start on a journey or begin any work on a Friday; it would not be
lucky, you know!" Then she flushed and looked toward Miss Irene, who
shook her head significantly and wrote in her note-book, "Superstitious
practice No. 4."
As it was Emily's birthday, the girls had been invited to stay for
luncheon. Emily now led the way to the dining-room, where a pretty
table was spread. Everything was as dainty as good taste and handsome
auxiliaries could make it: the snowy damask, fine glass, and old family
silver; the small crystal bowls filled with chrysanthemums, and at each
plate a tiny bouquet.
Mr. Mahon was down town at his business, but there stood Mrs. Mahon, so
kind and affable; and the boys and girls of the family were waiting to
take their seats. The party paused, while, according to the good
old-fashioned custom (now too often neglected), grace was said; and
Cousin Irene, contemplating the bright faces and pleasant surroundings,
thought she had seldom seen a more attractive picture. But now she
noticed that May, after a quick look around, appeared startled and
anxious. The next moment the foolish girl exclaimed:
"O Mrs. Mahon, there are thirteen of us here! You do not like to have
thirteen persons at your table, do you? Pardon me, but I'm so nervous
about it!"
A shadow of annoyance flitted across Mrs. Mahon's motherly countenance,
but she answered gently: "My dear, I never pay any attention to the
superstition. Still a hostess will not insist upon making a guest
uncomfortable. Tom," she continued, addressing her youngest son, "you
will oblige me by taking your luncheon afterward."
Tom scowled at May, flung himself out of his chair, mumbled something
about "stuff and nonsense;" and, avoiding his mother's reproving
glance, went off in no amiable humor.
May was embarrassed, especially as she felt Miss Irene's grave eyes
fixed upon her. But Mrs. Mahon was too courteous to allow any one to
remain disconcerted at her hospitable board. With ready tact she
managed that the little incident should seem speedily forgotten. After
a momentary awkwardness the girls began to chatter merrily again, and
harmony was restored.
On their return to the drawing-room, May whispered to Miss Graham: "I
hope Mrs. Mahon will excuse me for calling her attention to the number
at table. I did not mean to be rude, and I suppose it is silly to be
so superstitious; but, indeed, I can not help it."
"Do not say that, dear; because you can help it if you wish," was the
gentle reply, "Mrs. Mahon understood, I am sure, that you did not
intend to be impolite; but I know she must have felt regret that you
should give way to such folly." Then, turning to the others, Miss
Irene continued: "Well, girls, considering the revelations of this
morning, perhaps you will admit that you have, after all, a fair share
of superstition."
"I'm afraid so," acknowledged Rosemary; and no one demurred.
"Do you know how these superstitions originated, Miss Graham?" asked
Anna, who was of an inquiring mind.
"Many of them are very ancient," replied Cousin Irene. "That which
predicts that the gift of anything sharp cuts friendship probably dates
back farther than the days of Rome and Greece, and is almost as old as
the dagger itself. No doubt it originated in an age of frequent wars
and quarrels, when for a warrior to put a weapon in the hands of a
companion was perhaps to find it forthwith turned against himself. In
those days of strife also, when men were more ready in action than in
the turning of phrases, and so much was expressed by symbolism, the
offering of a sword or dagger was frequently in itself a challenge, and
a declaration of enmity. Thus, you see, that what was a natural
inference in other times is meaningless in ours. The adage which
advises the person obliged to turn back in his journey to be careful to
sit down before setting out anew, was at first simply a metaphorical
way of saying that having made a false start toward the accomplishment
of any duty, it is well to begin again at the beginning. The custom
which restrained comrades in arms, or friends walking or journeying
together, from allowing anything to come between them, had also a
figurative import. It was a dramatic manner of declaring, 'Nothing
shall ever part us,--no ill-will nor strife, not even this accidental
barrier, shall interrupt our friendly intercourse.' In the times, too,
when there were few laws but that of might, when danger often lurked by
the wayside, it was always well for a traveller to keep close to his
companion, and not to separate from him without necessity.
