Hugh Quigley - The Cross and the Shamrock

H >> Hugh Quigley >> The Cross and the Shamrock

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On one side see the fruitful lemon and orange trees, bending under the
weight of their golden and emerald productions; on the other the
fragrant apple, the sweet pear, and mellow peach borrow support from the
strong granite wall to bring their burdens to maturity. Behold there two
fountains casting their crystal and refreshing contents aloft, as if
making restitution to the thirsting atmosphere for what they stole from
him under ground. The water falls back again, however, and is received
by the marble basin at the base, to form a neat pond, where gold and
silver fish sport and gambol. A little at a distance, to the rear, the
fragrance of honey and the busy hum of the bee are perceived by your
grateful senses. The place looks like an earthly paradise; every thing
there seems to laugh without restraint, from the creeping rose fastened
to the hedge to the tall, princely-looking mountain ash, with its
bunches of red berries.

The only one living thing that seemed pensive and sad there was a
lovely, delicate fawn, which rested, with her head drooping, at the foot
of a rose bush, on the summit of the little green mound which was the
centre of this delightful spot. Perhaps the lovely creature is after
being weaned from the udder of its affectionate dam; or, perhaps, she
grieves for the absence of some favorite in the palace of whom she is
the pet. But that the creature grieves is evident, for you could see the
two moist tracks furrowed on the smooth face, from the tears that have
flowed there.

But the inside of the "great house," who can describe it? From the
ground floor to the uppermost attic, the rooms presented that waste of
furniture, in the shape of sofas, ottomans, easy chairs, couches,
carpets, tapestries, curtains, paintings, pier glasses, plate, and a
thousand other articles contributive of ease and luxury, which the most
extravagant expenditure could procure or vanity suggest. In truth, the
interior was the exact counterpart of the exterior, in the artistic
arrangement and splendor of every thing. To the eye of an observer, on
an ordinary occasion, every thing appeared gorgeous in the extreme; but
on the occasion we describe, when preparation was making for a grand
reception, all was joy, mirth, luxury, and happiness. Servants of every
color and hue were seen moving through the labyrinths of the saloons and
chambers of this great palace, uncovering the long-concealed splendors
of valuable articles, and arranging every thing for the most
advantageous show.

And

"Now through the palace chambers moving lights
And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's rites;
From room to room the ready handmaids hie,
Some skilled to wreathe the headdress tastefully,
Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade,
O'er the warm blushes of the youthful maid."

Splendid services of gold and silver plate met the eye in every
direction, on their way to the grand dining room; while, from the
remotest part of the building, the sense of smelling was simultaneously
assailed by several currents of delightful culinary exhalations, which,
like the winds in the cave of AEolus, struggled for egress from their
confined birthplace.

This is one of those occasions on which the Dives of this sumptuous
palace, Mr. Goldrich, intends to celebrate his birthday; and as he can't
tell where he was born, nor can he show any genuine images of his
ancestry, (except that he came down a scion from the great "Anglo-Saxon
race,") he is determined to make amends for this calamity he could not
help, and the want of taste in his father, whoever he was, by spending
an ordinary fortune in the present celebration, and thus combine the
splendors of all the possible past anniversaries of his birth in one
grand, unrivalled celebration to-day.

"And here, at once, the glittering saloon
Bursts on the sight, boundless and bright as noon."

The select music of splendid bands now announced the movements of
guests towards the grand banquet room. In pairs they enter, and
singular; the short procession is now at an end, and the places are
filled up with the scanty number of twoscore guests, male and female.

You would have supposed, from the preparation, that the inhabitants of
the entire city were invited; but no, the exact number was forty,
besides the members of the rich man's family. And this happened not by
accident, or because of the penury or avarice of Mr. Goldrich, but
because in the whole city there were no more than twenty families who
ranked in the sphere of the "upper ten" in which "mine host" moved.
These shining figures, that you can scarcely look at without risk to
your eyes from their jewelry, are the ladies who leave us in doubt which
they love most to exhibit--their charms, or the richness of their
ornaments. Among that bright array of female beauty there is missed the
fair form of one who was, heretofore, an ordinary occupant of an
honorable place at the family table. It was the chair of the
rosy-cheeked Alia that was unoccupied at this splendid circle. The
presiding queen of the feast, Madam Goldrich, apologized for the absence
of "poor Alia," by representing her indisposed; and at the announcement
of this dispiriting intelligence, disappointment marked the countenances
of the guests, for Alia was the brightest star that shone in that
brilliant galaxy of fashion.

