Cousin Eula; or a Catholic converted...

Dedication

This little volume is respectfully dedicated by the author to the memory of

BISHOP ENOCH M. MABVIN,

WHO IMPRESSED HIM AS THE HOLIEST MAN HE EVER KNEW, AND WHOSE NAME APPEARS TO HIS DEACON'S 5; AND TO

Preface

Into the hands of whomsoever this book shall fall we beg of them not to judge of its merits from a partial reading or a superficial examination, but to let the whole story stand or fall together.

The pronoun I is used more frequently in the first chapter than we desired, but it seemed unavoidable. After you pass the first chapter you may converse with us without that repulsive feeling one has toward the too frequent use of the egotistical pronoun.

The chapters may be subdivided if desirable, especially for children. The whole is so completely networked that when the reader has fully entered the book he will not be content until the end is reached.

We have not sought the highest literary style, but preferred the more simple style, comprehensible alike to the cultivated and uncultivated mind. The book is almost a transcript of what passed between the writer and others.

Should Catholics claim this work to be false or fiction, we assert it is not. It carries in itself the internal evidence of truth. Our real and personal identity is given on the title-page. The Author.

Introduction

My friend, the Eev. J. B. McFarland, has written a little book, and requests me to prepare an Introduction. I render this service cheerfully, after looking over the proofsheets.

The book is without literary pretensions, and claims nothing on the score of style. It is a simple, truthful narrative, detailing the struggles of a mind passing out of the darkness and bondage of Catholicism into the light, and freedom, and satisfaction, of a pure Protestant Christianity. It reveals partially the machinery by which the priesthood of that apostate Communion dominates and terrifies the simple-minded men and women who have been ensnared by their wiles. It shows how heartless and unsatisfactory is the routine of the arbitrary and unscriptural services to which these victims are doomed, and with what fearful emotions the enslaved mind first entertains the idea of change and emancipation. The threatened malediction of the Church is invoked to crush the incipient thought of escape from the intolerable thraldom. The arts of the nun and the intrigue of the priest, the moral suasion of kindness and the terror of excommunication, are all employed to hold the struggling spirit in subjection to the "scarlet

8 Introduction.

woman." The book, if it could be circulated, might answer a double purpose — protecting the simple-hearted from the guile and treachery of the artful proselyter, and opening the eyes of the benighted devotees to the fraud by which they have been deceived and betrayed. But Rome will not allow her children to read on this side of the question. The most, therefore, that can be hoped for is that the unwary may be warned, and thus forearmed, and that some one or more may be incited to the work of rescuing another weary, wretched prisoner, and introducing him or her to the joys of simple faith in the great High-priest of our profession. Q s p. Pierce.

Sunshine, March 6, 1882,

Contents

CHAPTEE I.

From childhood to mature years — First mission-work — She is really a Catholic — Our old Spanish friend — Catholicism enslaves the intellect 11

CHAPTER IE

Chapter I

From childhood to mature years — First mission-work — She is really a Catholic — Oar old Spanish friend — Catholicism enslaves the intellect.

Twenty-five years ago there lived in one of the valleys of North Georgia a kind family, near neighbor to my father. They drank water from a pure spring that flowed from under the hill near their neat two-room log-house; for there were in those days, in that portion of the State, but few houses that were not made with the woodman's ax. They breathed pure mountain air that gave vigor to mind and body. In that family there was a son, near my own age. We were doubtless strongly attached to each other, but not old enough to know the meaning of the words, "We must part." There was in that family a daughter, two or three years younger than myself, who is to be the central figure of this story. There w^as in the neighborhood a country school-house, at which place

12 Cousin Eula; ob,

the children of each family went to school. One thing, and only one, do I remember of dear little Eula. One summer evening, after a rain, we innocently ran along together, barefoot, in the trenches made by the washing of the water. A swelled branch caused us to climb around the fence.

It was not long after this the father thought he could do better in another State. Arrangements were completed for the move. A long travel in wagons across two States lay before the courageous father in seeking the welfare of his growing family. The wagons w r ere packed, and, as an evidence of love and mark of respect, as many of our family as could accompanied the departing train for several miles. While my associate and I walked behind a wagon, unthoughtf ul of the fact that many would be the changes, seasons, and rolling years before each other's face we should see again, there were riding within the wagon two older girls, of twelve summers, whose hearts were wed. They wept. We heard their weeping, but we knew not why they wept so sorely. We know now. They met no more on earth. Time brought approaching manhood and womanhood. Time also brought the civil war, known as the Confederate, or Rebel War. At its close the two weeping girls were of marriageable age. They married. It was not long until one of them died in the faith of the gospel of Christ. So Julia was numbered with the dead. She left a little girl to make sunshine in the world in place of the mother dear. Soon after the husband of the other died; but a little girl of two summers was left to the bereaved mother, who, she was accustomed to say, was the sunshine of her life. A few years passed, and she remarried. Two years more passed, and that unrelenting disease, consumption, seized its victim, and then gentle, sweet Cynthia was no more on earth. On her gravestone was carved that verse, so fitting a tribute to her memory: " Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."