"Many other superstitions, as well, have a symbolical origin. But the
nineteenth century does not deal with such picturesque methods of
expression. We pride ourselves upon saying in so many words just what
we mean; therefore much of the poetic imagery of other days has no
significance in ours. And is it not symbolism without sense which
constitutes one of the phases of superstition? As for your
bread-and-butter exorcism, Anna, I presume it was simply the expression
of a hope that nothing might interfere between hungry folk and their
dinner. This is, indeed, but a bit of juvenile nonsense; just as
children will 'make believe' that some dire mishap will befall one who
steps on the cracks of a flagged sidewalk; and so on through a score of
funny conceits and games, innocent enough as child's play, but hardly
worthy of sensible girls in their teens.
"You know, the practice of refraining from beginning a journey or
undertaking on Friday," continued Miss Irene, "arose from a religious
observance of the day upon which Our Lord was crucified. As the early
Christians were accustomed to devote this day to meditation and prayer,
it followed that few went abroad at that time, or set about new
temporal ventures. Superstition early perverted the import of this
pious custom. As on that day Satan marshalled all the powers of evil
against the Son of God, so, said the soothsayers, he would beset with
misfortune and danger the path of those who set forth on a Friday. As
regards the case in point, since we do not go into retreat once a week,
I presume Anna and Rosemary have not this reason for refusing to visit
their young friend on Friday."
There was a general laugh, after which Miss Irene went on:
"For the rest, we know God's loving providence carefully watches over
us at all times, and constantly preserves us from countless dangers;
that nothing can betide us without His permission, and that He blesses
the work of every day if we ask Him. Far from being influenced by the
common superstition with regard to Friday, it would seem as if we
should piously prefer to begin an undertaking (and in this spirit seek
a special blessing on the work thus commenced) on the day of the week
which commemorates that most fortunate of all days for us, on which was
consummated the great act of Redemption.
"The superstition with reference to thirteen at table dates from the
Last Supper, of which Our Lord partook with His twelve Apostles on the
eve of His crucifixion. Hence the saying that of thirteen persons who
sit down together to a repast, one will soon die. I think it was
originally the custom to avoid having thirteen at the festive or family
board, not so much from this notion, as to express a horror of the
treachery of Judas. Such would be, for instance, the chivalrous spirit
of the Crusaders. We can understand how, in feudal times, a knight
would consider it an affront to his fellows to bid them to a banquet
spread for thirteen. In those days, when a feast was so apt to end in
a fray,--when by perfidy the enemy so often entered at the castle gate
while the company were at table, and frequently a chief was slain ere
he could rise from his place,--the circumstance would point an analogy
which it has not with us, suggesting not merely mortality but betrayal;
a breach of all the laws of hospitality; impending death by violence.
Since we can not live forever, among every assemblage of individuals
there is likely to be one at least whose life may be nearly at its
close. The more persons present, the greater the probability;
therefore there is really a greater fatality in the numbers fourteen,
twenty, thirty, than in thirteen.
"But to return to the point from which we started--no, Emily, it is not
necessary to sit down. You will observe that many persons who declare
emphatically that they are not superstitious, are nevertheless
influenced by old-time sayings and practices; some of which, though
perhaps beautiful originally, have now lost all significance; others
which are simply relics of paganism. Men are often as irrational in
this respect as women; and, notice this well, you will find
superstition much more common among non-Catholics than among Catholics.
As we have seen, however, some of us do not realize that what we are
pleased to call certain harmless eccentricities, are very like the
superstitious practices forbidden by the First Commandment."
Kate and Emily were not giving to this little homily the attention it
deserved. They had begun to trifle as girls are wont to do. Catching
at the tiny bisque cupid that hung from the chandelier, Emily
sportively sent it flying toward Kate, who swung it back again. Thus
they kept it flitting to and fro, faster and faster. Finally, Emily
hit it with a jerk. The cord by which it was suspended snapped; the
dainty bit of bric-a-brac sped across the room, and, striking with full
force against a mirror in a quaint old secretary that had belonged to
Mr. Mahon's uncle, shivered the glass to pieces. Instantly every trace
of color fled from her face, and she stood appalled, gazing at the
mischief she had done. There was, of course, an exclamation from her
companions, who remained staring at her, and appeared almost as
disturbed as herself.
