"TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION."
We devote this chapter of our narrative to the record of a very strange
succession of circumstances, no less so, however, than true. They may
serve as an illustration of the wonderful and mysterious workings of
Religion on the soul, and, at the same time, afford an instance of the
absolute insufficiency of speculative belief or theoretic religion,
without the every-day practice of her sublime and simple lessons.
One morning, in the town of Sheffield, England, one John Cunningham,
after confession and communion, called on the Catholic pastor of that
town, for the purpose of procuring a line of commendation, or
testimonial of character, that might be of use to him, as he thought, to
get him employment in some part of the new world, to which he was
preparing to emigrate. The poor fellow then little dreamed that a
priest's recommendatory paper, instead of a dollar bill, was the worst
possible substitute in certain parts of America; and, if of any
conceivable effect, was likely to prove an occasion to him of such
annoyances, on account of his faith, as we have described in these
pages. "The character," however, he succeeded in procuring, and written
in no niggard terms. If it offended in any thing, it was in being too
favorable to the bearer. It was by means of this paper, with the
respectable name of Rev. Dr. H---- at its foot, that Cunningham
succeeded in ingratiating himself into the confidence and favor of the
O'Clerys during the voyage, as well as by his attention to Mr. Arthur
O'Clery during his fatal sickness. The reverend gentleman whose
signature stood at the foot of the "character" was well known to the
O'Clery family; and hence, undoubtedly, originated the intimacy,
strengthened by his asserting falsely that he was a relative of the
priest, which subsequently enabled him to rob the poor widow and her
orphans of their entire means. Accomplished villain as he was, Religion
had not yet lost her whole sway over his soul, and by way of punishing
himself, but in reality, making bad worse, the second day after his
liberation from arrest consequent on the theft, he listed in the United
States army, and was hurried off forthwith to the field of battle, in
Florida. The gnawing worm of remorse still followed him on board of
ship, and in barrack, and on the scorching plains of the south. He had
less dread of the sabre, or grape, or rifle of the enemy, than of the
thought that he had robbed the poor widow, and availed himself of the
confidence of confession to elicit from his too confiding director the
paper that principally enabled him to do so. He had plundered an honest
family of their all, and it was of no use to him. The injury done was
severely felt by not only one, but several. The pleasure, comfort, or
happiness to him was nothing at all. Unhappy man, what was he to do? He
could not help it now; the enemy was before him, and he could not turn
his back, and the money was lost forever. He feared death would deprive
him of the means of making restitution, for he had a presentiment he
would fall on this very day. First, that sin he committed in Liverpool,
when, in an evil hour, yielding to the advice and example of wicked
companions, he took to drink in order to smother the thought of it; and
drink caused him to rob the widow, and to shun further the thought of
these crimes he enlisted in the army; but yet, here, in the very ranks,
with drums beating, and music playing, amid the shouts of Indians and
din of battle, the sins were uppermost still in his mind. How horrid
must be the feelings of poor Cunningham, with death staring him in the
face, and yet he expected nothing but judgment after death! In vain did
he look around for the tall and venerable form of Father McEl----, to
cast himself at his knees, and ask for advice, blessing, and
forgiveness. He was nowhere now to be found. O misery unspeakable! And
but yesterday, but this very morning, four hours ago, that father went
through the ranks, encouraging the men, and exciting them to contrition.
Ah, yes! But yesterday Cunningham had got some drink, and, not
perceiving the danger, refused to confess. But now, if he could see the
priest! "O God!" said he, "where is the priest?" Some of his comrades,
who heard this exclamation expressed aloud, laughed; others taunted him
on his evil conscience. However, down on his knees he fell, as if
unconscious of the presence of his comrades, and promised, if God spared
him, on the first opportunity, that he would not only restore the
stolen treasure, but, if necessary, travel the whole Union in search of
those whom he robbed; and ask their forgiveness for the injury done
them. He had scarcely risen into the ranks of his comrades when the
hostile fire opened on the plains of Tampa, and a bullet from the rifle
of the enemy shattered his arm to pieces. A few hours decided that
well-known victory of the Americans, and Cunningham had not long to
remain on the field, exposed to the scorching sun, when he was conveyed
to the hospital. Though the pain he felt in his arm was great, that
which rankled in his bosom was greater; and on his reaching the
hospital, he called out for Father McEl----, before he would allow the
surgeon to inspect his arm.
After the amputation of the limb he recovered, got his discharge, came
back to New York, and, in company with a respectable Catholic citizen,
went out about seven miles east of Brooklyn, and there, at the foot of a
maple tree, they dug out of the ground, three feet deep, the bag sure
enough, containing every sovereign and note of the money stolen from the
widow O'Clery. They went with it right straight to the priest of St.
Peter's Church, who, upon hearing the recital of the now penitent thief,
promised that he should suffer no legal consequences, and inserted
advertisements in the papers to find out where the O'Clerys might be.
This information was communicated to Paul by Mr. Clarke, and to Bridget
by Father Ugo, on the same day.
This news, when made known, created the most intense excitement. Amanda
was now very polite to Bridget, whom she marked out in her own mind as a
suitable wife for her eldest brother Calvin. Paul was declared to be a
young "likely gentleman," of real genius. The two younger brothers,
Patrick and Eugene, were lauded, flattered, and admired. In fine, the
sudden change which took place in the relation in which they stood in
the house of bondage was such as to cause Murty to remark to Paul,--who
lost no time in coming to pay for his brothers' and sister's board,
although the term of servitude of Bridget was now almost
expired,--"Paul, I see that it is not our faith that is so much hated by
these goodly Christians as our poverty."
