Lizzie Maitland

Front matter

<v

* 4 '

*0 *

Preface

for an experiment, she commenced a little story intended to give some simple explanation of a few of the dogmas of the Catholic Church, and only those which are most frequently assailed and misrepresented. The story grew under her hands, until it assumed its present form, and in much fear and trembling she sends it forth, hoping that some honest soul, seeking the truth, may find something to assist in clearing away doubt and embarrassment.

She knows well that the same thing has often been done before, in a much more able and finished style; but it sometimes happens that the simple language of a child, or an unlettered person, will give a clearer idea of a plain fact, than the most elaborate explanation of a learned man. There is hardly an old woman in the land, who could not make a child comprehend the meaning of net-work for instance, while Dr. Johnson, wit|i all his erudition, failed to do any thmg but involve the idea in such obscurity, that it would require the skill of a magician to make any child understand what it is, from his definition.

PREFACE.

V

While the Authoress deprecates the critics, and appeals to the charity of good Catholics, she will be amply repaid if, from the whole mass, a single ray of truth shall find its way to the depths of one earnest heart.

>r t t t ft f n

A

» ^4

• ¥4

4 «

1 ,♦ ft

•h ft

• K

I

. • .1

•r

Introduction

When the author had proceeded about half way in her story, she read me what she had written. I was so well pleased with it, that I urged her to continue and complete it, promising her, that, with her permission, I would stand its godfather before the public. It probl:ably is no advantage to her that I keep my promise,

! and add my name as editor instead of hers as author.

I have not abused my office of editor. The book is : published as it came to me in manuscript, with the excepi tion of two or three slight verbal corrections, and the adj dition of a single note to a passage in which the author had given an opinion which she has the right to hold, and 1 which many excellent Catholics do hold, as if it were i Catholic doctrine, and a very different opinion on the 5 same subject were not also permitted to be held. I do not like tampering with authors. I wish every one who has a genuine word to say, should say it in his own way.

I have myself read Lizzie Maitland with interest and ' pleasure. I do not pretend that it is the greatest and most attractive story of the kind ever written, or that it is so i artistically perfect that an ill-natured critic can find noth- ! ing in it to carp at. It is evident to the reader that the

i

X

INTRODUCTION.

be out of the world as out of the fashion. The novel is at present the reigning fashion, and Catholics as well as others must conform to it, if they wish to catch the popu- i lar mind, and influence the popular heart.

We need, even more than is commonly thought, a popular Catholic literature, — a literature which is adapted I to the wants of those who will not read grave didactic ' works, who are too light, too gay, too frivolous, to read j purely spiritual or devotional works. We have a rich and | living literature amply sufficient for those who take life , seriously, understand its true worth and aim ; but these, i after all, are not the majority in any community, nor i those for whom we should feel the greatest solicitude. ' The devout, the members of pious Confraternities, Living j Eosaries, St. Vincent de Paul societies, and the like, are i well provided for, and are in little danger ; but our solid- ! tude should be chiefly awakened for those who have the ' faith indeed, and do not dream of abandoning their ' Church, but who have no special vocation to pious practices ! or a devout life. The gayety of youth, the play of animal | spirits, or the vanities of the world sway them, and ren- ' der every thing serious and didactic distasteful to them. | These are those who need looking after. “ They that are i whole need not the physician, but they that are sick.” i These, I apprehend, constitute the majority of our : youth of both sexes, and I suppose always will. We may i regret it, but we can hardly prevent it. We cannot make * them saints, but we may perhaps prevent the majority of | them from being utterly lost. Unhappily, they are at I present precisely those among us least; cared for, and least benefited by our didactic and pious books. We want a ' popular literature for them, not too grave or didactic in

INTRODUCTION.

xi tone, light, graceful, attractive, which will catch their attention, please their imaginations, interest their affections, and give them now and then a thought which will linger in their memory, and come up as food for meditation in those moments of pause in their vanity and of serious reflection, which come to all.

Especially do we want books which, in a pleasing and unostentatious manner, will make the young familiar with their religion in those points on which they are most likely to misapprehend it, or to find it assailed. A story like the one which follows, will refresh the memory of many of our well instructed Catholic youth, and throw new associations around the faith and worship to ■which they are more or less indifferent. The more we have of such stories, well adapted to all tastes and tempers, the better.