Cousin Irene went over and patted her on the shoulder, saying, "Do not
be so distressed, child. I know you are sorry to have damaged the old
secretary, which we value so much for its associations. But there is
no need of being so troubled. We can have a new mirror put in."
"It is not only that," faltered the silly girl; "but to break a
looking-glass! You know it is a sure sign that a great misfortune will
befall us--that there will probably be a death in the family before
long."
"Oh, but such sayings don't always come true! There are often
exceptions," interposed Kate, anxious to say something consolatory, and
heartily wishing they had let the little cupid alone.
"Too bad; for it really is dreadfully unlucky to have such a thing
happen!" sighed Rosemary, with less tact.
"I know it," murmured May.
"Yes, indeed," added Anna.
Miss Graham drew back astonished. "Young ladies, I am ashamed of you!"
she said, reproachfully, and went out of the room.
There were a few moments of discomfiture, and presently the girls
concluded, one after another, that it was time to be going home.
Left alone, Emily approached the secretary and examined the ruined
mirror. It was cracked like an egg-shell,--"smashed to smithereens,"
Tom said in telling the story later; but only one or two bits had
fallen out. Idly attempting to fit these into place again, Emily
caught sight of what she supposed was a sheet of note-paper, that had
apparently made its way in between the back of the mirror and the frame.
"An old letter of grandpa's, probably," she said aloud, taking hold of
the corner to draw it out. It stuck fast; but a second effort released
it, amid a shower of splintered glass; and to her amazement she found
in her possession a time-stained document that had a mysteriously legal
air. Trembling with excitement she unfolded it, and, without stopping
to think that it might not be for her eyes, began to read the queer
writing, which was somewhat difficult to decipher:
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.
Amen. I, Bernard Mahon, being of sound and disposing mind, do hereby
declare this to be my last will and testament."
"Uncle Bernard's will!" gasped Emily. "It must be the one father
always said uncle told him about, but which never could be found.
Perhaps he slipped it in here for safe-keeping." Eagerly she scanned
it, crying at last, "Yes, yes! Hurrah! O Cousin Irene!" she called
out, hearing the latter's step in the hall.
When Miss Graham entered Emily was waltzing around the room, waving the
document ecstatically. "See what I've found!" she cried, darting
toward her with an impulsive caress.
Cousin Irene took the paper, and, as she perused it, became, though in
a less demonstrative fashion, as agitated as Emily. "Your father!" she
stammered.
Mr. Mahon had come into the house and was now in the little study,
which he called his den. Cousin Irene and Emily almost flew thither,
and a few minutes later his voice, with a glad ring in it, was heard
calling first his wife and then the children to tell them the joyful
news.
The will so long sought, so strangely brought to light, made a great
change in the family fortunes. By it Bryan, the old man's son, who was
unmarried and dissipated, was entitled to merely a certain income and
life-interest in the estate, which upon his demise was to go to the
testator's nephew William (Mr. Mahon) and Cousin Irene. In fact,
however, at his father's death, Bryan, as no will was discovered, had
entered into full possession of the property; and when within a year
his own career was suddenly cut short, it was learned that he had
bequeathed nothing to his relatives but a few family heirlooms.
"I did not grudge Bryan what he had while he lived," said Mr. Mahon;
"but when, after the poor fellow was drowned, we heard that he had left
all his money to found a library for 'the Preservation of the Records
of Sport and Sportsmen,' I did feel that, with my boys and girls to
provide for and educate, I could have made a better use of it. And
Cousin Irene would have been saved a good deal of hard work if she
could have obtained her share at the time. Thank God it is all right
now, and the library with the long name will have to wait for another
founder."
The girls of the literature class soon heard of their friends' good
fortune, and were not slow in offering their congratulations.
One day, some two years after, when Anna and Rosemary happened to call
at the Mahons', a chance reference was made to the discovery of the
will. "Only think," exclaimed Rosemary, "how much came about through
the spoiling of that mirror! Emily, you surely can never again believe
it unlucky to break a looking-glass?"
