Chapter XXVI…

Chapter XXVI

The chief was well aware of the reputation which the priest had obtained through the parish for medical skill, and was himself convinced of how well he deserved it. Indeed, had the alternative rested in any case between Father Farrell and the dispensary doctor, there was not a parishioner who would not have preferred his pastor's medical as well as spiritual aid.

The chief, instead of ordering off the dispensary doctor to see young Lennon upon a rumor that he was worse, went quietly to Father Farrell, who must know the truth, and be able to give good advice as to what steps, if any, were necessary to adopt.

The matter turned out to be another black-crow story. Father Farrell had also heard it in its exaggerated form, and had not lost a moment in proceeding to the spot. Young Lennon had gone out to assist his father in planting some potatoes--so far the rumor was correct. But he had been premature in his own opinion of his convalescence. The very first stoop he made he felt quite giddy; and although he did not fall forward on his face, he was obliged to lean upon his father for support for a few moments. This little experiment served to keep him quiet for a while longer; but Father Farrell assured the chief that matters were no worse than they had been--he might make his mind easy; there was no injury beyond the flesh, which, of course, had become much sorer, and must do so for a few days still.

The chief, however, suggested the prudence, if not the necessity, of having a medical man to see him. "Not," said he, "but that I have as much, if not more, confidence in your own skill and experience than in any which is available in this wild district."

"That is rather an equivocal compliment; but perhaps it is fully as much as I deserve," said the priest.

"Well, I don't mean it as such, Father Farrell; but you know a great responsibility would rest upon me, should anything unfortunate occur."

"I see. It would not do in a court of justice to put a priest upon the table in a medical position. I certainly could not produce a diploma. You are quite right, my dear sir; you would be held responsible. However, I can go the length to assure you that at present there is not the slightest necessity for medical aid, particularly--between you and me--under existing circumstances, which I understand very well. The matter was a mere accident I am fully persuaded. Bat, supposing for a moment that it was not, I know young Lennon since he was a child running to school in his bare feet, with 'his turf and his read-a-ma-daisy;' and I am convinced that no power on earth would induce him to prosecute Tom Murdock."

"Why? are they such friends?"

"No; quite the reverse, and that is the very reason. But ask me no more about it. Another objection I see to calling in the dispensary doctor is this--that I am aware of an ill-feeling existing between him and Tom {98} Murdock about a prize at a coursing-match, which the doctor thinks was unfairly given to Tom Murdock through his influence with the judge; and the doctor was heard to say in reference to it, 'that it was a long lane that had no turning.' Now here would be an open for the doctor to put a turn on the lane, however straight it might be in fact. He would not certify that Lennon's life was out of danger--you would have to arrest Tom Murdock; young Lennon would go distracted, and the two parishes would be in an uproar. Ill-will would be engendered between all the young men of opposite sides, and all for nothing; for young Lennon will be as well as ever he was in ten days. These are my views of the case. But if your official responsibility obliges you to differ with me, I am ready to hear you further."

This was a great oration of Father Farrell's, but it was both sensible and true from beginning to end, and it convinced the chief of the propriety of "resting on his oars" for a few days longer at all events.

The result proved at least that there was more luck in leisure than danger in delay. Emon-a-knock grew better; but it was by degrees. He could not yet venture to attend to his usual daily labor, by which he so materially contributed to the support of the family. The weather was fine, and "the spring business" was going forward rapidly in all directions. Poor Emon fretted that he was not able to add his accustomed portion to the weekly earnings; but Father Farrell watched him too closely. Once or twice he stole out to do some of their own work, and let his father earn some of the high wages which was just then to be had; but his own good sense told him that he was still unable for the effort. At the end of an hour's work the old idea haunted him that an attempt had been made to murder him, and if he had been made a merchant-prince for it, he could not recollect how it had happened. The only thing he did recollect distinctly about it was, that Shanvilla won the day, and that he had been sent home in Winny Cavana's cart and jennet--that, if he were in a raging fever, he could never forget.

But it was a sad loss to the family, Emon's incapacity to work. He had been now three weeks ill; and although the wound in his head was in a fair way of being healed, there was still a confused idea in his mind about the whole affair which he could not get rid of. At times, as he endeavored to review the matter as it had actually occurred, he could not persuade himself but that it was really an accident; and while under this impression he felt quite well, and able for his ordinary labor. But there were moments when a sudden thought would cross his mind that it had been a secret and premeditated attempt upon his life; and then it was that the confusion ensued which rendered him unable to recollect. What if it were really this attempt--supposing that positive proof could be adduced of the fact--what then? Would he prosecute Tom Murdock? Oh, no. Father Farrell was right; but he had not formed his opinion upon the true foundation. Emon-a-knock would not prosecute, even if he could do so to conviction. He would deal with Tom Murdock himself if ever a fair opportunity should arise; and if not, he might yet be in a position more thoroughly to despise him.

In the meantime Lennon's family had not been improving in circumstances. Emon was losing all the high wages of the spring's work. Upon one or two occasions, when he stealthily endeavored to do a little on his own land, while his father was catching the ready penny abroad, he found, before he was two hours at work, the haunting idea press upon his brain; and he returned to the house and threw himself upon the bed confused and sad. In spite of this, however, the wound in his head was now progressing more favorably, and {99} returning strength renewed a more cheerful spirit within him. He fought hard against the idea which at times forced itself upon him. The priest, who was a constant visitor, saw that all was not yet right. He took Emon kindly by the hand and said: "My dear young friend, do you not feel as well as your outward condition would indicate that you ought to be?"

"Yes, Father Farrell, I thank God I feel my strength almost perfectly restored. I shall be able, I hope, to give my poor father the usual help in a few days. The worst of it is that the throng of the spring work is over, and wages are now down a third from what they were a month or three weeks ago."

"If that be all that is fretting you, Emon, cheer up, for there is plenty of work still to be had; and if the wages are not quite so high as they were a while back, you shall have constant work for some time, which will be better than high wages for a start. I can myself afford to make up for some of the loss this unfortunate blow has caused you. You must accept of this." And he pulled a pound-note from his breeches pocket.

If occasionally there were moments when Emon's ideas were somewhat confused, they were never clearer or sharper than as Father Farrell said this. It so happened that he was thinking of Winny Cavana at the moment; indeed, it would be hard to hit upon the moment when he was not. Shanvilla was proverbially a poor parish; and Father Farrell's continual and expressed regret was, that he was not able personally to do more for the poor of his flock. Emon was sharp enough, and stout enough, to speak his mind even to his priest, when he found it necessary.

He looked inquiringly into Father Farrell's face. "No, Father Farrell, you cannot afford it," he said. "It is your kindness leads you to say so; and if you could afford it there are--and no man knows it better than you do--many still poorer families than ours in the parish requiring your aid. But under no circumstances shall I touch that pound."

The priest was found out, and became disconcerted; but the matter was coming to a point, and he might as well have it out.

"Why do you lay such an emphasis upon the word that?" said he. "It is a very good one," he added, laughing.

"Well, Father Farrell, I am always ready and willing to answer you any questions you may choose to ask me, for you are always discreet and considerate. Of course I must always answer any questions you have a right to ask; but you have no right to probe me now."

"Certainly not, Emon, but you know a counsel's no command."

"Your counsel, Father Farrell, is always good, and almost amounts to a command. I beg your pardon, if I have spoken hastily."

"Emon, my good young friend, and I will add, my dear young friend, I do not wish to probe you upon any subject you are not bound to give me your confidence upon; but why did you lay such an emphasis just now on the word that? If you do not wish to answer me, you need not do so. But you must take this pound-note. You see I can lay an emphasis as well as you when I think it is required."

"No, Father Farrell. If the note was your own, I might take the loan of it, and work it in with you, or pay you when I earned it. But I do not think it is: there is the truth for you, Father Farrell."

"I see how it is, Emon, and you are very proud. However, the truth is, the pound was sent to me anonymously for you from a friend."

"She might as well have signed her name in full," said Emon, sadly, "for any loss that I can be at upon the subject--or perhaps you yourself, Father Farrell."

"Well, I was at no loss, I confess. But you were to know nothing about it, Emon; only you were so sharp. {100} There is no fear that your intellects have been injured by the blow, at all events. It was meant kindly, Emon, and I think you ought to take it--here."

"You think so, Father Farrell?"

"I do; indeed I do, Emon."

"Give it me, then," he said, taking it; and before Father Farrell's face he pressed it to his lips. He then got a pen and ink, and wrote something upon it. It was nothing but the date; he wanted no memorandum of anything else respecting it. But he would hardly have written even that, had he intended to make use of it.

The priest stood up to leave. He knew more than he chose to tell Emon-a-knock. But there was an amicable smile upon his lips as he held out his hand to bid him goodby.

Oh, the suspicion of a heart that loves!

"Father Farrell," he said, still holding the priest's hand, "is this the note, the very note, the identical note, she sent me?"

"Yes, Emon; I would not deceive you about it. It is the very note; which, I fear," he added, "is not likely to be of much use to you."

"Why do you say that, Father Farrell? You shall one day see the contrary."

"Because you seem to me rather inclined to 'huxter it up,' as we say, than to make use of it. Believe me, that was not the intention it was sent with; oh, no, Emon; it was sent with the hope that it might be of some use, and not to be hoarded up through any morbid sentimentality."

"Give me one instead of it. Father Farrell, and keep this one until I can redeem it."

"I have not got another, Emon; pounds are not so plenty with me."

"And yet you would have persuaded me just now that it was your own and that you could afford to bestow it upon me!"

"Pardon me, Emon, I would not have persuaded you; I was merely silent upon the subject until your suspicions made you cross-examine me. I was then plain enough with you. I used no deceit; and I now tell you plainly that if you take this pound-note, you ought to use it; otherwise you will give her who sent it very just cause for annoyance."

"Then it shall be as she wishes and as you advise, Father Farrell. I cannot err under your guidance. I shall use it freely and with gratitude; but you need not tell her that I know who sent it."

"Do you think that I am an aumadhawn, Emon? The very thing she was anxious to avoid herself. I shall never speak to her, perhaps, upon the subject."

The priest then left him with a genuine and hearty blessing, which could not fail of a beneficial influence.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter XXVII

The priest had been a true prophet and a good doctor, and perhaps it was well for all parties concerned that the dispensary M.D. had been dispensed with. Emon now recovered his strength every day more and more. The wound in his head had completely healed. There was scarcely a mark left of where it had been, unless you blew his beautiful soft hair aside, when a slight hard ridge was just perceptible. Father Farrell had procured him a permanent job of some weeks, at rather an increase of wages from what was "going" at the time, for the spring business was now over and work was slack. But a gentleman who had recently purchased a small property in that part of the country, and intended to reside, had commenced alterations in the laying-out of the grounds about his "mansion;" and meeting Father Farrell one day, asked him if he could recommend a smart, handy man for a tolerably long job. There would be a good deal of "skinning" and cutting of sods, {101} levelling hillocks, and filling up hollows, and wheeling of clay. For the latter portion of the work, the man should have help. What he wanted was a tasty, handy fellow, who would understand quickly what was required as it was explained to him.

Father Farrell, as the gentleman said all this, thought that he must have actually had Emon-a-knock in his mind's eye. He was the very man on every account, and the priest at once recommended him. This job would soon make up for all the time poor Emon had lost with his broken head. And for his intelligence and taste Father Farrell had gone bail. Thus it was that Emon after all had not broken the pound-note, but, in spite of the priest, had hoarded it as a trophy of Winny's love.

Emon would have had a rather long walk every morning to his work, and the same in the evening after it was over. But Mr. D---- on the very first interview with young Lennon, was sharp enough to find out his value as a rural engineer, and, for his own sake as well as Lennon's, he made arrangements that he should stop at a tenant's house, not far from the scene of his landscape-gardening, which was likely to last for some time. Mr. D---- was not a man who measured a day's work by its external extent. He looked rather to the manner of its accomplishment, and would not allow the thing to be "run over." He did not care for the expense; what he wanted was to have the thing well done; and he gave Father Farrell great credit for his choice in a workman. If he liked the job when it was finished, he did not say but that he would give Lennon a permanent situation, as overseer, at a fixed salary. But up to this time he had not seen, nor even heard of, Winny Cavana, except what had been implied to his heart by the priest's pound-note. He was further now from Rathcash chapel than ever; nevertheless he would show himself there, "God willing," next Sunday. What was Tom Murdock's surprise and chagrin on the following Sunday to observe "that confounded whelp" on the road before him, as he went to prayers--looking, too, better dressed, and as well and handsome as ever! He thought he had "put a spoke in his wheel" for the whole summer at the least; and before that was over, he had determined to have matters irrevocably clinched if not settled with Miss Winifred Cavana.

After what manner this was to be accomplished was only known to himself and three others, associates in his villany.

The matter had been already discussed in all its bearings. All the arguments in favor of, and opposed to, its success had been exhausted, and the final result was, that the thing should be done, and was only waiting a favorable opportunity to be put in practice. Some matters of detail, however, had to be arranged, which would take some time; but as the business was kept "dark" there was no hurry. Tom Murdock's secret was safe in the keeping of his coadjutors, whose "oath of brotherhood" bound them not only to inviolable silence, but to their assistance in carrying out his nefarious designs.

The sight of young Lennon once more upon the scene gave a spur to Tom's plans and determination. He had hoped that that "accidental tip" which he had given him would at least have had the effect of reducing him in circumstances and appearance, and have kept him in his own parish. He knew that Lennon was depending upon his day's wages for even the sustenance of life; that there was a family of at least four beside himself to support; and he gloated himself over the idea that a month or six weeks' sick idleness, recovering at best when there was no work to be had, would have left "that whelp" in a condition almost unpresentable even at his own parish chapel. What was his mortification, therefore, when he now beheld young Lennon before him on the road!

{102}

"By the table of war," he said in his heart, "this must hasten my plans! I cannot permit an intimacy to be renewed in that quarter. I must see my friends at once."

Winny Cavana, although she had not seen Emon-a-knock since the accident, had taken care to learn through her peculiar resources how "the poor fellow was getting on." Her friend Kate Mulvey was one of these resources.

Although it has not yet oozed out in this story, it is necessary that it should now do so: Phil M'Dermott, then, was a great admirer of Kate Mulvey. He was one of those who advocated an interchange of parishioners in the courting line. He did not think it fair that "exclusive dealing" should be observed in such cases.

Now, useless as it was, and forlorn as had been hitherto the hope, Phil M'Dermott, like all true lovers, could not keep away from his cold-hearted Kate. It was a satisfaction to him at all events "to be looking at her;" and somehow since Emon's accident she seemed more friendly and condescending in her manner to poor Phil. It will be remembered that Phil M'Dermott was a great friend of Emon-a-knock's, and it may now be said that he was a near neighbor. It was natural, then, that Kate Mulvey should find out all about Emon from him, and "have word" for Winny when they met. This was one resource, and Father Farrell, as he sometimes passed Kate's door, was another. Father Farrell could guess very well, notwithstanding Kate's careless manner of asking, that his information would not rest in her own breast, and gave it as fully and satisfactorily as he could.

Kate Mulvey, however, "would not for the world" say a word to either Phil M'Dermott or Father Farrell which could be construed as coming from Winny Cavana to Emon-a-knock; she had Winny's strict orders to that effect. But Kate felt quite at liberty to make any remarks she chose, as coming from herself.

Poor Emon, upon this his first occasion of, it may be said, appearing in public after his accident, was greeted, after prayers were over, with a genuine cordiality by the Rathcash boys, and several times interfered with in his object of "getting speech" of Winny Cavana, who was some distance in advance, in consequence of these delays.

But Winny was not the girl to be frustrated by any unnecessary prudery on such an occasion.

"Father," she said, "there's Emon at our chapel to-day for the first time since he was hurt. Let us not be behindhand with the neighbors to congratulate him on his recovery. I see all the Rathcash people are glad to see him."

"And so they ought, Winny; I'm glad you told me he was here, for I did not happen to see him. Stand where you are until he comes up." And the old man stood patiently for some minutes while Emon's friends were expressing their pleasure at his reappearance.

Winny had kept as clear as possible of Tom Murdock since the accident at the hurling match; so much so that he could not but know it was intentional.

Tom had remarked during prayers that Winny's countenance had brightened up wonderfully when young Lennon came into the chapel, and took a quiet place not far inside the door; for he had been kept outside by the kind inquiries of his friends until the congregation had become pretty throng. He had observed too, for he was on the watch, that Winny's eyes had often wandered in the direction of the door up to the time when "that whelp" had entered; but from that moment, when he had observed the bright smile light up her face, she had never turned them from the officiating priest and the altar.

Tom had not ventured to walk home with Winny from the chapel for some Sundays past, nor would he to-day. What puzzled him not a little was what his line of conduct ought to be with respect to Lennon, whom he had not seen since the accident. His course {103} was, however, taken after a few moments' reflection. He did not forget that on the occasion of the blow he had exhibited much sympathy with the sufferer, and had declared it to have been purely accidental. He should keep up that character of the affair now, or make a liar of himself, both as to the past and his feelings.

"Beside," thought he, "I may so delay him that Miss Winifred cannot have the face to delay for him so long."

Just then, as Emon had emancipated himself from the cordiality of three or four young men, and was about to step out quickly to where he saw Winny and her father standing on the road, Tom came up.

"Ah, Lennon!" he said, stretching out his hand, "I am glad to see you in this part of the country again. I hope you are quite recovered."

"Quite, thank God," said Emon, pushing by without taking his hand. "But I see Winny and her father waiting on the road, and I cannot stop to talk to you;" and he strode on. Emon left out the "Cavana" in the above sentence on purpose, because he knew the familiarity its omission created would vex Tom Murdock.

"Bad luck to your impudence, you conceited cub, you!" was Murdock's mental ejaculation as he watched the cordial greeting between him and Winny Cavana, to say nothing of her father, who appeared equally glad to see him.