These little works, half secular in their character, intended to furnish innocent amusement rather than instruction, falling into the hands of non-Catholics, often become the occasion of awakening thoughts and reflections which, with the grace of God, result in conversion to the true faith. In this view of the case I am disposed to encourage the production of lighter Catholic works, and to give them a cordial welcome, whenever they contain nothing positively hurtful. Ho matter if they are not always original, no matter how great their variety, or various their degrees of merit, each will have something good for some mind, and perhaps he the occasion of preventing the fall of some one, or of restoring a soul to God.

The little work I here introduce to the public stands in no need of this defence of Catholic literature. It carries its own defence and recommendation with it. It is the xii

INTRODUCTION.

author’s first attempt, and gives promise of greater and better things hereafter ; but, though not free from defects incident to inexperience, it is sound and healthy in tone, and contains scenes, passages, and descriptions, wliich our most practised writers would be happy to have written.

With these introductory remarks, I leave the work to make its own friends, and to find its own place in our popular Catholic literature, which needs all the contributions that are made to it.

THE EDITOK.

LIZZIE MAITLAND.

Chapter I

“ Lizzie ! Lizzie ! where are you ? Come in, and take your book ! ” was the rather impatient command of Mrs. Maitland to her little daughter, as she sat on the door-step one beautiful morning, feeding some pet chickens. The child was enjoying the fra^ grance of the balmy breeze, that lifted the sunny locks from her fair brow, as it floated through the lovely valley where her father’s house was situated; her eyes were wandering over the green meadows, and following the stream of water that glittered in the sunshine ; her young heart was full of something, she did not understand what it was, that made it throb with such delicious sen-

LIZZIE MAITLAND.

sations, and she did not dream of defining them, as she listened to the gentle ripple of its waters.

Oh ! what a lovely scene it was, aild no wonder the child’s heart yearned to hound away and sport under those dear old trees, bent and gnarled, stretching out their broad branches, and casting those deep bewitching shadows on the bosom of the stream, that seemed inviting one to dive down ! to find what there could be so fascinating in the ? bottom of that cool, delicious-looking pool. Poor Lizzie found it impossible to resist the temptation, i whenever she could steal away unperceived, to pull | off her shoes and stockings and wade in the shallow ? parts, and although she felt guilty and consciencesmitten afterwards, when she looked at her wet j and draggled dress, and tried to feel very sorry j when they told her how naughty it was, and that ! she would never be a lady — nothing — as her old nurse said, but a Tomboy — how she wondered what that could be like, whether it had horns — how it could look — and the poor ^hild could not help thinking it was a very hard thing to be born to be a lady, and secretly thought it much better to be poor, so that she could be allowed the freedom that the children of her father’s tenants enjoyed. Their mothers did not make them come into the house such pleasant days, and wear shoes and stockings, and sit on a chair to pore over a book, and that book so dreaded — she could not think of

LIZZIE MAITLAND.

it without a secret shivering — ^it was a little primer containing the multiplication table.

“ Dear me, what shall I do with that child ! ” said good, busy, bustling Mrs. Maitland. “ She will never be any thing but a coarse, romping girl.” — ^Ah ! little Lizzie! how were you misunderstood — you, you coarse 1 with all the magic of nature stirring your young soul, purifying and preparing it for the battle of life. — “Her cousin Fanny, who is no older, can sew and read, and she behaves herself like a little lady, and has no taste or desire whatever for such romping plays. I really do believe she thinks herself persecuted, because she has to wear nice clothes like a gentleman’s daughter ; for I heard her saying to a little duck the other day — ‘You are a happy little thing! you don’t have to wear shoes and stockings, and a nice dress, but can go and wade and swim in the pretty brook whenever you like ; nobody says to you — “Naughty duck, you have spoiled your nice new dress.” Ah ! how happy you are, to have such nice soft green featfters, and no shoes to pinch your toes.’ — ^And I verily do believe, she would rather sit perched upon the crooked limb of that old tree, overhanging the stream, than in the finest parlor ever was seen — I cannot understand that child.”

“ My dear Mary,” said Mr. Maitland, who stood within the house, “ there is nothing so very strange in that, and as the stream is not deep in

LIZZIE MAITLAND.

any part of it, there can be no danger ; and, my dear wife, are you not something too strict, with our poor little Lizzie ? She is scarcely seven years old, and you seem to expect from her all the steadiness and maturity of twelve ; have a little patience, she is an affectionate child, and if you don’t check them too rudely, her own warm affections and good sense will bring all right in the end.”