"No, indeed!" replied Emily, thinking of the uninterrupted happiness
and prosperity which the family had enjoyed since then.
"It was a fortunate accident for us," said Cousin Irene; "but I should
not advise any one to go around smashing all the looking-glasses in his
or her house, hoping for a similar result. It certainly would be an
unlucky sign for the person who had to meet the bill for repairs."
"Miss Graham, how do you suppose this superstition originated?" asked
Anna, as eager for information as ever. After a general laugh at her
expense, Cousin Irene said:
"The first mirrors, you must remember, were the forest pools and
mountain tarns. As the hunter stooped to one of these to slake his
thirst, if perchance so much as a shadow should break the reflection of
his own image in its tranquil depths, he had reason to fear that danger
and perhaps death were at hand; for often in some such dark mirror a
victim caught the first glimpse of his enemy, who had been waiting in
ambush and was now stealing upon him from behind; or of the wild beast
making ready to leap upon him. But the popular augury that the mere
fact of breaking a looking-glass portends death, is, you must see,
senseless and absurd. And so, as I think you have become convinced,
are all superstitions. It is true we sometimes remark coincidences,
and are inclined to make much of them; without noting, on the contrary,
how many times the same supposed omens and signs come to nought. When
God wills to send us some special happiness or trial, be assured He
makes use of no such means to prepare us for it; since He directs our
lives not by chance, but by His all-wise and loving Providence."
UNCLE TOM'S STORY.
I.
Some pine logs burned brightly upon the andirons in the wide,
old-fashioned chimney; and the Tyrrell children were comfortably seated
around the fire, roasting chestnuts and telling stories.
"Come, Uncle Tom, it is your turn!" cried Pollie, breaking in upon the
reverie of their mother's brother, who, seated in the old red
arm-chair, was gazing abstractedly at the cheery flames.
"Yes, please let us have something about the war," put in Rob.
"But everybody has been telling war stories for the last twenty-five
years. Do you not think we have had enough of them?" said the
gentleman.
"One never tires of hearing of deeds of bravery," answered Rob,
dramatically.
"Or of romantic adventures," added Pollie.
Uncle Tom looked amused; but, after some hesitation, said; "Well, I
will tell you an incident recalled by this pine-wood fire. It may seem
extraordinary; but, having witnessed it myself, I can vouch for its
truth. You consider me an old soldier; yet, though I wore the blue
uniform for more than a year and saw some fighting, I was only a youth
of eighteen when the war closed; and, in spite of my boyish anxiety to
distinguish myself and become a hero, I probably would never have
attained even to the rank of orderly, had it not come about in the
following manner:"
Our regiment was stationed at A------, not far from the seat of war.
Near our quarters was a Catholic church, attended by the ------
Fathers. I early made the acquaintance of one of them, who was
popularly known as Father _Friday_, this being the nearest approach to
the pronunciation of his peculiar German name to which the majority of
the people could arrive. In him I recognized my ideal of a Christian
gentleman, and as such I still revere his memory.
He was one of the handsomest men I ever saw--tall and of splendid
physique, with light brown hair, blue eyes, and a complexion naturally
fair, but bronzed by the sun. Though in reality he was as humble and
unassuming as any lay-brother in his community, his bearing was simply
regal.
He could not have helped it any more than he could help the impress of
nobility upon his fine features. The youngsters used to enjoy seeing
him pass the contribution box in church at special collections. It
must have been "an act" (as you convent girls say, Pollie). He would
move along in his superb manner, looking right over the heads of the
congregation, and disdaining to cast a glance at the "filthy lucre"
that was being heaped up in the box which from obedience he carried.
What were silver and gold, let alone the cheap paper currency of the
times, to him, who had given up wealth and princely rank to become a
religious! Yet, in fact, they were a great deal, since they meant help
for the needy--a church built, a hospital for the sick poor. In this
sense none appreciated more the value of money.
