"Remote from man, with God they passed their days,
Prayer all their business, all their pleasure praise."--PARNELL.
The following evening they were engaged to spend at a farmer's. The
invitation was given with such humility, yet pressed with such warmth,
that they could not avoid accepting it, and accordingly, soon after
dinner, walked to the house, which was about a mile from Castle
Carberry. It was a low thatched building--every appendage to it bespoke
neatness and comfort. It was situated in a beautiful meadow, enclosed
from the road by a hawthorn hedge, and on the opposite side lay an
extensive common, on which stood the stupendous and venerable ruins of
an abbey, called St. Catherine's. They appeared a melancholy monument of
the power of time over strength and grandeur; and while they attracted
the observation of the curious, excited a sigh in the bosom of
sensibility.
The farmer's family consisted of three daughters and two sons, who were
now dressed in their best array. They had assembled a number of their
neighbors, among whom was a little fat priest, called Father
O'Gallaghan--considered the life of every party--and a blind piper. The
room was small, and crowded with furniture as well as company. It was
only divided from the kitchen by a short passage, and the steam of hot
cakes, and the smoke of a turf fire, which issued thence, soon rendered
it distressingly warm. Amanda got as near the window as possible, but
still could not procure sufficient air; and as everything for tea was
not quite ready, asked one of the Miss O'Flannaghans if she would
accompany her to St. Catherine's. She answered in the affirmative. The
priest, who had been smirking at her ever since her entrance, now shook
his fat sides, and said he wished he could get her initiated there; "for
it would do my soul good," cried he, "to confess such a pretty little
creature as you are. Though faith, I believe I should find you like
Paddy McDenough, who used to come to confession every Easter, though the
devil a thing the poor man had to confess about at all at all. So, says
I to him, Paddy, my jewel, says I, I believe I must make a saint of you,
and lay you on the altar." "Oh! honey, father!" cried he, "not yet
awhile, till I get a new suit of clothes on, which I shall by next
Michaelmas." Amanda left them all laughing at this story, and her father
engaged in conversation with some farmers, who were desiring his
interest with Lord Cherbury, for new leases on moderate terms.
Amanda had about a quarter of a mile to walk across the common; the
ground was marshy and uneven, and numerous stumps of trees denoted its
having once been a noble forest, of which no memorial but these stumps,
and a few tall trees immediately near the abbey, remained, that
stretched their venerable arms around it, as if to shade that ruin whose
progress they had witnessed, and which Amanda found well worthy of
inspection. She was equally astonished at its elegance and extent; with
sacred awe traversing the spacious cloisters, the former walks of holy
meditation, she pursued her way through winding passages, where vestiges
of cells were yet discernible, over whose mouldering arches the grass
waved in rank luxuriance, and the creeping ivy spread its gloomy
foliage, and viewed with reverence the graves of those who had once
inhabited them; they surrounded that of the founder's, which was
distinguished by a cross, and Miss O'Flannaghan related the traditions
that were current concerning him. He was a holy monk who had the care of
a pious lady's conscience; she, on her death-bed, had a remarkable
dream, or vision, in which she thought an angel appeared, and charged
her to bequeath her wealth to her confessor, who would, no doubt, make a
much better use of it than those she designed it for. She obeyed the
sacred injunction, and the good man immediately laid the foundation of
this abbey, which he called after his benefactress, and to which he, and
the community he belonged to, removed. The chapel was roofless, but
still retained many relics of superstitious piety, which had escaped, in
a tolerable degree, both time and weather. Saints and martyrs were
curiously cut over the places where the altars and cisterns for holy
water had once stood, to which Amanda passed through a long succession
of elegant arches, among which were a number of tombstones, with curious
devices, and unintelligible inscriptions. Half hid by grass and weeds,
on a flag, which she perceived must have been lately placed there, she
saw some faded flowers strewn, and looking at her companion, saw a tear
dropping from her on them. She gently asked the cause of it, and heard a
favorite brother was interred there. The girl moved from the spot, but
Amanda, detained by an irrepressible emotion, stayed a minute longer to
contemplate the awful scene. All was silent, sad, and solitary; the
grass-grown aisles looked long untrodden by human foot, the green and
mouldering walls appeared ready to crumble into atoms, and the wind,
which howled through their crevices, sounded to the ear of fancy as
sighs of sorrow for the desolation of the place. Full of moralizing
melancholy, the young, the lovely Amanda, hung over the grave of her
companion's youthful brother; and taking up the withered flower, wet
with the tear of sisterly affection, dropped another on it, and cried,
"Oh! how fit an emblem is this of life! how illustrative of these
words--
'Man comes forth as a flower in the field, and is soon cut down.'"
