SH30IH1 
 
 

A SPOILED PRIEST 
 
 & OTHER STORIES 
 
\ 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/spoiledpriestothOOshee 
 
His Face was Ashen, his Hands were Cold and 
 Trembling.” Page 14. 
 
A SPOILED PRIEST 
 8? OTHER STORIES 
 
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 -G V 
 
 BY THE REV. 
 
 P. A. SHEEHAN, D.D.^ ^ 
 
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 AUTHOR OF “THE TRIUMPH OF FAILURE” 
 
 “MYU$EW CURATE,” ETC. 
 
 V 
 
 
 
 NINE ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
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 BY M. HEALY 
 
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 BENZIGER BROTHERS 
 NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO 
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CONTENTS 
 
 A SPOILED PRIEST 
 
 A THOROUGH GENTLEMAN . . . 
 
 THE MONKS OF TRABOLGAN . 
 RITA, THE STREET-SINGER . . . 
 
 REMANDED 
 
 HOW THE ANGEL BECAME HAPPY . 
 FRANK FORREST'S MINCE-PIE . . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1 
 
 27 
 
 43 
 
 86 
 
 136 
 
 168 
 
 191 
 
 TOPSY 
 
 204 
 
Illustrations 
 
 The Spoiled Priest 
 
 “His face was ashen, his hands were cold 
 
 and trembling" Frontispiece 
 
 PAGE 
 
 “A yell broke from three hundred boys as they 
 rushed pelhmell from school" .... 2 
 
 “One tremendous salvo of cheers and then a 
 
 glorious holiday" 2 
 
 “And this little man must come too" ... 4 
 
 “He wrapped him round with the folds of his 
 
 great Maynooth cloak" 5 
 
 A Thorough Gentleman 
 
 “This gentleman belongs to your party?" . . 34 
 
 Rita 
 
 “And where does Rita come from?" . . .88 
 
 “She sat by the window looking earnestly across 
 the track of light the sun was making on the 
 waters" . 97 
 
 “Rita I " 13s 
 

A SPOILED PRIEST* 
 
 I 
 
 He kept his school in a large town in the 
 county Waterford. His range of attainments was 
 limited ; but what he knew he knew well, and 
 could impart it to his pupils. He did his duty 
 conscientiously by constant, unremitting care, 
 and he emphasised his teachings by frequent 
 appeals to the ferule. 
 
 However, on one day in midsummer it would 
 be clearly seen that all hostilities were sus- 
 pended and a truce proclaimed. This one day 
 in each year was eagerly looked forward to by 
 the boys. The master would come in, dressed 
 in his Sunday suit, with a white rose in his 
 button-hole, and on his lips a smile — a deep, 
 
 * This is the term used in some parts of the country to express 
 the failure of a student who has just put his foot within the precincts 
 of the sanctuary, and been rejected. Up to quite a recent period 
 such an ill-fated youth was regarded by the peasantry with a certain 
 amount of scorn, not unmingled with superstition. Happily, larger 
 ideas are being developed even on this subject ; and not many now 
 believe that no good fortune can ever be the lot of him who has 
 made the gravest initial mistake of his life. 
 
 A 
 
2 
 
 A Spoiled Priest 
 
 broad, benevolent smile — which, to preserve his 
 dignity, he would vainly try to conceal. No 
 implement of torture was visible on that day ; 
 and the lessons were repeated, not with the usual 
 rigid formalism but in a perfunctory manner, ad 
 tempus terendum. Twelve o’clock would strike, 
 the master would smite the desk and cry : 
 
 “ Donovan, take the wheelbarrow and bring 
 down Master Kevin’s portmanteau from the 
 station.” 
 
 Then there was anarchy. Forms were upset, 
 desks overturned, caps flung high as the rafters, 
 and a yell, such as might be given by Comanches 
 around the stake, broke from three hundred boys 
 as they rushed pell-mell from the school. The 
 master would make a feeble effort at restoring 
 order, but his pride in his boy, coming home 
 from Maynooth, stifled the habitual tyranny 
 which brooked no disobedience or disorder. In 
 two long lines the boys, under the command 
 of some natural leader, would be drawn up in 
 front of the school. In half-an-hour the wheel- 
 barrow and trunk would be rolled up the 
 gravelled walk ; then the expected hero would 
 appear. One tremendous salvo of cheers, and 
 then a glorious holiday ! 
 
