Chapter V.

The sun had climbed well-nigh midway in the heavens, lighting up

Clew Bay and its hundred isles until they glinted like emeralds

in the blue setting of the sea, as an old, white-haired man and a

young girl--the latter carrying a small bundle in one hand, while

with the other she supported the failing strength of her

companion, made their way, slowly and painfully, along the valley

through which runs the bright "Eriff" river on its way to the

ocean. Following the up course of the stream, they had passed,

almost without knowing it, through some of the finest of the

mountain scenery of the west, up hill and down hill, by pretty

cascades, in which the river seemed to be playing with the

obstacles which opposed it; round huge bare shoulders of rifted

and out-jutting rock; through dark, deep purple gorges, which

looked as if the mountains had been wrenched violently asunder in

order to produce them; and now, at last, they found themselves in

a quiet, dreary-looking glen, where cushions of soft moss and

yielding heather seemed to woo them to repose. Nevertheless,

footsore and worn out as they evidently were, they continued to

press bravely forward until they had nearly arrived at the

farther end of the valley; but by that time the old man's head

had begun to droop wearily on his breast, and his steps had

become so languid and uncertain that it was evident it would be

perilous to proceed farther without giving him the rest he so

absolutely required. Choosing, therefore, a little nook, where

the turf grew soft and dry, and where clusters of tall fern and

heather, rising nearly six feet from the root, seemed to promise

at least partial shelter from the midday sun, the girl quietly

disposed of her bundle as a pillow for his head, and invited him

with a smile to a siesta. He obeyed as readily as if he had been

a child, and she then sat down beside him, crooning an old

nursery lullaby to hush him into slumber. But she sought no such

salutary oblivion for herself; and no sooner had his eyes begun

to close in sleep than she rose, and, as if anxiety had rendered

her incapable of remaining quiet, wandered restlessly on until

she reached the top of a hill which shut in the valley from the

land beyond. There she paused, fear and foreboding, weariness and

sorrow, all forgotten or swallowed up in the breathless

admiration which took instant possession of her soul. Around her,

crumbled and tumbled in all directions, were hills bare indeed of

trees, but green to the very summit, and strangely picturesque in

the fantastic variety of their forms. There were quiet glens and

solemn, rock-strewn passes, with streamlets swelled into

cataracts by the rains of spring, yet looking in the distance

like mere threads of liquid silver spirting from their rugged

sides. There were long brown tracts of peat land, brightened and

relieved by patches of golden, flowering gorse, or of that thin

herbage which, in its perfectly emerald green, is only to be seen

in such like boggy places; and over and above all this, there

were the shadowy outlines of more than one far-off range of

mountains melting into the delicate blue background of the sky,

and changing color, as rapidly as the young cheek of beauty,

beneath the ever-shifting lights and shadows of that "cloud

scenery" which is nowhere more

beautiful or varied than in Ireland.

{187}

To the left, and looking, in the clear atmosphere, so close that

she almost felt she could have touched it with her outstretched

hand, rose "Croagh Patrick," sacred to the memory of Ireland's

great apostle; and Clew Bay lay, or seemed to lie, bright and

shining at her feet--Clew Bay, with its gracefully winding shore,

and its archipelago of islets; some bold, beetling rocks, ready

and able to do battle with the storm, others mere baskets of

verdure floating on the tide; while the largest and most

picturesque of them all, the sea, girt kingdom of Grana-Uaile,

Clare Island, stood bravely up, cliff over cliff, at the very

mouth of the harbor, guarding it against the winter encroachments

of the Atlantic, which, green as liquid jasper, and calm, in that

summer weather, as a giant sleeping in the sunshine, unrolled

itself beyond. Long and wistfully Nellie fixed her gaze upon that

fair prospect; and it was with a strange reluctance and

foreboding of future sorrow, that she at last withdrew in order

to examine attentively that portion of the country which lay more

immediately around her, and with which she believed herself about

to be more intimately connected. As she did so, a building,

perched half-way up a hill, rather more inland than that upon

which she herself was standing, attracted her eye, and she

gasped, with a sudden mingling of hope and fear, like a person

choking; for she felt a sudden conviction that in the wild,

uncultivated lands beneath her she beheld the portion assigned to

her grandfather by the commissioners at Loughrea, and in that

edifice, which seemed to have been built for the express purpose

of commanding and overawing the entire district, the house in

which they had told her she was to establish her new home.

_House_, indeed, it could scarcely be called in anything

like the modern acceptation of the term, though it was probably

perfectly well suited to the wants and wishes of the wild

chieftains by whom it had been erected. The original building had

consisted of a single tower, of which the rough, rude walls,

formed of huge stones, put unhammered and uncemented together,

betrayed its origin in times so far remote as to have no history

even in the oldest annals of the land. Added on to this gray

relic of the past, however, a new building was now evidently in

process of erection. It was far from finished yet, as Nellie knew

by the poles and scaffoldings around it; but even in its embryo

state it bore a terribly suspicious resemblance to that square,

simple fortalice type of building which seems to have been the

one architectural idea of Cromwell's Irish drafted soldiers, and

which still remains in many places, the silent but

uncontrovertible witness--the seal which they themselves have set

upon their forcible and unjust possession of the land. The very

look of that half-finished building seemed an answer to Nellie's

late foreboding, and with a sinking heart she turned her back

upon it and retraced her steps to the place where she had left

Lord Netterville. The old man had already shaken off his fitful

slumbers, and was toiling feebly up the hill.

{188}

Nellie ran back to fetch her bundle, which he had been unable to

bring with him; but overtaking him in an instant, she gave him

her arm, led him to the spot from whence she had just been taking

her bird's-eye view of the country, and, pointing to the

fortalice in process of erection, watched anxiously to discover

what sort of impression it would make on his mind. But either he

did not observe it, or did not take in the peculiar significance

of its presence in those wilds; and finding that he remained

silent and apparently unmoved, she collected all her remaining

energy to say cheerfully:

"Look at that old gray tower to the right. If the man whom we met

this morning among the hills spoke truth, we have reached the end

of our weary journey, and yonder is our future home. It is not

like our own dear Netterville, indeed, and yet it seems a goodly

enough mansion. So goodly," she added, stealing a glance beneath

her long lashes to see how he took the insinuation, "that I

almost wonder they should have dealt thus kindly by us; for I

know that many of the first of the 'transplanted' have had their

lots assigned them in places where there was not even the hut of

a peasant to shelter them from the weather."

"Tush, child! talk not to me of houses," the old man answered

querulously, too much occupied with the actual disadvantages of

his position to catch the hidden drift of Nellie's observation.

"What boots a goodly mansion, if starvation be at its portal? And

what, I pray you, but starvation are they condemned to, who have

been sent to make themselves a home among these barren

mountains?"

Nellie suffered her eyes to roam once more over the bright waters

of the bay, and then, with a quick sense of beauty kindling up in

her soul, she turned them hopefully upon Lord Netterville.

"Nay, dear grandfather, it is, after all, a country fair and

pleasant to the eye, and once my dear mother rejoins us with the

cows and 'garrans,' there can be no lack of plenty, even in these

wilds."

"Cows and garrans! And where are we to feed them, girl? Do you

expect to find the pleasant grazing-lands of Meath on the tops of

these barren hills? or are we to fatten our flocks on the

sea-drift, which, I have heard say, the natives of these wilds

are in the habit of gathering on the shore and boiling down into

food, not for their cattle, (they have none, poor wretches!) but

themselves?"

"Some of these hills certainly look black and bare enough, but

still I doubt not that among their glens and hollow places we

shall find many a good acre of green grass for the grazing of our

cattle," the girl answered patiently, and with an evident

determination to look, for the present at least, only on the

bright side of the question. "And now, dear sir," she added

gently, "had we not best move onward? for if yonder tower is

really to be our home, the sooner we are there the better."

She glanced toward the castle as she spoke, and the old man saw

that she started violently as she did so. She said not another

word, however; but he fancied that her cheek grew a shade

paler--if that were possible--than it had been before, as she

continued to gaze silently in that direction.

"What is it, Nellie?" he cried at last, frightened by her strange

looks and silence. "What do you see, child, that you look so

white and scared?"

"See!" she answered slowly and reluctantly, "there seems to be a

party of many people gathering in the court-yard; the house,

therefore, must be inhabited already!"

{189}

"People in the court-yard!" cried the old man, now fairly aroused

to that same fear which had been haunting Nellie for the last

half-hour. "What people, Nellie? Tell me, child, if you can

distinguish whether they seem to be natives or strangers to the

place. Our fate, alas! may be dependent on that fact."

The girl walked forward, and shading her eyes with her hand from

the blinding sunshine, looked again, and yet again, in the

direction of the tower.

"Yes," she said at last; "I was not mistaken. There is a party in

the court-yard, and some of them are even standing in the

gate-way, as if they had but this instant stept forth from the

mansion. Surely, grandfather, we cannot have misunderstood or

mistaken our instructions? There is no other building to be

seen--even in the distance--and this one answers in all respects

to the description. The man, too, from whom we inquired our way

this morning, assured us that it was called 'The Rath'--the very

name set down in our certificate. We cannot have been mistaken,

and yet--and yet--if there be persons already in possession,

their claim must needs be superior to our own."

She spoke hesitatingly, and in broken sentences, as if she were

following out a train of thought in her own mind, rather than

addressing her companion. He listened anxiously, and a cloud

gathered on his brow as he gradually took in her meaning.

"It may be only some of the natives," he said at last, in a low

voice. "The original owners, perhaps, of the tower, who have

waited our arrival before giving up possession."

"Owners!" said Nellie quickly. "They told us at Loughrea that the

owner had perished in the war, and that therefore we should find

it empty."

"They may have been mistaken, Nellie. They know little enough, I

think, those high and mighty commissioners at Loughrea, of the

land of which they are so liberally disposing; and still less, I

doubt me, of its original possessors."

"And if they are mistaken, we shall take the place of the

rightful owners, and so deal out to others the very measure which

our enemies have dealt to us. Grandfather, if we are guilty of

this thing, we shall have a twofold sin upon our souls--their

iniquity and our own."

"What would you have, child?" he answered pettishly; for, truth

to say, he had yet quite enough of the Englishman about him, not

to be over-particular as to the rights of the native Irish. "What

would you have? Did you not know already that, in the acceptation

of these lands, we were taking that which it was neither in the

Cromwellians' right to give or in ours to receive? And what if an

old tumble-down tower be thrown into the bargain? Trust me,

Nellie, the business is so black already that, like the face of

his Satanic majesty, who is the author of it, a little more or

less of smutch will hardly make it blacker or uglier than it is."

"I never thought of this before," said Nellie sadly; "I thought

only--fool that I was, so selfishly intent on my own

misfortunes--I thought only of tracts of land left barren for

want of inhabitants to till them, and of houses emptied by the

fate of war. I never dreamed of men and women and little children

turned out of their pleasant homes to make room for us--us who

have as little right to their possessions as the English soldiers

have to ours!"

{190}

"Nevertheless it has been done in almost every other case of

transplantation which I have heard of," the old man answered

restlessly. "And the iniquity--for it _is_ an iniquity--is

theirs who have driven us to such spoliation, not ours who have

been compelled in our own despite to do it."

But Nellie was far too noble, and too clear-sighted in her

nobleness, to shelter her actions behind such a subterfuge, and

she answered vehemently:

"But it must not be in ours, sir--it must not be in ours! We

will go down at once, and if the persons whom we see yonder be

the rightful owners of that tower, we will merely crave rest and

hospitality at their hands, until such a time as we have found a

place, however humble, in which, without injury to honor or

conscience, we can make ourselves a home."

"As you will, Nellie--as you will," he answered, too weary,

perhaps, to be able longer to dispute the point. "But after all,

we may be mistaken as to the ownership of these people. Look

again, and tell me, if you can, whether they are clad like

Englishmen, or in the native weeds?"

"Not in the native weeds, I think, my father. Rather I should

say, if it were not impossible, that the men whom I see down

yonder belonged to the army of the oppressor. Ha! Now a lady is

coming forth, and now they are mounting her, and a tall, stately

personage in--yes--certainly in military attire, is mounting

also, and takes his place at her side. Now half a dozen servants,

I suppose, or friends, are on their horses likewise, and now they

are moving forward. Father, they must come this way, there is

none other that I can see by which horses can pass with safety.