Lizzie’s ears were wide open, and she heard it all — and she understood this much, and it lifted a great load from her heart, that her father did not think her such a very naughty girl as she had frequently persuaded herself to believe, and to confess that she was ; although the poor child had never very clearly perceived how, or why, it could be so naughty to love to run about the fields, and gather the wold flowers : scrambling up the banks after the hare-bells that grew high among the rocks, was worse — that she could comprehend, for she was m danger of falling, and she did frequently tear her dress, and she was too a^t to forget whether it was her old, or new pair of shoes, that shq had on ; the matter of the dress and the shoes, was clearer to her comprehension.

And then there was the good cousin Fanny, perpetually held up as a model ; it is a wonder that the little heart was not filled with jealousy and envy. All tills indiscriminate praise might have sown the seeds of rancor and hate, to rankle there, long

LIZZIE MAITLAND.

years after, costing many tears and efforts to uproot them, — but it did not, thanks to the gentle voice, and holy teachings of nature, whispered in the perfumes of the wild flowers, the singing of the birds, and the murmur of the distant waterfall.

Lizzie loved her cousin Fanny ; but she did not i so heartily enjoy her society as she did the less r proper behaved children of her father’s gardener, W'hose big son made her a water-wheel at the little dam in the stream, and who, with his sisters, helped her to drive the ducks into the artificial pond, made by their united efforts.

Lizzie admired, but could not imitate her beautiful sampler, and the very small stitches in her patchwork bedquilt — all neatly sewed and finished,

' ready for the last grand scene, the quilting party, when elderly and grave matrons were to assemble, to complete it — and sound the praises of the nice industrious child, who had made a whole quilt all by herself. Fanny had already many times repeated to her, “ that Aunt Mary had invited the ladies to come, and that she was to have a seat at the frame, and to wear her new silver thimble.” — ' Poor Lizzie listened, and sighed, and expressed f over again her admiration, but her ineffectual attempts to imitate it plunged her in despair ; her thimble never would stay on her finger, it was al- : ways too large or too small, — the patches never would come even ; one, by some mysterious pro- 1 *

LIZZIE MAITLAND.

cess or other, would never fail to be longer than its fellow, and the stitches would' either be piled up in a lieap, in some desperate attempt to obey the injunction she received, to make them small and close together, or else, they would run rambling over the patch, like a rail fence, as her mother used to declare.

Poor mother ! you did not, in the midst of the bustle and busy usefulness of your daily life-cares, understand the young dreamer at your side, nor the pangs that rent that unenvying little heart at your reproofs ; you knew none of the many, many resolves “ to be good like cousin Fanny, and not to vex mamma again.”

But with the temptation of the beautiful green fields, and that bewitching stream of water for ever before her, she had many downfalls and humiliations, and often forgot these resolutions. — “ Oh, if my papa only lived in a city as cousin Fanny’s papa used to, perhaps I should finc\ it easier to be good then — I should not be half as happy, I know.” The poor child sighed, for she remembered well the only time she had ever visited New York — she was about four years old — she felt half suffocated by the close crowded streets, and, oppressed by the smoke and gloom, had cried to be taken home from such a gloomy place, until she fell into disgrace with her grand young relations, who conceived a great dislike for “the country-bred little thing.”

LIZZIE MAITLAND.

n

She looked up at the high walls, and asked her mother who made them, and then at the sky above, and asked, who made that ; and when told God made the sky and the beautiful trees, and that He dwelt in heaven, she thought He made much prettier things than man, and wondered which heaven was most like, the city, or the country where her dear papa was, until she fell asleep, with her tiny hands full of dandelions, which she had gathered on the only patch of green she could find, in the yard where the house linen was dried — and a curious jumble in her little head, of stars, blue sky, brick houses, chimney tops — and dreamed she was stolen away from her dear papa, and dragged oflf to be a chimney sweep, and awakened in a great ! fright, just as she felt she was going to be suffocated, in a chimney too narrow for even her very slender figure.

But after this long digression we must return to our little dreamer.

As she rose to obey her mother’s call, she turned with a yearning heart once more to that I beautiful landscape, drinking in the whole, with one fond, earnest gaze; and in long, long years after, that lovely picture still was imprinted on her heart; even the perfume of the morning breeze seemed yet to linger there.

Often had she wished she were a little lamb, that she might stay out in the lovely sunshine, or

LIZZIE MAITLAOT).

lie down on the soft grass, in the tempting shade of that tall tree.

As she turned her hack on the fair scene, there settled on her heart such a gloom ! Could it have be'en a foreshadowing of the coming events of after life — the griefs, disappointments, of a whole lifetime crowded into a momentary shadow ?

Little did her mother dream what a bias would be given to all her future life, by her efforts to crowd into her tender mind, then so jDecuUarly unfitted to receive it, that luckless multiplication table.