Miss O'Flannaghan now led her through some more windings, when, suddenly
emerging from them, she found herself, to her great surprise, in a large
garden, entirely encompassed by the ruins, and in the centre of it stood
a long low building, which her companion informed her was a convent; a
folding door at the side opened into the chapel, which they entered, and
found a nun praying.
Amanda drew back, fearful of disturbing her; but Miss O'Flannaghan
accosted her without ceremony, and the nun returned the salutation with
the most cordial good-humor. She was fifty, as Amanda afterwards heard,
for she never could, from her appearance, have conceived her to be so
much. Her skin was fair, and perfectly free from wrinkle; the bloom and
down upon her cheeks as bright and as soft as that upon a peach; though
her accent at one proclaimed her country, it was not unharmonious; and
the cheerful obligingness of her manner amply compensated the want of
elegance. She wore the religious habit of the house, which was a loose
flannel dress, bound round her waist by a girdle, from which hung her
beads and a cross; a veil of the same stuff descended to the ground, and
a mob cap, and forehead cloth, quite concealed her hair.[A] Miss
O'Flannaghan presented Amanda to her as a stranger, who wished to see
everything curious in the chapel. "Ah! my honey," cried she, "I am sorry
she has come at a time when she will see us all in the dismals, for you
know we are in mourning for our prioress (the altar was hung in black):
but, my dear (turning to Amanda), do you mean to come here next Sunday?
for if you do, you will find us all bright again." Upon Amanda's
answering in the negative, she continued, "Faith, and I am sorry for
that, for I have taken a great fancy to you, and when I like a person, I
always wish them as great a chance of happiness as I have myself."
Amanda, smiling, said, she believed none could desire a greater, and the
nun obligingly proceeded to show her all the relics and finery of the
chapel; among the former was a head belonging to one of the eleven
thousand virgin martyrs, and the latter, a chest full of rich silks,
which pious ladies had given for the purpose of dressing the altar.
Pulling a drawer from under it, she displayed a quantity of artificial
flowers, which she said were made by the sisters and their scholars.
Amanda wished to make a recompense for the trouble she had given, and
finding they were to be sold, purchased a number, and having given some
to Miss O'Flannaghan, whom she observed viewing them with a wishful eye,
she left the rest with the nun, promising to call for them the next day.
"Ay, do," said she, "and you may be sure of a sincere welcome. You will
see a set of happy poor creatures, and none happier than myself. I
entered the convent at ten; I took the vows at fifteen, and from that
time to the present, which is a long stretch, I have passed a contented
life, thanks be to our blessed lady!" raising her sparkling eyes to
heaven. They ascended a few steps to the place where the community sat.
It was divided from the body of the chapel by a slight railing. Here
stood the organ. The nun sighed as she looked at it. "Poor sister
Agatha," cried she, "we shall never get such another organist. She was
always fit indeed for the heavenly choir. Oh! my dear," turning to
Amanda, "had you known her, you would have loved her. She was our late
prioress, and elected to that office at twenty-nine, which is reckoned
an early age for it, on account of the cleverness it requires. She had
held it but two years when she died, and we never were so comfortable as
during her time, she managed so well. The mourning in the chapel, as I
have already told you, will be over for her next Sunday; but that which
is in our hearts will not be so speedily removed." Miss O'Flannaghan now
reminded Amanda it was time to return, to which, with secret reluctance,
she consented. The nun pressed her to stay to tea; but, on hearing of
her engagement, only reminded her of the promised visit. In their walk
back, her companion informed Amanda that the society consisted of twelve
nuns. Their little fortunes, though sunk in one common fund, were
insufficient to supply their necessities, which compelled them to keep a
day-school, in which the neighboring children were instructed in
reading, writing, plain-work, embroidery, and artificial flowers. She
also added, that the nuns were allowed to go out, but few availed
themselves of that liberty, and that, except in fasting, they were
strangers to the austerities practised in foreign convents.
Footnote A: The Abbey and the Nun, which the Author has
attempted to describe, were such as she really saw, but in a
different part of Ireland from that which she has mentioned.