Let us wait for them behind the bank, and then, when they are

near enough, we will accost them, and if they be of the

conquering army, show them our certificate. They will, of course,

bow to its authority, and help us to take possession of that

house which the document assigns us. I am glad a woman is among

them; it will make it easier, I think, to speak."

As Nellie ran on thus, she drew her grandfather with her behind a

bank which dipt down suddenly upon the path, narrowing it until

it was all but impassable to riders. There, with pale face and

tightened breath, she nervously awaited the advent of the party

upon whose favorable or unfavorable disposition toward them she

felt her own fate and Lord Netterville's to be so painfully

dependent.

To Be Continued.

--------

{191}

The Roman Gathering. [Footnote 46]

By W. G. Dix.

[Footnote 46: We give place to the above article in our

columns, though from a non-Catholic pen, thinking that it

will be read with interest by our readers, while it

indicates, at the same time, the religious tendencies which

are becoming more and more prevalent among not a small class

of minds in our country.--Editor C. W.]

A man of many years, without vast temporal resources, despoiled

of a part of his possessions, having many and vigorous enemies

about him, and regarded by many even of those who profess the

Christian faith as about to fall from his high place in

Christendom, such a man invites his brethren of the apostolical

ministry throughout the world to honor by their personal presence

at Rome the anniversary of the martyrdom, eighteen hundred years

ago, of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, and to join with him in the

exaltation of martyrs who, like them, though in far distant

lands, were "faithful unto death." They respond with eager joy

and haste to the call, and those who cannot go send on the wings

of the wind their words of loving veneration.

To say not a word of the spiritual claims of the man who sent

forth the invitation, so eagerly and widely accepted, there is in

the fact just stated a glowing evidence that, even in these days

of triumphant and insolent materialism, moral power has not

entirely lost ascendency. Though millions of knees are bent in

honor of the Dagon of materialism, in some one or other of its

myriad forms of degrading idolatry, yet millions of hearts also

recognize the gift of God as present evermore in his holy church.

Never before has the Catholic Church beheld so great a multitude,

from so distant places, assembled at her call at the central city

of the faith.

The enemies of catholicity have again and again referred to the

great inventions of modern times as sure destroyers of the claims

of the Catholic Church and of her hold upon her millions of

members; but lo! these very inventions are brought into the

service of the church. The printing-press, which was going to

annihilate the Catholic Church, has proved one of her most

effectual bulwarks; millions of printed pages inspire the

devotion of her children, and make known her claims to reading

men, until many who were even her enemies and revilers, from

ignorance and prejudice, acknowledge their error, and make haste

to go to "their father's house." Steam, in the view of many, was

about so to change the structure of society that the old and

decrepid Church of Rome, the great obstacle on the railroad of

materialism, was about to be run over and cast to the roadside, a

weak and useless wreck; but lo! the power of steam enables

hundreds and thousands more to go up to the sacred city, as the

tribes of Israel were wont to visit Jerusalem, than could

otherwise attend the festivals of the faith in St. Peter's

Church. Of the manifold uses of steam, a large proportion is in

the service of catholic truth. And then the telegraph; that,

surely, was to show an advanced state of civilization which could

not tolerate the slow and ancient ways of catholicity; but lo!

here, again, the event has contradicted the prophecy; for, by

means of the telegraph, the assemblage of the vast host at Rome

was known throughout the world on the very day of its occurrence;

and almost literally, in all parts of Christendom, thousands of

devout worshippers could turn their faces reverently toward the

altar of God in Rome at the very instant when those in its

immediate presence were bending before it, and could join in the

same prayers and anthems, as though the world itself were one

vast St. Peter's Church, and the strains of penitence and hymns

of joy could reverberate across oceans and mountains, among

distant nations and islands of the sea, as among the corridors

and arches of one great temple sacred to the triune God.

{192}

As in these instances, so in many others, the church has extended

her sway and deepened her power by the very forces which many

supposed would work her ruin. The history of the church has shown

in the domain of natural science, so often applied in the service

of infidelity and disorder, as in the field of human passion,

that God will make the wrath of man to praise him, and turn

weapons designed to attack his holy Church into her consecrated

armor of defence. The grace of God so overrules the inventions of

man and the powers of nature, that even the terrible lightning

becomes the vivid messenger to convey to the ends of the earth

the benediction of the Vicar of Christ.

What is the chief lesson of the recent gathering at Rome? It is

this, that the church of God, so often, in the view of her

enemies, destroyed, will not stay destroyed; that after every

"destruction" she renews her invincible youth, and rises to

pursue her career of conquest over sin, prejudice, and wrong;

that, though she may bend awhile to the storm that beats upon her

sacred head, she has never been wholly overcome; that,

notwithstanding all that mortal enmity, defection, outrage, have

done or can do, she yet lifts her forehead to the sky to be anew

baptized with light from the sun of truth above; and, strong in

the faith and promise of the Eternal God, she falters not in her

endeavors, patient and persistent, to subdue the world to Christ.

The history of the Catholic Church abounds with instances like

the Roman gathering in June, which prove that her hours of

affliction are those very ones when her faithful children gather

to her side, to assure her of their prayers and support, and to

discern upon her saintly face those "smiles through tears,"

which, in times of trial, are the warmest and most touching

acknowledgments of filial veneration.

The commemorative assemblage at the capital of Christendom,

signifies that the church of God is indestructible by any forces

that earth or hell, singly or united, can bring against her. She

may be at times like the bird in the snare of the fowler; but she

is sure of being released at length, and then she plumes her

wings afresh, and soars heavenward, filling the air with the

divine, exultant music of her voice. The powerful of the earth

have sometimes loaded the church with fetters; but by the

strength of Christ that dwells evermore in her, she has broken

the bonds asunder, or, by his transforming grace, they have

become the wreaths and garlands of new victory, even as the cross

of humiliation has become, by the sacrifice of our Lord, the

emblem of unfading glory.

The church of Christ, bearing on her brow his holy seal, and in

her hands his gifts of power, knelt in sorrow at his grave; but

she hailed his resurrection with joy, and was endowed anew with

treasures of immortal life.

{193}

Afterward, the might of heathendom arose against her, and she

descended from the wrath of man into the catacombs; but she

reascended, to wear upon her brow the diadem of a spiritual

empire that shall never fall until the elements shall melt with

fervent heat; and even then, true to all her history in deriving

new glory from every apparent defeat, she will rise again from

the great grave of nature to enjoy for ever the vision of God.

Kings of the earth have denied her right to invest the pastors of

her children with their due prerogatives, and have even dared her

to mortal combat; but though distressed and thwarted, she has

never relinquished her inherent rights, and she never will. As

many times as the head of the church on earth has been driven

from Rome by armed, ungrateful violence, so many times exactly

has he been welcomed back with tears of penitence and shouts of

rapture.

Despoiled of treasures committed to her care by faithful stewards

of God's bounty, she has labored with her own hands to feed her

needy children. At one time, persecuted in the wilderness, she

has found a refuge and a welcome in the courts of princes; at

another, driven from the courts of princes, because she would not

deny her Lord or her divine commission, she has found a humble

sanctuary in the wilderness, and knelt upon the bare earth to

adore the Lord of life and light, once the child in the manger,

and to invoke all the saints in glory to plead her cause in the

ear of infinite justice and goodness.

She has spurned the anointed king from the temple of God, until

he repented of his crime; and on the head of the lowly monk who

was spending his days in labor and prayer, she has placed the

triple crown. With one hand she has bathed with "baptismal dew"

the brow of the day-laborer's child, while the other she has

raised in defiance of imperial might, which dared to assail her

holy altar.

One of the most violent objections to the Catholic Church has

been urged for the very reason that she has so faithfully held

the balance between the contending forces of society. She has

been accused of favoring the claims of absolutism or popular

demands, as the triumph of either at the time would favor her own

ends, irrespective of right. The charge is unjust, is urged by

many who know better, yet it springs from an honest

misapprehension in many minds. It would have been utterly

impossible for an institution, designed to enlighten and guide

mankind in its higher relations, not to touch human interests of

every kind, and human institutions generally in many ways; yet

the challenge may safely be given to any thoughtful student of

history, to acknowledge with candor, whatever may be his

ecclesiastical position, that the Catholic Church, having often

been chosen to be, and having an inherent right to be, the umpire

between the rights of authority and the rights of individuals,

has faithfully labored to sustain lawful authority when assailed

by the wild fury of misguided multitudes, and that she has

interposed her powerful shield, often with the most triumphant

success, to protect men whose rights as men were assailed by

authority changed by ambition into arrogant and exacting tyranny.

What inconsistency and insincerity have been charged against the

Catholic Church for this remarkable and noble fact in her

history! In this respect the Catholic Church has followed

strictly in the steps of her Divine Author, who, when on earth,

invariably upheld the rights of authority, while vehemently

denouncing those who unjustly exercised it; and while going about

doing good, the friend of the friendless and the helper of the

helpless, pleading with divine eloquence, and laboring with

divine power for the outcast and the poor, never and nowhere

sanctioned the spirit of insurrection, but enjoined obedience as

one of the main duties of life.

{194}

Hence, it has come about, by one of those sublime mysteries,

which prove the divine origin of Christianity, that the greatest

revolution which has ever taken place in religious belief and in

civil society in all their bearings, has been effected by the

teachings, by the life and death of one who by no word or deed

ever assailed authority itself or incited resistance to it.

Beauty and order being the same thing, and religious truth being

the beauty of holiness, Christ, who was truth in person, must

have made his church the friend and upholder of all beauty and

order; and so it has proved for eighteen hundred years. The

church has been the celestial crucible in which whatever of human

art or invention had within it the essential attributes of higher

and spiritual goodness has been purified and adapted to the

service of religion. Has poetry sought to please the imaginations

of men? the church of Christ unfolded before her the annals of

Christianity, with her grand central sacrifice of infinite love,

and all her demonstrations of heroic suffering and courageous

faith; and poetry drew holier inspiration from the view, and

incited men by higher motives to a higher life. Have painting and

sculpture sought to represent objects of refining grace and

sublimity? the church of Christ persuaded them to look into the

records of the Christian past, and there they found treasures of

beauty and splendor, devotion and martyrdom, whose wealth of

illustration as examples; incentives, and memorials, art has not

exhausted for centuries, and will never exhaust. Christian

history is the inexhaustible quarry of whatever is most noble and

heroic in man, purified by the grace of God. Has architecture

sought to invest stone with the attributes of spiritual and

intellectual grace? the church of God has so portrayed before her

the sublimities of the Christian faith, that she knelt at her

feet in veneration, and thenceforth consecrated herself to build

enduring structures, which, the more they show of human power and

skill, the more they persuade men to the worship of God. Has

eloquence sought to nerve men for the grand conflicts of life?

the church of Christ has touched the lips of eloquence with

living fire from her altar, until have sprung forth words that

flamed with love to man and love to God. Has music sought to

weave her entrancing spells around the ear and heart and soul?

the church of Christ has breathed into music her own divine

being, until the music of the church seems like beatific worship,

and worship on earth like beatific music.

As in these respects, so in others, the church has made a holy

conquest of whatever is noblest among the endowments of men. In

speaking of Catholic history, even from the secular point of

view, it may be justly said, that nowhere else has there been

such wonderful discernment of the various capacities of the human

mind, and of their various adaptations. Tenacious of the truth

and of all its prerogatives, the Catholic Church has,

nevertheless, allowed a wide liberty of thought. That the

Catholic Church has narrowed the understandings of men, is a

singular charge to make in the face of the schools of Catholic

philosophy, in which men of varying mental structure, training,

or habits of thought, have had full, free play of their

faculties.

{195}

And where else have there been so many free and varying

activities as in the Catholic Church? The false charge that the

church fetters the minds and movements of men, may be traced to

the fact that all Catholic diversities of thought have converged,

like different rays of light, in the elucidation of truth, and

that varying modes of Catholic action have had one object--the

advancement of truth.

Here is the intended force of all these illustrations, for they

have had a logical purpose. The world will never outgrow the

church. All the boasted improvements in science, in art, in

civilization, so far from impeding the church of Christ, and

making her existence no longer needed, will, at the same time,

advance her power, and make her more needed than ever. If in the

middle ages, when society was in the process of transition from

the old to the new, the church was pre-eminently needed to keep

what was just and right and true in the older forms of

civilization, and gradually to adapt to them what was just and

right and true in the newer developments of society, most truly

is the church needed now, when there exists a perfect chaos of

opinions, and when a part of the civilized world is in another

transition, from the aimless, rudderless vagaries of

Protestantism to the solid rock of Catholicity. If ever the voice

of authority was needed, like the voice of the angel of God,

heard amid and above the howlings of the storm, it is needed now.