Phil M'Dermott had come for company that day with Emon, and had managed to join Kate Mulvey as they came out of chapel. She had her eyes about her, and saw very well how matters had gone so far. For the first time in her life she noticed the scowl on Tom Murdock's brow as she came toward him.

"God between us and harm, but he looks wicked this morning!" thought she; and she was almost not sorry when he turned suddenly round and walked off without waiting for her so much as to "bid him the time of day."

"That's more of it," said Tom to himself. "There is that one now taking up with that tinker."

He felt something like the little boy who said, "What! will nobody come and play with me?" But Tom did not, like him, become a good boy after that.

He watched the Cavanas and Lennon, who had not left the spot where Lennon came up with them until they were joined by Kate And Phil M'Dermott, when they all walked on together, chatting and laughing as if nobody in the world was wicked or unhappy.

He dodged them at some distance, and was not a little surprised to see the whole party-"the whelp," "the tinker," and all--turn up the lane and go into Cavana's house.

"That will do," said he; "I must see my friends this very night, and before this day fortnight we'll see who will win the trick."

Emon-a-knock and Phil M'Dermott actually paid a visit to old Ned Cavana's that Sunday. Tom Murdock had seen them going in, and he minuted them by his silver hunting-watch--for he had one. His eye wandered from the door to his watch, and from his watch to the door, as if he were feeling the pulse of their visit. He thought he had never seen Kate Mulvey looking so handsome, or Phil M'Dermott so clean or so well-dressed.

But it mattered not. If Kate was a Venus, Tom will carry out his plans with respect to Winny, and let Phil M'Dermott work his own point in that other quarter. Not that he cared much for Winny herself, but he wanted her farm, and he hated "that whelp Lennon."

They remained just twenty-five minutes in old Cavana's; this for Kate Mulvey was nothing very wonderful, but for two young men--neither of whom had ever darkened his doors before--Tom thought it rather a long visit.

{104}

There they were now, going down the lane together, laughing and chatting, all three seemingly in good humor.

Cranky and out of temper as he was, Tom's observation was correct in more matters than one, Phil M'Dermott was particularly well-dressed on this occasion, his first visit to Rathcash chapel. Perhaps after to-day he may be oftener there than at his own.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter XXVIII

Perhaps there was nothing extraordinary, after the encouragement which Emon had met with upon his first appearance at Rathcash chapel after "the accident," if he found it pleasanter to "overtake mass" there than to come in quietly at Shanvilla. The walk did him good. Be this as it may, he was now a regular attendant at a chapel which was a mile and a half further from his home than his own.

Two Sundays had now come round since Tom Murdock had seen the reception which "that whelp" had met with from the Cavanas, not only as he came out of the chapel, but in asking him up to the house, and, he supposed, giving him luncheon; for the visits had been repeated each successive Sunday. Then that fellow M'Dermott had also come to their chapel, and he and Kate Mulvey had also gone up with the Cavanas. This was now the third Sunday on which this had taken place; and not only Winny herself, but her father seemed to acquiesce in bringing it about.

Tom's fortnight had passed by, and he had not "won the trick," as he had threatened to do. "Well," thought he, "it cannot be done in a minute. I have been dealing the cards, and, contrary to custom, the dealer shall lead beside; and that soon."

Winny's happy smile was now so continuous and so gratifying to her father's heart, that if he had not become altogether reconciled to an increased intimacy with Edward Lennon, he had at all events become a convert to her dislike to Tom Murdock, and no mistake.

In spite of all his caution, one or two matters had crept out as to his doings, and had come to old Ned's ears in such a way that no doubt could remain on his mind of their veracity. He began to give Winny credit for more sharpness than he had been inclined to do; and it crossed his mind once that, if Winny was not mistaken about Tom Murdock's villany, she might not be mistaken either about anybody else's worth. The thought had not individualized itself as yet. In the meantime young Lennon's quiet and natural manner, his unvarying attention and respect for the old man himself, and his apparent carelessness for Winny's private company, grew upon old Ned insensibly; and it was now almost as a fixed rule that he paid a Sunday visit after mass at Rathcash, the old man putting his hand upon his shoulder, and facing him toward the house at the end of the lane, saying, "Come, Edward Lennon, the murphys will be teemed by the time we get up, and no one can fault our bacon or our butter."

"My butter, Emon," said Winny on one occasion, at a venture.

Her father looked at her. But there was never another word about it.

All this was anything but pleasing to Tom Murdock, who always sulkily dogged them at some distance behind.

Now we shall not believe that Emon-a-knock was such a muff, or Winny Cavana such a prude, as to suppose that no little opportunity was seized upon for a kind soft word between them unknownt. Nor shall we suppose that Kate Mulvey, who was always of the party, was such a marplot as to obstruct such a happy casualty, should it occur, particularly if Phil was to the fore.

Emon's careless, loud laugh along the road, as he escorted Kate to her own door, gave evidence that his heart was light and that (as Kate thought, though she did not question him) {105} matters were on the right road for him. Winny, too, when they met, was so happy, and so different from what for a while she had been, that Kate, although she did not question her either, guessed that all was right with her too.

Matters, as they now seemed to progress, and he watched them close, were daggers to Tom Murdock's heart. He had seen Winny Cavana, on more than one evening, leave the house and take the turn toward Kate Mulvey's. On these occasions he had the meanness and want of spirit to watch her movements; and although he could not satisfy himself that young Lennon came to meet her, he was not quite satisfied that he did not.

Winny invariably turned into Kate Mulvey's, and remained for a long visit. Might not "that hound" be there?--Tom sometimes varied his epithets--might it not be a place of assignation? This was but the suspicion of a low, mean mind like Tom Murdock's.

The fact is, since Tom's threat about "winning the trick" he had been rather idle. His game was not one which could be played out by correspondence--he was too cunning for that--and the means which he would be obliged to adopt were not exactly ready at his hand. He saw that matters were not pressing in another quarter yet, if ever they should press, and he would "ride a waiting race," and win unexpectedly. Thus the simile of Tom's thoughts still took their tone from the race-course, and he would "hold hard" for another bit. Circumstances, however, soon occurred which made him "push forward toward the front" if he had any hope "to come in first."

Edward Lennon having finished his "landscape gardening" at Mr. D----s, and the overseership being held over for the present, had got another rather long job, on the far part of Ned Cavana's farm, in laying out and cutting drains, where the land required reclaiming. He had shown so much taste and intelligence, in both planning and performing, that old Ned was quite delighted with him, and began to regret "that he had not known his value as an agricultural laborer long before." There was one other at least--if not two--who sympathized in that regret. At all events, there he was now every day up to his hips in dirty red clay, scooping it up from the bottom of little drains more than three feet deep, in a long iron scoop with a crooked handle. This job was at the far end of Ned's farm, and, in coming to his work, Lennon need hardly come within sight of the house, for the work lay in the direction of Shanvilla. Emon did not "quit work" until it was late; he was then in anything but visiting trim, if such a thing were even possible. He, therefore, saw no more of Winny on account of the job than if he had been at work on the Giant's Causeway. But a grand object had been attained, nevertheless--he was working for Ned Cavana, and had given him more than satisfaction in the performance of the job, and on one occasion old Ned had called him "Emon-a-wochal," a term of great familiarity. This was a great change for the better. If young Lennon had been as well acquainted with racing phraseology as Tom Murdock, he also would have thought that he would "make a waiting race of it." But the expression of his thoughts was that he "would bide his time."

The Sundays, however, were still available, and Emon did not lose the chance. He now because so regular an attendant at Rathcash chapel, and went up so regularly with old Ned and his daughter after prayers, that it was no wonder if people began to talk.

"I donna what Tom Murdock says to all this, Bill," said Tim Fahy to a neighbor, on the road from the chapel.

"The sorra wan of me knows, Tim, but I hear he isn't over-well plaised."

"Arrah, what id he be plaised at? Is it to see a Shanvilla boy, without a cross, intherlopin' betune him an' his bachelor?"

"Well, they say he needn't be a bit afeared, Lennon is a very good workman, {106} and undherstan's dhrainin', an' ould Ned's cute enough to get a job well done; but he'd no more give his daughter with her fine fortin' to that chap, than he'd throw her an' it into the say--b'lieve you me."

"There's some very heavy cloud upon Tom this while back, any way; and though he keeps it very close, there's people thinks it's what she refused him."

"The sorra fear iv her, Tim; she has more sinse nor that."

"Well, riddle me this, Bill. What brings that chap here Sunda' afther Sunda', and what takes him up to ould Ned Cavana's every Sunda' afther mass? He is a very good-lookin' young fellow, an' knows a sheep's head from a sow's ear, or Tim Fahy's a fool."

"Och badhershin, doesn't he go up to walk home wid Kate Mulvey, for she's always iv the party?"

"And badhershin yourself, Bill, isn't Phil M'Dermott always to the fore for Kate?--another intherloper from Shanvilla. I donna what the sorra the Rathcash boys are about."

Other confabs of a similar nature were carried on by different sets as they returned from prayers, and saw the Cavanas with their company turn up the lane toward the house. The young girls of the district, too, had their chats upon the subject; but they were so voluble, and some of them so ill-natured, that I forbear to give the reader any specimen of their remarks. One or two intimate associates of Tom ventured to quiz him upon the state of affairs. Now none but an intimate friend, indeed, of Tom's should have ventured, under the circumstances, to have touched upon so sore a subject, and those who did, intimate as they were, did not venture to repeat the joke. No, it was no joke; and that they soon found out. To one friend who had quizzed him privately he said, "Suspend your judgment, Denis; and if I don't prove myself more than a match for that half-bred kiout, then condemn me."

But to another, who had quizzed him before some bystanders in rather a ridiculous point of view, he turned like a bull-terrier, while his face assumed a scowl of a peculiarly unpleasant character.

"It is no business of yours," he said, "and I advise you to mind your own affairs, or perhaps I'll make you."

The man drew in his horns, and sneaked off, of course; and from that moment they all guessed that the business had gone against Tom, and they left off quizzing.

Tom felt that he had been wrong, and had only helped to betray himself. His game now was to prevent, if possible, any talk about the matter, one way or the other, until his plans should be matured, when he doubted not that success would gain him the approbation of every one, no matter what the means.

The preface to his plans was, to spread a report that he had gone back to Armagh to get married to a girl with an immense fortune, and he endorsed the report by the fact of his leaving home; but whether to Armagh or not, was never clearly known.

Young Lennon went on with his job, at which old Ned told him "to take his time, an' do it well. It was not," he said, "like digging a plot, which had to be dug every year, or maybe twice. When it was wance finished and covered up, there it was; worse nor the first day, if it was not done right; so don't hurry it over, Emon-a-wochal. I don't mind the expense; ground can't be dhrained for nothin', an' it id be a bad job if we were obliged to be openin' any of the dhrains a second time, an' maybe not know where the stoppage lay; so take your time, and don't blame me if you botch it."

"You need not fear, sir," said Lennon. (He always said "sir" as yet.) "You need not fear; if every drain of them does not run like the stream from Tubbernaltha, never give me a day's work again."

{107}

"As far as you have gone, Emon, I think they are complate; we'll have forty carts of stones in afore Saturda' night. I hope you have help enough, boy."

"Plenty, sir, until we begin to cover in."

"Wouldn't you be able for that yourself? or couldn't you bring your father with you? I'd wish to put whatever I could in your way."

"Thank you, sir, very much. I will do so if I want more help; but for the lucre of keeping up his wages and mine, I would not recommend you to lose this fine weather in covering in the drains."

"You are an honest boy, Emon, and I like your way of talkin', as well as workin'; plaise God we won't see you or your father idle."

Up to this it will be seen that Emon was not idle in any sense of the word. He was ingratiating himself, but honestly, into the good graces of old Ned; "if he was not fishing, he was mending his nets;" and the above conversation will show that he was not a dance at that same.

It happened, upon one or two occasions, that old Ned was with Emon at leaving off work in the evening, and he asked him to "cum' up to the house and have a dhrink of beer, or whiskey-and-wather, his choice."

But Emon excused himself, saying he was no fit figure to go into any decent man's parlor in that trim, and indeed his appearance did not belie his words; for he was spotted and striped with yellow clay, from his head and face to his feet, and the clothes he brought to the work were worth nothing.

"Well, you'll not be always so, Emon, when you're done wid the scoopin'," said old Ned; and he added, laughing, "The divil a wan o' me'd know you to be the same boy I seen cumin' out o' mass a Sunda'."

Emon had heard, as everybody else had heard, that Tom Murdock had left home, and he felt as if an incubus had been lifted off his heart. Not that he feared Tom in any one way; but he knew that his absence would be a relief to Winny, and, as such, a relief to himself.

Emon was now as happy as his position and his hopes permitted him to be; and there can be little doubt but this happiness arose from an understanding between himself and Winny; but how, when, or where that understanding had been confirmed, it would be hard to say.

Old Ned's remarks to his daughter respecting young Lennon were nuts and apples to her. She knew the day would come, and perhaps at no far distant time, when she must openly avow, not only a preference for Emon, but declare an absolute determination to cast her lot with his, and ask her father's blessing upon them. She was aware that this could not, that it ought not to, be hurried. She hoped--oh, how fervently she hoped!--that the report of Tom Murdock's marriage might be true: that of his absence from home she knew to be so. In the meantime it kept the happy smile for ever on her lips to know that Emon was daily creeping into the good opinion of her father. Oh! how could Emon, her own Emon, fail, not only to creep but to rush into the good opinion, the very heart, of all who knew him? Poor enthusiastic Winny! But she was right. With the solitary exception of Tom Murdock, there was not a human being who knew him who did not love Edward Lennon. But where is the man with Tom Murdock's heart, and in Tom Murdock's place, who would not have hated him as he did?

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter XXIX

Tom Murdock, seeing that his hopes by fair means were completely at an end, and that matters were likely to progress in another quarter at a rate which made it advisable not to let the leading horse get too far ahead, {108} determined to make a rush to the front, no matter whether he went the wrong side of a post or not--let that be settled after.

He had left home, and left a report behind him, which he took care to have industriously circulated, that he had gone to Armagh, and was about to be married to "a young lady" with a large fortune, and that he would visit the metropolis, Fermanagh, and perhaps Sligo, before he returned. But he did not go further than an obscure public-house in a small village in the lower part of the county of Cavan. There he met the materials for carrying out his plan. The object of it was shortly this--to carry away Winny Cavana by force, and bring her to a friend's house in the mountains behind the village adverted to. Here he was to have an old buckle-beggar at hand to marry them the moment Winny's spirit was broken to consent. This man, a degraded clergyman, as the report went, wandered about the country in green spectacles and a short, black cloak, always ready and willing to perform such a job; doubly willing and ready for this particular one from the reward which Tom had promised him. If even the marriage ceremony should fail, either through Winny's obstinacy or the clergyman's want of spirit to go through with it in the face of opposition, still he would keep her for ten days or a fortnight at this friend's house, stopping there himself too; and at the end of that time, should he fail in obtaining her consent, he would quit the country for a while, and allow her to return home "so blasted in character" that even "that whelp" would disown her. There was a pretty specimen of a lover--a husband!

It was now the end of June. The weather had been dry for some time, and the nights were clear and mild; the stars shone brightly, and the early dawn would soon present a heavy dew hanging on the bushes and the grass. The moon was on the wane; but at a late hour of the night it was conspicuous in the heavens, adding a stronger light to that given by the clearness of the sky and the brilliancy of the stars.

Rathcash and Rathcashmore were sunk in still repose; and if silence could be echoed, it was echoed by the stillness of the mountains behind Shanvilla and beyond them. The inhabitants of the whole district had long since retired to rest, and now lay buried in sleep, some of them in confused dreams of pleasure and delight.

The angel of the dawn was scarcely yet awake, or he might have heard the sound of muffled horses' feet and muffled wheels creeping along the road toward the lane turning up to Rathcash house, about two hours before day; and he must have seen a man with a dark mask mounted on another muffled horse at a little distance from the cart.

Presently Tom Murdock--there is no use in simulating mystery where none exists--took charge of the horse and cart to prevent them from moving, while three men stole up toward the house. Ay, there is Bully-dhu's deep bark, and they are already at the door.

"That dog! he'll betray us, boys," said one of the men.

"I'd blow his brains out if this pistol was loaded," said another; "and I wanted Tom to give me a cartridge."

"He wouldn't let any one load but himself, and he was right; a shot would be twiste as bad as the dog; beside, he's in the back yard, and cannot get out. Never heed him, but to work as fast as possible."

Old Ned Cavana and Winny heard not only the dog, but the voices. Winny's heart foretold the whole thing in a moment, and she braced her nerves for the scene.

The door was now smashed in, and the three men entered. By this time old Ned had drawn on his trousers; and as he was throwing his coat over his head to got his arms into the sleeves he was seized, and ere you could count ten he was pinioned, with his arms behind him and his legs tied {109} at the ankles, and a handkerchief tied across his mouth. Thus rendered perfectly powerless, he was thrown back upon the bed, and the room-door locked. Jamesy Doyle, who slept in the barn, had heard the crash of the door, and dressed himself in "less than no time," let Bully-dhu out of the yard, and brought him to the front door, in at which he rushed like a tiger. But Jamesy Doyle did not go in. That was not his game; but he peeped in at the window. No light had been struck, so he could make nothing of the state of affairs inside, except from the voices; and from what he heard he could make no mistake as to the object of this attack. He could not tell whether Tom Murdock was in the house or not, but he did not hear his voice. One man said, "Come, now, be quick, Larry; the sooner we're off with her the better."

Jamesy waited for no more; he turned to the lane as the shortest way, but at a glance he saw the horse and cart and the man on horseback on the road outside; and turning again he darted off across the fields as fast as his legs could carry him.