For such a society Amanda thought nothing could be better adapted than
their present situation. Sheltered by the ruins, like the living
entombed among the dead, their wishes, like their views, were bounded by
the mouldering walls, as no object appeared beyond them which could
tempt their wandering from their usual limits. The dreary common, which
met their view, could not be more bleak and inhospitable than the world
in general would have proved to these children of poverty and nature.
Father O'Gallaghan met the ladies at the door, and, familiarly taking
Amanda's hand, said, "Why, you have stayed long enough to be made a nun
of. Here," said he, "the cakes are buttered, the tea made, and we are
all waiting for you. Ah! you little rogue," smirking in her face, "by
the head of St. Patrick, those twinklers of yours were not given for the
good of your soul. Here you are come to play pell-mell among the hearts
of the honest Irish lads. Ah, the devil a doubt but you will have
mischief enough to answer for by and by, and then I suppose you will be
coming to me to confess and absolve you; but remember, my little honey,
if you do, I must be paid beforehand." Amanda disengaged her hand, and
entered the parlor, where the company, by a display of
pocket-handkerchiefs on their laps, seemed prepared to make a downright
meal of the good things before them. The Miss O'Flannaghans, from the
toils of the tea-table, at last grew as red as the ribbon with which
they were profusely ornamented. The table at length removed, the chairs
arranged, and benches placed in the passage for the old folks, the
signal for a dance was given by the piper's playing an Irish jig. The
farmer's eldest son, habited in his sky-blue coat, his hair combed sleek
on his forehead, and his complexion as bright as a full-blown poppy,
advanced to our heroine, and begged, with much modesty, and many bows,
she would do him the favor to stand up with him. She hesitated a little,
when Father O'Gallaghan, giving her a tap, or rather slap, on the
shoulder, made her start suddenly from her seat. He laughed heartily at
this, declaring he liked to see a girl alive and merry. As he could not
join in the dance, he consoled himself with being master of the
ceremonies, and insisted on Amanda's dancing and leading off the priest
in his boots. She felt little inclined to comply; but she was one of
those who can sacrifice their own inclination to that of others. Being
directed in the figure by the priest, she went down the dance, but the
floor being an earthen one, by the time she had concluded it, she begged
they would excuse her sitting the remainder of the evening, she felt so
extremely fatigued. She and Fitzalan would gladly have declined staying
supper, but this they found impossible, without either greatly
mortifying, or absolutely offending their hospitable entertainers.
The table was covered with a profusion of good country fare, and none
seemed to enjoy it more truly than the priest. In the intervals of
eating, his jests flew about in every direction. The scope he gave to
his vivacity exhilarated the rest, so that, like Falstaff, he was not
only witty himself, but a promoter of wit in others. "Pray, father,"
said a young man to him, "what do you give in return for all the good
cheer you get?" "My blessing, to be sure," replied he. "What better
could I give?" "Ay, so you may think, but that is not the case with us
all, I promise you. It is so pithy, I must tell you a story about that
same thing called a priest's blessing. A poor man went one day to a
priest, who had the name of being very rich and very charitable; but as
all we hear is not gospel, so the poor man doubted a little the truth of
the latter report, and resolved on trying him. 'Father,' says he, 'I
have met with great losses. My cabin was burned, my pigs stolen, and my
cow fell into a ditch and broke her neck; so I am come to ask your
reverence, for the love of heaven, to lend me a crown.' 'A crown!'
repeated the angry and astonished priest. 'O! you rogue, where do you
think I could get money to lend, except, like yourself, I had pilfered
and stolen?' 'O! that is neither here nor there,' replied the man. 'You
know I cleared the score on my conscience with you long ago, so tell me,
father, if you will lend me half a crown?' 'No, nor a shilling.' 'Well,
a farthing, then; anything from such a good man as you.' 'No,' said the
priest, 'not a mite.' 'Mayn't I have your blessing?' then asked the man.
'Oh! that you shall, and welcome,' replied he, smiling. 'Why, then,
father,' returned the other, 'I would refuse it if you forced it upon
me; for, do you see, had it been worth one farthing, you would have
refused it to me.'"