Being the oldest among the children of Mr. Goldrich, Alia possessed all
that graceful and dignified superiority over those whom she regarded as
her younger sisters, which are the acknowledged privileges of age in
every well-regulated family, and which her superior talent seemed
naturally to enforce.

Years rolled on, and the dear child lived in blissful ignorance of her
origin and desolate condition, till the jealousy of her younger sisters
excited her suspicions, and she began to mistrust the genuineness, as
she felt the coldness, of that parental affection which the pretended
authors of her existence so long counterfeited. During many months, if
not years, these suspicions preyed on the poor girl's mind; and though
she never dared to mention them to any save old Judy, the negro woman,
she felt satisfied that her sisters and herself could not belong to the
same stock or the same race. The transparent delicacy of her complexion,
the rosy tint on her cheek, unrivalled by the costly paint of her
sisters, the shining blackness of her splendid hair,--all these
circumstances pointed her out and proclaimed her as of a different race
to those whom she hitherto regarded as her kindred. Long had she mused
on the cause of this disparity, and much had she suffered, in the depth
of her soul, from the representations and suggestions of her active
imagination in reference to her origin, and many were the tears shed by
her while oppressed with these doubts. But the events of this day, added
to the late insolent conduct of her sisters, which provoked the
reprimand of her peevish mother guardian, who told her to curb her
"Irish temper,"--these cleared up all her doubts; and, filled with a
melancholy joy at a revelation she owed to the jealousy and vanity of a
proud mother and her daughters, Alia retired to her room to give vent to
her feelings in sobs and tears.

"Thank God," she cried, "I know what I am, or ought to be. Thank God I
am Irish, too, for I often wished I belonged to that much-abused and
persecuted people. But O, where shall I find my parents? or how came my
lot to be cast in this proud palace, which, alas! I too long regarded as
my home? O, who, who will restore this poor 'exile of Erin,' to the home
of her unknown parents? How gladly would I exchange all the splendor of
this place for the homeliest cot in that land of the shamrock and the
cross; ay, the poorest 'cabin, fast by the wild-wood,' in the land of
St. Patrick, and my unknown ancestors."

Such were the soliloquies of poor, despised Alia, in her room on the
third floor, where old aunt Judy, the negro, having missed her favorite
from the grand company, after having sought her in vain in the lower
saloons of the house, just entered her room.

"Dere, now, Miss Ali', am poor aunt Judy half kilt from sarching for you
all over. What make you be here, and all the gran' gem'men asking for
you?"

"Ah, aunt Judy, why have you all along denied of me all knowledge of my
extraction, parentage, and race? Did you not know that I was Irish? and
yet you always denied that I was, though I have suspected I was, and you
must have known it, having lived so long in the family. This is not what
I expected from you, aunt Judy," she said, casting a look of gentle
reproach at the old negro.

"O, dear, miss--O, dear," cried the poor affectionate creature, bursting
into tears; "don't blame dis ole nigger, but massa and missus, and Miss
Sillerman, sister to the missus who died last year. They forbid aunt
Jude to tell who rosy-faced Ali' was. I was bound to swear not to tell.
If they knowed I did hab a _parle_ vit you on de subject, they would
turn poor ole Jude out de door to die in the poor _maison_."

This poor negro woman was a native of St. Domingo, and, at the time of
the revolution there, came to New Orleans, in care of a child belonging
to one of the white planters who was murdered--which child, by the way,
has since become a pious and eminent clergyman. By some accident or
other she fell in with the Goldriches, in their commercial visits to New
Orleans, and, though brought up a Catholic, the poor thing forgot all
practice of her religion, and this accounts for her evasions and denials
to the repeated questions of Alia regarding her parentage and birth.

"'Pon my fait, miss," she ever said, "I know nothing about you, 'cept
that you are the rose-cheeked Ali', the _fleur de lis_ of the flock."