At first we knew not wiiy they wept so sorely; but, as we grew r older, we knew it was because they felt we may never meet again. No, not here; but they have met in the spirit-land to weep no more, for " God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."

In the war there were two rebel soldiers, ruddy and youthful. After we had followed our gallant Johnston over many a contested inch of ground, there came into our camp one day -a beardless youth, introducing himself as my long-absent associate. The boys of eighteen once more sweetly communed as their reviving memories called up the scenes of their childhood-days.

Once more we met. It was on the 22d of July, 1864, in the field of battle-array. When we saw the day was lost, as quick as thought it was said by one, "Shall we surrender? or shall we try to run the fast-closing lines in our rear?" It was as quickly answered by the other, "A prison I cannot bear; let us try it, and, if either of us fall, let the other fall by his side and see his end." So we agreed, and, with guns at trail-arms, we made for the rear, while an unbroken line of the enemy made sure aim at the retreating few. A ball passed through my arm, and marked my body. I cried out, "I am wounded!" while my gallant companion responded, " Do you want help? " In the rear we parted, and each other's face we have not seen since. As I was now disabled for the army service, I knew I should never be exposed again to the perils of the war.

Freed from the dangers of the war, another trouble bore upon my mind. At the age of fourteen I had been truly converted to God, and with my embracing religion I felt a conscientious conviction that it was my duty to pray in my father's family. I failed to do it. Thus time rolled on, leaving me condemned by the Spirit.

A farther duty bore upon my mind from the time I was converted ever afterward: I was conscious of the unfailing voice of the Holy Spirit calling me to preach Jesus. And now the responsibility was increased; for while I was exposed to the dangers of the war, I longed to see my precious mother, loving sisters, and little brothers. So I vowed a vow, and it was this: "O Lord, keep my life safe through the war, that I may see my mother and loved ones again; and then I will preach Jesus." My right-arm torn and broken, I knew I should never be a soldier any more; but to preach the gospel — I could not bear the thought! I could never be a beggar, as it is sometimes charged against Methodist ministers ; for I realized that my work through life was to be a unit — that of a traveling Methodist minister.

Let it suffice here to say, to redeem my vow and begin family-prayer in my father's family cost me eight months' sickness and forty-eight hours' fasting and prayer, during which time I neither ate, drank, nor slept. One thing I did accomplish: I got under the cross, and boro it; and ever since the cross has been bearing me. Such was the trial of that hour, or hours, and such the victory, that I can truly say it has never since been a cross for me to preach. Preaching to me has been sweeter than the honey and honey-comb.

Afterward I said to mother, " I am conscious of my duty to preach the gospel of grace to sinners; are you willing? " She replied, " Yes, my son, if you will only wait until you are qualified." I responded, "Mother, I will do my best on that line."

After a year's schooling at home, I went to Emory College, Oxford, Ga., with one object in view. I remained there three years, and did my best.

All this time there was something in my mind deeper still. One day I must tell those I love I am to be a missionary. China was my ideal field of labor. The three years at Emory College satisfied me that I had not sufficient strength of body or fitness of mind for the foreign work.

Six years I was happy in preaching the gospel in North Georgia. My soul so longed for the mission -field that one morning, in open District Conference, in the town of Kinggold, Ga., I arose and said: "Bishop Pierce, I here make a complete surrender of my life to the mission- work anywhere you may see fit to send me." It was a hard struggle, but the work was done.

At the end of the year I said to my presiding elder, " You may authorize the bishop to transfer me to the Florida Conference; or, what I would like better, give me work in Florida, allowing me to remain a member of the North Georgia Conference, that I may not lose my identity with those brethren whom I so dearly love."

I was transferred, and stationed on the Nassau Mission, Florida Conference, with one hundred dollars appropriation, fifty of which it took to carry myself and wife to the work. We had in our new field of labor privations such as neither of us had ever known, yet we were truly happy in our work, and it was not long before I was convinced that I was right in seeking missionary- work. I really thanked God I was a missionary. But I am not going to tell you now any more about that particular mission.