Bully-dhu, having gained access to the house, showed no disposition to compromise the matter. "No quarter!" was his cry, as he flew at the nearest man to him, and seizing him by the throat, brought him to the ground with a sough, where in spite of his struggles, he held him fast with a silent, deadly grip. He had learned this much, at least, by his encounter with the mastiff on New Year's day.

Careless of their companion's strait, who they thought ought to be able to defend himself, the other two fellows--and powerful fellows they were--proceeded to the bed-room to their left; they had locked the door to their right, leaving poor old Ned tied and insensible on the bed. Winny was now dressed and met them at the door.

"Are you come to commit murder?" she cried, as they stopped her in the doorway; "or have you done it already? Let me to my father's room."

"The sorra harm on him, miss, nor the sorra take the hair of his head well hurt no more nor your own. Come, put on your bonnet an' cloak, an' come along wid us; them's our ordhers."

"You have a master, then. Where is he? where is Tom Murdock?--I knew Tom Murder should have been his name. Where is he, I say?"

"Come, come, no talk; but on wid your bonnet and cloak at wanst."

"Never; nor shall I ever leave this house except torn from it by the most brutal force. Where is your master, I say? Is he afraid of the rope himself which he would thus put round your necks?"

"Come, come, on wid your bonnet an' cloak, or, be the powers, we'll take you away as you are."

"Never; where is your master, I say?"

"Come, Larry, we won't put up wid any more of her pillaver; out wid the worsted."

Here Biddy Murtagh rushed in to her mistress's aid; but she was soon overpowered and tied "neck and heels," as they called it, and thrown upon Winny's bed. They had the precaution to gag her also with a handkerchief, that she might not give the alarm, and they locked the door like that at the other end of the house.

Larry, whoever he was, then pulled a couple of skeins of coarse worsted from his pocket, while his companion seized Winny round the waist, outside her arms; and the other fellow, who seemed expert, soon tied her feet together, and then her hands. A thick handkerchief was then tied across her mouth.

"Take care to lave plenty of braithin' room out iv her nose, Larry," said the other ruffian; and, thus rendered unable to move or scream, they carried her to the road and laid her on the car. The horseman in the mask asked them where the third man was, and they replied that he must have {110} "made off" from the dog, for that they neither saw nor heard him after the dog flew at him.

This was likely enough. He was the only man of the party in whom Tom Murdock could not place the most unbounded confidence.

"The cowardly rascal," he said. "We must do without him."

But he had not made off from the dog.

The cart was well provided--to do Tom Murdock justice--with a feather-bed over plenty of straw, and plenty of good covering to keep out the night air. They started at a brisk trot, still keeping the horses' feet and the wheels muffled; and they passed down the road where the reader was once caught at a dog-fight.

But to return, for a few minutes, to Rathcash house. Bully-dhu was worth a score of old Ned Cavana, even supposing him to have been at liberty, and free of the cords by which he was bound. The poor old man had worked the handkerchief by which he had been gagged off his mouth, by rubbing it against the bed-post. He had then rolled himself to the door; but further than that he was powerless, except to ascertain, by placing his chin to the thumb-latch, for he had got upon his feet, that it was fastened outside. He then set up a lamentable demand for help--upon Winny, upon Biddy Murtagh, and upon Bully-dhu. The dog was the only one who answered him, with a smothered growl, for he still held fast by the grip he had taken of the man's throat. Poor Bully! you need not have been so pertinacious of that grip--the man has been dead for the last ten minutes! Finding that it was indeed so, from the perfect stillness of the man, Bully-dhu released his hold, and lay licking his paws and keeping up an angry growl, in answer to the old man's cries.

We must leave them and follow Jamesy Doyle across the fields, and see if it was cowardice that made him run so fast from the scene of danger. Ah, no! Jamesy was not that sort of a chap at all. He was plucky as well as true to the heart's core. Nor was his intelligence and judgment at fault for a moment as to the best course for him to adopt. Seeing the fearful odds of three stout men against him, he knew that he could do better than to remain there, to be tied "neck and crop" like the poor old man and Biddy. So, having brought Bully-dhu round and given him 'his cue, he started off, and never drew breath until he found himself outside Emon-a-knock's window at Shanvilla, on his way to the nearest police station.

"Are you there, Emon?" said he, tapping at it.

"Yes," Emon replied from his bed; "who are you, or what do you want?"

"Jamesy Doyle from Rathcash house. Get up at wanst! They have taken away Miss Winny."

"Great heaven I do you say so? Here, father, get up in a jiffy and dress yourself. They have taken away Winny Cavana, and we must be off to the rescue like a shot. Come in, Jamesy, my boy." And while they were "drawing on" their clothes, they questioned him as to the particulars.

But Jamesy had few such to give them, as the reader knows; for, like a sensible boy, he was off for help without waiting for particulars.

The principal point, however, was to know what road they had taken. Upon this Jamesy was able to answer with some certainty, for ere he had started finally off, he had watched them, and he had seen the cart move on under the smothered cries of Winny; and he heard the horseman say, "Now, boys, through the pass between 'the sisters.'"

"They took the road to the left from the end of the lane, that's all I know; so let you cut across the country as fast as you can, an' you'll be at Boher before them. Don't delay me now, for I must go on to the police station an' hurry out the sargent {111} and his men; if you can clog them at the bridge till I cam' up with the police, all will be rights an' we'll have her back wid us. I know very well if I had a word wid Miss Winny unknown to the men, she would have sent me for the police; but I took you in my way--it wasn't twenty perch of a round."

"Thank you, Jamesy, a thousand times! There, be off to the sergeant as fast as you can; tell him you called here, and that I have calculated everything in my mind, and for him and his men to make for Boher-na-Milthiogue bridge as fast as possible. There, be off, Jamesy, and I'll give you a pound-note if the police are at the bridge before Tom Murdock comes through the pass with the cart."

"You may keep your pound, man! I'd do more nor that for Miss Winny." And he was out of sight in a moment.

The father and son were now dressed, and, arming themselves with two stout sticks, they did not "let the grass grow under their feet." They hurried on until they came to the road turning down to where we have indicated that our readers were once caught at a dog-fight. Here Emon examined the road as well as he could by the dim light which prevailed, and found the fresh marks of wheels. He could scarcely understand them. They were not like the tracks of any wheels he had ever seen before, and there were no tracks of horses' feet at all, although Jamesy had said there was a horseman beside the horse and cart.

Emon soon put down these unusual appearances--and he could not well define them for want of light--to some cunning device of Tom Murdock; and how right he was!

"Come on, father," said he. "I am quite certain they have gone down here. I know Tom Murdock has plenty of associates in the county Cavan, and the pass between 'the sisters' is the shortest way he can take. Beside, Jamesy heard him say the words. Our plan must be to cut across the country and get to Milthiogue bridge before they get through the pass and so escape us. What say you, father--are you able and willing to push on, and to stand by me? Recollect the odds that are against us, and count the cost."

"Emon, I'll count nothing; but I'll--

"Here, father, in here at this gap, and across by the point of Mullagh hill beyond; we must get to Boher before them."

"I'll count no cost, Emon, I was going to tell you. I'm both able and willing, thank God, to stand by you. You deserve it well of me, and so do the Cavanas. God forbid I should renuage my duty to you and them! Aren't ye all as wan as the same thing to me now?"

Emon now knew that his father knew all about Winny and him.

"Father," said he, "that is a desperate man, and he'll stop at nothing."

"Is it sthrivin' to cow me you are, Emon?"

"No, father; but you saw the state my mother was in as we left."

"Yes, I did, and why wouldn't she? But shure that should not stop us when we have right on our side; an' God knows what hoult, or distress, that poor girl is in, or what that villain may do to her; an' what state would your mother be in if you were left a desolate madman all your life through that man's wickedness?"

These were stout words of his father, and almost assured Emon that all would be well.

"Father," he continued, "if we get to the bridge before them, and can hold it for half an hour, or less, the police will be up with Jamesy Doyle, and we shall be all right."

The conversation was now so frequently interrupted in getting over ditches and through hedges, and they had said so much of what they had to say, that they were nearly quite silent for the rest of the way, except where Emon pointed out to his father the easiest place to get over a ditch, or through a hedge, or up the face of a {112} hill. Both their hearts were evidently in their journey. No less the father's than the son's: the will made the way.

The dappled specks of red had still an hour to slumber ere the dawn awoke, and they had reached the spot; there was the bridge, the Boher-na-Milthiogue of our first chapter, within a stone's throw of them. They crept to the battlement and peered into the pass. As yet no sound of horse or cart, or whispered word, reached their ears.

"They must be some distance off yet, father," said Emon; "thank God! The police will have the more time to be up."

"Should we not hide, Emon?"

"Certainly; and if the police come up before they do, they should hide also. That villain is mounted; and if a strong defence of the pass was shown too soon, he would turn and put spurs to his horse."

As he spoke a distant noise was heard of horses' feet and unmuffled wheels. The muffling had all been taken off as soon as they had reached the far end of the pass between the mountains, and they were now hastening their speed.

"The odds will be fearfully against us, father," said Emon, who now felt more than ever the dangerous position he had placed his father in, and the fearful desolation his loss would cause in his mother's heart and in his home. He felt no fear for himself. "You had better leave Tom himself to me, father. I know he will be the man on horseback. Let you lay hold of the horse's head under the cart, and knock one of the men, or both, down like lightning, if you can. You have your knife ready to cut the cords that tie her?"

"I have, Emon; and don't you fear me; one of them shall tumble at all events, almost before they know that we are on them. I hope I may kill him out an' out; we might then be able for the other two. Do you think Tom is armed?" he added, turning pale. But it was so dark Emon did not see it.

"I am not sure, but I think not He cannot have expected any opposition."

"God grant it, Emon! I don't want to hould you back, but don't be 'fool-hardy,' dear boy."

"Do you want to cow me, father, as you said yourself, just now?"

"No, Emon. But stoop, stoop, here they are."

Crouching behind the battlements of the bridge, these two resolute men waited the approach of the cavalcade. As they came to the mouth of the pass the elder Lennon sprang to the head of the horse under the cart, and, seizing him with his left hand, struck the man who drove such a blow as felled him from the shaft upon which he sat. Emon had already seized the bridle of the horseman who still wore the mask, and pushing the horse backward on his haunches, he made a fierce blow at the rider's head with his stick. But he had darted his heels--spurs he had none--into his horse's sides, which made him plunge forward, rolling Emon on the ground. Forward to the cart the rider then rushed, crying out, "On, on with the cart!" But Lennon's father was still fastened on the horse's head with his left hand, while with his right he was alternately defending himself against the two men, for the first had somewhat recovered, who were in charge of it.

Tom Murdock would have ridden him down also, and turned the battle in favor of a passage through; but Emon had regained his feet, and was again fastened in the horse's bridle, pushing him back on his haunches, hoping to get at the rider's head, for hitherto his blows had only fallen upon his arms and chest. Here Tom Murdock felt the want of the spurs, for his horse did not spring forward with life and force enough upon his assailant.

A fearful struggle now ensued between them. The men at the cart had not yet cleared their way from the {113} desperate opposition given them by old Lennon, who defendant himself ably, and at the same time attacked them furiously. He had not time, however, to cut the cords by which Winny was bound. A single pause in the use of his stick for that purpose would have been fatal. Neither had he been successful in getting beyond his first position at the horse's head. During the whole of this confused attack and defence, poor Winny Cavana, who had managed to shove herself up into a sitting posture in the cart, continued to cry out, "Oh, Tom Murdock, Tom Murdock! even now give me up to these friends and be gone, and I swear there shall never be a word more about it."

But Tom Murdock was not the man either to yield to entreaties, or to be baffled in his purpose. He had waled Edward Lennon with the butt end of his whip about the head and shoulders as well as he could across his horse's head, which Lennon had judiciously kept between them, at times making a jump up and striking at Tom with his stick.

Matters had now been interrupted too long to please Tom Murdock, and darting his heels once more into his horse's sides, he sprang forward, rolling young Lennon on the road again.

"All right now, lads!" he cried; "on, on with the cart!" and he rode at old Lennon, who still held his ground against both his antagonists manfully.

But all was not right. A cry of "The police, the police!" issued from one of the men at the cart, and Jamesy Doyle with four policemen were seen hurrying up the boreen from the lower road.

Perhaps it would be unjust to accuse Tom Murdock of cowardice even then--it was not one of his faults--if upon seeing an accession of four armed policemen he turned to fly, leaving his companions in for it. One of them fled too; but Pat Lennon held the other fast.

As Tom turned to traverse the mountain pass back again at full speed, Lennon, who had recovered himself, sprang like a tiger once more at the horse's head. Now or never he must stay his progress.

Tom Murdock tore the mask from his face, and, pulling a loaded pistol from his breast, he said: "Lennon, it was not my intention to injure you when I saw you first spring up from the bridge to-night; nor will I do so now, if your own obstinacy and foolhardy madness does not bring your doom upon yourself. Let go my horse, or by hell I'll blow your brains out! this shall be no mere tip of the hurl, mind you." And he levelled the pistol at his head, not more than a foot from his face.

"Never, with life!" cried Lennon; and he aimed a blow at Tom's pistol-arm. Ah, fatal and unhappy chance! His stick had been raised to strike Tom Murdock down, and he had not time to alter its direction. Had he struck the pistol-arm upward, it might have been otherwise; but the blow of necessity descended. Tom Murdock fired at the same moment, and the only difference it made was, that instead of his brains having been blown out, the ball entered a little to one side of his left breast.

Lennon jumped three feet from the ground, with a short, sudden shout, and rolled convulsively upon the road, where soon a pool of bloody mud attested the murderous work which had been done.

The angel of the dawn now awoke, as he heard the report of the pistol echoing and reverberating through every recess in the many hearts of Slieve-dhu and Slieve-bawn. Tom Murdock fled at full gallop; and the hearts of the policemen fell as they heard the clattering of his horse's feet dying away in quadruple regularity through the mountain pass.

Jamesy Doyle, who was light of foot and without shoe or stocking, rushed forward, saying, "Sergeant, I'll follow him to the end of the pass, {114} an' see what road he'll take." And he sped onward like a deer.

"Come, Maher," said the sergeant, "we'll pursue, however hopeless. Cotter, let you stop with the prisoner we have and the Young woman; and let Donovan stop with the wounded man, and stop the blood if he can."

Sergeant Driscol and Maher then started at the top of their speed, in the track of Jamesy Doyle, in full pursuit.

There were many turns and twists in the pass between the mountains. It was like a dozen large letter S's strung together.

Driscol stopped for a moment to listen. Jamesy was beyond their ken, round one or two of the turns, and they could not hear the horse galloping now.

"All's lost," said the sergeant; "he's clean gone. Let us hasten on until we meet the boy; perhaps he knows which road he took."

Jamesy had been stooping now and then, and peering into the coming lights to keep well in view the man whom he pursued. Ay, there he was, sure enough; he saw him, almost plainly, galloping at the top of his speed. Suddenly he' heard a crash, and horse and rider rolled upon the ground.

"He's down, thank God!" cried Jamesy, still rushing forward with some hope, and peering into the distance. Presently he saw the horse trot on with his head and tail in the air, without his rider, while a dark mass lay in the centre of the road.

"You couldn't have betther luck, you bloodthirsty ruffian, you!" said Jamesy, who thought that it was heaven's lightning that, in justice, had struck down Tom Murdock; and he maintained the same opinion ever afterward. At present, however, he had not time to philosophize upon the thought, but rushed on.

Soon he came to the dark mass upon the road. It was Tom Murdock who lay there stunned and insensible, but not seriously hurt by the fall. There was nothing of heaven's lightning in the matter at all. It was the common come-down of a stumbling horse upon a bad mountain road; but the result was the same.

Jamesy was proceeding to thank God again, and to tie his legs, when Tom came to.

Jamesy was sorry the man's thrance did not last a little longer, that he might have tied him, legs and arms. With his own handkerchief and suspenders. But he was late now, and not quite sure that Tom Murdock would not murder him also, and "make off afoot."

Here Jamesy thought he heard the hurried step of the police coming round the last turn toward him, and as Tom was struggling to his feet, a bright thought struck him. He "whipt" out a penknife he had in his pocket, and, before Tom had sufficiently recovered to know what he was about, he had cut his suspenders, and given the waist-band of his trousers a slip of the knife, opening it more than a foot down the back.

Tom had now sufficiently recovered to understand what had happened, and to know the strait he was in. He had a short time before seen a man named Wolff play Richard III. in a barn in C.O.S.; and if he did not roar lustily, "A horse, a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" he thought it. But his horse was nearly half a mile away, where a green spot upon the roadside tempted him to delay a little his journey home.

Tom was not yet aware of the approach of the police. He made a desperate swipe of his whip, which he still held in his hand, at the boy, and sprung to his feet. But Jamesy avoided the blow by a side jump, and kept roaring, "Police, police!" at the top of his voice. Tom now found that he had been outwitted by this young boy. He was so hampered by his loose trousers about his heels that he could make no run for it, and soon became the prisoner of Sergeant Driscol and his companion. Well done, Jamesy!

TO BE CONTINUED.

{115}

Translated from Le Monde Catholique.

FREDERICK HURTER.

Frederick Hurter, the illustrious historian of Pope Innocent III., died on the 27th of August, 1865, in Gratz, Austria, in the sevens-eighth year of his age. Of all the great Catholic characters which we have lost during the past year, there were undoubtedly very few who have shed a greater brilliancy on our era, and still our loss has, comparatively, passed unnoticed. Germany has certainly paid some homage to the memory of that great Christian; but outside that country almost general silence has enshrouded his tomb. In France, for example, not more than three or four religious newspapers have devoted to him even a few lines, and these all derived from a common source, and we should not be surprised if many of our own readers should now learn for the first time, from this notice, the death of a man so justly celebrated.