Much false reasoning has been uttered about the "unchangeable

church," as though, because "unchangeable," it was not adapted to

a changing and striving world, when, in truth, for the very

reason that the church of Christ is unchangeably true, she is

required and adapted for all the changes and emergencies of time.

Who ever heard a sailor complain of the mariner's compass,

because, on account of its unchangeable obstinacy, it would not

conform to his private judgments and caprices about the right

course? No one. It is for the very reason that the mariner's

compass is unchangeably true to the eternal law of magnetic

attraction, under all circumstances and in all places, that it is

the unerring guide among the whirlwinds and heavings of the great

deep. Catholicity is the mariner's compass upon a greater

deep--even that of the wild and rolling, beating ocean of

humanity, pointing, amid sunny calms, or gentle winds, or raging

gales, unerringly to the cross of Jesus Christ, as the needle of

the mariner's compass points to the north--guiding, age after

age, the precious freights of immortal souls to the harbor of

infinite and unending joy.

The force of this illustration is all the stronger that the

mariner's compass is a human adaptation of an immutable law of

nature to navigation, while the church of the living God is

divine alike in origin and application, and has existed from the

beginning, unchangeable, like God himself, yet adapting herself

to the wants of every age. The church of God is like his own

infinite providence, in which unchangeable truth meets in the

harmony of mercy the innumerable changes of human need.

Much has been written and more said about "the church of the

future," as though it were to be some millennial manifestation

altogether different from the historic church; but the church of

the future, which is not also the church of the past and of the

present, can be no church; for a true church must reach to the

ages back as well as to those before.

{196}

If the continuity is broken, truth is broken, and cannot be

restored. As for eighteen centuries there have been no forms of

civil society, no calms or tempests in the moral, political,

social, or religious world, in which the Catholic Church has not

been true to the organic principles of her divine life, even the

enemy of catholicity should admit--that fact being granted--that

the presumption is on her side that she will be equally true to

those principles during the centuries that are to come. He may

deny that the church has been true, and, consequently, that she

will be true, but he will not admit one proposition and deny the

other; he will admit both or deny both. In other words, he will

admit, equally with the friend of catholicity, the identity of

the church, past, present, and to come. Now, it will be

impossible for a friend or enemy of the Catholic Church, from her

beginning to this very day, to point to an hour when she was not

a living church; it is, then, probable, that she will continue to

be a living church. But where, since the promulgation of

Christianity to this time, has existed a body of Christian

believers, which, for the quality of continual existence, has so

good a right to be called the church of Christ as the Catholic

Church? Considering her numbers, extent, and duration, that

church has been preeminently the church of the past; considering

numbers, extent, and duration, that church is pre-eminently the

church of the present; considering all analogies and

probabilities, then the Catholic Church will be preeminently the

church of the future. In truth, the vindictive anger of the

enemies of the Catholic Church, in whatever form of opposition it

may be shown, proceeds from the fact, not that she is the dead

church of the past, as she is sometimes called, for there would

be no reason to war with the dead, but because she is, as she has

been and will be, the living church. The Catholic Church is hated

not for being too dead, but for being too living. She has seen

the birth and death of countless "improvements" of her

principles, and she has received with gladness into her fold many

an eager and conscientious inquirer for the "new church," who has

at length reached an end of his wanderings and a solution of his

doubts in finding, with tears of rapturous submission, that the

new church, for which he was seeking, is the same church which

has stood for ages, ever old, yet ever new, because representing

Him who is alike the Living God and the Ancient of Days.

The Catholic Church, so frequently and unjustly denounced as ever

behind the age, or even as facing the past, has been foremost in

all parts of the world. She has sent her faithful soldiers of the

cross where the spirit of commerce dared not go; she was the

first in the east and the first in the West; it was her lamp of

divine light which dispelled the gloomy terrors of the barbarous

north of Europe; it was her sceptre of celestial beauty, which,

under the guidance of Heaven, transformed the political and

social wreck of southern Europe into order. In what part of the

world which man could reach has she not planted the cross? Where

on the face of the earth is the mountain whose craggy sides have

not, at one time or another, sent back into the sounding air the

echoes of Catholic worship?

{197}

Daniel Webster gave a vivid picture of the extent of the power of

England, in what I think to be the grandest sentence which

America has contributed to the common treasure of English

literature. He said: "The morning drum-beat, following the sun,

and keeping company with the hours, circles the earth daily with

one unbroken strain of the martial airs of England." That grand

figure of speech may be applied to the extent of the Catholic

Church. Yet it is not by martial airs, but by hymns of praise and

penitential orisons and the continuous sacrifice that the

Catholic Church daily celebrates, "from the rising of the sun

unto the going down of the same," the triumphant march of the

Prince of Peace. How like "the sound of many waters" rolls hourly

heavenward the anthems of catholic worship throughout the world!

Not only is every moment of every day consecrated by catholic

hymns sung somewhere on earth; but how majestically roll down

through eighteen hundred years the unbroken anthems of catholic

devotion! Minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day,

night after night, month after month, year after year, century

after century, the holy strains go on unending. To the mind's ear

seem blended in one almost overpowering flood of holy harmony the

unnumbered voices which have sounded from the very hour when the

shepherds of Bethlehem heard the angelic song to this very

moment, when, somewhere, catholic voices are chanting praise to

the Lord and Saviour of men.

And, in this view, how literally has been fulfilled that

consoling prophecy, "Henceforth all generations shall call me

blessed." Wherever the Divine Son has been duly honored, there

also she, who was remembered with filial love even amid his dying

agonies for a world's salvation, has been remembered and called

blessed; called blessed from that lowly home and from that mount

of sorrow in the distant east, in millions of lowly homes, and

under the shadow of mountains to the farthest west; called

blessed by millions of loving and imploring voices through all

the ages since; called blessed in all the languages that have

been spoken since that time in all the world; called blessed in

the rudest forms of human speech and in the most ecstatic music

of voice and skill; called blessed by the lips of the little

child that can hardly speak the name of mother, and by the lips

that tremble with age and sorrow; called blessed by the sailor on

the deep, by the ploughman on the land, by the scholar at his

books, by the soldier drawing his sword for right upon the

battle-field; called blessed by the voices of peasant-girls

singing in sunny vineyards, and by the voices of those from whose

brows have flashed the gems of royal diadems; called blessed in

cottages and palaces, at wayside shrines, and under the golden

roofs of grand cathedrals; called blessed in the hour of joy and

in the hour of anguish--in the strength and beauty of life, and

at the gates of death. How long, how ardently, how faithfully has

all this loving honor been paid for so many generations, and will

continue to be paid for all generations to come, to that

sorrowing yet benignant one, who bore him who bore our woe!

The recent gathering at Rome indicates that there is no demand

which civilization can rightfully make of the Christian Church

which she will not eagerly, fully, and faithfully meet. The

largest assemblage of professed ministers of Christ which this

age has known--leaving here out of view the claims of the

Catholic Church to an apostolical priesthood--has been held in

Rome by the church, so extensively proclaimed and derided as

being behind the age. If there is life, deep, full, pervading

life anywhere on earth, it is in the Catholic Church and in all

her movements.

{198}

She will continue to draw to herself all the qualities and

capacities of life which are in harmony with her spirit; and this

accumulated spiritual force will constantly weaken the barriers

that divide her from the sympathies of a large part of

Christendom, until at length she will be acknowledged by all as

the only living and true church of Christ.

"The restoration of the unity of the church" has been the subject

of many thoughts, of many words, of earnest and devout prayer, of

much and noble effort, and, when understood as referring to the

reconciliation of those who have left the Catholic Church, or who

are now out of it because their fathers left it, the phrase may

pass without objection; but the phrase is greatly objectionable,

even to the extent of expressing an untruth, when it is used to

convey the idea that the unity of the church has ever been

broken. This has not been, and could not be. The church, intended

to be one, and to endure until the end of time, could not, in its

organic structure, be really broken at any period of its history,

without destroying its title as the one church of Christ.

Individuals, communities, even nations, as such, have been broken

off from it; but the essential church herself has remained one

and unbroken through all vicissitudes. The theory that the Church

of Rome, the Greek Church, and the Church of England are equal

and co-ordinate branches of the one church of Christ has no

foundation as an historical fact, and is as destructive of all

true ideas of the unity of the church as the wildest vagaries of

Protestantism. Is there on earth an institution which schism,

heresy, and political ambition have tried to destroy and have

tried in vain? There is; it is the Catholic Church. Is there an

institution on earth which, leaving out of regard all its claims,

has had the quality of historical continuity for eighteen

centuries? There is; it is the Catholic Church.

The charge, if not of bigotry, yet of most unreasonable

arrogance, has been more or less directly made against the

Catholic Church, because she has not received overtures of

reconciliation from enthusiastic and earnest individuals claiming

to represent national churches, as cordially as was expected. But

how can she accept, or even consider, any such overtures,

proceeding as they do from the assumption of equal position and

authority, without disowning herself, without denying even those

claims and prerogatives, the existence of which alone makes union

with her desirable? If there is no institution on earth which has

a valid title to be the continuous church of Christ, all efforts

will be vain to supply the gap of centuries by an establishment

now. A union of churches will not satisfy the design or promise

of our Lord, when he founded the unity of his church. If the

Christian church has really been broken into pieces, it will be

in vain to gather up the fragments; for, on that supposition, the

divine principle has long since departed, and the gates of hell

have prevailed. Those men of strong Catholic predilections, who,

nevertheless, have clung to the theory that the church of Christ

has been really broken, and must be repaired by management, will

yet thank God from their inmost souls for the immovable firmness

with which that theory has been denied at Rome.

The Catholic Church has never condemned a heresy more false or

destructive than the proposition that she is herself but one of

the divisions of the Christian church, having no authority to

speak or to rule in the name of her Lord.

{199}

To deny that the one church of Christ is now existing, and that

she has existed for ages, is to deny not merely a fact in

history, but it is to deny the word of our Lord; and to do that,

is to deny alike his holiness and his divinity. How can the

Catholic Church treat with those who wish to make terms before

submitting to her authority, on the basis of a positive untruth?

Catholicity is not an inheritance, to be decided among many

claimants, no one of whom has any right to be or to be regarded

as the sole heir of the homestead; but it is an estate left by

the divine Lord of the manor, in charge of the Prince of the

Apostles and his successors, on the express injunction that it is

to be kept one and undivided, in trust for the benefit of the

faithful for all time. The estate has been kept one and

undivided, according to the title-deed; the injunction has never

been broken; notwithstanding all defections from the household,

the homestead of the Christian world remains in the hands of the

same faithful succession to which it was committed by our Lord

himself. May God grant that all the younger sons who have gone

astray, may return with penitential alacrity to their Father's

house!

The Catholic Church will not stop in her progress, until she has

converted the world to Christ; but she has not denied, and will

not deny, her sacred trust and prerogative of catholicity for the

sake even of adding whole nations to her fold. Whoever enters her

fold must admit by that act her claim to be the one, undivided,

indivisible Church of Christ. There can be no "branches of the

Catholic Church" which are not directly joined to the root and

trunk of catholicity. A severed branch is no branch.

It is not the fault of the Catholic Church that multitudes "who

profess and call themselves Christians" are not members of her

communion. She affords the very largest liberty for individual or

associated action that can be yielded without denying her faith

or her commission. The highest poetry and the severest logic may

kneel in brotherly harmony at her altar. Gifts and talents the

most diverse have been consecrated to her service. The Catholic

Church advancing, century after century, under the banner of the

cross and dove, to the spiritual conquest of the world! how far

more sublime a spectacle it is than that of some parts of

Christendom, which are broken into little independent bands of

sectarian skirmishers, keeping up a kind of guerrilla warfare

against "the world, the flesh, and the devil," and each other.

There are inspiring tokens which show the depth and breadth of

the conviction, that the great schism of three centuries ago has

proved a terrible mistake. Multitudes outside of the Catholic

Church are inquiring with earnest solicitude about the meaning of

catholic unity. The main course of intellectual inquiry is, in

both hemispheres, respecting the claims of the Catholic Church.