Lizzie obeyed her mother’s call, but felt herself oppressed, a kind of victim seated in a great arm-chair before a mndow, where she could still hear the murmur of the brook, see the lambs, and hear them bleat ; how could she help watching that busy bee, humming about, its little thighs laden with the spoils of the sweetest flowers ? — how could she realize that twict^ two make four, and twice three make six, and twice four make eight ? Ah! no — to her they were only a frightful long column of odious figures — and the little hymn she had just learned came into her head to complete her distraction, and who can wonder that

“ Gathering honey all the day From every opening flower,”

seemed an infinitely more fascinating occupation

LIZZIE MAITLAND.

is jthan the one to which she was doomed ; and then she could not help thinking how nice it must he to rg have wings to rest when you are tired, and oh ! 3 how nice to fly ! She wished she had wings — her book was forgotten, and with her elbows resting iij on the window sill, and her eyes fixed on the de- ; ilicious blue sky, she thought how lovely heaven cl imust be, and to wonder, if she had wings, she a could fly thither.

“ Lizzie ! Lizzie ! what are you doing ? Is that !i the way to learn your multiplication table ? Your Icousin Fanny knows it all! ” sounded in her ears, 1 land brought her back to a sense of her humiliar tion. There she was, a great girl seven years old, IT' couldn’t sew decently, could read only tolerably r (she could write better than Fanny, there was a : little consolation in that), but then came the mortia||fying reflection that Fanny was so much more of a > I lady, could sew so nicely, and nurse said, she was lino “ tomboy,” always folded her things neatly, -and laid them away in the drawer — did not chew vi [off the ends of her gloves, a very unpardonable . offence in nurse’s eyes, and didn’t “bite hel’ finger . f nails,” — and now, to crown the measure of her ex- 1 cellence, she knew the multiplication table ! She : hadn’t wasted all her time gazing out of the window ! With all these recollections rushing into !r her mind, came the tears into her eyes, blinding i them so that all the figures were tumbling over

LIZZIE MAITLAND.

each other in so hopeless a way, that they fell at last into such inextricable confusion, that I doubt if even to her dying day her mathematical genius ever recovered from the shock it received that memorable morning.

For three long hours s'Ke was sobbing and pining over that primer — alone — for Fanny had finished her task, and was gone, mistress of her own time for the rest of the day. Her sorrows were relieved by the entrance of her father ; his coming was the end of that day’s trial ; her mother consented, at his desire, to allow the protracted lesson to be deferred until the next day, and as Lizzie threw herself sobbing into her father’s arms, she poured out the flood of her sorrows and humiliations ; told him “that she had been an idle little girl, displeased her mamma, that she couldn’t sew, wasn’t nice, didn’t behave like a lady, and — and — she was very unhappy indeed.”

“ But my little daughter does not wish to be - 1 naughty ? ’• ' 1

“ Oh ! no indeed.”

“ And she loves her father and mother, and little cousin Fanny.” ^

“ Oh ! yes ! Yes indeed ! ” sobbing more vio- ' lently than ever.

“And papa loves his little daughter very j dearly — and we will go and take a walk, and see , if we shall not feel better.”

LIZZIE MAITLAND.

At the end of an hour Lizzie had seen the sheep get their salt, and was just about to take a ride with her papa on old Charlie’s back, when Mr. Maitland was called away to receive some visitors who had just arrived.

Seeing the disappointed expression of her face, he told Thomas, a faithful, trustworthy man, and many years in his service, to take care of Lizzie, and lead the horse to give her the long promised ride.

“ Oh ! Thomas,” said she, “ how nice it is to be out in the pleasant sunshine ; how I wish I was a little bird, and I would fly up to heaven as they do ; it is much prettier up there, where the sunshine comes fi’om, and where all the bright stars are shining. Wouldn’t you like to be a bird, Thomas, and go to heaven ? ”

“ I would like to be innocent. Miss Lizzie, like a little bird, but they cannot go to heaven ; so I would rather be a man, and try to love God, and go there when I die, to dwell with Jesus Christ, and his blessed Mother, and all the holy angels and the saints who have gone there before us.”

Lizzie listened, and after a thoughtful silence she looked up. “ Cannot we go to heaven, Thomas, unless we die first ? ” said she, her face assuming a very grave expression. “ I should not like to be shut up in the dark ground, and never to see the sunshme, nor hear the birds sing,” and continued

LIZZIE MAITLAND.

she, ready to cry, “never to see my dear, dear papa and mamma again.”