"You have put me in mind of a very curious story," exclaimed another
young man, as this one concluded his. "A young knight went into a chapel
in Spain one morning, where he observed a monk standing in a
supplicating attitude, with a box in his hand. He asked him what this
was for, and learned, to collect money for praying the souls of fifty
Christians out of purgatory, whom the Moors had murdered. The knight
threw a piece of money into the box, and the monk, after repeating a
short prayer, exclaimed, 'There is one soul redeemed.' The knight threw
in a second, and the priest, after the same ceremony, cried, 'There is
another free.' Thus they both went on, one giving, and the other
praying, till, by the monk's account, all the souls were free. 'Are you
sure of this?' inquired the knight. 'Ay,' replied the priest, 'they are
all assembled together at the gate of heaven, which St. Peter gladly
opened for them, and they are now joyfully seated in Paradise.' 'From
whence they cannot be removed, I suppose,' said the knight. 'Removed!'
repeated the astonished priest. 'No, the world itself might be easier
moved.' 'Then, if you please, holy father, return me my ducats; they
have accomplished the purpose for which they were given, and, as I am
only a poor cavalier, without a chance of being as happily situated, at
least for some years, as the souls we have mutually contributed to
release, I stand in great need of them.'"
Fitzalan was surprised at the freedom with which they treated the
priest; but he laughed as merrily as the rest at their stories, for he
knew that, though they sometimes allowed themselves a little latitude,
they neither wished nor attempted to shake off his power.
Fitzalan and Amanda withdrew as early as possible from the party, which,
if it wanted every other charm, had that of novelty, at least to them.
The next morning Amanda repaired to the convent, and inquired for Sister
Mary, the good-natured nun she had seen the preceding evening. She
immediately made her appearance, and was delighted at seeing Amanda. She
conducted her to the school-room, where the rest of the nuns and the
pupils were assembled; and Amanda was delighted with the content and
regularity which appeared in the society, as well as the obliging
eagerness they showed to gratify her curiosity. They led her through the
house, which contained a number of apartments, every nun having one to
herself, furnished with a bed, chair, table, and crucifix, and then to
the parlor, where their new prioress sat. She was a woman far advanced
in life. Had a painter wanted to personify benevolence, he might have
chosen her for a model--so soft, so benignant was her countenance.
Sorrow, as well as time, had marked it deeply; but the mild expression
of her eyes announced the most perfect resignation to that sorrow. She
received Amanda with the truest politeness and most friendly warmth; and
Amanda felt impressed with real reverence for her, whilst she
acknowledged in her mind there could not be a happier situation for her
than her present. She thought it a pity the world had been deprived of a
woman who would have proved such an ornament to it. Sister Mary
disappeared, but returned in a few minutes with cake and currant-wine,
which she forced Amanda to take. The good sister was enchanted with her
young visitor, and having no idea of concealing her feelings, she openly
expressed her admiration. "Dear mother," said she, addressing the
prioress, "is she not a lovely creature? What pretty eyes she has got,
and what sweet little hands! Oh, if our blessed lady would but touch her
heart, and make her become one of us, I should be so happy." The
prioress smiled; she was not so great an enthusiast as Sister Mary. "It
would be a pity," said she, "so sweet a flower should be hid amidst the
ruins of St. Catherine's."
Amanda made an addition to the flowers; she was thanked by the nuns, and
entreated to favor them often with a visit. Just as she reached Castle
Carberry, she saw the Kilcorbans' carriage stop at it, from which Lady
Greystock and the young ladies alighted. They both spoke at once, and so
extremely fast that Amanda scarcely understood what they said. They
declared a thousand impertinent visitors had prevented their coming the
preceding morning and looking at the things she had obligingly promised
to show them. Amanda recollected no such promise, but would not
contradict them, and permitted their taking what patterns they liked.
Lady Greystock smiled sarcastically at her young kinswomen, and
expressed a wish to see the castle. Amanda led her through it. Her
ladyship was particularly pleased with the dressing-room. Here the young
ladies, with rude and eager curiosity, examined everything; but her
ladyship, who was full as curious as themselves, could not condemn
freedoms she took herself. Observing a petticoat in a tambour-frame,
she admired the pattern; and hearing it was designed by Amanda, extolled
her fine taste, and declared she should of all things like to have one
worked in the same. This hint was too plain to pass unnoticed. Amanda
wished to oblige, particularly any one advanced in life, and told her
ladyship she would work one for her. Lady Greystock smiled most
graciously at this, and pressing her hand, declared she was a charming
girl. The Miss Kilcorbans winked slyly, and, taking her hand in turn,
assured her they had conceived a most ardent friendship for her, and
hoped she would often favor them with her company. Amanda answered those
insincere professions with cool civility, and the visitors departed.