There are evident signs that the chaos of Protestantism is about

to be broken up, and the wild, and dreary waste to bloom and glow

with Catholic beauty and order. God grant that it may be so, and

that not only thousands of individuals may know how precious a

prize it is to kneel devoutly and sincerely before, the altar of

God; but that even, mighty nations may be convinced, what

priceless gifts they have forfeited by three centuries of

separation from the source of all they have that has been or is

worth keeping.

{200}

In view of the fact that the revival of catholic feeling

enkindles also the enmity of those who scan it, the gathering at

Rome is not only an assurance before the world that the Catholic

Church will continue to be the guide of life and the empire of

civilization, but it is also a sublime challenge against all the

agencies of every kind that have been, or may be tried, to

eliminate Catholicity from the age. The Catholic Church has a

work to do, and she will do it. She can no more forego it, than

she can die by her own will. She has never flinched yet; she

never will. It is the very necessity as well as the reason of her

being that she shall fulfil her charge without wavering or

diminution; and this she will do. If the "gates of hell" cannot

prevail against the church of God, she may safely defy all mortal

might. The sun might more easily have refused to come forth at

the bidding of the Creator, than the church can refuse to do his

will in conquering the world for Christ. God speed the day when

the divisions of Christendom shall end; when all who profess to

be the disciples of Jesus Christ shall seek and find consolation

in his one, true, enduring fold; and when the sceptre of God,

manifest in the church, shall be extended in benignant power over

an obedient and rejoicing world.

--------

"The United Churches Of England And Ireland, In Ireland."

[Footnote 47]

[Footnote 47: _Ireland and her Churches_. By James

Godkin. London, Chapman & Hall. 1867. 1 vol. pp. 623.]

It is well to be accurate in the bestowal of titles, and we give,

therefore, the institution whose latest history lies before us

the exact definition by which, these sixty years past, it

rejoices to be known. Under this designation of its own choice

this institution is open to the reflection of being one of the

most modern of all the churches pretending to be national; the

junior of even our own American Episcopal Church, which is not

itself very far stricken in years; the junior, indeed, of all the

other churches we can at this moment recall to memory, unless we

were to include "the Church of the Latter-Day Saints," whose

Mecca stands upon Salt Lake.

On the first day of January, in the first year of this century,

the ecclesiastical system, establishment, or organization which

designates itself as "the United Church of England and Ireland,

in Ireland," came, with sound of many trumpets, into the world.

On that auspicious day, the legislative union of Ireland and

Great Britain was proclaimed; a new national flag, "the Union

Jack," was run up from the royal towers of London, Dublin, and

Edinburgh; a new royal title was assumed for the coinage of the

new realm, and in all great public transactions; a new "great

seal" was struck for the sovereign of the newly modelled state;

new peers and new commoners were added to the two houses of

Parliament, and, to complete the revolution, by the 5th clause of

the same act, the matters previously mentioned having been first

disposed of, this new church was, on that same day and hour, by

the same authority, called into existence. His majesty's

proclamation, announced at Paul's Cross in London, at the Cross

in Edinburgh, and where the Cross of _le Dame_ street ought

to have been, in Dublin, that "the doctrine, worship, discipline,

and government of the said United Church shall be and shall

remain in full force for ever, as the same are now by law

established for the Church of England."

{201}

The two national churches, thus by act of parliament and royal

proclamation, united into, so to speak, one imperial church, with

an identical "doctrine, worship, and discipline," had a good many

antecedents in common, and a good many others that were peculiar

to each side of the channel. Irish Protestantism had never been a

servile or even a close copy of its English senior. Whether, as

Swift sarcastically maintained, the sermons of Dublin pulpits

were flavored by the soil, or whether the cause of difference lay

in the atmosphere, the Irish variety of "the churches of the

Reformation," was as full of self-complacency and self-assertion,

as any of the sisterhood. It imbibed at the start, chiefly from

Usher, a larger draught of Genevan theology than was quite

reconcilable with the Thirty-nine Articles; it has been almost

invariably toryish in its relations to the state; while the

English establishment, at least since 1668, has been pretty

equally divided between the two great political parties. But the

most singular peculiarity of this very modern church of Ireland

was the persuasion it arrived at, and endeavored to impress upon

the world, that it was the veritable primitive Christianity of

the Green Isle; that instead of tracing its origin to quite

recent acts of parliament, its pedigree ran up nearly to the Acts

of the Apostles; that Saint Patrick and Saint Columba were its

true founders, and not such saints of yesterday as George Browne

and James Usher. Whenever it was necessary to enforce the

collection of tithes, or to protect the monopoly of university

education, the statutes at large were resorted to as the true

charter of its institution; but whenever it became requisite to

defend its anomalous position, by writing or speaking, the

Protestantism of Saint Patrick--his independence of Rome more

especially--was the favorite argument of its defenders.

No "reformed" community has ever made such desperate and

persistent efforts, with such flimsy or wholly imaginary

materials, to bridge over the long space of the middle ages, in

order to make some show of historical connection with the first

founders of Christianity. But the recent revival of genuine

ecclesiastical learning has utterly dissipated the last fond

efforts of these spiritual genealogists; and the very first acts

of its existence as a separated body, are now as well understood

as the 41st of George III., by which it became a copartner in

"the United Church of England and Ireland," no longer ago than

the first day of the year of our Lord, 1801.

The history of the Irish member of this curious ecclesiastical

firm may best be traced through the statutes at large. As its

parentage was parliamentary, so its life has been legislative.

There is one advantage in having this description of authority to

refer to, that it cannot be disputed. The "Journals of

Parliament" in England and Ireland, from the reformation to the

civil emancipation of the Catholics in 1829, are good Protestant

authority. The peers and commoners of the old religion were

excluded from the English houses, from the 10th of Elizabeth

(1567) to the 9th of George IV., (1829,) a period of 262 years;

and in Ireland, the last parliament in which Catholics sat was

that of 4th James II., (1689,) followed by a period of exclusion,

before the union, of 111 years.

{202}

It was not found possible, so early as the time of the two first

Stuarts and Elizabeth, to wholly exclude Catholics, or, as they

were then called, "recusants," from membership in either house in

Ireland; and accordingly we find them a formidable minority in

those rarely occurring assemblies, such as the Irish parliaments

held in the 11th and 25th of Elizabeth, the 11th James I., the

14th Charles I., and the 12th of Charles II, In the second

James's short-lived parliament of one session, hastily adjourned

to allow his lords and gentlemen to follow their master to the

banks of the "ill-fated river," they were a majority; but with

that evanescent exception, the statutes of Ireland are quite as

exclusively Protestant authority on all church matters as those

of England previous to the union of the legislatures and the

churches, and subsequently down to 1829.

The history of Protestantism in Ireland, from first to last, is a

political history. Its best record is to be found in the

parliamentary journals as well in the reign of Henry VIII. as of

George III. And though we do not propose to dwell, in the present

paper, in anything like detail on the annals of that

establishment previous to the present century, we must condense

into a short space the main facts of its first appearance on the

scene, and its early parliamentary nurture and education, to

account for the facility with which it ceased to be, even in

pretence, a national church at the time of the legislative union.

Political in its origin, its organization, and its government,

from the first hour of its existence, it had neither will, nor

wish, nor ability, if it had either, to resist the designs of the

state, which included its incorporation into the imperial system.

As the lay representation of Ireland was recast, as the seal and

the standard were changed, so the institution started by statute

and royal orders in council in the sixteenth century came

naturally to have its individuality extinguished by other

statutes and orders in council in the nineteenth. If this

so-called "Church of Ireland" had really believed itself to be

what its champions had so often asserted, the true and ancient

national church of the kingdom, it would at all events have made

some show of patriotic resistance before making its surrender.

Not only, however, was it not really national in its origin, but

it was then, and always, an eminently anti-popular institution.

There was not, as in other countries during the reformation, even

the pretext of what is called a popular "movement against Rome."

No Luther had arisen among the Celtic or the Anglo-Irish

Catholics in that age of perturbation. The ancient faith was

received as implicitly by the burgesses of Dublin as by the

clansmen of Connaught, and the spiritual supremacy of the pope

seemed a doctrine as impossible of contradiction to the

descendants of Strongbow as to the children of Milesius. No

internal revolt against Roman discipline or Roman doctrine had

shown itself within the western island. There was no spiritual

insurrection attempted from within to justify the resort to

external intervention. The annalists of Donegal, who are commonly

called "The Four Masters," and who were old enough to remember

the first mention of Protestantism in their own province, thus

unconsciously express the amazement of the educated Irish mind of

those days at the new doctors and doctrines:

{203}

"A.D. 1537. A heresy and a new error broke out in England, the

effects of pride, vainglory, avarice, sensual desire, and the

prevalence of a variety of scientific and philosophical

speculations, so that the people of England went into

opposition to the pope and to Rome. At the same time they

followed a variety of opinions, and the old law of Moses, after

the manner of the Jewish people, and they gave the title of

Head of the Church of God to the king. There were enacted by

the king and council new laws and statutes after their own

will."

But the laws and statutes enacted by the king and council in

England, for changing the national religion, were not immediately

either extended to, or proposed for imitation in, Ireland. The

zeal of the crowned apostle was tempered by the exigencies of the

politician. Before this king's time, the English power in Ireland

had been essentially a colonial power; "a pale" or enclosure, or

garrison. Whoever will not mark the point, will miss the very

pivot of all the operations of the new religion in Ireland. Henry

VIII. had inherited from his father, the first king of united

England for a century, the ambition of making himself equally

master of the neighboring nation. During the twenty years of the

sway of his great cardinal-chancellor, this object never was for

a moment lost sight of. When Wolsey went down to the grave in

disgrace without seeing it fulfilled, his royal pupil continued

to prosecute the plan to its entire accomplishment. This result,

however, he only reached in the thirty-second year of his reign,

(1541,) some six years before his miserable end. Ten years

previously, (1531,) he may be said to have established the new

religion in England by compelling the majority of the clergy to

subscribe to his supremacy in spirituals; within two years

followed his marriage with Anne Boleyn; and in 1535, his order

appeared commanding the omission "of the name of the Bishop of

Rome from every liturgical book," which may be said to have

completed the severance of England from Rome.

Not only did not Henry, in obedience to his political design of

adding another crown to his dominions, not press his reformed

doctrines immediately upon the Irish of either race, but he

expressly reprehended his deputies at Dublin for having

prematurely attempted the national conversion. In the same year

in which he struck the pope's name from every liturgical book, he

sharply rebuked George Browne, an English ex-Augustinian whom he

had appointed Archbishop of Dublin, for destroying certain relics

of saints in the churches of that city. Again in the same year.

Secretary Cromwell writes officially to contradict "a common

rumor," that he intended to pluck down the statue of "our Lady of

Trim," which was as famous on the west, as our "Lady of

Walsingham" on the east of the channel. Four years later, we find

the Lord Deputy Grey, after a victory over O'Neill at Bellahoe,

halting with the whole court and army at this celebrated place of

pilgrimage, and visiting this same shrine of our Lady--"very

devoutly kneeling before her, he heard three or four masses." At

that moment, in the thirtieth year of Henry VIII., and the sixth

of his open rupture with Rome, any Celtic-Irish or Anglo-Irish

Catholic, in the ranks of Lord Grey, not particularly well

informed as to the affairs of the neighboring kingdom, might have

rested honestly in the belief that he was serving a Catholic

prince in full communion with the rest of Christendom.

{204}

But as soon as the election to the kingship, which it is not in

our way here to dwell upon, was successfully over, and the new

royal title proclaimed, confirmed, and acknowledged abroad,

especially in Scotland and France, and by the emperor, then there

came a change. The politician being satisfied, the apostle awoke.

A commission of reformation, at the head of which sat Archbishop

Browne, undertook the purgation of the Dublin and neighboring

churches, producing as their warrant the royal authority, "dated

years before." A sufficient guard of horse and foot accompanied

these commissioners, and were much needed to protect them from

the populace. The statues and relics in the cathedrals of

Leighlin, Ferns, and Kildare; the Lady statue at Trim, and a

famous crucifixion in Ballyhogan Abbey, were forthwith destroyed.

