Hugh Quigley - The Cross and the Shamrock
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Hugh Quigley >> The Cross and the Shamrock
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"What nice men we have in America over the poorhouse," said he; "they
are very kind to us."
"Yes; but I don't like that man with the great beard," said Bridget; "he
frightens me when I meet him. O, such a _feesage_; a robin redbreast
could make her nest in it," said she, smiling.
"He might be a nice man for all that, Bid. Most people here don't shave
at all, you know, as we saw in New York. And did you notice that sailor
that saved the boy who fell overboard, what a long beard he had? And he
must be a brave, good man, to risk his own life to save another's."
"Yes, Paul; but he was a Catholic, and from Ireland, too; for he made
the sign of the cross on himself in Irish before he leaped out, for I
was near him; and besides, I saw him going to confession to the same
priest we went to the day after we landed."
"And are not they all Catholics here, Paul?" said Patsy. "I seen crosses
on three churches, the time I went with Mrs. Doherty for the priest for
mother, God be good to her."
"No, Patsy, they are not; for if they were, there would be more than one
priest for this large town; and you heard Father O'Shane say that there
was only himself for all the city and a great part of the country," said
Paul.
"I hope somebody will take us to mass on Sunday," said little Patrick;
"and, Paul, will you ask the priest to allow me to answer mass? You know
Father Doyle told us never to forget the lessons we learned of him."
"I'd know are there any nuns here," said Bridget. "O, how beautiful the
convent chapel in Limerick was! I hope I have not lost my beautiful
little silver medals and crucifix they gave me when I was coming away.
No; here they are, and my Agnus Dei, too," she said, kissing them. "God
rest mother's soul, how glad she was when I got these from the holy
nuns!" And the tears streamed down her fair cheeks in floods.
"Hold your tongue, Bridget, again," said Paul, with emphasis. "Don't you
know that mother told us not to grieve, but pray for her soul? And
besides, in the 'Imitation of Christ,' which I read for you this morning
and last night, it is said that grief kills devotion, and excessive,
sorrow is a sin. You can serve mother, or rejoice her soul, by praying,
but not by crying, Bridget."
"O, how can I help it? 'Tis against me will, Paul," said she, wiping her
eyes.
"Always look attentively at that crucifix," said Paul, "and you need
never grieve for any thing except sin. This is what Father Doyle used to
say."
"O Paul, we have no father or mother now."
"Yes we have, Bridget--our Father in heaven, and the blessed virgin
mother of God, our mother also," said the young preacher.
"How well the priest did not call as he said he would."
"May be he could not help it; he had to go far into the country, and the
snow might stop him. You know he will find us out. The priest always
visits the poorhouse in Ireland."
While this conversation was going on between the members of this poor
orphan family, Paul acting the meritorious part of a comforter, (I say
acting, for his own noble soul was almost crushed with grief, which he
thought it better to disguise than to have his little charge rendered
quite stupid and almost dead from crying and sobbing;) while this was
the way Paul entertained his little charge, in another part of the
poorhouse, in a well-furnished room, were seated around a table
containing the "_reliquiae"_ or remnants of a good dinner, five persons,
engaged in earnest chat about the late importation of orphans.
"Really they are likely young 'uns, and no mistake," said Mr. Van
Stingey, wiping his mouth with the corner of the tablecloth.
"Dear me!" said a lady who formed one of the council. "Charles, if you
saw them, they are perfect beauties, you would say. The oldest boy is as
noble-looking a lad as ever you did see--Roman nose, raven hair,
delightfully-carved mouth, and lips, and eyes, and eyelashes quite
indescribable, so beautiful are they. The little girl is a perfect
Venus; while the two younger children, Patrick and Eugene, are as if
they came from the chisel of Powers, or some renowned artist of
antiquity."
"Why, my love," said Parson Burly, "you are quite classical in your
description; whether or not it is a correct one, is another thing."
"I assure you, Mr. Burly," said Van Stingey, "that your lady has not
described them beyond what is true. They are almighty fine young 'uns."
"I want you to adopt that eldest one, Mr. Burly," said the parson's
wife, who was president of the council. "He would make such an elegant
preacher, I am sure. You must also change the name of the second boy
from Patrick, which is so Irish, to Ebenezer, Zerubabbel, or some
Scripture name, or even classical one."