As I had now crossed the serpentine Saint Mary's River, and breathed the soft air of the land of flowers, I realized an abiding desire to see again my associate, who had thirteen years

previous assisted me from the field of battle 2 when I was all covered with blood. Hope deferred, it is said, maketh the heart sick. The hope of seeing my associate, or even hearing from him, was really faint; yet I did write a postal-card, and received a kind answer in return. The following is an extract:

"Tampa, Fla. — Your card has been received. It made us glad, yet sorrowful. We are all yet alive since you heard last. I am the father of five children, one of whom is named for you. All of our family live here except sister Eula and brother George. Eula is the mother of four children — two living and two dead — one of whom died last fall during the yellow-fever epidemic."

It was little Lucy, a bright little girl of five years. Dear reader, you will meet her again in these pages, as well as little Alice, of seven years.

Following is an extract from my letter:

"Nassau Mission, Florida Conference. — I desire so much to visit you at Tampa. Please write me the cost from Cedar Keys to Tampa. Also the chance to go from Tampa to Mellonville. I want to go to Mellonville to the District Conference about the first of April. If I can take you in my route I will be happy to do so."

Here is his reply:

"Tampa, Fla. — It will cost you twenty dollars from Cedar Keys to Tampa and return. You cannot go from here to Mellonville at this season of the year. My mother is going about that time to Saint Augustine, to see my sister and brother. If you cannot visit us, perhaps you can join in travel with my mother at Baldwin, the 27th or 28th of March."

The fifth Sabbath in March gave me rest I needed much. The 27th of March wife and I traveled toward the ancient city of Saint Augustine, to be gone from our mission two weeks — one rest Sabbath, one at the District Conference. Strange to say, I had never been concerned before about Saint Augustine — no, not until I learned certain persons were living there; and even then I had an idea it was an old, dilapidated town, of one or two hundred inhabitants, whereas it has two thousand.

Here is a special providence, if you will remember it, and connect it with my unavoidable delay in Saint Augustine. I had supposed the place to be only about twenty miles from Jacksonville, and costing a small amount. Upon the train I secured a railroad map. I began to search for Saint Augustine. At first I thought it is surely not laid down; but I did find it, far down on the coast from where I had expected to find it. I took the map to my wife, and said, "I am deceived about Saint Augustine. We go up the Saint John's Biver about fifty miles, and then some twenty miles by railroad to Saint Augustine. My money will be short." She asked, " What will you do? " I answered, " We can but go forward now."

Thursday night, March 27, 1878, was spent with my presiding elder, in Jacksonville. A blush came upon my face when he told me the cost to Saint Augustine and return. I then expressed myself: "I have started for the District Conference in good faith, a distance from my mission of two hundred and fifty miles. I have never missed a District Conference. I desire very much to go, but I fear you will not see me there. I am deceived as to the cost to Saint Augustine — my money will be short. It is yet five days before we leave for Conference. It is not economy to go back or remain here. I can but go to Saint Augustine."

Faint of hope in reaching the District Conference, one thought was then paramount in my mind: I wonder if my cousins — ah, there! I have told you now what Eula and George are to me. Yes, they are my own dear cousins. Yes, I was anxious in my soul to know if my

A CxVtholic Converted. 21

cousins were Christians, and in what Church I should find them. Before I parted with my presiding elder I said, "Brother Pasco, I have forgotten wdio has charge of the Saint Augustine Mission." He answered, "It is supplied by the Bev. T. E. Cooper." I asked, "Shall I likely meet him?" He replied, "No, sir; we have no society in that place — it is mostly a Catholic town." Then I thought more than ever that they could not be Methodists. I wonder what they are ?

We had a pleasant trip of four hours on the picturesque Saint John's Biver in the " Hampton" — an excellent vessel with a praiseworthy motto, "God bless our ship." Twenty miles by rail, and then we arrive in the ancient city of the New World. At the depot we were besieged with drummers. All have the best fare, best accommodations. All want to do the kind favor to take our baggage. The following conversation occurred: "Hackman, do you know where Mr. Uzenia lives? " "Yes, sir; I carried a lady over there yesterday. If you wish to go, I would like to take you." Wife and I were soon at the cottage-door, our card sent in, and a welcome sent out. The lady spoken of was my dear old Methodist aunt. I had not seen her in thirteen years, nor had she visited her children before in three years. She was a sweetlooking old lady, but she seemed sad.