To what, then, have we to ascribe this forgetfulness or indifference? Perhaps a simple comparison of dates will account for it. Hurter died, as we have stated, in the latter part of August, and La Moricière in the early part of the following month. It is therefore natural to conjecture that the memory of the great historian was almost forgotten, or for the time absorbed, in the midst of the extraordinary manifestations and triumphal funeral ceremonies which have honored the remains of the immortal vanquished of Castelfidardo. It must be admitted, however, that such was not just; it would have been better to allow to each his legitimate share of respect, and, without derogating from the glory of La Moricière, render also to Hurter the honor to which he was so justly entitled. Beside, their names were destined to be associated, for both have fought under the same flag, although in a different manner. Both have been the champions of the Papal See, one with his brave sword and the other with his not less brave pen; and both have left magnificent footprints in the religious annals of the nineteenth century.

Another explanation of this apparent neglect, more natural and perhaps more truthful, might be found in the character of Frederick Hurter itself, and in that of his last writings. A long time previous to his death he had achieved the zenith of his fame; the latter part of his long life being devoted to learned studies of undoubted merit and immense advantage, but which have not had the same general attraction as his earlier productions, particularly with the French people. We freely acknowledge that this fact does but little credit to the Catholic mind of France, but it is nevertheless undeniable. A kind of comparative obscurity has covered with us the latter portion of Hurter's life, and this, in our opinion, is the principal reason that the news of his death has not created a deeper sensation in this country.

In order to repair, as far as it lies in our power, this injustice which the Catholics of Germany might well consider unfair or ungrateful, we would like to render, in these few pages, at least a feeble homage to the illustrious dead. We desire to gather together a few of the glorious remembrances which are associated with his name, and, above all, to point out that insatiable love of truth and justice which {116} was the distinguishing feature of his character and which seems to have pervaded his whole being under all circumstances and at all times.

Frederick Emmanuel Hurter was born of Protestant parents on the 19th of May, 1787, in Schaffhausen, Switzerland. His father was prefect of Lugano; his mother remarkable for her intellect as well as for her decision of character, having sprung from the noble family of the Zieglers. When scarcely six years old, the child was deeply moved at hearing an account of the execution of Louis the Sixteenth, and before he had attained the age of twelve years he had conceived such a distaste for the excesses of the revolutionary spirit then prevailing that it seems never to have forsaken him. At this early age he was an eager student of the "History of the Seven Years' War," and declared himself in favor of Maria Theresa and against the King of Prussia. Two years afterward a discussion having arisen between himself, his school-fellows, and his teacher, on the relative merits of Pompey and Caesar, he promptly and energetically took the part of the former, believing that in the character of the latter was to be seen the personification of the revolutionary spirit. These were the first germs of that admirable sense of right which distinguished him on all occasions. There could even then be foreseen in that child the future man destined at some day to be the defender of the most august power in the world.

From his youth upward, and doubtless from the same feeling of being right, he applied himself with marked attention to ascertain the true history of that most misrepresented epoch, the middle ages, its monastic institutions, and its great pontiffs. Of the latter St. Gregory VII. seemed to have most attracted him, and his youthful mind seems to have delighted in comparing him with the great men of ancient Rome.

Having finished his preliminary studies in his native town, Hurter studied in the different classes of theology at the University of Göttingen, whence he obtained his diploma, and, having been first appointed pastor of an obscure village, was soon removed to Schaffhausen.

In 1824 he was appointed chancellor of the consistory; but neither his theological studies nor the duties of his office as pastor, a calling he had embraced through deference for his father rather than from personal inclination, diverted him from the object of his early predilections. Thus, while at Göttingen he found leisure to write a "History of Theodoric, King of the Ostrogoths." It was his first essay as historian, being at the time only twenty years old.

Later he wrote a book on the following subject, proposed by the National Institute of France: "The Civil State during the Government of the Goths, and the Fundamental Principles of the Legislation of Theodoric and his Successors." But this work remained among his manuscripts unpublished. It was at Schaffhausen that he resumed his favorite studies on the middle ages, and completed them. His great attraction was not, as might be expected, Gregory VII., but Innocent III., probably on account of a collection of letters written by that great pontiff, published by Baluze, and which he had formerly bought at public sale at Göttingen. He certainly had not then the remotest idea that that book would at some future day form the foundation of his fame, and the means of a radical change in his Christian and social life. He commenced his book on Innocent III. in 1818, but it was not until 1833 that the first volume appeared. The second was published the year following. In 1835 he became president of the consistory, an office which placed him at the head of the clergy of his district, and which he resigned after fulfilling its duties for six years. He published the third volume of his "History of Pope Innocent" in the meantime, and in {117} 1842 the fourth and last volume was given to the press.

This "History" was not only a great literary success, it was more. It produced a decided revolution in historical science. The effect of it in Switzerland, Germany, and in fact the whole of Europe, was immense. The extraordinary part enacted by that great Pope was seen for the first time in its proper light. By the irresistible logic of facts, Hurler demonstrated how the august institutions of the papacy accomplished its mission with a success which, up to his time, had never been conjectured. Every one became convinced that it was the papacy alone that had mastered and tempered the overwhelming forces of the half-civilized nations of Europe, in order to more eternal and spiritual ends. "Since then," says Hurter himself, in his preface to the third German edition of his first volume, page 21, "a great number of inveterate errors were corrected, many traditional prejudices dissipated, many doubts removed; certain minds drew light therefrom, others found a guide in it, and others attained conviction from its pages. Comparing the present with the past, people became more circumspect in their judgments and less inconsistent in their conclusions, and at last an answer was found to the famous question of the Roman governor, "What is truth?" (Quid est veritas?) "Truth is what is based on the indisputable proofs of history and agrees with the nature of all things." Sebastian Brunner, a distinguished German writer, after reading the "History of Innocent III.," gave the following opinion of its author: "I hold Mr. Hurter to be the greatest of historians; no one previous to him embraces a whole century in so admirable a picture. Hurter is the apostolic historian of the nineteenth century." This apostleship of Frederick Hurter was the more efficient, being exercised by a Protestant, and, what was more, by the president of a consistory. And beside, who would not yield to the testimony of a man whose loyalty and integrity were above all suspicion, and who had made it the rule of his life to observe the most rigid impartiality in all his own views; to seek nothing but the truth, and to honor virtue and merit wherever met, without excepting those who differed from him, so as to neglect nothing in the accomplishment of his task in the most perfect possible manner? His indeed were admirable qualities, particularly when we consider how history was written in those times by writers looked upon as models and masters. But let us not enlarge on this topic; the "History of Innocent" is found in every library; let us rather show how that book earned for its author a reward far greater than mere worldly reputation.

His literary success, and, what was more, the undeniable services he had rendered to the Catholic cause, could not but excite the jealousy and dislike of his fellow Protestants. His "Excursion to Vienna and Presburg," which was published soon after he visited Austria, in 1839, excited their anger to the highest degree. Blinded by their passions, they resolved to put him on trial, so as to find him guilty and so depose him. In his "Exposé of the Motives of his Conversion" he states that they put him the unfair question, "Are you a Protestant at heart?" "This question," he continues, "had no relation whatever with the alleged facts bearing on my public office, but only with my 'History of Innocent III.' and with a visit to Vienna. I refused to answer, because they wanted rather to discover what I disbelieved than what I believed." This refusal excited a violent storm of indignation against him. After trying many times to avert it, and after suffering the most unworthy attacks with patience and fortitude, he seized his pen and fulminated his defense under the following title, "President Hurter and his Pretended Colleagues."

More painful trials still awaited him. Two of his daughters, one immediately after the other, became afflicted with {118} a malady which was soon to deprive him of them, and, while prayers for their recovery were being offered up in all the Catholic convents of Switzerland, his puritanical opponents exhibited the most uncharitable joy, thrusting the dagger of grief still further into a parent's heart. A less energetic character would doubtless have succumbed to such cruel wounds, but Hurter remained true to the maxim of the poet:

"Justum et tenacem propositi virum Non civium ardor, prava jubentium, Non vultus instantis tyranni Mente quatit solida. . ."

"The race of those tyrants is not yet extinct," he somewhere says. "I find still men who desire every one to bow before them, and that everything they do against those who dare discard such a miserable servitude should be commended." [Footnote 21] Hurter did better than to imitate the ancient philosopher; he accepted his trials with truly Christian resignation, perceiving in them the call of God to newer and higher duties. "I discovered in them," he writes, "the means of my salvation and my sanctification. I look upon the storm which has burst over me as a signal on the road I have to follow. At the same time I received the deep conviction that no peace was to be expected with such people. My choice was therefore made. I threw off titles, offices, and incomes, and went back to private life because I was disgusted with a sect which, through rationalism, upset all Christian dogmas, and, through pietism, tramples morals under foot." [Footnote 22] What hearty frankness, what Noble feelings, and what a true sense of justice!

[Footnote 21: Third ed., 1st vol. (Pref. P. V.)]

[Footnote 22: "Life of Fr. Hurter," by A. de Saint Cheron, p. 120. Some of the details of this article are extracted from this work, as well as from an article published in "Le Catholique" of Mayence, of September, 1865.]

Justice he demanded as well for others as for himself; therefore he did not fear to defend the Catholic cause in his books. In his work on the "Convents of Argovia and their Accusers" (1841), and on the "Persecutions of the Catholic Church in Switzerland" (1843), he denounces the tyranny of his Protestant compatriots in unmeasured terms. For this reason, also, he went to Paris in 1843 to plead, although in vain, the cause of the Catholics in Switzerland.

Having, as we have seen, resigned his position, he had ample leisure to devote himself to the more profound study of the Catholic doctrine, the dogmas of which he had already inwardly admitted. The "Symbolism" of Moehler he found of great utility, and the "Exposition of the Holy Mass," by Innocent III., served greatly to strengthen his religious convictions.

Hurter, however, was not precipitate. He desired that in taking so important a step conviction should be preceded by mature deliberation. About this time he writes: "He would certainly be mistaken who should think that I entered the interior of the Catholic Church because I was solely led away by its external forms. I was neither a wanderer nor hair-brained. Undoubtedly the exterior impressed me; but I was not, however, therefore relieved from examining its fundamental principles with due care, or from studying the interior with proper caution. I entered it first through curiosity, a mere visitor, as it were, and I examined everything that I saw like one who, wanting to purchase a house, first looks closely at every part of it before closing the bargain. In that way I think I acquired, on many points, truer and more complete ideas than the frequenters of the house, and those who have spent their lives in it. I have too long postponed my free decision not to have earned the right to be able to decide whether the house suits me or not, or if any changes be required."

It is interesting to see, in his "Exposition of Motives," the narration of all the doubts under which he labored previous to making a final decision; how his mind gradually approached to a knowledge of the truth as he progressed in his investigation; how a thousand external circumstances, designed by Providence, powerfully {119} contributed to shake his will, and finally how his conversion was less his own work than the effect of that divine favor solicited by Catholic charity, of which he speaks so feelingly in his "Geburt und Wiedergebart."

The struggle was at last over. On the 16th of June, the feast of St. Francis Regis, he formally made his abjuration before Cardinal Ostini, formerly nuncio in Switzerland, at the Roman college, and five days afterward, on the feast of St. Louis de Gonzaga, he received the blessed sacrament in the presence of an immense congregation of the faithful. The prophetic words of Gregory XVI. were then confirmed: "Spero che lei sera mio figlio" (I hope that one day you will be my son). The church and her head numbered one child more. God had thus rewarded by his grace the perfect sincerity which the humble penitent had ever made the rule of his life. We may also be allowed to believe that the sweet protection of the Mother of God had efficaciously operated in his favor, for even while a Protestant he had many times pleaded her cause with his brethren.

The news of his conversion created quite different feelings. If the great Catholic family rejoiced, and with unanimous voice thanked God for having favorably heard their prayers, Protestantism felt wounded to the very heart. The reason is easily understood. The edifying example of humility exhibited by a man like Hurter was necessary to win over a great number of souls until then irresolute and wavering, as some planets attract their satellites in space.

As to him, full of gratitude toward God, his soul replete with light and peace, his head high and serene, he went back to his native town to resume his literary labors in retirement, as well as to undergo a series of new persecutions, the last consecration of the Christian. "I am not so narrow-minded," he wrote some time afterward, "that I did not expect wicked judgments, base calumnies, and every kind of insult. Facts have, however, far exceeded my anticipations, and I must confess that I did not think those men capable of going so far in their wickedness." Finally it became impossible for Hurter to remain longer at Schaffhausen, and, beside, a new and better career was soon opened for him. He received from Vienna an invitation to become the historiographer of the empire. He accepted the appointment and entered upon the fulfilment of its duties. Safe from the interruptions caused by the troubles of 1848, he soon after accepted the position, of privy councillor and the patent of nobility which were tendered him.

The last portion of his life was devoted to the practice of Christian virtues and to the completion of his great work on Ferdinand II. To this book he devoted twenty years' arduous labor, and was fortunate enough to complete it one year previous to his death.

In commencing this work Hurter collected all his powerful faculties, intending to display in its composition all that remarkable mental energy with which he had been gifted by nature. With incredible patience he examined one after another thousands of documents of all kinds long buried in the archives of the empire, and most of which were utterly unknown even to the learned. He could not understand to be history that which was not supported by undeniable documents. Quod non est in actis, non est in mundo, was his maxim--a maxim, alas! which is too often neglected by the generality of our modern historians. Nothing excelled his perseverance, I might almost say his rapture, when he desired to throw light on an obscure fact, to fill a hiatus, or to discover any historical truth. Never, perhaps, were scruples of accuracy, and at the same time independence of thought and courage in expression, carried to greater limits. Let us add, that when composing the "History of Ferdinand II." he was filled with a strong sympathy for his subject, and {120} in his admiration for that great man he could, like Tacitus, console himself with the sight of like grievances, and say with the Roman historian: Ego hoc quoque laboris praemium petam, ut me a conspectu malorum, quae nostra tot per annos vidit aetas, tantisper, aum prisca illa tota mente repeto, avertam, omnis expers curae quae scribentis animum, etsi non flectere a vero, sollicitum tamen efficere possit.

This work of Hurter's consists of eleven volumes. The first seven comprise the history of events from the reign of Archduke Charles, father of Ferdinand II., to the coronation of the latter prince; the remaining four being exclusively devoted to the reign of Ferdinand. In this comprehensive review of the events of that epoch the illustrious author has shown, by the light of true history, the great emperor and all the principal personages by whom he was surrounded, or in any way connected; particularly portraying the Archduke Charles, the Archduchess Maria, that splendid model of a Christian mother, Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden, Tilly, and Wallenstein. Hurter studied the character of the latter with particular zeal, first in his sketch of the "Material to be used for the History of Wallenstein" (1855), and then in the more elaborate monography, "The last Four Years of Wallenstein" (1862), and finally in the "History of Ferdinand" itself. He arrives at the conclusion that the Duke of Friedland had really been guilty of treason, and that his tragic end is in no way to be attributed to Ferdinand. At the same time he does full justice to the great qualities of Wallenstein, acknowledging in him great capacity for organization, wonderful activity, and almost regal liberality; nor does he hesitate to class him among not only the greatest men of his age, but of all time.

But, as may be well understood, his great central figure was Ferdinand, whom he considers a most admirable and accomplished type of all the virtues surrounding royalty, notwithstanding his memory has been burthened with such foul calumnies by Protestant historians and their copyists. To relieve his name from these unjust aspersions was a task worthy of the genius of the historian of Innocent III. Having shown in the life of that pontiff the true embodiment of the Christian principles of the supreme priesthood, should he not also point out a temporal prince as the personification of genuine Catholic royalty?

We would desire to reproduce here the incomparable portrait of Ferdinand as it has been drawn by Hurter in his last volume, but, unfortunately, the limits of this article do not permit it. What compensates us, in some measure, for being able to give only so feeble an idea of that great work is, that we hope soon to see the studies undertaken to speak of it more fully. We hope also that a competent translator will be soon found to give to France that work which, with the "History of Innocent III.," will immortalize the name of Hurter.

Yes, the great historian shall live in his writings, in which he has shown a soul so strong, so firm, so just, so humble, and yet so proud; so earnestly devoted to truth and so deeply adverse to falsehood, meanness, and hypocrisy. He will live in those countless works of charity of which he was the ever efficient author. He will live in the remembrance of so many hearts he has edified by his pious example, strengthened by his advice, and brought back to the true path by his admonitions. He will live, also, in the perpetual and grateful regard of a company, always so dear to him, to which he has given one of his sons, and whose motto he was proud to quote on the frontispiece of his great work. Ad majorem Dei gloriam.

We will end this sketch by repeating the words which an apostolic missionary, now a cardinal, once applied to the great historian; they cannot be {121} better or more happily chosen to sum up his whole life. Twenty years ago, after being a witness to his conversion, the Abbé de Bonnechose, writing from Rome, says of him: "Justum deduxit Dominus per vias rectas et ostendit illi regnum Dei, et dedit illi scientiam sanctorum; honestavit illum in laboribus et complevit labores illius" (Sap. x.) Yes, Hurter's mind was right, and God led him by the hand. He has shown him his kingdom on earth, the church of Christ, and the chair of Peter, where his authority sits enthroned, where he speaks and governs in the person of his vicar. It was he who endowed him with a knowledge of the science and philosophy of his doctrine and of the divine mysteries of the faith, and inspired in him those noble ideas the end and aim of which ought always to be the worship and exaltation of the true church, and the defence of the pontificate when calumniated. He has blessed the labors which have been conducted with such success, filling them with spirit and energy, to the end that they may bear the fruits of immortality! Honestavit illum in laboribus et complevit labores illius.

J. MARTINOF.

------

WORDS OF WISDOM.

TRANSLATED FROM THE CHINESE BY DR. BOWRING.

To seek relief from doubt in doubt, From woe in woe, from sin in sin-- Is but to drive a tiger out, And let a hungry wolf come in.

