THE COUNCIL.
Father O'Shane was now several days weather bound and laid up sick in
Vermont, where, with great anxiety, he waited the first opportunity to
return home to his mission; and the orphans were safely lodged in the
poorhouse, where our friend Paul, to calm the anxiety and dispel the
grief of his younger companions, began to contrast, with an air of
satisfaction, the aspect of things here with what he had heard of the
horrors of the Irish poorhouse.
"What nice men we have in America over the poorhouse," said he; "they
are very kind to us."
"Yes; but I don't like that man with the great beard," said Bridget; "he
frightens me when I meet him. O, such a _feesage_; a robin redbreast
could make her nest in it," said she, smiling.
"He might be a nice man for all that, Bid. Most people here don't shave
at all, you know, as we saw in New York. And did you notice that sailor
that saved the boy who fell overboard, what a long beard he had? And he
must be a brave, good man, to risk his own life to save another's."
"Yes, Paul; but he was a Catholic, and from Ireland, too; for he made
the sign of the cross on himself in Irish before he leaped out, for I
was near him; and besides, I saw him going to confession to the same
priest we went to the day after we landed."
"And are not they all Catholics here, Paul?" said Patsy. "I seen crosses
on three churches, the time I went with Mrs. Doherty for the priest for
mother, God be good to her."
"No, Patsy, they are not; for if they were, there would be more than one
priest for this large town; and you heard Father O'Shane say that there
was only himself for all the city and a great part of the country," said
Paul.
"I hope somebody will take us to mass on Sunday," said little Patrick;
"and, Paul, will you ask the priest to allow me to answer mass? You know
Father Doyle told us never to forget the lessons we learned of him."
"I'd know are there any nuns here," said Bridget. "O, how beautiful the
convent chapel in Limerick was! I hope I have not lost my beautiful
little silver medals and crucifix they gave me when I was coming away.
No; here they are, and my Agnus Dei, too," she said, kissing them. "God
rest mother's soul, how glad she was when I got these from the holy
nuns!" And the tears streamed down her fair cheeks in floods.
"Hold your tongue, Bridget, again," said Paul, with emphasis. "Don't you
know that mother told us not to grieve, but pray for her soul? And
besides, in the 'Imitation of Christ,' which I read for you this morning
and last night, it is said that grief kills devotion, and excessive,
sorrow is a sin. You can serve mother, or rejoice her soul, by praying,
but not by crying, Bridget."
"O, how can I help it? 'Tis against me will, Paul," said she, wiping her
eyes.
"Always look attentively at that crucifix," said Paul, "and you need
never grieve for any thing except sin. This is what Father Doyle used to
say."
"O Paul, we have no father or mother now."
"Yes we have, Bridget--our Father in heaven, and the blessed virgin
mother of God, our mother also," said the young preacher.
"How well the priest did not call as he said he would."
"May be he could not help it; he had to go far into the country, and the
snow might stop him. You know he will find us out. The priest always
visits the poorhouse in Ireland."
While this conversation was going on between the members of this poor
orphan family, Paul acting the meritorious part of a comforter, (I say
acting, for his own noble soul was almost crushed with grief, which he
thought it better to disguise than to have his little charge rendered
quite stupid and almost dead from crying and sobbing;) while this was
the way Paul entertained his little charge, in another part of the
poorhouse, in a well-furnished room, were seated around a table
containing the "_reliquiæ"_ or remnants of a good dinner, five persons,
engaged in earnest chat about the late importation of orphans.
"Really they are likely young 'uns, and no mistake," said Mr. Van
Stingey, wiping his mouth with the corner of the tablecloth.
"Dear me!" said a lady who formed one of the council. "Charles, if you
saw them, they are perfect beauties, you would say. The oldest boy is as
noble-looking a lad as ever you did see--Roman nose, raven hair,
delightfully-carved mouth, and lips, and eyes, and eyelashes quite
indescribable, so beautiful are they. The little girl is a perfect
Venus; while the two younger children, Patrick and Eugene, are as if
they came from the chisel of Powers, or some renowned artist of
antiquity."
"Why, my love," said Parson Burly, "you are quite classical in your
description; whether or not it is a correct one, is another thing."
"I assure you, Mr. Burly," said Van Stingey, "that your lady has not
described them beyond what is true. They are almighty fine young 'uns."
"I want you to adopt that eldest one, Mr. Burly," said the parson's
wife, who was president of the council. "He would make such an elegant
preacher, I am sure. You must also change the name of the second boy
from Patrick, which is so Irish, to Ebenezer, Zerubabbel, or some
Scripture name, or even classical one."
"Why, madam, I am beginning to get jealous, and to think you don't
sufficiently admire my powers of oratory," said her husband.
"Well, my dear, putting aside jokes," she solemnly remarked, "you know
how much we need Irish ministers to preach to the Irish amongst us, who
are the best church attenders on earth, I believe. And it is notorious,
that those whom we can take out from the ranks of Papacy while young
become the greatest ornaments to our denomination. Witness Kirvoin,
Maclown, Moffat, and several others."
"Well, well, my fair refuter," said the parson, who really feared his
wife would rivet her affections on the young orphan if adopted; "you
know it would never do to keep that little fellow with us. How old did
you say he was--about fifteen? Well, fifteen or sixteen--ya--you
recollect how that old priest acted last July, at the village of Scurvy?