Promises, and flattering presents, and all other persuasive arts of Alia
to get the secret out of Judy proved useless. She had promised to keep
it, and no human authority, she thought, could ever cause her to violate
that promise. Although Judy had, through fear of displeasing her
patrons, given up all public practice of her religion, she nevertheless
never denied that she was a "Catholique," and never omitted to recite
full five decades of the beads after going to bed. She declared she
could not fall asleep till she complied with this rather lazy effort of
prayer. Besides these rather faint evidences of her faith, she often
told her loved Ali' that she intended calling in the priest at the hour
of her death; and she confided to the honor of the young lady this
secret desire of hers, and elicited many promises from her Ali' to send
for his reverence when she would perceive her end approach. "This is
rather a singular notion of yours," Alia used to say. "If you are a
Catholic, and believe your faith the best, or the only true one, why do
you not practise its teachings, and fulfil all the requirements of your
church? I am sure neither father nor mother would blame you."

"O miss, I feard, I feard," the poor, timid soul would answer. "But tink
of vat I tol' you; when I go to die, send for the _bon_ priest, who know
how to do the '_parle Francaise_,' and I pray for you when I go to
heaven."

"I shall do that for you, poor aunt Judy, or even attend you now, while
you are in health, to the Catholic church, where you can go to the
sacraments, and become a member again of that church which you have so
long neglected, but which yet seems still to retain a strong hold of
your affections and heart. Won't this be the best course, aunt Judy? I
will attend you to the church of that zealous young Irish priest whom I
see so often hurrying along here to his sick calls up town; and as I
suspect I am 'Irish' myself, I hope he will not be displeased at my
call."

"O, you no Irish, miss, at all, but good Yankee. But tish better not go
for de priest till he come to me when I go to die. Now I have religion
here in _mon coeur_; ven I die, I profess her open."

"Well, Judy, act as you wish; but it appears to me your conduct is
singular. I shall do my part, however; and if there is a priest to be
had in the city when you take to your death bed, you must have him to
attend you."

It was by such communings and conversations as the foregoing, during the
leisure hours of aunt Judy and her loved Ali', that mutual confidence
and disinterested friendship grew into maturity between them--the
childish and helpless simplicity of the one, and kind and good-natured
condescension of the other, producing the like effects in the hearts of
both respectively--that is, disinterested friendship. Yet strong as this
friendship was, and enthusiastic as was the love of Judy for her
"rosy-cheeked" favorite, they were not sufficient to cause her to reveal
the secret of her birth and adoption, even at this hour of Alia's
deepest grief and affliction.

There were two causes for this her unaccountable silence. Firstly, she
had promised not to mention the slightest circumstance connected with
the adopted child, and she feared punishment from the anger of her proud
massa, whose disgrace might be the consequence. And again, having been
in the habit of hearing all sorts of reflections on the "Irish," whom
some mad abolitionists would gladly enslave in place of the blacks, poor
Judy thought to save Alia from the mortification of finding herself
"Irish," by her equivocation and falsehood.

CHAPTER XXIV.

SHOWS HOW THE CROSS AND SHAMROCK WERE PERMANENTLY UNITED AFTER A LONG
SEPARATION.

Paul O'Clery had been appointed pastor of one of the principal churches
in the second city in the Union, as we have before mentioned, and
already the evidences of the "care of souls" with which he was charged
for several years began to manifest themselves on his placid brow. His
was a life of unceasing activity. The visitations of the sick, the calls
of charity, the hearing of confessions, together with the instruction of
youth and the preaching of God's word,--these, the ordinary lot of
pastors, constituted but a share, and not the largest one, of his
onerous duties. Ever mindful of his own destitute condition while an
orphan deprived of both parents, all the orphans of the
thickly-inhabited district that constituted his mission became objects
of his special care. And at a time when such an institution as a
Catholic orphanage was regarded as visionary, or the ephemeral creation
of a too ardent zeal, this good pastor succeeded in founding and
supporting an asylum which has since become of incalculable value, not
only to the Catholics as a body, but to the inhabitants of the whole
city and state. A house of refuge for repentant Magdalens, placed under
the care of the Sisters of Mercy, commanded his next care. In a word,
the founding of schools, hospitals, confraternities, guilds, and other
pious institutions exercised all of his time that was not devoted to
his strictly ecclesiastical duties; so that his sister Bridget, known in
religion as Sister St. John of the Cross, complained a good deal of his
want of charity in not having visited her but once in seven years. "Ad
majorem Dei gloriam,"--"To the greater glory of God,"--was this pious
Levite's motto; and he was dead to all the ties of flesh and blood, and
heedless of all calls save those of charity to his God and his neighbor.