Family talk: " This place is much larger than I expected to find it; ho^y many inhabitants has it? " " Over two thousand." " How old is the city?" "Over three hundred years old." I thought, but spoke not. A Southern city over three hundred years old, with two thousand inhabitants, and no Southern Methodist church! Shame, shame on us! It is due, however, to here state we had a church and society there previous to the war, which was lost in the vicissitudes of the war.

After some salutations and complimentary remarks, I said, " Cousin Eula, while I am your guest I shall make myself at home, as my custom is." " Certainly, Cousin Buie, I would not have you do otherwise," was her prompt reply. So I said, " We left the boat before the dining-hour, consequently we have not had dinner to-day." She replied, "I will gladly have dinner ready in a short time."

In the meantime, while dinner w T as in preparation, I sat near the round-table, upon which lay a few books. I thought, I shall now find out what my cousins are. So I examined the books that lay upon the center-table. An old Methodist Hymn-book first passed in review.

The fly-leaves were gone— no trace of name to be found. " Our Children," by Dr. Haygood, of the North Georgia Conference, was next in order. No name could I find. Next a giltedge book with a cross stamped on each side, fastened with a clasp. The only inscription on the outside was "Mission Book." O God! I fear to unloose the clasp, lest the name on the fly-leaf should crush me. It was opened, but no name was written within. It was a Roman Catholic book. Here is another. Let me pursue my search. It is a Testament. I opened, and read: " Presented to George by his mother. Head this book, my son, and be wise. Nov. 20, 1875." There was yet another book, title, " Common Prayer." It was an Episcopal book. No name yet to be found. And yet there is still another. It is a pamphlet, price twenty-five cents. (I wish my little book could be just twenty-five cents.) But what of its title ? " The Catholic Christian Instructed." No name yet. The only writing I found was " Catholic Library, Saint Augustine, Fla." And now that I was through the books, I sighed. O God, where am I? I am afraid this hymn-book is only a relic speaking of better and happier days of the past. No, this cannot be, for here is " Our Children." It is a late edition, too, bearing the likeness of its fearless author. My aunt looks so sad. I am afraid I am not in time. O God, where am I? I never felt so before. Dinner was announced, but I did npt feel so much like dining as when I asked for it. Yet I tried to feel cheerful.

Table-talk: " Well, Cousin Eula, I have often tried to imagine how you looked, but could not." She replied, "And so have I, you, Cousin Buie; but you are so different to what I expected you would be." " Well, cousin, your mother favors one of her sisters very much, but you have only one resemblance to our family. Your forehead is very much like my sister Hattie's, who died last year. She was such a good Christian I feel she is in heaven now. However, you have an unnatural appearance to me, but I suppose it is because I have never known you before."

I suppose it was quite an hour after dining when I asked to be excused, that I might walk over the city, as I had been confined all day in the boat and cars. Mr. Uzenia proposed to be my guide. He first conducted me to the old Fort San Marcos, now known as Fort Marion. It was built by the Spaniards, in 1565. It is said to be the best specimen of military architecture of its time now extant. Within the fort was confined about sixty Indians. They interested themselves in making bows and arrows, polishing sea-beans, and making other trinkets they sold to visitors. We were next shown the pillars of the ancient gate, and fragments of the ancient wall.

As the rays of the evening sun were receding over the western plain, and sinking into the Gulf of Mexico, we walked together around the sea-wall, feasting our eyes upon the boundless waters of the Atlantic Ocean that lay to our left. Thus gratification and fear were mingled within my breast — gratified to behold the wonderful achievements of man, and more gratified to know there was One mightier than man, who could say to the mighty deep, " Thus far shall thy proud waves come, and no farther." And even amid the angry billows His gentle voice is heard, " Peace, be still " — so much so, that all around is made as calm and cheerful as the bleating of a lamb on the green meadow, or the cooing of a dove on a spring morning. Fear was enthroned within, for I was still wondering what my cousins were.

Twilight drew its mantle over us, reminding us that "the day is past and gone, the evening shades appear." And " the night cometh, when no man can work." We returned homeward through the heart of the city; yet it had little attraction to me, for I was still wondering what my cousins were. As we walked I was musing, but my musing was aroused to excitement when Mr. Uzenia said to me, " This is the Cathedral; it has been built a hundred years." "Tell me, Mr. Uzenia, to what Church do you and your family belong?" "My wife belongs to the Catholic Church." Thus the dread announcement came. It excited a secret resolve within my heart: "0 God, by thy grace I intend to reclaim my cousin! " I then said, "And is that your way of thinking? " "Well, I do not belong to any Church; I do not see that it makes any difference what Church; if I were going to join any, I suppose I should join the Catholics." I said to myself, Thousands have thought " it makes no difference;" but such thinking, or, rather, the want of thinking, has led many to temporal and eternal ruin.