A little girl I sent out to Brother Prim this priest smelt and hunted
out; and actually broke in the room door where she was confined, and
took her off by physical force to a Roman Catholic orphan house. These
priests are terrible fellows; and your young fancy orphan, Paul, would
soon find out the priest, and have his grievance redressed. And what is
worse, this priest got Americans--ay, members of my own church--to
applaud his conduct, and defend him from prosecution! The Irish are
getting so powerful in this country," said the parson, after a pause,
"from their admirable union of purpose and the perfect organization of
their church, that I dread their influence. In fact, 'you catch a
Tartar' when you get one of them into your family. Ten to one, instead
of converting this young Papist, he would convert our whole family to
his own creed."
"O Burly," said the disappointed wife, "you are always a prophet of
evils. I tell you, I must have that young lad, for I want him."
"You do? Cynthia, my dear," said the parson, "we cannot have the lad in
our family. We _dare not_, without the consent of the trustees, who pay
us our salary. Do you understand _that_, my fair disputant?" said he,
triumphantly.
"Well, Burly, as soon as I recover the means my father willed me, I
shall have that young man--already almost fully educated, as you can
perceive--brought up for the church."
"O, _then_ you can try it, madam," said the man in white neckcloth, in a
sharp, sarcastic style; "but as for me, and I think my opinion is of
some weight, I tell you much can never be made out of that shrewd boy."
There was a solemn, ominous silence, for a moment, in the company. "Did
you remark the sort of dignified and independent motions of the fellow,"
continued he, "when you had him here just now?"
"Fellow!" said his wife, looking at her husband, in anger. "Is that a
proper term to apply to the child?"
"It is not an improper or inappropriate one, not more so than calling
him 'child,'" said he. "I was just going to remark the coolness of his
reply when you introduced my name as the parish clergyman. 'A Catholic
clergyman, I hope, sir,' said he; 'as such, I am very glad to see you.'
Did you observe how sad and demure he looked when told he was to be sent
to school, where he could read the Bible, and become acquainted with the
word of God?' O sir,' said he, 'much obliged to you; I have got a Bible
already, and other good books of devotion, which we brought from home. I
should be very glad to learn what is good,' said he; 'but I trust I have
got my catechism well committed to memory; and having made my first
communion and been confirmed, I was discharged from class, and appointed
a Sunday school teacher, by our good priest, Father Doyle.' And on my
telling him that he could be a teacher here of a better religion than
that of his country, he shook his head, declining the honor of the post
offered, and remarking that 'it was impossible to have a better religion
than that which had God for its author--the Catholic religion.' With
this bit he retired (ye all saw him, I need not repeat more) from our
presence, a blush of mental triumph playing on his smooth cheek."
"Sartain there was such a feelin'," said an old gray-headed Yankee, who
sat at the head of the table, and who was guardian of the establishment.
"You can't do nothin' with these Papists," continued he. "I have seed
the attempts made time and agin, but allers fail. The very children,
only five years of age, of that ere religion, refuse to eat flesh on
Friday, or to disobey such other darned ceremonies of their church as
they are brought up to."
"Wal, Mr. Burly, madam, and my esteemed brother Valentine, my plan is
this," said Van Stingey: "send them, separate or in couples, here and
there, into the country, and there, with the farmers, they will soon get
used to our church ways, and be gradually broke in."
"That you can't do safe, neither, Van," said the boss of the house,
"for they would raise such a dust as would bring half the city around
us; and you know the people would never consent to any thing like
cruelty towards one so young and interesting as these here are."
"You say the truth there, sir," said the parson.
"It would be cruel to separate the dear ones," said the wife; "wherever
they are sent, let them go together. I could pledge my watch and wedding
diamond ring to help to raise such beauties," said she, passionately.
"Surely they cannot be Irish, or they must belong to some race different
from the Celtic half savages which we have read inhabit Ireland."
"You mistake, Cynthia, my dear," said the parson; "these are Irish, and
genuine Celts, too, as one can tell from the hair and nose. I think,
however, you exaggerate their beauty. Have you not read the European
letters of Thurlow W---- and Horace G----, which described the middle
and upper classes of the Irish as the most beautiful complexioned and
dignified people in Europe or the world? Now, this is my mind, that you
must get some farmers in a good Protestant neighborhood to adopt these
children, so that they may all live in the same vicinity, if not in the
same family; and by this means all unpleasant consequences will be
obviated."
"I say ditto to that," said the Nestor of the council, old Valentine;
"but you must lose no time, for the eldest lad told me the priest
promised to call for them; and if that gentleman gets them into his
hands, I'll warrant all your plans will be frustrated."
"That's just it. You have hit the nail on the head, friend Valentine,"
said Van Stingey. "I will take charge on them, and take them to that
gentleman's house, in W---- county, who was here last week looking for a
boy and a girl to raise; and _mebbee_ I will scare up somewhere else for
the other two young critters."
"Take 'em along, then, and see that you get your pay," said the boss,
rising.
"O, never mind, leave that to me," said the vile, wily knave, as he went
to see to his arrangements for carrying the orphans to parts unknown.