"There may be some truth in that," replied Paul.
"Ever," continued Murty, "since it appeared in our papers here that you
had your thousand pounds restored to you, all mouths are full of your
praise. You were uncommon children, and it was cruel of the minister
Gulmore to conspire against you. It was infamous in him, they now say,
to have your letters 'burked' in the post office, as it appears from
Amanda, who has turned informer on the parson, because he did not marry
her after his first wife's death. Before this ye were paupers, Irish,
and Papists; now, you and your sister and brothers are noble and likely
young people."
"O Murty," said Paul, "I can see the hand of God in all this. Where I
have lived for the last three years, several families, together with my
friend and former employer, Mr. Clarke, have been converted. The very
minister, Mr. Strongly, has embraced the true faith; and another parson,
Rev. Mr. H----, I am sure, only waits instruction to enter the gate of
life within the true church."
"Thank God!" said Murty O'Dwyer. "I thought these Yankees never could be
good Catholics, they are so fond of money, trading, cheating, and legal
swindling, such as assigning, and mortgaging, and the like."
"O, bless you, Murty, all Yankees are not alike. There are no better
Catholics on earth than Americans, when they once get the faith. Mr.
Clarke, and my friends in Vermont, who consider me as instrumental in
bringing them to the true faith, have paid for my education in the
college of G----, after they found that I was resolved to embrace the
clerical state."
"That was very generous of them, indeed, sir," said Murty, assuming a
little less familiarity; "those here, in this neighborhood, cannot be
much blamed for their bigotry; they know no better, imposed on for ages
by such fellows as Miller, Scullion, Barker, Gulmore, Grinoble, Scaly,
and the like."
"But it is not so in the cities, Murty," continued Paul; "and it will
not be so here long; for now railroads are building, light, and
liberality, and, I trust, charity, are extending their influence. We
must do our part, by being good, and virtuous, and prudent; try to gain
them by our good example, rather than by argumentative or angry
discussion. 'They know not what they do' when they contemn, or attempt
to stop the progress of, our faith. They are a naturally good and
kind-hearted people; as witness how they assist the sick and give
hospitality. Such virtues must ultimately gain for them the grace of
conversion. The greatest obstacle in their way is the low cunning of the
unprincipled parsons, who, from being peddlers, and poor, shiftless
mechanics, without any proper discipline or preparation, take to the
less laborious trade of preaching. Pray for them, Murty--pray for them."
"I have a far stronger inclination to curse them," said Murty.
"Fie, fie, Murty; that is not Christian."
"That I know," said Murty; "but have you heard that I have been cheated
out of near two hundred dollars by my employer, and all through the
influence of a villanous parson who got divorced from his wife, on
account of a short answer I made him?"
"What was the answer, Murty? I suppose it must be droll."
"One day," said Murty, "this Parson Boorman dined where I worked for two
years, and, to convert me from the error of my ways for observing
abstinence on Friday, commenced saying, 'Don't you see, Murty, how
foolish and unreasonable you act? You eat butter and use milk that come
from the cow, and you refuse to eat her flesh. It's all the same, my
Irish friend,' continued the dominie, pitying my ignorance. 'I have no
great desire, Mr. Dominie,' said I, 'now, for controversy, being
fatigued after my hard day's work; though it takes but little learning
to refute your profound logic. If there is no difference between
drinking milk and eating flesh, then you may as well eat your mother's
flesh, parson, as suck her breast; and as you, I expect, have done the
latter, therefore, dominie, you must be a cannibal. How do you like
this?' said I.
"'O,' said the dominie, 'the butter, you know, that comes from the cow,
what do you say to that?' 'I say, parson, that there is another
substance besides butter that comes from the cow, and you would not like
to dine on it.' At this the whole company laughed outright in his face,
and from that time to this the dominie never ceased to persecute me."
"That was a very queer way you took to silence the dominie," said Paul;
"but I presume, after that ludicrous answer, you met with very little
religious controversy afterwards."
"That's true," said Murty; "but I have suffered the loss of my wages
through the unrelenting malice of the Presbyterian dominie."
"Never mind, Murty; do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse
you, pray for those who persecute and calumniate you. For your kindness
to Bridget while I was away, I feel bound to give you some remuneration.
Have courage, have courage, and think better of the Yankees. The more
you know of them, the better you will like them. They have their
faults,--as what nation has not?--but they have their virtues also."
This conversation took place between Paul and Murty in the farm house of
Mr. Clarke, where he had just arrived, as well to spend the vacation as
to make arrangements regarding the future of his brothers and sister.
Murty, upon hearing of his arrival, lost not a moment's time in going
across lots from the Pryings' farm to that of Mr. Clarke, thinking he
might be the first to communicate to Paul the joyous intelligence
regarding the recovery of the lost money, and the pleasing change in the
opinion of all regarding him and his brethren.
Paul could not but feel grateful for the kindness of his friend Murty;
but he was too well practised in Christian perfection to indulge in any
thing like excessive joy, and too well accustomed to refer every thing
to God to claim any merit, or take any pleasure, in the flattering
eulogies of all his acquaintances, as repeated by Murty.