So far and so soon as they could venture into the interior, this

"work, of reformation," under the royal warrant, was pushed on

vigorously, in order, as Henry's commission expressed it, "that

no fooleries of this kind might henceforth for ever be in use in

said land." This royal order (1539) sounded the key-note of

spoliation, and little more than this was attempted during the

remainder of this reign. The first serious effort at national

conversion was made under the orders in council of the 4th of

Edward VI., (1551,) when on Easter day the English liturgy was

for the first time publicly recited in Christ Church Cathedral,

the ex-Augustinian archbishop preaching from the text, "Open mine

eyes, that I may see the wonders of the laws," (Ps. 119.) The

liturgy was printed the same year at Dublin, in English, and the

lord deputy was instructed to take measures to have it

"translated into Irish in those places that need it." The

following year the work of spoliation was resumed with new vigor

at the famous seven churches of Clonmacnoise, and other points

upon the Shannon. Within twelve months thereafter, young Edward

died, and the five years' reign of Queen Mary gave a respite to

the Irish church. It was a period too short for restoration, but

long remembered with regretful affection for the temporary

exemption from persecution it had afforded.

Anti-national and anti-popular in its conception, the reformation

presented itself in Ireland as the enemy at once of the useful

and all the fine arts; of all that amused and ennobled and

entertained the people. Among both races, war was a business, and

the layman's hand was always within reach of his weapon. The arts

of peace--agriculture, architecture, botany, medicine, music,

were all inmates of the convent and the monastery. The civil

glories and treasures of the country were hoarded up where alone

they could be secured, in the chancel and the cloister. It was,

however, the first duty of the new reformers to strike down and

demolish these venerated remains of the piety of former

generations. Pictures brought from abroad, or the work of native

artists, were defaced; stained windows were brutally broken;

shrines smashed; beautiful missals thrown into the fire; croziers

broken to bits; chalices and ciboriums melted into bullion; bells

blessed to the offices of peace and forgiveness melted down to be

cast into ordnance; and all the endearing, civilizing, and solemn

associations interwoven from childhood with these consecrated

objects of art, were rudely torn out of the bleeding hearts of

the people. In the six remaining years of Henry, and the six of

Edward VI., nearly six hundred religious houses were thus

stripped, desecrated, and dismantled.

{205}

"They sold their roofs and bells," say the Four Masters, in the

annal already quoted, "so there was not a monastery left from the

Arran of the Saints to the Iccian Sea, which was not broken and

shattered, except a few only" in the remoter corners of the

kingdom. Of the regular religious orders then established in that

small kingdom, the rule of St. Augustine was followed by 256

houses, male and female; that of St. Bernard by 44; of St.

Francis by 114; of St. Dominick by 41; of St. Benedict by 14; of

Mount Carmel by 29. Besides these, it is a pathetic and

instructive circumstance to remember, that there were then, even

in that far western island, not less than 22 houses of Knights of

Saint John of Jerusalem, vowed to the redemption of the Holy

Sepulchre, and 14 of the Trinitarian Order for the redemption of

Christian captives from African slavery. All these, with their

interior furniture and external possessions, were with ruthless

hand transferred to the new clergy, or converted to worldly

purposes, in order to prepare the way of the new religion as set

forth by the king's order.

It is but fair to point out, that the preachers of this religious

revolution were only in part, though in a very considerable part,

the receivers of the spoils. A new aristocracy arose on the ruins

of the monasteries and churches. Some Irish houses may claim to

have ancestors who came in with Strongbow; but many more founders

of families came in penniless adventurers at the reformation. The

Bagnals and Chichesters, in the north; the St. Legers, Boyles,

and Kings in the south; and the Burkes and Croftons in the west,

were formerly, and some of their descendants still are, the

largest inheritors of ecclesiastical plunder. The chartered

minorities of townsmen, whose consciences consented to take the

oath of supremacy, were not without their recompense even in this

world. The neighboring church and convent property was frequently

assigned to these corporators, no matter how few in number, for

the use indeed of the corporation; but as they generally

contrived to become in their individual capacity tenants under

themselves as a corporation, there was at least one description

of occupants in the country, who held their lands on easy

conditions. These corporate bodies, which continued exclusively

Protestant down to the passage of the Irish Municipal Reform Bill

in 1834, were often reduced to a ludicrously small number; but

even in such Catholic cities as Limerick, Cashel, Clonmel, and

Waterford and Drogheda, they continued to possess and dispose of,

and often to alienate, the former endowments of pious chiefs and

barons to the suppressed convents and colleges of the vicinity.

The new proprietory and clerical interests thus created at the

expense of the confiscated church, were placed in a position to

require the constant protection and superintendence of the

creative power. And this again required, most unhappily both for

church and state in that country, the continuous proscription and

suppression of those who represented the important interests so

dispossessed and disinherited. From thence arose the deadly feud

between law and nature, which has disfigured and degraded

humanity in Ireland; which has so effectually separated the very

ideas of law and justice in the modern Irishman's mind that his

first presumption in all conflicting cases is (to his own loss

frequently) against the law, rather than in its favor. The body

of legislation of which we speak had long ago swelled to the

dimensions of a code, and since the early years of George III.

has been known exclusively by the name of _The Penal Code_.

{206}

The principal collections of this code are by Sir Henry Parnell,

(afterward Lord Congleton,) Mr. Bedford, an English barrister,

Mr. Mathew O'Conor, of the Irish bar, and the late indefatigable

Dr. R. R. Madden. The commentators on the code, from Edmund Burke

to Bishop Doyle, or rather the advocates for its amelioration in

the first place, and afterward for its total repeal, included

almost every name distinguished for liberality in the British

annals of the last hundred years.

The first of these proscriptive enactments dates from the 2d year

of Elizabeth, when a parliament representing ten counties was

held at Dublin. By this assembly the acts enforcing uniformity of

worship, and the queen's supremacy in spirituals as well as

temporals, are said to have been passed; though others say this

parliament adjourned without regularly adopting those measures.

In the 3d year of the same reign a further act is found on the

Irish Statute-Book, obliging, under forfeiture of office and

civil disfranchisement for life, "ecclesiastical persons and

officers, judges, justices, mayors, temporal officers, and every

other person who hath the queen's wages, to take the oath of

supremacy." Commissioners of ecclesiastical causes were created

by an act of the same session, "to adjudge heresy" according to

the canonical scriptures, the first four general councils, and

the laws of parliament. By this commission, five years later,

(1564,) the English _Book of Articles_ was declared of full

force in Ireland. These articles were twelve in number.

"1. The Trinity in Unity;

2. The Sufficiency of the Scriptures to Salvation;

3. The Orthodoxy of Particular Churches;

4. The Necessity of Holy Orders;

5. The Queen's Supremacy;

6. Denial of the Pope's authority 'to be more than other Bishops have;'

7. The Conformity of the Book of Common Prayer to the Scriptures;

8. The Ministration of Baptism does not depend on the Ceremonial;

9. Condemns 'Private Masses,' and denies that the Mass can

be a propitiatory Sacrifice for the Dead;

10. Asserts the Propriety of Communion in Both Kinds;

11. Utterly disallows Images, Relics, and Pilgrimages;

12. Requires a General Subscription to the foregoing Articles."

The subsequent legislation of Elizabeth in Ireland was chiefly

political, if we except (in the 11th and 12th of her reign) the

act respecting vacant benefices, and the act establishing

[Protestant] free schools.

Parliaments in those days assembled at long and uncertain

intervals. The only one held during the first James's reign in

Ireland--twenty-seven years after Elizabeth's last, and

twenty-one before Charles I. convened another--was purely

political. This parliament was opened and managed by the Lord

Deputy, Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, whose avowed and almost

only object in using such an agency was to make his royal master

"as absolute as any king in Christendom." Four years later,

(1639) was held the second and last Irish parliament of this

reign, and simultaneously, (at the instance, and under the advice

of Laud), the able, iron-nerved, and most unscrupulous deputy

summoned a convocation of the bishops and clergy of the

established religion, which forms a very curious picture of the

state of that establishment at the end of the first century of

the reformation. Strafford himself shall be our authority at this

point, and as abbreviated in Mr. Godkin's

book, pp. 64 and 65.

{207}

"He had ordered a convocation of the clergy to meet

simultaneously with the parliament for the purpose of adopting

the Thirty-nine Articles of the Church of England, so that the

Irish articles might become a dead letter. The convocation went

to work conscientiously, digesting the canons, etc., to the

best of their judgment; but Wentworth found that they were not

doing what he wanted, and resolved to bring them to their

senses. In a letter to Laud he chuckled over his victory,

apparently quite unconscious that he had been playing the

tyrant, _circa sacra_, in a style worthy of Henry VIII.

Having learned what the committee of convocation had done, he

instantly sent for Dean Andrews, its chairman, requiring him to

bring the Book of Canons noted in the margin, together with the

draught he was to present that afternoon to the house. This

order he obeyed; 'but,' says the lord deputy, 'when I came to

open the book, and run over the _deliberandums_ in the

margin, I confess I was not so much moved since I came into

Ireland. I told him, certainly not a Dean of Limerick, but an

Ananias, had sat in the chair of that committee; however, sure

I was an Ananias had been there in spirit, if not in body, with

all the fraternities and conventicles of Amsterdam, that I was

ashamed and scandalized with it above measure.' He gave the

dean imperative orders not to report anything until he heard

from him again. He also issued orders to the primate, the

Bishops of Meath, Kilmore, Raphoe, and Derry, together with

Dean Leslie, the prolucutor, and the whole committee, to wait

upon him next morning. He then publicly rebuked them for acting

so unlike churchmen; told them that a few petty clerks had

presumed to make articles of faith, without the privity or

consent of state or bishop, as if they purposed at once 'to

take away all government and order forth of the church. But

those heady and arrogant courses he would not endure, nor would

he suffer them either to be mad in the convocation nor in their

pulpits.' He next gave them strict injunctions as to what the

convocation should do. They were to say content, or not

content, to the Articles of England, for he would not endure

that they should be disputed. He ordered the primate to frame a

canon on the subject; but it did not meet his approval, and so

the lord deputy framed one himself, whereupon his grace came to

him instantly and said he feared the canon would never pass in

such a form as his lordship had made, but he was hopeful it

might pass as he had drawn it himself. He therefore besought

the lord deputy to think a little better of it. The sequel is

best told in Strafford's own vigorous language--'But I confess,

having taken a little jealousy that his proceedings were not

open and free to those ends I had my eye upon, it was too late

now either to persuade or to affright me. I told his lordship I

was resolved to put it to them in those very words, and was

most confident there were not six in the house that would

refuse them, telling him, by the sequel, we should see whether

his lordship or myself better understood their minds in that

point, and by that I would be content to be judged, only for

order's sake I desired his lordship would vote this canon first

in the upper house of convocation, and so voted, then to pass

the question beneath also.' He adds that he enclosed the canon

[Footnote 48] to Dean Leslie, 'which, accordingly, that

afternoon was unanimously voted, first with the bishops, and

then by the rest of the clergy, excepting one man, who simply

did deliberate upon the receiving of the Articles of England.'"

[Footnote 48: The first Irish canon.]

We pause and draw a hard breath, after this dictatorial

description of how to rule a church and have a church, to observe

that the Irish Protestant prelates of those days were no mean

men; Bramhall was Bishop of Derry, and Bedell of Kilmore, and the

primate so hectored and overawed by this Cavalier-Cromwell was no

less a personage than James Usher. But being as they were, as

they well knew they were, the creatures of the state, what could

they do when brought into conflict with the author and finisher

of their law?

Omitting the period of the civil wars and the Cromwellian

Protectorate as a period phenomenal and exceptional, deserving

study apart, we pass to the first parliament of Charles II.,

(1662,) in which one of the first contributions to the statutes

which we find, is the renewal of the Elizabethan act of

uniformity. In the same session was passed the acts of settlement

and explanation, which have been called "the Magna Charta of

Irish Protestantism." These acts confirmed to their Puritan

possessors the properties of the Catholic gentry confiscated by

Cromwell for their attachment to both Charleses, and extending

into almost every county. Of 6000 proprietors, so confiscated,

but 60--one per cent--were restored, in part or whole, to their

hereditary estates.

{208}

Thirty years later, after William's victory over James II., 4000

remaining Catholic proprietors were subjected to a similar

proscription--so that in that half-century 10,000 owners of

estates forfeited them for their fidelity to their ancient, and

their hostility to what Mr. Froude correctly calls "the intrusive

religion."