In the pulpit, the spontaneous eloquence of his heart chained the
attention of his hearers; and his discourses, though rather inclined to
asceticism than controversial, went to the hearts, and convinced the
understandings, of unbelievers of the divinity of the doctrine he
preached. No class of his fellow-creatures was excluded from the
influence of his boundless zeal. Protestants--to whom he was very mild,
on account of his knowledge of the ignorant prejudices in which they are
bound by the malice of their teachers--heard him, and became converts to
the church of God. Even the neglected negro race claimed and received a
full measure of his zeal. He established a school for the children of
these neglected sons of Africa, and never lost an opportunity of
visiting them at the death bed or in the hour of serious sickness.

It was on occasion of one of these visits that God rewarded his priest,
even in this world, by the joyous disclosure which we here record, and
which, next to his grace of vocation to the priesthood, of all the
manifestations of God's mercy to him, claimed his sincerest gratitude
and thanksgiving. After the end of the grand "birthday banquet," which
lasted for a day and two nights, Alia's position at the palace became
more disagreeable than ever. The young girls frowned on her and shunned
her society, and Madame Goldrich, after she had got over the fatigue of
the party, read her a smart lesson on her "ill manners and Irish
temper," because she dared to absent herself, to the disappointment of
the guests, from a table at which she was denied her proper and usual
place. "Alia, this conduct of yours must be reformed, and that quick, or
your separation from this family, to which you do not belong, must soon
take place. I ain't goin' to let you take precedence of my children no
longer."

To this vulgar speech of the "princess, our hostess," as she was
flatteringly toasted by a John Bull guest who was there, Alia answered
not a word, but, having retired to her room, fell on her knees and
prayed long and fervently to the God of her fathers to assist her by his
inspirations, and direct her to the best, in her present perplexity.
Having unburdened her bosom of a load of grief by a copious effusion of
tears, and felt in her spirit that calm resignation which a sense of its
own forlorn condition and a total reliance on God are calculated to
inspire even in the unregenerate and imperfect soul, Alia now proceeded
to the chamber of old Judy, whose expected illness had at last arrived,
having been ill now for three days. On perceiving her entrance into the
room, the old negress appealed to her in most supplicating terms to
fulfil her promise to send for "de priest, for now de hour am come. O
Ali', angel, dear," she cried, "do not let me die without the 'bon
Dieu,' or I lost foreber. O, haste! O, haste!"

Alia lost no time, but, taking pen and paper, wrote as follows to the
bishop of the diocese:--

"The Right Rev. Catholic bishop is respectfully informed that there is a
negro woman lying dangerously ill at Mr. Goldrich's, who, being a
Catholic, desires the last rites of that church. Being a native of St.
Domingo, the French is her vernacular tongue; for which cause it will be
desirable, if possible, to send, a clergyman who can speak that
language."

A young negro lad was the bearer of this despatch, and he returned in
less than an hour, attended by Rev. Paul O'Clery, whom the bishop sent
to answer this urgent call, all those of the episcopal residence having
been out since early morning attending on the sick in their respective
localities. In order to avoid any further cause of displeasure to Mrs.
Goldrich, Alia had given the negro lad instructions to bring the priest
in through a private door that communicated with the garden, rather than
attract attention by entering the hall door. She had a full view of the
countenance of the young priest, through the window, while he was
crossing that part of the garden that lay next the houses of the city,
and, strange! her heart throbbed, and an indescribable sensation passed
over her frame.

"How happy," she thought, "must be the sister of such a gentleman as
that! how different her lot from mine!"

The priest entered, and was received with a very polite bow by Alia,
which was returned profoundly. Declining to take a seat, on account of
his many other urgent calls, he was escorted to old Judy's chamber by
his fair guide, who, on the way thither, explained to him what sort of a
person she was, and how odd in her notions about religion. Having
conducted him to her bedside, she made a polite bow, and retired, asking
if her services were further needed.

The priest answered, "No; that he believed all the requirements for this
holy but melancholy service were prepared, and that he supposed he had
to thank her for the nice arrangements he observed."

"Yes, mon pere," said old Judy, in half French, half English, "there is
the '_chandel_,' the '_eau-benite_,' the '_la croix_,' and the rest,
that I keep many year for my deathday."