Who helps a knave in knavery. But aids an ape to climb a tree! On an ape's head a crown you fling; Say--Will that make the ape a king?

Know you why the lark's sweet lay Man's divinest nature reaches? He is up at break of day Learning all that nature teaches.

The record of past history brings Wisdom of sages, saints, and kings; The more we read those reverend pages The more we honor bygone ages!

Whate'er befit--whate'er befal. One general law commandeth all: There's no confusion in the springs That move all sublunary things. All harmony is heaven's vast plan-- All discord is the work of man!

{122}

From The Sixpenny Magazine.

IRELAND AND THE INFORMERS OF 1798.

There has lately issued from the press a work under the title which heads our article, and which is amusing and instructive in the highest degree. Were it not written by a man whose ability and character are pledges for his veracity, we should rank it with Harrison Ainsworth's efforts, and designate it as an almost impossible romance. It has, as we think, appeared at a very opportune and timely juncture, and, in our opinion, Mr. Fitzpatrick is entitled to great praise for the talent, industry, and research evidenced in his volume.

Francis Higgins, the hero of Mr. Fitzpatrick's remarkable biographical sketch, and familiarly known by the title of "The Sham Squire," was born nobody exactly knows where, and reared nobody knows how. He commenced his career, however, in stirring times, and when great events were in their parturition, during which the history of Ireland presents a series of panoramic images--a mixture of light and shadow--instances of devoted fidelity and abounding rascality-- groupings of mistaken enthusiasm, selfish venality, and the most abhorrent domestic treason--such as we in vain look for in the annals of any other country or any other age. It is supposed that Higgins was born in a Dublin cellar, and while yet of tender years became successively "errand-boy, shoeblack, and waiter in a public-house"--improving trades for one of so ripe a spirit, but which he soon left, directed by a vaulting ambition, in order to become a writing-clerk in an attorney's office. While in this position, he commenced practice on his own account, by rejecting popery as unfashionable and impolitic, and by forging a series of legal documents purporting to show to all "inquiring friends" that he was a man of property and a government official. He had an object in this, as he was by this time to appear in a new character, as the lover of Miss Mary Anne Archer, who possessed a tolerable fortune and a foolish old father. Miss Archer happened to be a Roman Catholic, and was strong in her faith; but this was only a trifle to Higgins, who again forsook the new creed for the old, and proved thereby, like Richard, "a thriving wooer." They were married, and the Archer père did at last what he ought to have done at first, ferreted out the real antecedents of his precious son-in-law, and discovered that he had a very clever fellow to deal with; while his daughter, finding, after a short time, that her husband was "by no means a desirable one," fled back to her bamboozled parent, who straightway indicted the pretender. Higgins was found guilty and imprisoned for a year, and it was during Judge Robinson's charge to the jury that he fastened the name of the "Sham Squire" on the prisoner, a sobriquet which stuck to him persistently during the remainder of his life, and proved a greater infliction to his vanity than an apparently heavier penalty would have been. This was in 1767. "Poor Mary Anne" died of a broken heart, and her parents survived her for only a short lime; while the widower, in order to make his prison life endurable, paid his addresses to the daughter of the gaoler and eventually married her, as her father was pretty well to do in the world, the situation being a {123} money-making one, as the order of that day was, as proved before the Irish House of Commons, that "persons were unlawfully kept in prison and loaded with irons, although not duly committed by a magistrate, until they had complied with the most exorbitant demands." When the Sham's term of a year's imprisonment ended, he had life to begin anew, and for some years we find him exercising many vocations, such as "setter" for excise officers, billiard-marker, hosier, etc. For an assault as a "setter," he was again tried and again convicted; but nothing daunted, as his old webs were broken, he proceeded in the construction of new. In 1775, we not only find him "a hosier," but president of the Guild of Hosiers; and in 1780 his services were engaged by Mr. David Gibbal, conductor of the "Freeman's Journal," then, as now, one of the most popular and well-conducted papers in Ireland. But from the period of the Sham Squire's connection with it, it seems to have degenerated, as in April, 1784, the journals of the Irish House of Commons show an "order" that "Francis Higgins, one of the conductors of the 'Freeman's Journal,' do attend this house to-morrow morning." He did so, and escaped with a reproof. Having gained some knowledge of law in the solicitor's office, we now find him anxious to become an attorney, which end he accomplished by the aid and influence of his friend and patron John Scott, afterward chief-justice, and elevated to the peerage as Lord Clonmel, rather for his political talents than his professional ones. From 1784 to 1787 Higgins also acted as deputy coroner for Dublin. By a series of manoeuvres he became the sole proprietor of the "Freeman's Journal," and became at once what is called in Ireland "a castle hack." Both as attorney and editor, the Sham Squire was now a man of importance, and many called in on him. Shrewd, sharp, and clever, with a glib tongue and a facile pen, no business was either too difficult or too dirty for him. He was made a justice of the peace by Lord Carhampton, who, as Colonel Luttrell, was designated by Grattan as "a clever bravo, ready to give an insult, and perhaps capable of bearing one;" in fact, the last allusion was deserved, as Luttrell had been called "vile and infamous" by Scott without resenting it. Lord Carhampton became commander-in-chief in Ireland, and during the outbreak of '98 was a merciless foe to the rebels who fell into his hands. Higgins, by this time, had become a great man, and lived in St. Stephen's Green, in magnificent style, keeping his coach and entertaining the nobility. He was a loyalist of the rosiest hue, and thought no mission too derogatory by which he might show his zeal. He attended divine service regularly, and that over, proceeded to "Crane Lane," in order to count over and receive his share of the gains in a gambling house of which he was principal proprietor, and which his influence with the police magistrates prevented the suppression of--then to his editorial duties, which were to uphold the measures of government and its officials, and to lampoon, cajole, or threaten all who dared to oppose them.

It was in the disastrous period of '98, however, that the Sham Squire's most sterling qualities came into active requisition, as evidenced by the following extract of a letter written by the Secretary Cooke to Lord Cornwallis, then lord lieutenant of Ireland. "Francis Higgins," he writes, "proprietor of the 'Freeman's Journal,' was the person who procured for me all the intelligence respecting Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and got--to set him, and has given me otherwise much information--£300;" meaning thereby that his excellency should sanction that annual amount for "secret service," out of a sum of £15,000, specially laid aside for that purpose. Beside this, however, a lump sum of £1000 was given to Higgins on the 20th of June, 1798, for the betrayal of his friend; and, independent of this, a confederate of his named Francis Magan, a barrister, {124} and a close ally of Lord Edward, and who positively "set" the unfortunate nobleman at Higgins's instigation, received £600 and a pension of £200 per annum for the worthy deed. Probably the most startling of all these revelations of domestic treachery was the conduct of Leonard McNally, barrister at law, and selected "for his ability, truth, zeal, and sterling honesty," as Curran's assistant in defending the prisoners implicated in the rebellion. This fellow seems to have outsoared even Higgins and Magan in his duplicity, since not alone did he keep government duly informed of the movements of the suspected, but when on their trial he exhibited the greatest activity in suggesting points for their defence, seconding his celebrated leader in his unwearied endeavors to save them, although he had previously made known to the law officers what course the accused men's counsel meant to take for the day, so that Curran and his legal friends were puzzled and surprised at having their best-concocted measures anticipated and baffled, although not a man of them ever thought of looking to "honest Mac" as the cause. For this and other services McNally received some thousands, and was gratified, in addition, with a pension of £300 per annum. Singularly enough, the terrible secrets of Magan and McNally were well kept until long after their deaths, and until the publication of the "Cornwallis Papers" enabled inquirers to strike on the true vein. Both these men are said to have been corrupted by the Sham Squire, who seems to have been the Mephistopheles of his time; but a still more notorious "informer," because an open one, was Reynolds--Tom Reynolds--who was promised a pension of £2000 a year and a seat in parliament for his services, but did not receive quite so much. In 1798, however, he received £5000 and a pension of £1000 a year; and as his demands were always importunate, it is known that during the remainder of his life he extracted £45,740 from his employers. Reynolds went abroad and died there, as Ireland would hardly have been for him either a safe or a pleasant residence; but Magan and McNally lived at home for many a goodly year, and were looked upon as honest men and sterling patriots to the last. Higgins did not long survive his victims; he died suddenly, in 1802, worth £20,000, a greater part of which, strange to say, he left for charitable purposes!

In reviewing thus the history of this Irish Jonathan Wild and his detestable comrogues, our object must, we hope, be evident. Their lives and actions are instructive in many ways, and never promised to be more so than now. What happened then may happen again; treason will be dogged by traitors to the end. Fear and avarice are omnipotent counsellors, and, when coupled with talent and ingenuity, marvellous indeed are the misery they can cause and the wide-spread devastation that travels in their track. That a needy and unscrupulous vagabond like Higgins should hunt his dearest friends to the scaffold is not to be wondered at; but that men of position and education like Reynolds, McNally, and Magan should join in the chase, and for years after look honest men in the face, evinces a hardihood of disposition and a callosity of conscience which, as a lesson, is instructive, and, as an utter disregard of remorseful feeling, appears all but impossible. No doubt such miscreants excuse their crimes on a plea of loyalty, and the plea would be all-sufficient had they not stipulated for the price, and had they not exulted in receiving it. There is something especially abhorrent to our natures in those wretches who voluntarily plunge into the ranks of anarchy and disaffection at one time, and then, when cowardice or cupidity overcomes them, overleap all the boundaries of honor and faith, and trade on the blood or suffering of the unfortunate men who placed their liberties or lives in their safe-keeping.

{125}

In the notes which Mr. Fitzpatrick has appended to his biography of the "Sham Squire" as "addenda" we have some well-authenticated and racy revelations of many of the singular Irish characters who flourished during the last thirty or forty years of the last century, and in the first few years of the beginning of this. Ireland appears to have been the "paradise of adventurers" in that day, as the times appear to have been out of joint, and the habits and general morale of the upper and middle ranks were to the last degree loose and irregular. As the manners and modes of action of a people are in a considerable degree fashioned and influenced by the example set them by those who are placed in authority over them, it is not too much to assert that a great deal of the lax morality, unscrupulous spirit, and general demoralization were produced by some of the occupants of the vice-regal throne, and their "courts," the character and course of life of whom are painted by our author in anything but a seductive way. Brilliancy, show, pleasure, wit, and extravagance were the order of the day; lords-lieutenant were either dissipated roués, or incompetent imbeciles, and in either case they were sure to be coerced or cajoled by a mercenary tribe of political adventurers, who directed their actions and influenced their minds. We at once see by the wholesale corruption practised to bring about the Union, how utterly depraved must have been the men who openly or covertly prostituted themselves, when it was in contemplation; and never was political profligacy more open and more daring in its violation of honor, probity, and principle than in the abject submission of the Irish parliament, and its unhesitating anxiety to sell themselves, souls and bodies, to those who tempted them, and who had studied them far too accurately not to be sure of their prey. Amongst those who consented to accept the remuneration thus profusely offered them the lawyers bore a very prominent part; in fact, government could hardly have succeeded without their aid; of these, Fitzgibbon, afterward Lord Clare and chancellor, was the most forward and efficient. There was never a man better adapted for the work he had to do. Bold, active, astute, and unscrupulous, he could be all things to all men; those whom he could not cajole, he frightened; equally ready with the pen, the pistol, and the tongue, he was neither to be daunted nor silenced; terrible in his vengeance, no windings of his victims could escape him; and extravagant in his generosity (when the public purse had to bear the blunt), his jackals and partisans felt that their reward was sure, and therefore never hesitated to comply with his most exact demands. Few men had a larger number of followers, therefore, and no man ever made a more unscrupulous use of them. He had nothing of the recusant about him, however, and first and last he was consistent to his party and to the Protestant creed which he had adopted in early life, for he had been born and partly reared in the Roman Catholic faith. In his personal demeanor he was a lion-hearted man; when hissed in the streets by the populace he calmly produced his pistols; and once, on hearing that a political meeting against the Union was being held, he rushed into the middle of the assembled mass, commanded the high-sheriff to quit the chair, and so closed the meeting. On the bench he was equally fearless, and when recommended to beware of treachery, his answer was, "They dare not; I have made them as tame as cats." "If I live," he said, "to see the Union completed, to my latest hour I shall feel an honorable pride in reflecting on the share I had in contributing to effect it." He did live to see it, and to take his seat in the British parliament; but matters were altogether altered there. In his maiden effort he was rebuked by Lord Suffolk, called to order by the lord chancellor, while the Duke of Bedford indignantly snubbed him by {126} exclaiming, "We would not bear such insults from our equals, and shall we, my lords, tolerate them at the hands of mushroom nobility?" while, to cap the climax, Pitt, after hearing him, turned to Wilberforce, and said loud enough to be heard by Lord Clare, "Good G--d! did you ever, in all your life, listen to so thorough-paced a scoundrel as that!" Disappointed and despairing, he returned to Ireland, and died of a broken heart, while almost the last words he uttered to a friend were, "Only to think of it! I that had all Ireland at my disposal cannot now procure the nomination of a single gauger!"

John Scott, afterward Lord Chief-Justice Clonmel, was another prominent actor in those busy times. His birth was lowly, but his talents were considerable; he was light and flippant rather than profound, and he felt to the last a terrible mortification that his claims had been postponed to those of Lord Clare. He had neither the grasp of mind, nor the unhesitating manner of the chancellor, however; he was apt to surround himself with companions, like the "Sham Squire," for instance, who might be pleasant but were by no means reputable. Beside, his character for probity was distrusted; his first uprise in life was his wholesale appropriation of the property of a Catholic friend which he held in trust, as Catholics, at that time, could not retain property in their hands, and which he refused to disgorge. He was both venal and vindictive, and but too often prostituted his authority in pursuit of his passions. On one occasion, however, he was signally discomfited. A man of the name of Magee, who owned and edited the "Evening Post," had frequently come under the lash, and was treated with no mercy. Magee's vengeance took a curious form. Lord Clonmel was an ardent lover of horticulture, and had spent many thousand pounds in making his suburban villa a "model." Magee knew this, and as the chief demesne was skirted by an open common from which a thick hedge alone separated it, the journalist proclaimed a rural fête, on an enormous scale, to be held on the vacant ground, and to which the whole Dublin population, gentle and simple, were invited. Meats and liquors were given to an unlimited extent, and, in the evening, when the "roughs" were primed with whiskey, several pigs (shaved and with their tails well soaped) were let out as part of the amusement of the day. By preconcert, the affrighted animals were driven against Lord Clonmel's inclosure, which they speedily over-leaped, followed by the mob. Trees, shrubs, flowers, vases, and statues were in a wonderfully short time demolished in the "fun," while, to make the matter still more deplorable, the owner of the property thus wantonly devoted to revenge stood on the steps of his own hall-door, and with alternate fits of imprecation and entreaty besought the spoilers to desist, but in vain. Toward the close of his life, Lord Clonmel became a hypochondriac, and, supposing himself to be a tea-pot, hardly ventured to stir abroad lest he should be broken. On one occasion, his great forensic antagonist, Curran, was told that Clonmel was going to die at last, and was asked if he believed it. "I believe," was the reply, "that he is scoundrel enough to live or die just as it meets his convenience." Shortly before his death he said to Lord Cloncurry, "My dear Val, I have been a fortunate man, or what the world calls so; I am chief-justice and an earl; but were I to begin life again, I would rather be a chimney-sweeper, than consent to be connected with the Irish government."

Another "celebrity" was John Taler, "bully, butcher, and buffoon," who was afterward a peer and a judge. He was a bravo in the house and a despot on the bench. He jested with the wretched he condemned, and seemed never so happy as when {127} the scaffold was before his eyes. He was ignorant but ferocious, and when he could not conquer an opponent he would browbeat him.

"Give me a long day, my lord," said a culprit, whom he had just doomed.

"I am sorry to say I can't oblige you, my friend," replied Lord Norbury, smiling; "but I promise you a strong rope, which I suppose will answer your purpose as well."

When he died, and was about to be lowered into the grave himself, the tackle was rather short.

"Tare-an-agers, boys, don't spare the rope on his lordship; don't you know he was always fond of it?" said one of the standers-by.

"I never saw a human face that so closely resembles that of a bull-dog!" remarked one barrister to another in court.

"Let him get a grip of your throat, and you will find the resemblance still closer," was the reply.

These and a hundred others, their equals, instruments, and subordinates, may be supposed to represent the Irish "turnspit" element; it must be acknowledged, however, that in contradistinction to them, there were sounding examples of men of a different and far superior class, such as the Leinsters, Charlemonts, Plunketts, Currans, Ponsonbys, and so forth, who would have adorned any country, and who certainly contributed to relieve their own from the almost intolerable odium which the wholesale venal profligacy of a large number had brought upon it.

------

From Once a Week.

THE LEGEND OF THE LOCKHARTS.

I.

King Robert on his death-bed lay, wasted in every limb, The priests had left, Black Douglas now alone was watching him; The earl had wept to hear those words, "When I am gone to doom, Take thou my heart and bear it straight unto the Holy Tomb."

II.

Douglas shed bitter tears of grief--he loved the buried man. He bade farewell to home and wife, to brother and to clan; And soon the Bruce's heart embalm'd, in silver casket lock'd, Within a galley, white with sails, upon the blue waves rock'd.

III.

In Spain they rested, there the king besought the Scottish earl To drive the Saracens from Spain, his galley sails to furl; It was the brave knight's eagerness to quell the Paynim brood. That made him then forget the oath he'd sworn upon the rood.

IV.

That was his sin; good angels frown'd upon him as he went With vizor down and spear in rest, lips closed, and black brow bent: Upon the turbans, fierce he spurr'd, the charger he bestrode Was splash'd with blood, the robes and flags he trampled on the road.

{128}

V.