No parliament sat again in Ireland, till that short one of a

single session before mentioned, (the 4th James II.,) summoned in

1689. This parliament repealed the acts of settlement and

explanation, Poyning's law, and other coercive and intolerant

statutes; but the issue of battle went against King James, and

the two succeeding reigns became fruitful beyond precedent of

penal legislation. Although the 9th of the "Articles of

Limerick"--at the close of the war--had simply imposed one

unobjectionable sentence as an oath of allegiance on the defeated

party, the act (2d and 3d William and Mary) prescribed an

elaborate form of abjuration of the doctrines of

transubstantiation and of the invocation of saints, and declaring

the holy sacrifice of the Mass "superstitious and idolatrous."'

The oath of abjuration concluded by the denial to any foreign

prince or prelate (namely, the pope) of "any jurisdiction, power,

superiority, preeminence, or authority, _ecclesiastical_ or

_spiritual_, within the realm." There never was a more

shameful breach of public faith than this statute. The treaty of

Limerick had simply prescribed this form of oath for the

restoration to their former _status_ of all who chose to

take it: "I, A. B., do solemnly promise and swear that I will be

faithful and bear true allegiance to their majesties King William

and Queen Mary; so help me God."

And the 10th article of the same treaty had provided: "The oath

to be administered to such Roman Catholics as submit to their

majesties' government, shall be the oath aforesaid and no other."

Yet within the same twelvemonths in which William's generals and

lord-justices signed this latter compact, the new penal law was

passed, and the new oath of abjuration was imposed. In 1691, the

tolerant treaty was signed; in 1692, when the few Catholic peers

and commoners who ventured to present themselves appeared to be

sworn in of the new Irish parliament, they were met by this

infamous oath of abjuration, driven out and disqualified. Above a

million of their broad acres were forfeited, as a further penalty

on those who refused the oath, and we need not be surprised to

find, at King William's death, (1702,) that but "one sixth part"

of the property of the kingdom remained in Catholic hands.

The 7th and 8th William and Mary re-enacted, with additions, the

Elizabethan penal laws. Of these additions the principal were:

1. Authorizing the Protestant chancellor to name guardians for

Catholic minors.

2. Act to prevent recusants (Catholics) from becoming tutors in

private families, unless by license of the Protestant

ordinaries of their several dioceses.

3. An act to prevent Roman Catholics acting as

guardians to minor children.

4. An act to disarm Roman Catholics.

5. An act for the banishment of popish priests and prelates.

During the reign of Queen Anne, however, the code received its

last finishing contributions. In the 1st and 2d of this queen was

passed "the act for discouraging the further growth of popery,"

of which the following were the principal provisions:

{209}

"The third clause provides that if the son of an estated Papist

shall conform to the established religion, the father shall be

incapacitated from selling or mortgaging his estate, or

disposing of any portion of it by will. The fourth clause

prohibits a Papist from being the guardian of his own child;

and orders that, if at any time the child, though ever so

young, pretends to be a Protestant, it shall be taken from its

own father, and placed under the guardianship of the nearest

Protestant relation. The sixth clause renders Papists incapable

of purchasing any manors, tenements, hereditaments, or any

rents or profits arising out of the same, or of holding any

lease of lives, or other lease whatever, for any term exceeding

thirty-one years. And with respect even to such limited leases,

it further enacts that, if a Papist should hold a farm

producing a profit greater than one third of the amount of the

rent, his right to such should immediately cease, and pass over

entirely to the first Protestant who should discover the rate

of profit. The seventh clause prohibits Papists from succeeding

to the properties or estates of their Protestant relations. By

the tenth clause, the estate of a Papist, not having a

Protestant heir, is ordered to be gavelled, or divided in equal

shares between all his children. The sixteenth and

twenty-fourth clauses impose the oath of abjuration, and the

sacramental test, as a qualification for office, and for voting

at elections. The twenty-third clause deprives the Catholics of

Limerick and Galway of the protection secured to them by the

articles of the treaty of Limerick. The twenty-fifth clause

vests in her majesty all advowsons possessed by Papists.

"A further act was passed, in 1709, imposing additional

penalties. The first clause declares that no Papist shall be

capable of holding an annuity for life. The third provides that

the child of a Papist, on conforming, shall at once receive an

annuity from his father; and that the chancellor shall compel

the father to discover, upon oath, the full value of his

estate, real and personal, and thereupon make an order for the

support of such conforming child or children, and for securing

such a share of the property, after the father's death, as the

court shall think fit. The fourteenth and fifteenth clauses

secure jointures to Popish wives who shall conform. The

sixteenth prohibits a Papist from teaching, even as assistant

to a Protestant master. The eighteenth gives a salary of £30

per annum to Popish priests who shall conform. The twentieth

provides rewards for the discovery of Popish prelates, priests,

and teachers, according to the following whimsical scale: For

discovering an archbishop, bishop, vicar-general, or other

person, exercising any foreign ecclesiastical jurisdiction,

£50; for discovering each regular clergyman, and each secular

clergyman not registered, £20, and for discovering each Popish

schoolmaster or usher, £10. The twenty-first clause empowers

two justices to summon before them any Papist over eighteen

years of age, and interrogate him when and where he last heard

Mass said, and the names of the persons present, and likewise

touching the residence of any Popish priest or schoolmaster;

and if he refuses to give testimony, subjects him to a fine of

£20, or imprisonment for twelve months.

"Several other penal laws were enacted by the same parliament,

of which we can only notice one; it excludes Catholics from the

office of sheriff, and from grand juries, and enacts that, in

trials upon any statute for strengthening the Protestant

interest, the plaintiff might challenge a juror for being a

Papist, which challenge the judge was to allow."--_McGee's

Ireland_, vol. ii. pp. 605, 608.

We may here turn from this repulsive record of tyrannous

legislation to inquire into the consequences of it all at the end

of the second, and once again at the end of the third century,

from the reformation.

George II. came to the throne in 1727, and bequeathed it to his

successor in 1760. This generation saw, therefore, the close of

the second century of the great Protestant experiment; and if a

centennial celebration had been proposed to them in 1751, the

report of progress made must have included the following

principal facts.

"We have dispossessed the Catholic proprietors of five sixths

of their property during this last century; we have excluded

them from the bench, the bar, and parliament; we have

prohibited them being guardians or teachers of youth; we have

disfranchised and disarmed their whole body, even their nobles

and gentry; yet as far as the people are concerned, we labor in

vain. There has been lately (1747) a census of the kingdom, and

out of 4,300,000 inhabitants, 3,500,000 are returned as

papists. Even in Ulster they are not supplanted; in Leinster

they are three to one; in Munster, seven to one; in Connaught,

twelve to one. Without property, with few priests, and scarce

any bishops, still doth this perverse generation increase and

multiply. What can we do with them more than we have done to

convince and convert them?" To this searching question some

observer more profound than the others seems to have replied,

"Try education!"

{210}

The third centennial celebration of the introduction of the

English liturgy into Ireland--the 51st year of the union of the

two national churches--would have afforded an excellent

opportunity of taking stock, humanly speaking, of the progress

made in a hundred years. But no one thought of suggesting an

appropriate celebration of the great event, and so, unhappily,

the precious opportunity has been lost. We shall endeavor,

however, to supply the want of such a comprehensive retrospect;

and here, for the first time, we find the facts and figures of

Mr. Godkin's book of considerable service to the subject. From

the House of Commons debates of the year 1834, Mr. Godkin gives

the following sketch of the arguments and illustrations used in

support of "the Church Temporalities Act:"

"Lord John Russell, Lord Howick, and Mr. Sheil, while fully

admitting that an establishment tends to promote religion and

to preserve good order, contended that it ought not to be

maintained where it fails to secure these objects, and that it

must always fail when, as in Ireland, the members of the

Established Church are only a minority of the nation, while the

majority, constituting most of the poorer classes, are thrown

upon the voluntary system for the support of their clergy.

Concurring with Paley in his view of a Church

Establishment--that it should be founded upon utility, that it

should communicate religious knowledge to the masses of the

people, that it should not be debased into a state engine or an

instrument of political power--they demanded whether the Church

of Ireland fulfilled these essential conditions of an

establishment. They asked whether its immense revenues had been

employed in preserving and extending the Protestant faith in

Ireland? In the course of something more than a century it was

stated that its revenues had increased sevenfold, and now

amounted to £800,000 a year. Had its efficiency increased in

the same proportion? Had it even succeeded in keeping its own

small flock within the fold? On the contrary, they adduced

statistics to show a lamentable falling off in their numbers.

For example. Lord John Russell said, 'By Tighe's _History of

Kilkenny_, it appears that the number of Protestant families

in 1731 was 1055, but in 1800 they had been reduced to 941. The

total number of Protestants at the former period was 5238,

while the population of the county, which in 1800 was 108,000,

in 1731 was only 42,108 souls. From Stuart's _History of

Armagh_, we find that sixty years ago the Protestants in

that country were as two to one; now they are as one to three.

In 1733, the Roman Catholics in Kerry were twelve to one

Protestant, and now the former are much more numerous than even

that proportion. In Tullamore, in 1731, there were 64

Protestants to 613 Roman Catholics; but according to Mason's

parochial survey, in 1818 the Protestants had diminished to

only five, while the Roman Catholics had augmented to 2455. On

the whole, from the best computation he had seen--and he

believed it was not exaggerated one way or the other--the

entire number of Protestants belonging to the Established

Church in Ireland can hardly be stated higher than 750,000; and

of those 400,000 are resident in the ecclesiastical province of

Armagh.'"--pp. 153.

Now, for the maintenance of this church of 700,000 out of a

population of 7,000,000--this church of a tenth of the

people--there were then and now are held in mortmain of the best

lands of the kingdom, above 600,000 acres. We are told by the

poet:

"A time there was ere England's woes began

When every rood of ground sustained its man."

The Irish soil is not so nutritious; still, even there, every

acre stands for a soul saved or to be saved, according to "the

doctrine and discipline" of the united church.

{211}

In addition to the lands and their revenues, there are also

certain supplementary parliamentary grants not to be despised

even by light and worldly-minded persons. Mr. Godkin enumerates,

in his introduction, several of these:

"It may be desirable to add some more precise information on

that subject. There was a return made to Parliament, dated 24th

July, 1803, and signed by the then Chief Secretary, Mr.

Wickham, who certified that it was made up from the best

materials in the chief secretary's office, and believed to be

nearly accurate. From this return it appears that the number of

parishes in Ireland then was 2436; of benefices, 1120; of

churches, 1001; and of glebe-houses, 355. This represents the

state of the establishment in the year 1791.

"From 1791 to 1803 the Board of First Fruits granted the sum of

£500, in 88 cases, for the building of churches, making a total

of £44,000. During the same period the Board granted £100 each

for 116 glebe-houses, making a total of £11,600.

"From a parliamentary return, ordered in 1826, it appears that

within the present century the following amounts have been

voted by parliament up to that date: Gifts for building

churches, £224,946; loans for building churches, £286,572;

total, £511,538, for building churches in twenty-five years.

"During the same period gifts were made for glebes, £61,484;

gifts for building glebe-houses, £144,734. Loans were granted

for the same purpose amounting to £222,291, making a total for

glebes and glebe-houses of £428,509. Thus, between the year

1791 and 1826 the Establishment obtained for churches and

glebes the sum of £940,047. The number of glebe-houses in 1826

was increased to 771, and of benefices to 1396. The number of

cures with non-residence was 286." [Footnote 49]

[Footnote 49: The following additional figures (from the

_Union_ to the year 1844) are given on page 96:

For building churches,-- £625,371

For building glebe houses,-- 336,889

For Protestant charity schools,-- 1,105,588

For the Society for

Discountenancing Vice, etc.-- 101,991]

And, on the other hand, the celebrants of the third centenary, if

they had thought of holding one, would have learned from Mr.

Godkin (himself a resolute Protestant of the Unitarian school,

and an ex-reverend) of the alarming increase of popery of late

days even in the very capital of English authority.