"Why, madam, I am beginning to get jealous, and to think you don't
sufficiently admire my powers of oratory," said her husband.
"Well, my dear, putting aside jokes," she solemnly remarked, "you know
how much we need Irish ministers to preach to the Irish amongst us, who
are the best church attenders on earth, I believe. And it is notorious,
that those whom we can take out from the ranks of Papacy while young
become the greatest ornaments to our denomination. Witness Kirvoin,
Maclown, Moffat, and several others."
"Well, well, my fair refuter," said the parson, who really feared his
wife would rivet her affections on the young orphan if adopted; "you
know it would never do to keep that little fellow with us. How old did
you say he was--about fifteen? Well, fifteen or sixteen--ya--you
recollect how that old priest acted last July, at the village of Scurvy?
A little girl I sent out to Brother Prim this priest smelt and hunted
out; and actually broke in the room door where she was confined, and
took her off by physical force to a Roman Catholic orphan house. These
priests are terrible fellows; and your young fancy orphan, Paul, would
soon find out the priest, and have his grievance redressed. And what is
worse, this priest got Americans--ay, members of my own church--to
applaud his conduct, and defend him from prosecution! The Irish are
getting so powerful in this country," said the parson, after a pause,
"from their admirable union of purpose and the perfect organization of
their church, that I dread their influence. In fact, 'you catch a
Tartar' when you get one of them into your family. Ten to one, instead
of converting this young Papist, he would convert our whole family to
his own creed."
"O Burly," said the disappointed wife, "you are always a prophet of
evils. I tell you, I must have that young lad, for I want him."
"You do? Cynthia, my dear," said the parson, "we cannot have the lad in
our family. We _dare not_, without the consent of the trustees, who pay
us our salary. Do you understand _that_, my fair disputant?" said he,
triumphantly.
"Well, Burly, as soon as I recover the means my father willed me, I
shall have that young man--already almost fully educated, as you can
perceive--brought up for the church."
"O, _then_ you can try it, madam," said the man in white neckcloth, in a
sharp, sarcastic style; "but as for me, and I think my opinion is of
some weight, I tell you much can never be made out of that shrewd boy."
There was a solemn, ominous silence, for a moment, in the company. "Did
you remark the sort of dignified and independent motions of the fellow,"
continued he, "when you had him here just now?"
"Fellow!" said his wife, looking at her husband, in anger. "Is that a
proper term to apply to the child?"
"It is not an improper or inappropriate one, not more so than calling
him 'child,'" said he. "I was just going to remark the coolness of his
reply when you introduced my name as the parish clergyman. 'A Catholic
clergyman, I hope, sir,' said he; 'as such, I am very glad to see you.'
Did you observe how sad and demure he looked when told he was to be sent
to school, where he could read the Bible, and become acquainted with the
word of God?' O sir,' said he, 'much obliged to you; I have got a Bible
already, and other good books of devotion, which we brought from home. I
should be very glad to learn what is good,' said he; 'but I trust I have
got my catechism well committed to memory; and having made my first
communion and been confirmed, I was discharged from class, and appointed
a Sunday school teacher, by our good priest, Father Doyle.' And on my
telling him that he could be a teacher here of a better religion than
that of his country, he shook his head, declining the honor of the post
offered, and remarking that 'it was impossible to have a better religion
than that which had God for its author--the Catholic religion.' With
this bit he retired (ye all saw him, I need not repeat more) from our
presence, a blush of mental triumph playing on his smooth cheek."
"Sartain there was such a feelin'," said an old gray-headed Yankee, who
sat at the head of the table, and who was guardian of the establishment.
"You can't do nothin' with these Papists," continued he. "I have seed
the attempts made time and agin, but allers fail. The very children,
only five years of age, of that ere religion, refuse to eat flesh on
Friday, or to disobey such other darned ceremonies of their church as
they are brought up to."
"Wal, Mr. Burly, madam, and my esteemed brother Valentine, my plan is
this," said Van Stingey: "send them, separate or in couples, here and
there, into the country, and there, with the farmers, they will soon get
used to our church ways, and be gradually broke in."
"That you can't do safe, neither, Van," said the boss of the house,
"for they would raise such a dust as would bring half the city around
us; and you know the people would never consent to any thing like
cruelty towards one so young and interesting as these here are."
"You say the truth there, sir," said the parson.