The Moors came fast with cymbal clash and tossing javelin, Ten thousand horsemen, at the least, on Castille closing in; Quick as the deer's foot snaps the ice, the Douglas thundered through, And struck with sword and smote with axe among the heathen crew.

VI.

The horse-tail banners beaten down, the mounted archers fled-- There came full many an Arab curse from faces smear'd with red, The vizor fell, a Scottish spear had struck him on the breast; Many a Moslem's frighten'd horse was bleeding head and chest.

VII.

But suddenly the caitiffs turn'd and gathered like a net, In closed the tossing sabres fast, and they were crimson wet, Steel jarr'd on steel--the hammers smote on helmet and on sword, But Douglas never ceased to charge upon that heathen horde.

VIII.

Till all at once his eager eye discerned amid the fight St. Clair of Roslyn, Bruce's friend, a brave and trusty knight. Beset with Moors who hew'd at him with sabres dripping blood-- Twas in a rice-field where he stood close to an orange wood.

IX.

Then to the rescue of St. Clair Black Douglas spurred amain, The Moslems circled him around, and shouting charged again; Then took he from his neck the heart, and as the case he threw, "Pass first in fight," he cried aloud, "as thou wert wont to do."

X.

They found him ere the sun had set upon that fatal day, His body was above the case, that closely guarded lay. His swarthy face was grim in death, his sable hair was stain'd With the life-blood of a felon Moor, whom he had struck and brain*d.

XI.

Sir Simon Lockhart, knight of Lee, bore home the silver case. To shrine it in a stately grave and in a holy place, The Douglas deep in Spanish ground they left in royal tomb. To wait in hope and patient trust the trumpet of the doom.

{129}

[ORIGINAL.]

REMINISCENCES OF DR. SPRING. [Footnote 23]

[Footnote 23: "Personal Reminiscences of the Life and Times of Gardiner Spring, Pastor of the Brick Presbyterian Church in the City of New York." 2 vols. 12mo. New York: Charles Scribner & Company.]

Few persons who have lived much in New York during the last quarter of a century are not familiar with the dignified, resolute, yet kindly countenance of the pastor of the Brick Presbyterian church. Fewer still are ignorant of his reputation as a leading and representative man in his denomination; a keen polemic; a great promoter of missionary, tract, and Bible societies; and, we may add, a very determined enemy of the Pope of Rome and all his aiders and abettors. For more than fifty-five years he has preached to the same congregation which gave him a call when he was first licensed as a minister. During his career thirteen Presidents of the United States, from Washington to Lincoln, have died; three Kings of England have been laid in their graves; the horrors of the Reign of Terror, the execution of Louis XVI., the rise and fall of the first Napoleon, the shifting scenes of the Restoration, the Orleans rule, the second Republic and the second Empire, have hurried each other across the stage of French history. He has long passed the scriptural term of the life of man; and now, at the almost patriarchal age of eighty-one, he gives us a collection of reminiscences of what he has seen and done during this protracted and eventful career.

It would be natural to suppose that such a book by such a man must be full of interest. As one of the recognized leaders of a rich and influential religious denomination, and one of the oldest and most respectable citizens of the first city of America, how many historical characters must he have met! to how many important events must he have been a witness! But any one who takes up these volumes in the hope of obtaining through them a clearer view of persons and times gone by, will be disappointed. They are interesting, it is true, but not, we will venture to say, in the way their author meant them to be. They cause us to wonder that the doctor should have seen so much and remembered so little. Yet as a picture of the life of a representative Presbyterian preacher and a complete exposure of the utter emptiness of the Presbyterian religion, these garrulous and random "Reminiscences" are the most entertaining pages we have read for many a month. We propose to cull for our readers a few of the most interesting passages.

Dr. Spring was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, Feb. 24, 1785. His father was a minister, of whom the son says that "he would not shave his face on the Lord's day, nor allow his wife to sew a button on her son's vest; and on one occasion, when his nephew, the late Adolphus Spring, Esq., arrived in haste on a Saturday evening with the message that his father was on his bed of death, he would not mount his horse for the journey of seventy miles until the Sabbath sun had gone down." Though young Gardiner used to wonder, when a boy, why he was not allowed to participate in the customary sports of children, he seems to have preserved a warm affection for both his parents, of whom he speaks in a loving and reverential tone which we cannot too carefully respect. The thought that most affected him on their death was {130} "that he had lost their prayers." Gardiner was sent to Yale College at the age of fifteen, and during "a remarkable outpouring of the Spirit" upon that rather unregenerate institution, in the year 1803, he became, for a season, "hopefully pious." He had been uneasy for some time about the state of his soul, and one afternoon he resolved to pray, several hours, if necessary, until his sins were forgiven. "There," he says, "in the south entry of the old college, back side, middle room, third story, I wrestled with God as I had never wrestled before." The result of this spiritual struggle we do not profess to understand. He says that he rose from his knees without any hope that he had found mercy, yet feeling considerably relieved. For several weeks he went about, peaceful and happy, when, unluckily, the Fourth of July came, with its speeches and fireworks, and his "religious hopes and impressions all vanished as a morning cloud, and as the early dew." It was five or six years before they came back again.

When he graduated his father came to hear him speak, and at the close of the exercises gave him his blessing and told him to shift for himself. So, there he was, twenty years old, with four dollars in his pocket and a profession yet to be acquired. He borrowed two hundred and fifty dollars from a generous friend, obtained a situation as precentor in a church, opened a singing school, and applied himself zealously to the study of law. Before long he married a young lady as poor as himself, and went with her in 1806 to Bermuda, where he taught school for some time very successfully; but rumors of war between this country and Great Britain drove him back to the United States, and in his twenty-fourth year he entered upon the practice of the law at New Haven.

In the meanwhile those uneasy feelings of the soul, which he seems unable to analyze (though we warrant a good confessor would quickly have solved his perplexities) had not left him at peace. He writes to his father from Bermuda upon the state of his interior man:

"I should wish to go to heaven, because I should be pleased, with its employment. Were all my sins mortified and I rendered perfectly holy, I think I should the happy. . . . . Sometimes I can say, Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief. .... I am avaricious; and in the present state of my family, make money my god. I strain honesty as far as I can to gain a little."

This was certainly not a satisfactory condition of things. The lust for mammon seems strong enough, but the aspirations for heaven might well have been rather more ardent. He goes to church and sings and weeps, and the minister and elders crowd around him to see what is the matter. He goes to prayer-meeting at last in New Haven, and there the conversion--such as it is--is effected: "As the exercises closed and the crowded worshippers rose to sing the doxology, I felt that I could 'praise God from whom all blessings flow.' Praise! praise! It was delightful to praise him! On the 24th of April following, I united with the visible church under Mr. Stuart's pastorate, and began to be an active Christian."

We must say that this seems to be a very simple and easy process of getting out of the power of the devil. Conversion, according to Dr. Spring's idea, is simply an emotion of the mind, a spasm of sentiment. It includes neither satisfaction for the past, nor the performance of any definite religious duty in the present or the future. Any one who can excite himself into the belief that he is regenerate, or tickle his mind into the pleasant state indicated by the man who, when asked, "How it felt to get religion?" replied that "it was just like having warm water poured down your back"--any such one, we say, may rest assured of his eternal safety. Dr. Spring is no more exacting with other candidates for conversion than he was with himself. To a sick man who inquires "what he shall do?" he answers: "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved."

{131}

"But will you not tell me how I shall go to him?"

"Yes, I can tell you; you must not go in your own strength; for your strength is weakness. You must not go in your own righteousness, for you have none. You must feel your need of Christ, and see that he is just the Saviour adapted to your wants. You must adore, and love, and trust him. . . . . Commit to him your entire salvation, and in all holy 'obedience live devoted to his service.'" Now in all this there is just one practical suggestion, namely, to "live devoted to God's service"--and that the man could not follow because he was dying. Let our readers contrast Dr. Spring's death-bed ministrations with what a Catholic priest would have said and done in similar circumstances. The priest would have given definite instruction and divine sacraments; the preacher has nothing better to offer than a few commonplace generalities from his last Sunday's sermon.

But we must return to the reverend doctor's biography. Close upon the heels of his conversion came the resolution to be a minister. The pecuniary difficulties in the way of this change of profession were soon obviated by the generosity of a rich widow of Salem. There was another obstacle, however, of a more serious nature. This was Mrs. Spring. She was "not a professed Christian." She was "a worldly woman." She sought the honors of the world. She did not want to be a minister's wife. The doctor had a great respect for her. He was afraid to tell her of his resolution. We must let him describe in his own words how he got out of the difficulty:

"I then began a course of conduct which I have ever since pursued, and that was, in all cases where my own duty was plain, and my resolution formed, quietly to carry my resolution into effect, and meet the storm afterward. I did so in the present instance, though there was no other storm than a plentiful shower of tears. I said nothing to my wife; nothing to any one except Mr. Evarts. I sent my wife on a visit to my only sister, the wife of the Hon. Bezaleel Taft, at Uxbridge, the native place of my father, where I engaged in a few weeks to meet her, and make a further visit to Newburyport. She had no suspicion of my views, and left me with the confident expectation that she would return to New Haven.

"In the meantime, after she left me, I was busily employed in arranging my affairs for my removal to Andover. I announced my purpose to the church at the next prayer-meeting, and received a fresh impulse from their prayers and benedictions. Mr. Evarts took my office and my business, and closed up my unsettled accounts with his accustomed accuracy, and my ledger now records them. Mr. Smith, my old teacher, laughed at me; Judge Daggett was silent. Judge Rossiter said to me, 'Mr. Spring, the pulpit is your place; you were formed for the pulpit rather than the bar.' My business in New Haven was closed; my debts paid; my household furniture, small as it was, was carefully stowed away; my law library, worth about four hundred dollars, was disposed of, and I was on my way to Uxbridge, Newburyport, Salem, and Andover.

"When I reached Uxbridge, and was once more in the bosom of my little family, I felt that the trial had come. I could not at once disclose my plans to my wife, and was saved that painful interview by the suspicions of Mr. Taft, who told her that he believed I was going to be a clergyman! She laughed at him; but she saw a change in my deportment, and began to suspect it herself. I told her all. She went to her chamber and wept for a long time. But she came down, subdued indeed, but placid as a lamb, and simply said, 'It is all over now; I am ready.' Oh, how kindly has God watched over me! It seems as though the promise was fulfilled, 'Return unto thy country and to thy kindred, and I will deal well with thee.' Some day or two before we left Uxbridge, Mr. Taft said to me, 'Brother Spring, I have a case before Justice Adams this morning; you are still a lawyer, and I want you to go and argue it with me.' The thought struck me pleasantly, and I resolved to go; but instead of assisting him, without his knowledge I engaged myself to what I thought the weaker party; and my last effort at the bar was in battling with my sister's husband, and in the place of my father's nativity."

{132}

After eight months devoted to the study of theology at the Andover seminary, Mr. Spring was licensed to preach and received a call from the Brick church in New York. As a preliminary to his ordination, it was necessary for him to preach a trial sermon before the presbytery, and to submit to an examination as to his orthodoxy. In this latter test he did not give unqualified satisfaction, nevertheless they passed him, and he was duly ordained to the pastorship. As a salve, we suppose, for their consciences, the presbytery deputed the Rev. Dr. Milledollar, one of their number, to talk with the young minister, and try to reason him out of certain heterodox opinions which he entertained upon the subject of human ability. The result of the interview was that, in Dr. Milledollar's judgment, "the best way of curing a man of such views was to dip his head in cold water."

It was but a dismal religion of which he now became the minister. Tears, gloom, discomfort, and brokenness of heart were the characteristics of the spiritual life, and peace of mind was an alarming symptom of the dominion of the devil. "Newark is again highly favored," writes the minister to his parents: "there are not less than five hundred persons very solemn." "My people appear solemn; they were so at the lecture on Thursday evening." "I preached on Monday to a very solemn audience at my own house." "The state of things in the congregation, notwithstanding the war, is looking up. Our public meetings and our social gatherings are more full and more solemn." He visits Paris, and there passes an evening with a small party of his countrymen: "We could not refrain from weeping during the whole time we were together." The quantity of tears shed in the course of the book is positively appalling. Of course there is nothing that remotely resembles the gift of tears with which Almighty God sometimes rewards and consoles his saints. It is merely a perpetual gush of mawkish sentimentality, and we defy anybody to read these "Reminiscences" without having before him an image of the whole Brick church with chronic redness of the eyes. A member of the congregation went to the doctor once with a request that he would baptize a child. He was not one of the weepers, or, as Dr. Spring expresses it, "not a religious man." The opportunity was too good to be lost. The doctor labored with him, preached at him, probably wept at him, tried to impress him with the solemnity and privilege of the transaction, did not baptize his child, but finally prayed with him and urged him to come again. The result of the exhortation is a good commentary upon the whole system of sentimental spasmodic religion: "He went away," says Dr. Spring, "and being requested by his wife to have another interview with me, replied, 'No; you will not catch me there again.'" We suppose that the child was not baptized; but that, according to Dr. Spring, and in spite of the Bible, makes very little difference. It was his rule "to baptize only those children, one of whose parents was a professed Christian"--that is to say, a member of the church; and except in one instance he has never varied from this strict practice. "That," he says, "was in the case of a sick and dying grandchild, whose father was a man of prayer, but not a communicant, and I myself professed to stand in loco parentis, I now look upon the whole transaction as wrong."

Dr. Spring has done a great deal of theological fighting in his day; but his foes have been chiefly those of his own household. Now and then he has carried the war into foreign countries, as at the time of the famous School Question in New York, when he had a tilt with Bishop Hughes before the Common Council, and got decidedly the worst of it; but for the most part he has devoted himself to intestine feuds. The controversy between Hopkinsians {133} and Calvinists in the Presbyterian denomination; the disputes in the American Bible Society; the schism in the Young Men's Missionary Society of New York; the effort to create a division in the American Home Missionary Society; the controversies about the New Haven school of theology and the exscinding acts of the General Assembly;--these and many other religious quarrels took up a great deal of the doctor's time, and he still writes about them with no little acrimony and personal feeling. We subjoin a few extracts:

"The wrath of the Philadelphia Synod is praising the Lord. We shall have a battle in the spring, and lay a heavy hand upon that report. I shall not hesitate to take my life in my hand if Providence allows me to go to the Assembly."--_vol. i., p._70.

"The Rev. Ezra Stiles Ely had published his celebrated work, entitled 'The Contrast,' the object of which is to show the points of difference between the views of Hopkinsian and Calvinistic theology. It was addressed to prejudice and ignorance, and was aimed at the youthful pastor of the Brick church."--Vol. i., p. 129.

"I find my heart strangely suspicious. Sometimes I am resolved to withdraw from the Missionary and Education cause, because I foresee they will be scenes of contention. But then, again, I know they are exposed to evils, and the church is exposed to evils, through the mismanagement of these excellent institutions, which perhaps I may prevent."--Vol ii., p. 78.

We doubt whether Dr. Spring's clerical brethren like the following passage; but anyhow, there is a great deal of truth in it:

"There have been spurious revivals in my day, and the means of promoting them are the index of their character. In such seasons of excitement, great dependence is placed on the way and means of getting them up, and little of the impression [sic] that not a soul will be converted unless it be accomplished by the power of God. Whatever the words of the leaders may profess, their conduct proclaims, 'Mine own arm hath done this!' There is a familiarity, a boldness, an irreverence in their prayers, which ill becomes worms of the dust in approaching him before whom angels veil their faces. A pious and poor woman, in coming out from a religious service thus conducted, once said, 'I cannot think what it is that makes our ministers swear so in their prayers.' They count their converts, and when they survey their work, there is a triumph, a self-reliant exultation over it, which looks like the triumph of the pagan monarch, when he exclaimed, 'Is not this great Babylon which I have built!' And hence it is that so many of the subjects of such a work, after the excitement is over, find that their own hearts have deceived them, that they are no longer affected by solemn preaching and solemn prayers, that their past emotions were nothing more than the operations of nature, and that when these natural causes have exhausted their power there is no religion left."--Vol. i., p. 219.

Dr. Spring gives a curious illustration of the length to which excitement sometimes carries the poor victims of the revivalists, in the case of a Mrs. Pierson, "around whose lifeless body her husband assembled a company of believers, with the assurance that if they prayed in faith, she would be restored to life. Their feelings were greatly excited, their impressions of their success peculiar and strong. They prayed and prayed again, and prayed in faith, but they were disappointed," vol. i., p. 229.

He is rather free sometimes in his criticisms upon his brother ministers. He listens to a sermon from the Rev. Mr. Finney, a noted revivalist, and says that there was nothing exceptionable in it "except a vulgarity that indicated a want of culture, and a coarseness unbecoming the Christian pulpit." He hears a Mr. Broadway preach at sea, and thus records his impressions: "I must say he is a John Bull of a preacher. What a pity that men who need to be taught what are the first principles of the oracles of God, should undertake to teach others!" We dare say Dr. Spring's judgment of both these gentlemen was sound; but we see no propriety in printing it.

He made several voyages to Europe, and travelled through France, Germany, and Great Britain. Respecting the state of Protestantism in France, he makes some significant admissions:

"Protestantism in France is not what I have been in the habit of considering it. {134} I knew it was in a measure corrupt, but not to the extent in which I actually find it. I do not think that the Romanists, as a body, have much confidence in the Roman religion. But the mischief is that when thinking men throw off the bonds of Romanism, they relapse into infidelity. . . . . True religion in France finds its most bitter and unwearied enemies in Protestants themselves. The Protestants of this country are high Arians, if not absolute Socinians. There are now [1835] three hundred and fifty-eight Protestant pastors in France, beside their few vacant churches. But there are comparatively few among them all who love and obey the truth."--Vol, ii., pp. 260, 361.