"Indeed, the progress of the Roman Catholic Church in this city

is astonishing, and has no parallel perhaps in any country in

Europe. In 1820, there were in Dublin only ten parochial

chapels, most of them of an humble character and occupying

obscure positions. There were at the same time seven convents

or 'friaries,' as they were then called, and ten nunneries,

which Mr. Wright described as 'religious asylums where the

females of the Roman Catholic religion find shelter when

deprived of the protection of their relatives by the hand of

Providence.' [Footnote 50] Now the loveliest daughters of some

of the most respectable and the best connected Roman Catholic

families leave their happy homes and take the veil, sometimes

bringing with them ample fortunes--devoting themselves to the

work of education and the relief of the poor as 'Sisters of

Mercy,' 'Sisters of Charity,' etc.

[Footnote 50: Wright's _Dublin_, p. 174.]

"There are now thirty-two churches and chapels in Dublin and

its vicinity. In the diocese the total number of secular clergy

is 287, and of regulars 125; total priests, 412. The number of

nuns is 1150. Besides the Catholic University, with its ample

staff of professors, there are in the diocese six colleges,

seven superior schools for boys, fourteen superior schools for

ladies, twelve monastic primary schools, forty convent schools,

and 200 lay schools, without including those which are under

the National Board of Education. The Christian Brothers have

7000 pupils under their instruction, while the schools

connected with the convents in the diocese contain 15,000.

Besides Maynooth, which is amply endowed by the state, and

contains 500 or 600 students, all designed for the priesthood,

there is the College of All Hallows, at Drumcondra, in which

250 young men are being trained for the foreign mission. The

Roman Catholic charities of the city are varied and numerous.

There are magnificent hospitals, one of which especially--the

Mater Misericordiae--has been not inappropriately called 'the

Palace of the Sick Poor'--numerous orphanages, several widows'

houses, and other refuges for virtuous women; ragged and

industrial schools, night asylums, penitentiaries,

reformatories, institutions for the blind and deaf and dumb;

institutions for relieving the poor at their own houses, and

Christian doctrine fraternities almost innumerable. All these

wonderful organizations of religion and charity are supported

wholly on the voluntary principle, and they have nearly all

sprung into existence within half a century."--p. 94.

{212}

Such is the latest presentation of facts in relation to "Ireland

and her churches." Of Mr. Godkin's book (we don't know whether or

not he is still called _Reverend_) we can only say that it

is very fairly intended, and shows great industry in the

accumulation of materials. From some statements in the historical

introduction we most decidedly demur; but the valuable collection

of facts in the second part, under the head "Inspection of

Bishoprics," and the manifest desire to do, and to inculcate the

doing of, justice to men of all churches, throughout the whole

book, must bring in every true friend of Ireland the author's

debtor.

-----

Love's Burden.

"My burden is light"

The Disciple.

"Dear Lord, how canst thou say

'Tis light,

When I behold thee on the way

To Calvary's height,

Fainting and falling 'neath its heavy weight?

Ah! no. For me thy burden is too great."

The Master.

"Good child, thou dost mistake

The burden I would have thee take.

The cruel load

That crushed me down on Calvary's road

Was thine,

Not mine.

What lighter burden can there be

Than that which Love would lay on thee?"

The Disciple.

"Kind Lord, how foolish is my speech!

I mark the truth which thou wouldst teach

To my cold heart.

Love all the burden bears of others' woes,

Beyond its might;

But of its own on them it would impose

Only a part,

And makes that light."

--------

{213}

Florence Athern's Trial.

The farm-house occupied by the Lees, Henry and Margaret, was an

old-fashioned, plain brick building. It stood at right angles to

a country road which formed a short cut from the turnpike

(leading from the city of C---- to Hamilton, the county-town of

Butler county, Ohio) to the mills down on the Miami, passing

through Mr. Lee's property and by his garden-gate. The house was

some fifteen or twenty feet back from the road, and built one

room deep three sides, with an old-fashioned garret across the

whole of the main building. A wide brick pavement ran from the

gate opening into the road past the front of the house to another

gate opening into a private lane, leading from the barn and

stables, a hundred yards or so back of the house, to a creek some

distance in front, which had been dammed up to afford a

convenient watering-place for the farm cattle; another brick

pavement, not quite so wide, encircled the rear and sides of the

house. A broad gravel walk led from the back hall-door to a gate,

which, with a hedge, separated the grassy yard from the

vegetable-garden, up through that to the barn; another path led

from the front-door down between broad grass-plats of grass,

studded with evergreens and fruit-trees, over a rustic bridge

that spanned a deep ravine, to some stone steps leading down to a

spring, which, with the space around and the hill behind, was

paved with stone, beneath which the water ran a few feet, then

spread out into a creek fringed with willows. On the right of the

path from the bridge to some distance behind the spring was a

cherry orchard; on the left an open knoll bordered with

flower-beds and shrubbery, and occupied in the centre by a rustic

summer-house.

In front of the farm-house on the edge of the grass-plats was a

row of locust-trees. The parlor was at the end of the house

toward the road and to the right of the hall; to the left of that

was the dining-room; and on the left of that again the kitchen,

not fronting evenly with the rest, but leaving space for a porch

running to the end of the house, into the end of which a door

opened from the dining-room.

It was Christmas eve, 18--. A lovely, clear moonlight night,

rendered brighter by six or eight inches of snow that had fallen

the day before, and now lay glistening like diamond-dust in the

rays of the full moon. No sound disturbed the silence save the

occasional crackling of a branch or twig among the trees, and one

or two passers-by on horse-back or in wagon, trudging merrily

homeward; for though the railroad had long since made a much

shorter route from the city to the mills and Hamilton, Mr. Lee

had not retracted the permit to pass through his farm, and the

road still remained open.

The parlor windows gave out a brilliant light from the candles

burning on the mantle-piece and the Christmas tree, that blazed

between them and the wood fire on the old-fashioned hearth. A

group was seated round it.

{214}

Harry Lee, with just a shade of care on his joyous face and a few

threads of silver through his thick brown hair, sat opposite the

front windows at one side of the hearth; at his side, with her

arm resting on his knee, seated on a low ottoman, was a young

girl, his niece, Florence Athern; from the lamp on the table a

little behind her the soft light fell on the masses of golden

hair that covered her well-shaped head, and on the pages of a

richly illustrated book, the leaves of which were held open by a

hand perfect in its size, shape, and texture; and her face, as

she raised it from time to time, in answer to a caressing nod or

motion of her uncle, was very lovely, with a tinge of sadness in

the light of the soft blue eyes and the curve of the sensitive

lips. Opposite these two sat Margaret Lee. Younger than her

brother, but old before her time, her sad face was still

interesting, though it could not be called handsome. At her side

was a younger sister, whose whole attention was given to the

three children seated on the floor in the space before the fire,

eagerly examining the gifts just taken from the Christmas-trees.

Her husband sat on the other side of the table, on which was the

lamp, looking over a book of engravings, and trying, from time to

time, to restrain the uproar made by the juvenile group. Watching

the children while her hands were full of gifts that had fallen

to her share, stood an old colored woman, short and fat, and

dressed in a neat black dress, while on her head she wore a false

front of crinkled black hair and a black lace cap. Her kind old

face beamed with enjoyment at the children's pleasure.

The room was furnished handsomely and with taste. One or two

portraits and paintings of merit hung on the walls, and over the

mantle-piece was a picture of the Nativity, wreathed with holly,

and before which two wax candles were burning.

No one heard the step that approached the house; no one saw the

wan but handsome face that was thrust close to the panes for a

few moments. A tall, well-dressed man stood there looking in,

then turned away with a sound like a sob and a sigh and covered

his face with his hands. "It is she, my child, my darling; but I

am not worthy, O God! I am not worthy!" He did not look in again,

but turned and walked down the path leading to the spring,

murmuring, "Fifteen years, and so little change in outward

things. The same trees, the porch, the door-steps, only that

snow-ball and these ailanthuses grown into large bushes, and here

and there a flower-bed where there had been grass; but she--ah!

how has my darling passed these years that have been so dreary to

me?" Just then the kitchen-door opened, flooding the porch floor,

the steps, and portion of the walk with light. One of the workmen

came out, and the stranger drew himself closely behind a

pear-shaped evergreen. "I hope," he thought, "the fellow will not

bring a dog with him. He has a bucket in his hand, and may be

going to the spring; in that case, I have no escape, for the snow

will betray me if I move!" But the man said good-night in a

German accent, and, whistling to the Newfoundland which had come

out with him, and now stood snuffing the air toward where the

stranger was hiding, turned and walked the length of the porch,

down the steps at the end, past the pump and smoke-house, out

through the gate into the back lane, and so up to the barn. "So,"

said the stranger, "he has gone to feed the horses for the night,

and I am safe."

{215}

He walked slowly down across the bridge, and stood for a few

moments on the topmost step leading to the spring; then went down

there, and kneeling on the stones at the edge, scooped up some

water in his hand and drank; then rising and brushing the snow

off his clothes, he retraced his steps and once more gazed in at

the parlor window. It happened that the old colored woman had

just picked up the youngest child in her arms, and, followed by

the others, was moving toward the door, her face turned full to

the window, when she made an exclamation and nearly dropped the

child she held. "Why, Tamar," exclaimed Miss Lee, "what's the

matter?" "Oh! nothin'," replied the woman, "spec this colored

pusson gettin' nervus, dat's all. Come long, chicks, to roost."

And she left the room without affording a chance to the group

round the fire to see her face, which bore a frightened look. But

the children, busy with their happy prattle, did not notice it,

neither did the nurse who was waiting for them. As soon as she

had seen them snug in their beds, with stockings duly hung, and

night prayers said, she started to return to the kitchen. Her

mistress heard her, and came into the hall to speak to her,

preceding her through the dining-room and across the space on the

porch between the dining-room and kitchen doors, much to her

satisfaction, to the latter department, to make some necessary

arrangements for breakfast. On Miss Lee's return to the parlor, a

game of whist was proposed, in which the four elders joined,

leaving Florence to the quiet enjoyment of her book. After a

rubber of three games, a motion to retire was made by the

sisters; and Henry Lee, turning to Florence, said, "Well, Puss,

is it not time to give up your book? Half-past eleven, my pet,"

(looking at his watch,) "and we must be up early, you know, to be

ready for church, and dinner at Uncle Joe's to-morrow."

At last the brother and sister were left alone, and stood looking

at one another for a few moments; then Mr. Lee spoke: "It must be

done to-morrow. Who shall do it--you or I?"

"I think I had better, Harry dear. Women can deal better with

women in such a time, although I know your tender, loving heart,

and do not doubt it."

"I am glad, Mag, you will take it on yourself, for I feel a very

coward in the matter."

"Oh! yes, it is better that I should; but I will not tell her

till night--I will not mar the happiness of her Christmas till I

cannot help it."

"As you will; and now good-night, I must go and see that matters

are all right for the night. You say Anthony has gone up?"

"Oh! yes, some time ago."

"Well, good-night!" He left the parlor, and getting a lantern

from the closet under the stairs, lit it, and started to the

barn.

It had been the custom in this family, since Anna Lee married,

that she and her husband should spend Christmas eve at the old

homestead, and return to their own house in Hamilton, with her

brother, sister, and niece, on Christmas morning. The early Mass

was too early for them to hear it, so the clergyman was willing

to give them the holy communion as soon as they had spent a

sufficient time in preparation on their arrival. After making

their thanksgiving, they adjourned to Mrs. Mohun's house for

breakfast. Then, after High Mass and a Christmas dinner at Mrs.

Mohun's, the two Lees and Florence returned to "The Solitude."

This programme was carried out as usual on this Christmas day,

and the evening found the three sitting quietly in the parlor

round the fire-place, with no noise of children's prattle to

distract their attention.

{216}

On pretence of letters to write, Mr. Lee left the women alone

with a glance at his sister. No face was flattened against the

windows tonight, though old Tamar refrained from looking toward

them.

Florence occupied a low seat between her aunt and uncle; and when

the latter left the room, Margaret laid her head gently on the

young girl's shoulder, and drew her toward her, saying:

"Florence, dearest, your uncle had a letter yesterday from Arthur

Hinsdale. One to you came by the same mail; but on reading that

directed to him, your uncle decided not to give you yours till he

or I had told you something which you must know before you can

answer it. Here are both the letters, dear; you can read them in

your own room when I have finished. You have often asked," she

continued, as Florence took the letters in silence, "to be told

something about your mother and father. To-night I will tell

you." A hardness came into her voice as she spoke that made the

girl look up in surprise. "We lived, till your mother married, in

the northern part of the State of New York, among the mountains,

where people from the city came every summer to spend the hot

months. My father was wealthy, but cared for no life but that of

the country, so we saw nothing of the fashionable world, beyond

the glimpse caught in the summer. My mother was an invalid, and

cared for little beyond her own health; and Anna, who was then a

child ten or twelve years old, your mother, and I did pretty much

as we pleased. Harry was away at college at Fordham, and, when at

home in the vacations, was our constant companion in our rides

and walks.