"It would be cruel to separate the dear ones," said the wife; "wherever
they are sent, let them go together. I could pledge my watch and wedding
diamond ring to help to raise such beauties," said she, passionately.
"Surely they cannot be Irish, or they must belong to some race different
from the Celtic half savages which we have read inhabit Ireland."
"You mistake, Cynthia, my dear," said the parson; "these are Irish, and
genuine Celts, too, as one can tell from the hair and nose. I think,
however, you exaggerate their beauty. Have you not read the European
letters of Thurlow W---- and Horace G----, which described the middle
and upper classes of the Irish as the most beautiful complexioned and
dignified people in Europe or the world? Now, this is my mind, that you
must get some farmers in a good Protestant neighborhood to adopt these
children, so that they may all live in the same vicinity, if not in the
same family; and by this means all unpleasant consequences will be
obviated."
"I say ditto to that," said the Nestor of the council, old Valentine;
"but you must lose no time, for the eldest lad told me the priest
promised to call for them; and if that gentleman gets them into his
hands, I'll warrant all your plans will be frustrated."
"That's just it. You have hit the nail on the head, friend Valentine,"
said Van Stingey. "I will take charge on them, and take them to that
gentleman's house, in W---- county, who was here last week looking for a
boy and a girl to raise; and _mebbee_ I will scare up somewhere else for
the other two young critters."
"Take 'em along, then, and see that you get your pay," said the boss,
rising.
"O, never mind, leave that to me," said the vile, wily knave, as he went
to see to his arrangements for carrying the orphans to parts unknown.
CHAPTER VII.
A RUDE LOVER OF NATURE.
Father O'Shane, who had suffered severely from the effects of exposure
to the late violent storm, no sooner found himself a little recruited,
and the roads passable, than he prepared to return to his residence in
the city. He had, as conductor, a green young Irishman, lately arrived,
who felt almost inspired by the unusual luxury, presented for the first
time to his view, of a North American snowfall, and petitioned earnestly
to accompany his reverence back to the city to enjoy the "glorious
sport," as he called it, of a sleigh ride. The enthusiasm of the young
native of the perennial green fields of Munster did not escape the
notice of Father O'Shane, who himself was once not less enthusiastic,
and now not altogether insensible, to the chaste and almost sublime
beauty of Nature, when arrayed in her bridal robes of white on the
advent of spring.
"Well, Murty, how do you like this manner of travelling?"
"Be gonnies, your reverence, there is nothing I like better. What a fine
time it would be for tracking the hare, or hunting the fox!"
"You are fond of sport, I perceive."
"Bedad, sir, I would rather be out such a day as this, with dog and
gun, than eating bread and honey. I wonder if they would put you to jail
or transport you here, as they would at home, for fowling a bit in these
woods?"
"No, Murty, I believe not."
"No," said Murty, doubtingly. "You don't tell me so, your reverence?"
"I tell you that there are no game laws, or only very nominal ones; so
that, when you come back, if you and your dog traverse yonder mountain
from top to bottom, you need not be afraid of the rifle of the
gamekeeper, or of a sentence to a free passage to Van Diemen's Land."
"Murther! Must not they be very fine gentlemen here, to be so liberal?
Signs by I shall, please God, one of these days, visit that old, grand
mountain with the white head; and if there be a hare's form in his rough
sides or his curly beard, I will ferret it out, and soon have pussy by
the hind legs."
"I can see, Murty, you are growing poetical in your description of old
Mount Antoine," said the priest.
"Your reverence, did you ever see such a grand sight? I can't help
comparing that grand mountain there to the king of yon wild regions. The
snow on the trees, on the summit, causes them to look like gray locks;
and, looking down on the smaller mountains on every side, they appear
like his subjects or his sons, which, in time, are to grow big like
himself, affording shelter and refuge from the snares of the hunter to
the wild animals of nature. O, how I like America!" said he, his
enthusiasm still rising.
"That's right, Murty; I am glad you do like it. Wait till summer or
autumn, and then how beautiful these bleak hills will appear during
these delightful seasons!"
"O sir, it is a great, grand country! No tyrants, no landlords, no
poverty."
"No poverty, Murty, except what is purely accidental, or brought on by
the improvidence of individuals. In the very best regulated society
there must, of necessity, be poverty less or more," said the priest, by
way of qualification.