“ But, Miss Lizzie, you would see your papa and mamma again if you all loved the blessed Lord, and were aU good Catholics (which may the Lord grant some day), ” added he, in a low voice half to himself.

“ I don’t know what you mean by Catholics,” said she, looking up with a puzzled expression.

“ I mean, all who love the Lord Jesus Christ, and belong to the Church that he established, whereby mankind were to obtain salvation; and of which Jesus Christ is the perpetuaf and invisible head, and which he designed should continue to the end of the world,” said Thomas, solemnly, involuntarily using the words he had heard his priest uttering the Sunday previous, in his instructions, and forgetful that his little hearer could hardly be expected to comprehend.

“I mean,” said he, recollecting himself, and commencing in the words of the catechism, “ all the faithful under one head, and that head is our Lord Jesus Christ, who died on the Cross for us ; ” and reverently bowing, he made on his breast the sign, as he spoke.

“ Why do you do that, Thomas ? ” said Lizzie, looking curiously in his face.

“To put us in mind of the Blessed Trinity, and that the second Person became man, and died on the cross.”

LIZZIE MAITLAND.

“ Did he die for me, too ? ” said she, at length.

“ He did. Miss Lizzie, for you and all mankind, and may the Blessed Virgin and your guardian angel pray for you, that it may not have Ibeen in vain.”

“ Who is my guardian angel ? Is he always near me ? Does he take care of me ? ” said she, looking pleased and joyful.

“ In the beginning God created a great many pure spirits, without bodies, making them happy with himself in heaven ; we call them angels. Miss Lizzie, and Almighty God appoints a particular one to watch overteach one of us.”

“ Oh, how happy I am to know that ; now I shall never be afraid again, when I go to bed in the dark ; how I wish I could see him. But, Thomas, are you sure of this ? how do you know it ? ” said she, beginning to be troubled.

“Because the Church teaches me so. Miss Lizzie, and all good Catholics believe what the Church teaches; because, before Jesus Christ died, he promised to be with his Church all days, and he cannot deceive. My dear Miss Lizzie, if your kind papa, w^ho loves you so dearly, should tell you any thing, you would believe him, and if he were on his death-bed, and should give you a command, or should promise you any thing, you would surely believe him ; then a great deal more surely can you believe what Jesus Christ, who is God himself,

LIZZIE MAITLAND.

shall tell you. Don’t yon think that Jesus Christ, who loved his children so well as to die for them, would be very sorry to go away, and leave them, without giving them any guide, or any thing to teach them how they could come to him in heaven ? They were poor and ignorant, they could not read, and .there were no books then, as there are now, not even the Bible, it was not all written. You don’t believe. Miss Lizzie, he could be so cruel as to leave them ^vithout any body, or any thing to teach them — they would forget what he had taught them, and how could others learn the way of salvation? ]^o, he would not forsake tHem for whom he was willing to die such a shameful and cruel death ; so he left his Apostles, with power to teach to every body what they had seen and heard from him — and to make people willing to listen and to believe them, he gave them power to work miracles.”

“ A miracle, Thomas, what is that ? ”

“ To do something above the power of a mere man, or any creature — such as to raise the dead, to heal the blind and sick — such things as our Lord himself did when he was in the world ; and suddenly, when the Holy Ghost came down, they all could speak in all the tongues of every nation.

“ You cannot understand. Miss Lizzie, the old French lady who comes to visit your mamma, when she speaks her own language. You will have to

LIZZIE MAITLAIO).

study, and learn it out of books, when you get older ; but these Apostles went out, and without any learning, for they were poor, and some of them fishermen, spoke to every body in his own language, so that they could understand ; and these Apostles, you have heard there were twelve of them, believed all they taught, and laid down their lives to prove the truth of it ; and when they died other men succeeded them, who have the same authority to teach.

“ As that authority has never been taken away, and our Lord promised himself always to be with his Church, you see. Miss Lizzie, it never could leave the appointed channel, and that is the reason why it is called the only true church.”

Thomas spoke very earnestly, and the child 1 listened with open ears, and although she did not ! fully comprehend, still she treasured up and re- I membered much of what she heard, j “ Tell me one thing more, Thomas ; does Bridget pray to the pretty lady with the child, and to the crucifix that hangs in her room ? ”

“ It would be a great sin, Miss Lizzie, to pray to a picture or to an image; they have no life, and no sense to hear or help us ; Bridget honors the crucifix and the pictures only as they relate to Christ, and his saints, and are memorials of them — as your papa. Miss Lizzie, loves to look at the picture in the parlor, of your grandmamma, and