The pages devoted to his European tours are remarkable exemplifications of the truth of the old adage, that coelum, non animum, mutant qui trans mare currunt. Wherever he goes, his breadth of vision seems bounded by his own pulpit. The venerable cathedrals of Europe, rich with the noblest memories, and the great historic places haunted by the grandest associations of the past, fill him with no thoughts more elevated than those awakened by the Brick church. He sees everything distorted through the medium of his own inveterate prejudices. If he visits a religious shrine, he can think of nothing but the abominations of the scarlet woman of Babylon. If he sees a convent, he tells us a cock-and-bull story about subterranean passages paved with the bones of infants. If he witnesses some grand and imposing ceremonial, he throws up his eyes, rushes out of the church, and, while he shakes the dust off his feet, groans over the wickedness of the Romish priests and their blasphemous mummeries, farcical shows, and hypocritical disguises. One Sunday, while at Paris, he went with the well-known missionary. Dr. Jonas King, and some other American friends, to visit a hill called Mont Calvaire, near the city, to which numbers of pilgrims were then resorting. They filled their pockets with tracts, which they distributed, right and left, among the thousands that were going up and down the mountain. They even interrupted kneeling worshippers at their prayers to give them tracts. These valuable gifts were received with avidity, for, as the narrator elsewhere explains, our respectable parsons were mistaken for Catholic missionaries. A few days afterward they made another excursion of the same sort to Mont Calvaire. We give the conclusion of the adventure in the words of Dr. King, from whose journal Dr. Spring copies it:

"Mr. and Mrs. Wilder, and Miss Bertau, and Mr. Storrow's children, had gone to Mount Calvary to distribute tracts and Testaments. Dr. Spring and myself, having filled our pockets, and hats, and hands, with tracts and Testaments, set off with the hope to find them. Just as we began to ascend the mountain, we met them coming at a distance. On meeting them, they informed us that they had been stopped by the Commissary of the Police, and that a gendarme, by order of the missionaries (Rom. C. M.), had taken away their tracts and Testaments, and prohibited them in the name of the law to distribute any more on Mount Calvary. Mr. W. advised us not to proceed with the intention of distributing those which we had. We however, went, giving to every one we met, till we came in sight of the gendarmes, when we ceased giving, but occasionally let some fall from our pockets, which the wind, which was very high, scattered in all directions, and were gathered up by the crowd. At length we arrived at the top of the mountain, took our stand on the highest elevation near the cross, and there, in our own language, offered up, each of us, a prayer to the God of heaven for direction, and to have mercy on those tens of thousands that we saw around us, bowing before graven images. I then felt in some degree strengthened to go on, and, taking a tract from my pocket, presented it to a lady who stood near me, and who appeared to be a lady of some distinction. She received it with thanks, and I was not noticed by the gendarmes. Dr. S. let some fall from his pocket, and we made our way down to one of the stations. There he laid some on the charity-box, while I stood before him, to hide what he did. We then went to another station, and I gave ten or twelve to a lady, whom I charged to distribute them."

The heroism of these Presbyterian missionaries, who go up and down hill, dropping divine truth from their coat-tails, reminds us of a crazy old lady {135}so in New York, whose will was lately contested before our courts. She had peculiar ideas of her own on the subject of politics and the war, and used to inscribe her thoughts on great paper kites, and give them to little boys to fly in the Central Park, in the belief that the words would somehow or another be disseminated through the city. Imagine St. Francis Xavier setting sail for the Indies with his hat, and pockets, and hands full of tracts, scattering them broad-cast along the inhospitable shores, or trusting them to the breezes, like those charitable Buddhists Father Huc tells of, who go up a high mountain on windy days, and throw into the air little paper horses, which being blown away are, as they believe, miraculously changed into real horses for the benefit of belated travellers. Suppose Father Matthew, instead of preaching a crusade against drunkenness, had contented himself with sneaking into shibeens and taverns, and, behind the friendly shelter of a companion's back, had deposited little bundles of temperance tracts on the top of every barrel of whiskey, as if he expected them to explode like a torpedo, and fill the air with virtue. Or what would Dr. Spring think if some Sunday, in the midst of his prayer, two or three Catholic priests should march into the Brick church and distribute Challoner's Catechisms up and down the aisles, making the "solemn" Presbyterians get up from their knees to receive them? It would not be a bit more outrageous than the doctor's behavior during the mission on Mont Calvaire.

American travellers in Europe, especially of the fanatical sort, are but too apt to disgrace themselves and their country by their conduct in sacred places. Here is another extract from Dr. Spring's book which no respectable American can read without blushing. The incident occurred in the famous cathedral of Rouen, built by William the Conqueror, and reckoned the finest specimen of Gothic architecture in France:

"A little circumstance occurred here that was somewhat amusing. [!] Mr. Van Rensallear, in order to procure some little relic of the place, instead of gathering some flowers, broke off the nose of one of the marble saints! He hoped to escape the detection of the guide, but unfortunately, on leaving the cathedral, we had to pass the mutilated statue, and were charged with the sacrilege. It was a lady saint whose sanctity our gallantry had thus violated, and we had to meet the most terrific volleys of abuse. A few glittering coins, however, obtained absolution for us, but neither entreaty nor cash could obtain the nose."

That must have been a funny scene one Sunday in crossing the ocean, when the doctor and his wife, and the rest of the passengers, held service under difficulties:

"We assembled for praise and prayer. Susan was quite sea-sick, yet she came on deck. The day was cold, and she sat with a hot potato in each hand to keep her warm."

This is certainly the oddest preparation for approaching the throne of grace that we ever heard of.

Mrs. Spring is a prominent figure all through the book, giving her reverend husband advice and comfort, and helping him in the work of the ministry, especially with regard to the women of the flock. He laments in his introductory chapter that the death of his "beloved Mrs. Spring must leave a vacuum in these pages which nothing can fill." In the second volume he gives a long and detailed account of her sufferings in child-bed when she "became the mother of a lovely daughter." When she died in 1860, he wrote in his diary as follows:

"I have been her husband and she my wife for four-and-fifty years; our attachment has been mutual, and strong and sweet to the end. I had no friend on earth in whom I had such reliance; no counsellor so wise; no comforter so precious. For the last thirty years we have rarely differed in opinion; when we did, I generally found she was right and I was was wrong; and when I persevered in my {136} judgment she knew how to yield her wishes to mine, and would sometimes say with a smile, 'God has set the man above the woman. You are king, my husband; but I am the queen!' In all my ministry, in sickness and in health, at home and abroad, by night and by day, I never knew her own convenience, comfort, or pleasure take the place of my duty to the people of my charge. . . . . I bless God that I had such a wife--that I had her at all, and that I had her so long. . . . My darling wife, I give you joy: but what shall I do without you?"

This last question is soon answered in an unexpected manner. Only eight pages further on, Dr. Spring, aged eighty, records the following passage:

"April 13th, 1865.--My sweet wife was too valuable a woman ever to be forgotten. The preceding sketch furnishes but the outline of her excellences, which I have presented more at large at the close of the sermon commemorative of one who was my first love. I never thought I could love another. But I was advanced beyond my threescore years and ten, partially blind, and needed a helper fitted to my age and condition; no one needs such a helper more than a man in my advanced years. I sought, and God gave me another wife. A few days only more than a year after the death of Mrs. Spring, on the 14th of August, 1861, I was married to Abba Grosvenor Williams, the only surviving child of the late Elisha Williams, Esq., a distinguished member of the bar. She is the heiress of a large Property, and retains it in her own hands. She is intent on her duty as a wife, watchful of my wants, takes good care of me, is an excellent housekeeper, and instead of adding to the expenses of my household, shares them with her husband."--Vol. ii., pp. 91, 92.

With this extract, Dr. Spring may be left to the charity of our readers. We have said nothing of the vanity which allows him freely to quote the commendations of his friends on his efforts in the pulpit and his publications through the press; because, inconsistent as it may be with a very elevated piety, it is a weakness that might be pardoned in such an old man. But we cannot help remarking how on every page he gives evidence of the utter baselessness of the thing he calls religion; the unsubstantial, unsatisfying character of those human emotions which he perpetually mistakes for the operations of the Holy Ghost; and the strangely unreal, unsanctified nature of the fit of mental perturbation which he denotes conversion and labors so hard to produce. The conclusion to which every unprejudiced person must come, on closing the volumes, is that Dr. Spring has lived in vain.

------

{137}

MISCELLANY.

Arabian Laughing Plant.--In Palgrave's "Central and Eastern Arabia" some particulars are given in regard to a carious narcotic plant. Its seeds, in which the active principal seems chiefly to reside, when pounded and administered in a small dose, produce effects much like those ascribed to Sir Humphrey Davy's laughing gas; the patient dances, sings, and performs a thousand extravagances, till after an hour of great excitement to himself and amusement to the bystanders, he falls asleep, and on awaking has lost all memory of what he did or said while under the influence of the drug. To put a pinch of this powder into the coffee of some unexpecting individual is not an uncommon joke, nor is it said that it was ever followed by serious consequences, though an over quantity might perhaps be dangerous. The author tried it on two individuals, but in proportions if not absolutely homoeopathic, still sufficiently minute to keep on the safe side, and witnessed its operation, laughable enough but very harmless. The plant that hears these berries hardly attains in Kaseem the height of six inches above the ground, but in Oman were seen bushes of it three or four feet in growth, and wide-spreading. The stems are woody, and of a yellow tinge when barked; the leaf of a dark green color, and pinnated with about twenty leaflets on either side; the stalks smooth and shining; the flowers are yellow, and grow in tufts, the anthers numerous, the fruit is a capsule, stuffed with greenish padding, in which lie imbedded two or three black seeds, in size and shape much like French beans; their taste sweetish, but with a peculiar opiate flavor; the smell heavy and almost sickly.

The Congelation of Animals.--It is generally supposed that certain animals cannot be frozen without the production of fatal results, and that others can tolerate any degree of congelation. Both these views have been shown to be incorrect in a paper read before the French Academy, by M. Pouchet. The writer arrives at the following conclusions: (1.) The first effect produced by the application of cold is contraction of the capillary blood-vessels. This may be observed with the microscope. The vessels become so reduced in calibre that the blood-globules are unable to enter them. (2.) The second effect is the alteration in form and structure of the blood-globules themselves. These alterations are of three kinds: (a) the nucleus bursts from the surrounding envelope; (b) the nucleus undergoes alteration of form; (c) the borders of the globule become crenated, and assume a deeper color than usual. (3.) When an animal is completely frozen, and when, consequently, its blood-globules have become disorganized, it is dead--nothing can then re-animate it. (4.) When the congelation is partial, those organs which have been completely frozen become gangrenous and are destroyed. (5.) If the partial congelation takes place to a very slight extent, there are not many altered globules sent into the general circulation; and hence life is not compromised. (6.) If, on the contrary, it is extensive, the quantity of altered globules is so great that the animal perishes. (7.) On this account an animal which is partially frozen may live a long time if the congelation is maintained, the altered globules not entering into the general circulation; but, on the contrary, it dies if heat be suddenly applied, owing to the blood becoming charged with altered globules. (8.) In all cases of fatal congelation the animal dies from decomposition or alteration of the blood-globules, and not from stupefaction of the nervous system.

Ordnance and Targets.--The Admiralty having erected a new target, representing a portion of the side of the Hercules, experiments were made at Shoeburyness which proved that a thickness of armor casing had been attained which afforded perfect security against even the largest guns recently constructed. The target has a facing of {138} 9-inch armor-plates, and contains altogether eleven inches thickness of iron. Against this three 12-ton shunt guns were fired, at a distance of only 200 yards, with charges varying from 45 lbs. to 60 lbs. of powder. One steel shot, of 300 lbs. weight, 10-1/2 inches in diameter, fired with 60 lbs. of powder, at a velocity of 1,450 feet per second, barely broke through the armor, without injuring the backing. Sir William Armstrong has expressed his conviction, in the Times, that the 600-pounder gun will be unable to penetrate this target, and that it will, in fact, require a gun carrying 120 lbs. of powder and steel shot to pierce this massive shield. Mr. W. C. Unwin has pointed out, in a letter to the Engineer, that for similar guns with shot of similar form, and charges in a constant ratio to the weight of the shot, the velocity is nearly constant. Then, assuming the resistance of the plates to be as the squares of their thicknesses, it follows that when the diameter of the shot increases, as well as the thickness of the armor, the maximum thickness perforated will (by theory) vary as the cube root of the weight of the shot, or, in other words, as the calibre of the gun; and the weight of the shot necessary to penetrate different thicknesses of armor will be as the cubes of those thicknesses. The ratio deduced from the Shoeburyness experiments is somewhat less than this, being as the 2.5 power and the 5.2 power respectively. Practical formula deduced from experiments are given, which agree with Sir William Armstrong's conclusion, and prove that a gun which can effectively burn a charge of at least 100 lbs. of powder will be required to effectually penetrate the side of the Hercules.

The Moa's Egg.--Since our last issue a splendid specimen of the egg of the Dinornis has been exhibited in this country, put up to auction, and "bought in" by the proprietors for £125. Some interesting details concerning the history of gigantic birds' eggs have been supplied by a contemporary, and we quote them for our readers: In 1854, M. Geoffroy de St. Hilaire exhibited to the French Academy some eggs of the Epyornis, a bird which formerly lived in Madagascar. The larger of these was 12.1 inches long, and 11.8 inches wide; the smaller one was slightly less than this. The Museum d'Histoire Naturelle at Paris also contains two eggs, both of which are larger than the one recently put up for sale, the longer axis of which measures 10 inches, and the shorter 7 inches. In the discussion which followed the reading of M. de St. Hilaire's paper, M. Valenciennes stated it was quite impossible to judge of the size of a bird by the size of its egg, and gave several instances in point. Mr. Strickland, in some "Notices of the Dodo and its Kindred," published in the "Annals of Natural History" for November, 1849, says that in the previous year a Mr. Dumarele, a highly respectable French merchant at Bourbon, saw at Port Leven, Madagascar, an enormous egg, which held "thirteen wine quart bottles of fluid." The natives stated that the egg was found in the jungle, and "observed that such eggs were very, very rarely met with." Mr. Strickland appears to doubt this, but there seems no reason to do so. Allowing a pint and a half to each of the so-called "quarts," the egg would hold 19-1/2 pints. Now, the larger egg exhibited by St. Hilaire held 17-1/2 pints, as he himself proved. The difference is not so very great. A word or two about the nests of such gigantic birds. Captain Cook found, on an island near the north-east coast of New Holland, a nest "of a most enormous size. It was built with sticks upon the ground, and was no less than six-and-twenty feet in circumference, and two feet eight inches high." (Kerr's "Collection of Voyages and Travels," xiii. 318.) Captain Flinders found two similar nests on the south coasts of New Holland, in King George's Bay. In his "Voyage, etc.," London, 1818, he says: "They were built upon the ground, from which they rose above two feet, and were of vast circumference and great interior capacity; the branches of trees and other matter of which each nest was composed being enough to fill a cart."--The Reader.

The Birds of Siberia.--In an important treatise, published under the patronage of the Imperial Geographical Society of St. Petersburg, and which is the second of a series intended to be issued on Siberian zoology, the author, Herr Radde, not only records the species, but gives an account of the period of the migration of Siberian birds. He {139} gives a list of 368 species, which he refers to the following orders: Rapaces, 36; Scansores, 19; Oscines, 140; Gallinaceae, 18; Grallatores, 74; and Natatores, 81. Concerning the migration of birds, Herr Radde confirms the result arrived at by Von Middendorf in his learned memoir, "Die Isepiptesen Russlands;" the most important of them being, (1) that the high table-land of Asia and the bordering ranges of the Altai, Sajan, and Dauria retard the arrival of the migratory birds; (2) eastward of the upper Lena, toward the east coast of Siberia, a considerable retardation of migrants is again noticeable; and (8) the times of arrival at the northern edge of the Mongolian high steppes are altogether earlier than those of the same species on the Amoor.

Plants within Plants.--In one of the recent numbers of the "Comptes Rendus," N. Trécul gives an account of some curious observations, showing that plants sometimes are formed within the cells of existing ones. He considers that the organic matter of certain vegetable cells can, when undergoing putrefaction, transform itself into new species, which differ entirely from the species in which they are produced. In the bark of the elder, and in plants of the potato and stone-crop order, he found vesicles full of small tetrahedral bodies containing starchy matter, and he has seen them gradually transformed into minute plants by the elongation of one of their angles.

The Extract of Meat.--Baron Liebig, who has favored us with some admirable samples of this excellent preparation, has also forwarded to us a letter in which he very clearly explains what is the exact nutritive value of the extractum carnis: "The meat," says the baron, "as it comes from the butcher, contains two different series of compounds. The first consists of the so-called albuminous principles (albumen, fibrin) and of glue-forming membrane. Of these, fibrin and albumen have a high nutritive power, although not if taken by themselves. The second series consists of crystallizable substances, viz., creatin, creatinin, sarcin, which are exclusively to be found in meat; further, of non-crystallizable organic principles and salts (phosphate and chloride of potassium), which are not to be found elsewhere. All of these together are called the extractives of meat. To the second series of substances beef-tea owes its flavor and efficacy, the same being the case with the extractum carnis, which is, in fact, nothing but solid beef-tea--that is, beef-tea from which the water has been evaporated. Beside the substances already mentioned, meat contains, as a non-essential constituent, a varying amount of fat. Now neither fibrin nor albumen is to be found in the extractum carnis which bears my name, and gelatine (glue) and fat are purposely excluded from it. In the preparation of the extract the albuminous principles are left in the residue. This residue, by the separation of all soluble principles, which are taken up in the extract, loses its nutritive power, and cannot be made an article of trade in any palatable form. Were it possible to furnish the market at a reasonable price with a preparation of meat containing both the albuminous and extractive principles, such a preparation would have to be preferred to the extractum carnis, for it would contain all the nutritive constituents of the meat. But there is, I think, no prospect of this being realized." These remarks show very clearly the actual value of the extract. It is, in fact, concentrated beef-tea; but it is neither the equivalent of flesh on the one hand, nor an imperfectly nutritive substance on the other. It is, nevertheless, a most valuable preparation, and now commands an extensive sale in these countries and abroad; and it is, furthermore, the only valuable form in which the carcases of South American cattle (heretofore thrown away as valueless) can be utilized.--Popular Science Review.

