it, " the poor ignorant pa- 
 pists used to come to worehip, till the young 
 gentleman at the castle, and his young friend 
 at the Hall, went into the chapel, and read 
 the Bible aloud to the pilgrims — and then the 
 priests would not suffer them to come." 
 
 The Protestant traveller would recognise 
 the spirit which dictated this only justifiable 
 method of attempting to prevent an erroneous 
 approach to God. The Roman Catholic tra- 
 veller would sigh as he remembered, that in 
 Britain his church is almost forgotten ; her
 
 360 FATHER CLEMSNT. 
 
 places of worship in ruins, or, stript of the 
 character they once bore, now dedicated to 
 another faith; her services regarded as un- 
 meaning ceremonies ; her doctrines held as too 
 absurd to be professed by rational men, there- 
 fore explained away by those who wish to re- 
 gard her few remaining m.embers as brothers 
 and fellow-countrymen ; her claim to un- 
 changeableness and infallibility charged as an 
 illiberal accusation of her enemies; and his 
 church, in her thus fallen state, considered as 
 justly complimented, by being characterised as 
 having advanced in improvement with society, 
 and with other churches. 
 
 The true Christian will pray that the light 
 of truth — the light of Divine revelation — may 
 contmue to extend its beams till it overcomes 
 all darkness, Protestant and Romish, and unites 
 all in the one only true church, of which Christ 
 is tlic living Head, to whom every living mem- 
 ber is imited by that ^'^ faith which purifieth 
 the heart, and worketh by love." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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