"One summer a party of gentlemen from Philadelphia came up to the

Adirondacks to fish. Our farm and house was not far from the spot

where they encamped, and we met them several times in riding.

Your father was among them." Here she paused, as if choking back

some strong feeling, and Florence, slipping on her knees, wound

her arms around her, resting her head against her. "Your mother

was very beautiful," continued Margaret, threading her fingers

through the young girl's golden hair lingeringly, as though she

saw a resemblance that she loved to trace, "and it is not to be

wondered at that she should have attracted attention. After

several accidental meetings, he, your father, took advantage of

some trivial accident, the dropping of Florence's whip, or

something of the kind, to speak when, one day, we came upon them

suddenly. From this it was easy to make an excuse to visit the

farm-house with some of his friends. My father was a man of

cultivation and education, though he chose to bury himself from

the world, and liked the young men. After one or two visits, he

invited them to the house freely, I need not tell you the old,

old story, dear. Before the time came for the visitors to break

up their camp, Paul Athern was engaged to my sister. Florence was

but sixteen; Paul said he was nearly twenty-one; and my father

insisted that they should wait two years, and there was to be no

regular engagement for one year. This was at length agreed to

with great reluctance by, by--your father. He also, being a

Protestant, made all the necessary promises that your mother

should be allowed the full enjoyment of her religion.

"Well, the winter passed quietly as usual, and toward spring a

cousin of my mother's wrote, inviting us to pay her a visit in

New York. We had once before visited her when I was fourteen and

Florence twelve; so remembering the former pleasure, we were

quite eager to go, Florence particularly seemed anxious.

{217}

Tamar's mother was our cook, and had been my grandfather's slave

before slavery was done away with in New York. Tamar, a girl of

my own age, was our waiting-maid and humble companion and

_confidante_, and was to go with us. After a good deal of

hesitation--for he seemed to feel a presentiment of evil--my

father consented, and we went to New York. Our visit was nearly

over, when, one day, on coming home from a walk with my cousin, I

found Florence in the drawing-room with Paul Athern. She looked

guilty, and blushed when she saw my look of surprise; but Paul

greeted me with great apparent pleasure, and an easy grace that

covered whatever confusion he may have felt. That night, when

alone in our room, Florence said, 'Mag, was I very, very wrong to

let Paul know I was here? I did want to see him so much, dear.

Oh! you _don't_ know how I have craved a sight of his dear

face!' I could not resist her gentle pleading, so did not blame

her very much; but told her I must write to father, it was the

right thing to do and I must do it. The answer to my letter was a

peremptory order for our instant return home. We, or I, had no

idea of disobedience, and so prepared to return at once. The day

before we were to have left, Florence was particularly

affectionate, and seemed not to wish to be left alone. I had some

last errands to attend to, and leaving Tamar and Florence busy

with their packing, went out for two or three hours. I returned

to find the trunks packed, but neither Florence nor Tamar was in

the house. My cousin said Florence kissed her when she went out,

saying laughingly, 'May be you won't see me again.' Tamar went

with her, carrying her satchel. As evening drew on and they did

not return, a great fear came over me, and Cousin Mary had

difficulty in keeping me from rushing into the street to seek for

them. At last, a ring at the door was followed by Tamar's rushing

into the drawing-room. She threw herself at my feet, buried her

face in my lap, and cried as if her heart would break. At last,

when she could speak, Cousin Mary had great trouble to understand

her broken sentences. As for me, I sat stupefied, filled with the

one idea that Tamar had come back without Florence.

II.

"At last the frightened girl's story was made out. Florence had

taken her, on pretence of carrying her bag; but at Union Square,

Paul Athern met them with a carriage, into which they got, and

were taken to a hotel down Broadway, (the Astor House, we

afterward found it was.) Here they were shown into a private

parlor where there was a strange gentleman, who looked, Tamar

said, like the minister at home who preached in the little

country church near us. He bowed to Paul and Florence when they

entered, and then walked over to the farthest window and stood

looking out. Mr. Athern had to talk a long time to Miss Florence

before she was willing to do something that he wanted her to do.

At last he said something that seemed to frighten her, and then

he made a sign to the strange gentleman who went to the door of

another room opening into this, and opened it. Mr. Tremaine, one

of the fishing-party of the previous summer, came in, and before

Tamar knew what they were doing, she heard the strange gentleman

say, 'I pronounce you man and wife!' Then Florence fainted, and

they had great trouble to bring her

to.

{218}

Then they all signed a paper, and the gentlemen shook hands with

_Mr. and Mrs. Athern_, and left them. Paul, after a few

words to Florence, followed them. As soon as they were alone,

Florence threw herself on her knees and cried, 'Oh! what have I

done? what have I done? Tamar, do you think my darling father

will ever forgive me?' She sobbed and cried, but by the time Paul

returned had become quiet. When he came, she asked for paper and

pen, as she wished to write to her father. The letter was given

to Tamar, with a note to me, exonerating the girl from all blame.

Then Mr. Athern said it was time to start to the depot. Florence

turned very pale, but didn't say a word, only got up and began to

put on her things. Mr. Athern turned to Tamar and told her she

was to go home and tell me and Cousin Mary that we would never

see _Miss_ Florence again, but that Mr. and Mrs. Athern

would be happy to see them on their return from their wedding

tour. Then they went to the depot in a carriage, taking Tamar

with them, trusting to her getting safe home after they had left,

which, thanks to a kind Providence, she did.

"This news threw me into a brain-fever; and when I came to

myself, eight weeks after, I was told how my mother had died of a

heart disease at the shock of Florence's flight; how a letter had

come from Germantown, saying how happy she was if only she knew

her dear father had forgiven her; then another, full of grief at

the death of her mother and my illness; how my father had sold

the old house, and was waiting for my recovery to bury himself

and his griefs in the far west. So the next fall saw us fixed out

here; and Florence was told of the change, and that her father

would never cross the mountains again. My father had not cast her

off, as parents do in novels, but his displeasure and

disappointment were very great, and he let her know it; his

letters, few and seldom, were cold and formal, never again the

fond, loving missives they had been during the short separation

from him in her childhood. More than all, he grieved over the

Protestant marriage; for it was a Presbyterian minister who had

performed the ceremony, and Florence had never mentioned having

had it performed by a priest. One day, the next summer, as I was

sitting at the open door, I saw a carriage drive up to the gate,

and a lady get out; in a moment I knew it was Florence, and

calling Tamar, ran out to meet her, only to receive her fainting

in my arms. Tamar helped to carry her in and lay her on the sofa.

Father had gone to Hamilton; and before he returned, we had got

her up-stairs, and all traces of her arrival done away with. I

waited anxiously for him to come, and wondered how I should tell

him; but my anxiety was useless, for he came in with a small

glove in his hand, and his first question was, 'Where's

Florence?' I had hardly time to tell him, when the door opened,

and Florence herself was at his feet.

"I left them alone together, and when I returned, he had placed

her on the sofa, and was sitting close to her, holding her hand.

"It was not till the next day that we asked about her journey,

and then she told her story.

"Paul had never told his father of his marriage, knowing what

different plans the old gentleman had formed, and weakly putting

off the evil hour, dreading the scene that would follow. He often

told Florence of the urgings his father used to induce him to

marry a young lady of the fashionable world, and laughed as he

compared his 'meadow daisy,' as he called Florence, to the

'hot-house plant,' that was his

father's choice.

{219}

They managed to get along on the handsome allowance his father

made him, and Florence's share of my mother's fortune. One day

the little cottage at Germantown was overshadowed by a stately

carriage, and out of the carriage came an aristocratic-looking

gentleman, who inquired for Mrs. Paul Athern. When Florence

presented herself, her gentle beauty had no effect in melting his

stony heart, for he did his work well. It was Paul's father. He

told her of his plans for Paul, and how he had discovered their

secret at last; and, with a cruelty I cannot understand even now,

informed her quietly that that marriage was null and void; they

both being minors, by the statutes of New York could not contract

legal marriage without consent of parents or guardians. Florence

heard him out, and then rose and said she would wait till her

husband came home to know the truth. 'Your husband, madam, has

taken my advice and gone to New York for a few days, and you will

not have the opportunity of telling him what he knows already,

and knew when, to satisfy you, he went through the mockery of a

marriage.'" The listener tightened her hold on Margaret and hid

her face; her aunt put both arms around her, and continued: "Here

Florence lost all consciousness, and when she came to herself,

she was alone. The afternoon was nearly gone; but she called her

servant, made her help to pack her trunk, then sent her for a

carriage, leaving a note for Paul with the girl in charge of the

house. She drove to Philadelphia, waited quietly at a hotel till

the next morning, then started for the west.

"My father's anger was fearful, all the more so that he was

powerless. Florence was ill for several weeks after her return,

and even after she recovered she never looked like herself. She

came to us in June; in July came a letter to my father in Paul's

handwriting, which he threw into the fire unopened. In October

you were born, and in six weeks more your poor mother--died."

Here she paused again, and bent her head close to the

golden-tressed one pressed to her breast. "My father lived till

the next fall, but never the same man. Harry came home from

Fordham that summer, and took entire charge of the farm, my

father caring for nothing but to carry you about and watch you.

For two years we heard nothing of your father; and then the

eastern papers were full of a great forgery that had been

committed, and the forger was a son of one of the first families

in the city. Florence, darling, need I tell his name? The trial

proved his guilt, but he managed to escape, and one day we were

surprised by his sudden appearance here. He came without any

announcement, and walked right into the parlor where I was

sitting sewing and Uncle Harry reading, while you were asleep in

your cradle. Before we could recognize him almost, he asked in a

hoarse voice, 'Where is Florence--where, for God's sake, is my

wife?' Then a glance at my black dress and Harry's stern face as

he rose to repel his intrusion, seemed to reveal all, and he sank

on the floor in a deep swoon.

"We kept his presence in the house a secret from the men on the

farm, and only Tamar knew it; fortunately, the house-girl had

gone to Hamilton for a few days. He was quite wild for a day or

so; and when he came to himself, Harry demanded an explanation,

and he gave it.

"He had not known of his father's visit to Germantown till he

returned from New York, where he had gone that day at his

father's request, having written a letter to that effect to

Florence, which must have reached the house very soon after she

left it.

{220}

He was kept in New York on some pretext or another for three or

four weeks. His letters to Florence, of course, never reached

her, and on his return home he was told by his father that he

'had seen his pretty plaything, and told her some home truths.' A

fearful scene followed, when he left his father's house, swearing

never to set foot in it again, and that he would be revenged. He

did not know that the marriage was illegal, as he was under the

impression that he was twenty-one, till his father showed him the

record, and then he found his mistake; and, as of course he knew

that no Catholic clergyman would perform the ceremony, the Rev.

Mr. Bell was the only one who could be found to do it. He had

searched for Florence, and written to her father; but, as I knew

too well, had received no answer. His allowance being stopped, he

suddenly found himself without a penny, and no business or

business habits; so he could not come out here to us, and

gradually sought forgetfulness in dissipation. At last, by the

treachery of a friend, himself the guilty one, he was proved a

forger so skilfully that there was no getting over it. He swore

solemnly that he was innocent, and felt sure his innocence would

one day be proved. He did not stay long, being anxious to get out

of the country and the clutches of the law. You were a great

comfort to him, dear, during his short stay, but he had to leave

you. In fifteen years, Florence, we have heard or seen nothing of

him, and his guilt is still believed by those who have not

forgotten the circumstances. Now, my darling, you know why I told

you this ere your uncle gave you Arthur Hinsdale's letter." The

young girl made no answer save a shiver that ran through her

frame as she clung closer to her aunt. For a full hour they sat

thus in silence; then Harry Lee came into the room. Florence rose

to her feet and would have fallen, had her uncle not caught her

in his arms, and tenderly, as if she had been a baby, he lifted

her, and carried her up to her bed-room. Margaret followed, and

tenderly prepared the broken-hearted girl for bed. The letters

lay unheeded on the parlor floor.

III.