------

{140}

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

LIFE OF THE MOST REVEREND JOHN HUGHES, D.D., First Archbishop of New York. With Extracts from his Private Correspondence. By John R. G. Hassard. Pp. 519. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1866.

Mr. Hassard is one of our most promising writers. He contributed several excellent articles to "Appleton's Cyclopaedia," edited "The Catholic World" with judgment and good taste for several months at its first establishment, and since that time has occupied the position of editor of the Chicago "Republican." This is his first literary essay of serious magnitude, and a more delicate or difficult task could not well have been confided to his hands. He has fulfilled it with care, thoroughness, and impartiality. The style in which it is written is remarkably correct and scholarly, and exhibits a thorough acquaintance with the English language as well as a pure and discriminating taste in the choice of words. It is a kind of style which attracts no attention to itself or to the author, but is simply a medium through which the subject-matter of the work is presented to the reader's mind; and this, in our view, is no small merit. The subject-matter itself is prepared and arranged in a methodical, accurate, and complete manner, which leaves nothing in that regard to be desired. The work belongs to that class of historical compositions which chronicle particular events and incidents, relate facts and occurrences as they happened, and leave them, for the most part, to make their own impression. The author has endeavored to take photographs of his illustrious subject, and of the scenes of his private and public life, but not to paint a picture or his character and his times. Those who are already familiar with the scenes, the persons, and the circumstances brought into view in connection with the personal history of the archbishop, and who were personally acquainted with himself, could ask for no more than is furnished in this biography. We have thought, however, in reading it, that other readers would miss that filling up and those illuminating touches from the author's pen which would make the history as vivid and real to their minds as it is made to our own by memory. A graphic and complete view of the history of the Catholic Church, so far as Archbishop Hughes was a principal actor in it, and of the results of his labors in the priesthood and episcopate, is necessary to a just estimate of his ecclesiastical career, is still a desideratum. In saying this, we do not intend to find fault with Mr. Hassard for not supplying it. He has accomplished the task which he undertook in a competent manner, and produced a work of sterling merit and lasting value. We could wish that the biographies of several other distinguished prelates, of the same period, might be written with the same minuteness and fidelity, and, above all others, those of Bishop England and Archbishop Kenrick. Very few men could endure the ordeal of passing through the hands of a biographer so coldly impartial as Mr. Hassard. But those who are able to pass through it, and who still appear to be great men, and to have lived a life of great public service, may be certain that their genuine, intrinsic worth will be recognized after their death, and not be thought to be the coinage of an interested advocate, or the furbished counterfeit whose glitter disappears in the crucible. Moreover, the reader of history will be satisfied that he gets at the reality of things, and the writer of history that he has authentic data and materials on which to base his judgments of men and events. No doubt this species of history would disclose many defects and weaknesses, many human infirmities and errors, in the individuals who figure in it, and lay bare much that is unsightly and repulsive in the state of things as described. This is true of all ecclesiastical history. Truth dissipates many romantic and poetic illusions of the imagination, which loves to picture to itself an ideal state of perfection and ideal heroes far different from the real world and real men. Nevertheless, it manifests more clearly the heroic and divine element really existing and working in the world and in men, and manifesting itself especially in the Catholic Church. {141} We believe, therefore, that the divinity of the Catholic religion would only be more clearly exhibited, the more thoroughly its history in the United States was brought to light. We believe, also, that the character and works of its valiant and loyal champions will be the more fully vindicated the more dispassionately and impartially they are tried and judged.

A calm consideration of the condition of Catholicity, thirty-five or forty years ago in this country, in contrast with its present state, will enable us to judge of the work accomplished by the men who have been the principal agents in bringing about the change. Let us reflect for a moment what a difference it would have made in the history of the Catholic religion here, if some eight or ten of the principal Catholic champions had not lived; and we may then estimate the power and influence they have exerted. Leaving aside the numerical and material extension of the Catholic Church under the administration of its prelates and the clergy of the second order, we look at the change in public sentiment alone, and the vindication of the Catholic cause by argument at the bar of common reason, where it has gained a signal argumentative triumph over Protestantism and prejudice, through the ability and courage of its advocates and the soundness of their cause. The principal men among the first champions of the Catholic faith who began this warfare were, in the Atlantic states, Dr. Cheverus, Dr. England, Dr. Hughes, and Dr. Power. We speak from an intimate and perfect knowledge of the common Protestant sentiment on this matter, and with a distinct remembrance of the dread which these last three names, and the veneration which the first of them, inspired. Every one who knows what the almost universal sentiment of the Protestant community respecting the Catholic religion and its hierarchy was, is well aware that it was a sentiment of intense abhorrence mingled with fear. It was looked upon as a system of preternatural wickedness and might, and yet, by a strange inconsistency, as a system of utter folly and absurdity, which no reasonable and conscientious man could intelligently and honestly embrace. The priesthood were regarded as a species of human demons, and those among them who possessed extraordinary ability, were believe to have a diabolical power to make the worse appear the better reason and the devil an angel of light. Those whose sanctity was so evident that it broke down all prejudice, as Bishop Cheverus, were supposed not to be initiated into the mysteries of the Catholic religion, but to be at heart really Protestants, blinded to the errors of their system by education, and duped by their more cunning associates, like "Father Clement" in the well-known tale of that name. The Catholic clergy were shunned and ostracised, looked on as outlaws and public enemies, worthy of no courtesy and no mercy. Their religion was regarded as unworthy of a hearing, a thing to be scouted and denounced, trampled upon like a noxious serpent and crushed, if possible. Contempt would be the proper word to express the common estimation of it, if there had not been too much fear and hatred to make contempt possible. Its antagonists wished and tried to despise it and its advocates, but could not. Every sort of calumny and vituperation was showered upon them by the preachers, the lecturers, and the writers for the press who made Catholicity their theme. Some, perhaps many, honorable exceptions, which were always multiplying with time, must be understood, particularly in Boston, Baltimore, and Charleston. John Hughes, the poor Irish lad, who had knelt behind the hay-rick on his father's farm to pray to God and the Blessed Virgin to make him a priest, who had come to this country with no implement to clear his way to greatness but the pick and shovel which he manfully grasped, was one of those who were chosen to lead the van in the assault against this rampart of prejudice. That he vanquished his proud and scornful antagonists is an undoubted fact. Beginning his studies, as a favor reluctantly conceded to him on account of his importunity, at a later period than usual, with a grammar in one hand and a spade in the other, he was first a priest, faithful to his duty among many faithless, courageous and enterprising among many who were timid, strong among many weak, staunch and unflinching in a time of schism, scandal, and disaster, and bold enough not only to lay new foundations for the church of Philadelphia, which others have since built upon, while the old ones were half crumbled, and to repress mutiny and disorder in the ranks of his own people, but to {142} attack, single-handed, the enemies who were exulting over the discord and feebleness which they thought foreboded the disruption of the Catholic body. This, too, almost without encouragement, and with no hearty support from those who were older and more thoroughly trained and equipped in the service than himself. He became the coadjutor and successor of the very man who had refused his first application to be allowed to purchase the privilege of studying under him, by his daily labor. He died the metropolitan of a province embracing all New York, New Jersey, and New England, and including eight suffragan bishoprics with more than a million of Catholics; confessedly the most conspicuous man among his fellow-bishops in the view of Catholics and Protestants alike, one of the most trusted and honored of his compeers at the See of Rome, well known throughout Catholic Christendom, a confidential adviser and a powerful supporter of the United States government, a recognized illustrious citizen of the American republic as well as one of the ornaments of his native country, with all the signs and tributes of universal honor and respect at his funeral obsequies which are accorded to distinguished personal character or official station. Let the most severe and impartial critic apply his mind to separate, in this distinguished and useful career, the personal and individual force impelling the man through it, from the concurrence of Divine Providence, the aid of favorable circumstances and high position, the supernatural power of the character with which he was marked, and of the system which he administered, and the strength and volume of the current of events on which he was borne, and, if we mistake not, he will find something strong enough to stand all his tests. An ordinary man might have worked his way into the priesthood, fulfilled its duties with zeal and success, attained the episcopal and metropolitan dignity, won respect by his administration, and left a flourishing diocese to his successor. But an ordinary man could never have gained the power and influence possessed by Archbishop Hughes. Our early and original impressions of his remarkable power of intellect and will have been strengthened and fixed by reading his biography, and the greatness of the influence which he exerted in behalf of the Catholic religion is, to our mind, established beyond a doubt. His chivalrous and valiant combat with John Breckinridge, at Philadelphia, was a victory not only decisive but full of results. We know, from a distinct remembrance of the opinions expressed at the time, that Mr. Breckinridge was generally thought, by Protestants, to have been discomfited. We have heard him speak himself of the affair with the tone of one who had exposed himself to a dangerous encounter with an enemy superior to himself, for the public good, and barely escaped with his life. We remember taking up the book containing the controversy, from a sentiment of curiosity to know what plausible argument could possibly be offered for the Catholic religion, and undergoing, in the perusal, a revolution of opinion, which rendered a return to the old state of mind inherited from a Puritan education impossible. This we believe is but an instance exemplifying the general effect of the controversy upon candid and thinking minds, not hopelessly enslaved to prejudice. We remember hearing him preach in the full vigor of his intellectual and physical manhood, in the cathedral of New York, soon after his consecration, and the impression of his whole attitude, countenance, manner of delivery, and cast of thought is still vivid and unique. Those who have seen the archbishop only during the last fifteen years, have seen a breaking-down, enfeebled, almost worn-out man, incapable of steady, vigorous exertion, and oppressed by a weight of care and responsibility which was too great for him. To judge of his ability fairly it is necessary to have seen and heard him in his prime, before ill-health had sapped his vigor. And to appreciate the best and most genial qualities and dispositions of the man, it is necessary to have met him in familiar, unrestrained intercourse, apart from any official relation and away from his diocese--or, at least, in those times when all official anxieties and cares of government were put aside and his mind relaxed in purely friendly conversation. That he was a great man, a true Christian prelate, and accomplished a great work in the service of the church, of his native countrymen, and of the country of his adoption, is, we believe, the just verdict of the most competent judges and of the public at large upon the facts of his life. He will not be forgotten, for his life and acts are too closely {143} interwoven with public history and his influence has been too marked to make that possible. We trust that those who enjoy the blessings of a securely and peacefully established Catholic Church will not be disposed to forget the men who, in more troubled times, have won by their valor the heritage upon which we have entered. The record of their lives and labors is of great value, and this one, in particular, is worthy of the perusal of every Catholic and every American, and has in it a kind of romantic charm and dramatic grouping which does not belong to the life of one who has been more confined to the seclusion of study or the ordinary pastoral routine.

We regret the mention made of Dr. Forbes's defection, and the publicity which is again given to painful matters which had become buried in oblivion. It appears to us that, as Dr. Forbes has not publicly assailed either the church or the late archbishop, it was unnecessary to allude to him in any way, and it would have been more generous to have suppressed the remarks made in the archbishop's private correspondence. The mechanical execution of the work is in good style, and we recommend it to our readers as necessary to every Catholic library.

AN AMERICAN DICTIONARY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. By Noah Webster, LL.D. Thoroughly Revised and Greatly Enlarged and Improved, by Chauncey A. Goodrich, D.D., Late Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory, and also Professor of the Pastoral Charge in Yale College, and Noah Porter, D.D., Clark Professor of Moral Philosophy and Metaphysics in Yale College. Royal quarto, pp. 1840. Springfield, Mass.: G. & C. Meiriam. 1866.

There have been published, within the last twenty-five years, several editions of "Webster's Dictionary," but the present one, the title of which is given above, seems to be the crowning effort of dictionary making. It surpasses all other editions of the same work both in its typography, its illustrations--some 3,000 in number--and its philological completeness. "Webster's Dictionary" has always been of high authority in this country, and is now held in great repute in England, where it is accepted by several writers as the best authority in defining the English language. The present edition is a most beautiful one, and contains all the modern words which custom has engrafted upon our language. It also contains, in its pronouncing table of Scripture proper names, a supplementary list of the names found in the Douay Bible, but not in King James's version. In fact, care has been taken to make this edition as free as possible from partisan and theological differences in regard to the definitions of certain words which heretofore got a peculiarly Protestant twitch when being defined. The publishers deserve great praise for the manner in which they have done their portion of the work; it is a credit and an honor to the American press.

THE CRITERION; OR, THE TEST OF TALK ABOUT FAMILIAR THINGS: A Series of Essays. By Henry T. Tuckerman. 12mo., pp. 377. New York: Hurd & Houghton. 1866.

Mr. H. T. Tuckerman is a man of letters, and we thought he would not be likely to put his name to anything discreditable to an enlightened author; but, to judge from many things in the above production, we think he has missed his vocation, and would find more appropriate employment as a contributor to the publications of the American Tract Society, or the magazine put forth, monthly, by the "Foreign and Christian Union." Else, why is every pope "shrewd," every priest an "incarnation of fiery zeal?" why "the lonely existence and the subtle eye of the Catholic?" why "the medical Jesuit, who, like his religious prototype, operates through the female branches, and thus controls the heads of families, regulating their domestic arrangements, etc.?" why "Bloody Mary" and "Rom_ish?_" why is "superstition the usual trait of Romanists?" and this: "One may pace the chaste aisles of the Madeleine, and feel his devotion stirred, perhaps, by the dark catafalque awaiting the dead in the centre of the spacious floor; and then what to him is the doctrine of transubstantiation?" (!) We are truly sorry to see these indications of a spirit with which we think the author will find very little sympathy outside the clique of benighted readers of the publications above quoted.

{144}

CHRIST THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD. By C. J. Vaughan, D.D., Vicar of Doncaster. 18mo., pp. 269. Alexander Strahan, London and New York. 1865.

This beautiful little volume contains twelve sermons, or rather religious essays, written in a pleasing style, but altogether too lengthy and too exhaustive in character. We have no doubt but that the author is a good preacher, and if these essays were ever preached by him as sermons, they were listened to with pleasure. But in their present shape, enlarged, systematized, and--shall we say--almost too carefully prepared for the press, they are a little tiresome. One feels in reading them how much the naturalness, as well as the elegance of diction, is marred by the vague evangelical phraseology, "coming to Christ," "laying hold on Christ," etc., which occurs so constantly in these pages. The author, being a Low Evangelical Churchman, gives us, of course, "justification by faith" and the Calvinistic view of the Fall. Yet, in the latter half of the volume he seems to speak more like one who imagines that man has something to do for his own justification, and takes a higher and nobler view of humanity. We give the following passage from the last sermon, entitled "Cast out and found," as a good specimen of what we should call practical preaching. "When Jesus found him, he said unto him. Dost thou believe on the Son of God? 'Thou!' The word is emphatic in the original, 'Thou--believest thou?' We are glad to escape into the crowd, and shelter ourselves behind a church's confession. But a day is coming, in which nothing but an individual faith will carry with it either strength or comfort. It will be idle to say in a moment of keen personal distress, such as probably lies before us in life and certainly in death and in judgment, 'Every one believes--all around us believe--the world itself believes in the Son of God:' there is no strength and no help there: the very object of Christ's finding thee and speaking to thee is to bring the question home, 'Dost thou believe?' A trying, a fearful moment, when Christ, face to face with man's soul, proposes that question! Perhaps that moment has not yet come to you. You have been fighting it off. You do not wish to come to these close quarters with it. The world does not press you with it. The world is willing enough that you should answer it in the general; and even if you ever say, 'I believe in Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord,' it shall be in a chorus of voices, almost robbing the individual of personality, and making 'I' sound like 'we.' But if ever your religion is to be a real thing, if ever it is to enable you to do battle with a sin, or to face a mortal risk, if ever it is to be a religion for the hour of death, or for the day of judgment, you must have had that question put to you by yourself, and you must have answered it from the heart in one way. Then you will be a real Christian, not before!"

The book is elegantly got up in the style and care for which the publisher is noted.

BOOKS RECEIVED.

From P. O'Shea, 27 Barclay street. New York: Nos. 18, 19, and 20 of Darras' History of the Church.

From P. Donahoe, Boston: The Peep o' Day; or, John Doe, and the Last Baron of Crana. By the O'Hara Family. 12mo., pp. 204 and 243.

From Hon. Wm. H. Seward. Secretary of State, Washington, his speech on the "Restoration of the Union," delivered in New York, Feb. 22, 1866.

From Peter F. Cunningham, Philadelphia: The Life of Blessed John Berchmans, of the Society of Jesus. Translated from the French. With an Appendix, giving an account of the Miracles after Death which have been approved by the Holy See. From the Italian of Father Boreo, S.J. 1 vol. 12mo., pp. 358.

From John Murphy & Co., Baltimore: The Apostleship of Prayer. A Holy League of Christian Hearts united with the Heart of Jesus, to obtain the Triumph of the Church and the Salvation of Souls. Preceded by a Brief of the Sovereign Pontiff Plus IX., the approbation of several Archbishops and Bishops and Superiors of Religious Congregations. By the Rev. H. Ramiero, of the Society of Jesus. Translated from the latest French Edition, and Revised by a Father of the Society. With the approbation of the Most Rev. Archbishop Spalding. 12mo., pp. 393.

From Kelly & Piet, Baltimore: Life in the Cloister; or, Faithful and True. By the author of "The World and Cloister." 12mo., pp. 224.

------ {145}

THE CATHOLIC WORLD

VOL. III., NO. 14--MAY, 1866.

[ORIGINAL.]

PROBLEMS OF THE AGE.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us