The evening was spent in social conversation until the hour arrived for retirement. We had family - pray ers, and retired. Adjoining my wife's room was the bed-chamber occupied by Cousin Eula and her mother. On retiring, I heard her say to her mother, " I am so nervous and peculiar I cannot sleep without a light." As I awoke at different times of the night, and early in the morning, I noticed a light shining through a crack at the top of the door between the two rooms. The unnatural appearance of my cousin, as I had before discovered, with the burning lamp, was a book to me not hard to read. Each told of a spirit within distorted with fears of the awful.

Friday morning, March 29, the sun rose as usual, and began his circuit; no fog obscured his light that morning on that Southern coast.

I preferred to be alone, and asked to be excused, that I might walk for exercise and sight-seeing. First I went to an hotel, and made some extracts from the register relating to temperature of the weather for the month of January, that I might compare with the temperature at our North Georgia home for the same time. Next I went to the harbor. How delightful to stand on the dock and see the sail -vessels going out pleasure-seeking and sight-seeing! Again I took the wall on the sea-shore, and walked around until I reached the suburbs of the city. Now that I was on the outskirts of the city, I saw beautiful orange-groves full of oranges; really beautiful was the golden fruit among the green foliage.

To the left of the door of a dilapidated cottage sat an old man on a worn chair. I saluted him, and asked a question about the oranges. He politely gave me the information desired, and asked me to have a seat. Feeling tired, I accepted, and entered into conversation.

Our new friend here introduced is an old Spaniard, afflicted, very poor, and has five children. The following conversation took place:

American. Does the city help you?

Spaniard. Yes, two dollars a month. I was in the Indian war, and my friends think I will yet receive a pension.

A. How long have you lived here?

S. Since I was a child.

A. Well, tell me, friend, are you a member of the Church?

S. Yes; Catholic.

A. Are you conscious of the forgiveness of sins?

S. Yes, sir.

A. And you feel you love God, and he loves you?

S. I do.

A. Well, tell me, friend, do you believe the teachings of the Roman Catholic Church?

S. I do not.

A. Then you do not believe the priest can forgive sins?

S. No, sir.

A. When did tlie priest come to see you?

S. He lias not been to see me in a year and a-half . The Presbyterian priest comes to see me.

A. Not priest — minister.

S. Tes, we call them priests. [Spontaneous]: The Catholics do not help me now — the Protestants help me.

A. Why do you not join the Protestants?

S. I am too indecent.

A. Not at all: the Presbyterians are a good people, and are perfectly willing to receive the poor.

Our old Spaniard was a real Protestant in heart, but why he did not join the Protestant Church was a mystery, but is no longer a mystery to me. Why thousands of Boman Catholics, really convinced of their erroneous teachings and idolatrous worship, do not join the Protestants, is a mystery to the world, but the secret is within this book.

S. [Spontaneous]: My cousin, a lawyer living in Tallahassee, has turned, and he told us of others.

A. Friend, where is your family?

S. Four of my children are in the Presbyterian school. I have one little girl here with me; she is paralyzed.

He called up his little paralyzed girl of ten years. I gave her a dime, and told her to ask her father how to spend it. "O," said he,. " she will spend it for bread. Many a night do my children go to bed without bread." I arose from my seat, and gave him my hand, and said: "Friend, I am a minister of the Methodist Episcopal Church, South. God bless you." "And God bless you too," he replied. I hardly need tell you we both shed tears, parted, feeling better for having met — strangers in the flesh, brothers in Christ. I really went on my way rejoicing, thanking God I was a wandering missionary. Nor did I rejoice alone, for, two hours afterward, when the wife of my bosom read the dialogue in my diary, tears of joy flooded her cheeks.

Saturday, March 30, was spent in sight-seeing and taking notes not necessary to publish here.

All the time it seemed my soul was swelling toward the point of bursting into tears. The night came. After tea, my aunt asked my wife to sing. Some good old Methodist hymns were sung. Favorite hymns were called for. My cousin asked for "I would not live alway," when the following conversation ensued:

Buie. Well, Cousin Eula, yon mnst join ns in singing your choice, or else sing one by yourself. I am unwilling to come and go for the first and perhaps the last time without ever hearing your voice in song.