"Every thing is free, and there is liberty for all. The very fences, you
see, sir, unlike our stone walls at home, give liberty to the winds and
storms to blow through them. The mountains are free to the huntsman; the
very snow is free to blow and form itself into those beautiful banks,
and little mountains, and castles, and stacks, and curtains, and drapery
that we see on every side of us as we glide along."
The priest listened with astonishment.
"Was there ever seen any thing so _purty_," continued the peasant, "as
those ridges and mounds of snow? I have seen the grandest buildings in
Ireland,--Marlborough Street Church, in Dublin, the stone carving and
ceiling in Cashel of the Kings, the stucco work on the old Parliament
House in College Green,--but I think I see work in these fantastic snow
banks that beats them all hollow. And--glory be to God!--all this
beauty, so dazzling, so chaste, was created by a storm, when all nature
was in a rage, and men shut themselves up in houses from its violence! I
am glad now," said he, "our landlord turned us out. I now forgive him
for being the cause of our coming to this country of the brave and the
free."
"Was it a landlord who has been the occasion of so much enjoyment to
you, Murty?" said Father O'Shane, drawing him out.
"Yes, sir. It vexes me to think of it, much more to speak of it," said
the simple youth, with a tear full created in his eye. "We, and our
forefathers before us, had the farm of Lapardawn for more than three
hundred years. A new landlord coming in possession of the estate, we got
notice to quit, in the middle of winter. My father refused to yield the
hearth of his forefathers without a struggle, and locked himself and
family up. My mother was just after her confinement, and becoming short
of provisions and even of water, she begged of the police who kept guard
to hand her in a drink. They refused. She then begged, for God's sake,
to have a messenger go for the priest. For two days, the police refused
to let any body out of the house, unless we surrendered. My father, who
had cut a hole in the roof of the house to catch at rain water for my
dying mother, made his escape through it. A neighbor, who handed me a
drink of water through a broken pane in a window, had his hand cut off
by a stroke from the police sergeant's sabre. My poor mother died before
the priest arrived. My oldest brother, seeing his mother dead, and that
we had nothing now to guard, surrendered. We were all lodged in jail
that night, and all our means were sold at auction. It was lucky for us
we were put into jail; for, one week from that day, the landlord that
was the cause of all our misery and of my mother's death was shot dead
on the road from our farm to the town of Ennis. If we were out of jail,
we would all have been accused of the cruel landlord's murder, and
hanged; but we were, after one year in prison for the crime of defending
our homestead, liberated, and came out in a body to America. And now I
am glad of it, for two signs of tyranny I find wanting here--landlords
and game laws. The absence of one allows me to trace the steps of the
wild quadruped; and of the other, to trace my title to the soil which I
shall possess, down to the middle of the earth and up to the sky,
unfrowned on, or unawed by the landlord's tyranny or the 'peeler's'
cruelty. This is partly why I like to see these mountains of snow," said
he, "for I think that neither landlords nor 'peelers' could exist here.
They would become buried under these snow banks, for it is by night that
they are generally patrolling the highways, and plotting against the
peace of innocent families; and such a storm as the late one could not
but be fatal to the villains."
These and the like sentiments are those which generally pervade the
bosom of the Irish emigrant after landing on this enfranchised land.
Wonder not, then, you natives of this God-provided country, that the
foreigner is likely to become more republican than yourselves, and that
his is a keener sense of enjoyment than yours, from the evils of his
antecedent life. Do not, therefore, become jealous of his purer and more
ardent love for this republic, the inheritance of the oppressed; but,
instead of envying his growing influence in this country of his choice
and adoption, receive him with open arms, and make him a participator
with yourselves in the good things which you and your fathers have
enjoyed for ages, and your claims to which are grounded on no better
title than that of the emigrant; and which title is founded on the
adventitious discovery of this continent by a Catholic and a foreigner,
and on oppressions undergone by your fathers in their native lands.
Wonder not, then, that the Irish Catholic is the best lover of this
country, and that he feels himself at home here; for his sufferings in
the cause of liberty and of conscience have been such as to give him the
strongest title deed to the liberties and privileges, if not to the
enjoyments and comforts, of this favored land. Every prejudice is
unreasonable, but none more irrational than that which would throw
obstacles in the way of the gallant emigrant towards procuring a home
and a sanctuary in this land of refuge and freedom.