It was only when she retired from the chamber that the priest caught a
full view of the fair Alia; and now

"A strange emotion worked within him, more
Than mere compassion ever worked before."

He saw in this interesting stranger the strongest resemblance to his own
sister Bridget. There were the same raven hair, the same candid and
large eyes, the same broad and well-set teeth so peculiar to the
O'Clerys, and the same form almost to a line. The groans and urgent call
of his penitent Judy, however, soon recalled his mind from its reveries,
and he banished all thoughts of Alia, as temptations, or, at least,
speculations, which it was for the present useless to entertain. He put
on his stole, and after a short aspiration for light and grace to
discharge his duty to the sick woman, was just in the act of repeating
the prayer, "_Dominus sit in corde tuo et in labiis_,"--"May the Lord be
in your heart and lips,"--when the creature, raising herself up in her
bed, prevented him, saying, "Mon pere, I vant, before I begin the
confession, to tell you a secret that burden my mind long time."

She then proceeded to tell how that young lady he had just seen had been
adopted, or rather kidnapped, by the family she now lived with; how her
name was changed from Aloysia to Alia; how this scheme was planned and
carried out by Miss Sillerman, Mrs. Goldrich's sister, who died not long
since; how, till of late, she was brought up as one of the family; how
carefully she was instructed in all the ways of the Presbyterians; and,
above all, how they endeavored to conceal her family name, for fear of
being claimed by her friends. "But, mon pere," said she, in
continuation, "though I forget the family name of this young, lubly
lady, I have an article here (loosing an old-fashioned workbag) which
may tell her family name."

With that she handed Father Paul a neat ruby necklace, with a rather
heavy gold clasp, on which were carved deeply a cross, interwoven with
shamrocks, with these words, in italics, "_The O'C---- Arms_." This was
enough for Paul O'Clery; he had no doubt of having seen and conversed
with his own dear, long-lost sister, a few moments before. He sunk down
on his knees, buried his face in his hands, and tried as well as he
could to suppress the emotions that pervaded his bosom. After having
prepared old Judy for heaven,--having first prevailed on her to make
these disclosures in presence of witnesses, on condition that the
circumstances of her revelation should not be published till after her
death,--the priest retired from that palace, promising to call again,
accompanied with another gentleman, in the afternoon. Lest his feelings
should betray him, he retired from the house with as little delay as was
consistent with politeness; and he trembled all over as he a second time
returned the greeting of his dear Aloysia, as she conducted him to the
door.

With as little delay as possible, he sought the office of his legal
adviser, and, accompanied by a judge of the Supreme Court of eminent
character, and the legal adviser, and a third, all Protestant gentlemen,
he sought the sick chamber of the old negress again, and there her
deposition, and a confirmation of her previous account of Alia's
bringing up and captivity, were obtained. They had scarcely concluded
her testimony, when poor Judy bid farewell to the world and its crosses,
and the priest had the satisfaction of bidding God speed to her soul in
its passage to eternity, having read for her the last benediction a
second time.

The presence of so many strangers in the house naturally created some
surprise among the inmates, and shortly the death chamber of Judy was
filled with the members of the family, of both sexes.

An explanation of this unusual and unauthorized proceeding was demanded
by Mrs. Goldrich, which the eminent judge consented to give, provided an
_adjournment_ to a more appropriate court was agreed to.

His honor was in the act of unravelling the mysterious but
well-connected development of old Judy--a work of supererogation on his
part, as far as madam was concerned--when the fair-faced Alia herself
made her appearance; and her reverend brother Paul, no longer able to
check his feelings, sprang forward, and, seizing her white hand, kissed
it, saying, "My dearest sister Aloysia, welcome to the embrace of your
brother! 'You were lost, and I have found you; you were dead, and are
again come to life! Rejoice, and be glad.'"

This was too much happiness for Alia to bear up against without
momentarily yielding to the shock, and she sank, as if lifeless, on a
couch. She was soon restored, however, and surrounded by the seemingly
affectionate caresses of her envious _mother_ and jealous sisters. She
had to hear all their arguments to persuade her to prefer her present
splendid misery to the equivocal boon of having found out a poor,
destitute brother, though it was not yet clear whether she could call
him by that name. Appearances were deceitful.

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