Father Friday was accustomed to travel about the country for miles,
hunting up those of his flock who, from the unsettled state of affairs,
either could not or would not come into the town to church. Like the
typical missionary, from necessity he always walked; though, in my
youthful enthusiasm, I used to think how grandly he would look upon a
charger and in the uniform of a general. In his old cassock, and
wearing a hat either of plain brown straw or black felt, according to
the season, he was as intrepid as a general, however; and went about
alone as serenely as if the times were most peaceful. Our colonel
often remonstrated with him for doing so, and finally insisted upon
appointing an orderly to attend him. Father Friday at first declined;
but upon hearing that the duty had been assigned to me, he in the end
assented--partly, I suppose, to keep me from bad company and out of
mischief. Many a pleasant tramp I had with him; for he would beguile
the way with anecdotes and jokes, and bits of information upon geology,
botany, the birds of that section--everything likely to interest a boy.
What wonder that I regarded a day with him as a genuine holiday?
One October afternoon he said: "To-morrow morning, Captain Tom" (the
title was a pleasantry of his),--"to-morrow morning I shall be glad of
your company. I am going some five miles back into the country to
visit an invalid."
"Very well, Father," I answered. "I shall be ready."
Accordingly, the next day, at the appointed hour, I joined him at the
gate of the convent, and we set out--this time in silence, for he
carried the Blessed Sacrament. At first our course was through the
open plain; but later it led, for perhaps a mile, across a corner of
the pine forest, which extended all along the ridge and shut the valley
in from the rest of the world. We entered the wood confidently, and
for half an hour followed the windings of the path, which gradually
became less defined. After a while it began to appear that we were
making but little headway.
Father Friday stopped. "Does it not seem to you that we are merely
going round and round, Tom?" he asked.
I assented gloomily.
"Have you a compass?"
I shook my head.
"Nor have I," he added. "I did not think of bringing one, being so
sure of the way. How could we have turned from it so inadvertently?
Well, we must calculate by the sun. The point for which we are bound
is in a southerly direction."
Having taken our bearings, we retraced our steps a short distance, then
pushed forward for an hour or more, without coming out upon the
bridle-path which we expected to find. Another hour passed; the sun
was getting high. Father Friday paused again.
"What time is it?" he inquired.
I looked at the little silver watch my mother gave me when I left home.
"Nine o'clock!" I answered, with a start.
"How unfortunate!" he exclaimed. "There is now no use in pressing on
farther. We should arrive too late at our destination. We may as well
rest a little, and then try to find our way home. It is unaccountable
that I should have missed the way so stupidly."
But it was one thing to order a retreat, as we soldiers would call it,
and quite another to go back by the route we had come. We followed
first one track and then another; but the underbrush grew thicker and
thicker, and at length the conviction was forced upon us that we were
completely astray. I climbed a tree--it was no easy task, as any one
who has ever attempted to climb a pine will agree. I got up some
distance, after a fashion; but the branches were so thick and the trees
so close together that there was nothing to be discerned, except that I
was surrounded by what seemed miles of green boughs, which swayed in
the breeze, making me think of the waves of an emerald sea.
I scrambled down and submitted my discouraging report. The sun was now
overhead: it must therefore be noon. We began to feel that even a
frugal meal would be welcome. I had managed to get a cup of coffee
before leaving my quarters; but Father Friday, I suspected, had taken
nothing. We succeeded in finding some berries here and there; and,
farther on, a spring of water. However, this primitive fare was of
little avail to satisfy one's appetite.
Well, after wandering about, and shouting and hallooing till we were
tired, in the effort to attract the attention of any one who might
chance to be in the vicinity, we rested at the foot of a tree. Father
Friday recited some prayers, to which I made the responses. Then he
withdrew a little, and read his Office as serenely as if he were in the
garden of the convent; while I, weary and disheartened, threw myself on
the ground and tried again to determine by the sun where we were. I
must have fallen asleep; for the next thing I knew the sun was
considerably lower, and Father Friday was waiting to make another start.
"How strange," he kept repeating as we proceeded, "that we should be so
entirely astray in a wood only a few miles in extent, and within such a
short distance from home! It is most extraordinary. I cannot
understand it."
It was, indeed, singular; but I was too dispirited to speculate upon
the subject. Soldier though I prided myself upon being, and strong,
active fellow that I certainly was, Father Friday was as far ahead of
me in his endurance of the hardship of our position as in everything
else.