The land is wild and uncultivated, with its womb groaning under the
burden of plenty and fertility that have been dormant for ages upon
ages, and that must remain so for ages to come, unless the thrifty hand
of husbandry assist them into birth; and where are we to find, or when
will the "nativists" be able to procure, as busy hands and stalwart
arms, sufficiently numerous to bring into cultivation the millions of
acres within the extent of our country, if the emigrant and foreigner
are to be discouraged, and the mad clamor of the "nativists" is to
prevail? It was not all native blood that was spilled in the
establishment of the republic. It was not native genius alone that
created the constitution, laws, and institutions of our country. It was
not "natives," of course, that first discovered, settled, or established
the several states that form the grand Union. It was by emigrants, by
"furriners," that all these things were done. What, therefore, can be
more ungrateful, if not more unjust, in the "nativists," than to attempt
to rob the poor emigrant of the rewards of his labor and merit, in order
that they may enjoy all the fruit of the latter's toil? This is the
height of ingratitude and injustice; a far more glaring instance of both
than that of the _reputed_ forefathers of these "nativists" when they
robbed the old Britons of their homes and of those liberties which they
were _hired_ to defend. What models of honesty, justice, and truth you
are, most distinguished "nativists"! The foreigner built your house,
after having first procured the site or the lot; they furnish the house
with all useful, and necessary, and ornamental furniture; and these very
emigrants are yet necessary to keep the house in order; and you come and
threaten to turn them out, telling them you can now dispense with their
services, and that they are "furriners"! And, what is more inconsistent
and unjust still, by this policy of yours, if it could prevail, you
would be doing the most effectual thing to annihilate yourselves, both
physically, politically, morally, and socially. For, if you turned off
all the "furriners," not only would you sink in wealth and
resources,--your ships unmanned, your factories unworked, your canals
and railroads undug, and your battles unfought,--but your very blood
would corrupt, and turn into water! Your physical stature would soon be
reduced to the standard of the Aztecs; and, what is worse, following the
natural channel of your Anglo-Saxon instincts, you would become a
godless race of Liliputians! Yes, followers of Mormon Smith, Joe Miller,
Theodore Parker, and spiritual raps. O nativists, to what an abyss your
mental intoxication was hurrying you, in your blind zeal against the
emigrant and the foreigner!
CHAPTER VIII.
THE ORPHANS IN THEIR NEW HOME.
After the arrival in the city of the wearied missionary, his first visit
was to the scene of his late visit to the dying widow; and learning all
the particulars there that came under the cognizance of Mrs. Doherty, he
next drove rapidly to the poorhouse, where, as we have already stated,
the _pious_ officials had arranged the details so as to disappoint the
Popish priest of his benevolent designs, and to secure, if possible, the
adhesion of the young and interesting orphans to what they called "Bible
religion."
When Father O'Shane called at the county house, he learned from an under
official that the boss "_warn't to home_; and," said he, "the children
hadn't been here mor'n a few hours, when a highly-respec'able farmer had
taken them with him to bring up." He couldn't "tell nothin' about who
the farmer was, or where he was from; but the children wor well done
for, that's all." It was in vain the priest represented that the
children were no paupers, but of highly-respectable connections, who
were able and willing to provide for them. He didn't "know nothin' about
that; but he knowed papers were signed, (as he was directed falsely to
assert,) and that sartain the children could not now be claimed by any
persons except their parents. They were now under the care of
guardians." After repeated visits, continued for weeks and months, to
the same establishment, Father O'Shane could gain no more satisfactory
knowledge of the fate of the orphans. He was obliged to relinquish his
search in despair, concluding that the children were kidnapped, and
that, except by God's mercy, their faith and morals were doomed, under
the influence of cold, contradictory infidelity or heresy. He mentioned
the case to his congregation, earnestly soliciting their prayers for
these poor orphans of Christ; and he oftentimes offered the holy
sacrifice, to enlist the influence of heaven in their regard.
Let it not be said we exaggerate this account of the conduct of the
poorhouse officials; and from the improbability of such an instance of
injustice and cruelty happening in our day, let not our readers conclude
that such a case, and many such cases, happened not in times gone by.
Then the Irish Catholic population of the state was not much more than
what that of one county is now. Then an Irish Catholic could not get the
office of constable or bailiff; now we have Catholic cabinet ministers,
judges, senators, legislators, and aldermen.
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