A Yell broke from Three Hundred Boys as they 
 Rushed Pell-mell from School.” To face page 2. 
 
“ One Tremendous Salvo of Cheers and then a 
 Glorious Holiday.” To iace page 5. 
 
A Spoiled Priest 
 
 3 
 
 ii 
 
 There was, however, amongst these young lads, 
 one to whom the home-coming of the Maynooth 
 student was of special interest. He was a fair- 
 haired, delicate boy, with large, wistful blue 
 ej^es, that looked at you as if they saw some- 
 thing behind and beyond you. He was a bit 
 of a dreamer, too ; and when the other lads 
 were shouting at play, he went alone to some 
 copse or thicket, and with a book, or more often 
 without one, would sit and think, and look 
 dreamily at floating clouds or running stream, 
 and then, with a sigh, go back to the weary 
 desk again. Now, he had one idol enshrined 
 in the most sacred recesses of his heart, and 
 that was Kevin O’Donnell. It is quite probable 
 his worship commenced when he heard his sisters 
 at home discussing the merits of this young 
 student in that shy, half-affectionate, half- 
 reverential manner in which Irish girls are wont 
 to speak of candidates for the priesthood. And 
 when he heard, around the winter fireside, stories 
 of the intellectual prowess of his hero, in that 
 exaggerated fashion which the imagination of 
 the Irish people so much affects, he worshipped 
 
4 A Spoiled Priest 
 
 in secret this “ Star of the South,” and made 
 desperate vows on sleepless nights to emulate 
 and imitate him. What, then, was his delight 
 when, on one of these glorious summer holidays, 
 the tall, pale-faced student, “ lean ” like Dante, 
 “ from much thought,” came and invited all 
 his friends to the tea and music that were dis- 
 pensed at the school-house on Sunday evenings ; 
 and when he turned round and, placing his hand 
 on the flaxen curls of the boys, said : 
 
 “ And this little man must come too ; I 
 insist on it.” 
 
 Oh ! those glorious summer evenings, when 
 the long yellow streamers of the sun lit up the 
 dingy school-house, and the master, no longer 
 the Rhadamanthus of the ruler and rattan, but 
 the magician and conjurer, drew the sweetest 
 sounds from the old violin, and the girls, in 
 their Sunday dresses, swept round in dizzy 
 circles ; when the tea and lemonade, and such 
 fairy cakes went round ; and the hero, in his 
 long black coat, came over and asked the child 
 how he enjoyed himself, and the boy thought 
 it was heaven, or at least the vestibule and 
 atrium thereof. But even this fairy-land was 
 nothing to the home-coming, when the great tall 
 
“ And This Little Man must 
 Come too.” To face page 4. 
 
“ He Wrapped Him Round with the 
 Folds of his Great Maynooth Cloak.’* 
 To face page 5. 
 
A Spoiled Priest 5 
 
 student lifted the sleepy boy on his shoulders, 
 and wrapped him round against the night air 
 with the folds of his great Maynooth cloak, that 
 was clasped with brass chains that ran through 
 lions’ heads, and took him out under the stars, 
 and the warm summer air played around them ; 
 and in a delicious half-dream they went home, 
 and the child dreamt of fairy princesses and 
 celestial music, and all was incense and adula- 
 tion before his idol and prodigy. Ah ! the 
 dreams of childhood. What a heaven they would 
 make this world, if only children could speak, 
 and if only their elders would listen ! 
 
 So two or three years sped by, and then came 
 a rude shock. For one day in the early summer, 
 the day on which the students were expected 
 home, and the boys were on the tiptoe of ex- 
 pectation for their glorious holiday, a quiet, 
 almost inaudible whisper went round that there 
 was something wrong. The master came into 
 school in his ordinary dress ; there was no rose 
 in his button-hole ; he was quiet, painfully, 
 pitifully quiet ; he looked aged, arid there were 
 a few wrinkles round his mouth never seen 
 before. A feeling of awe crept over the faces 
 of the boys. They feared to speak. The sight 
 
6 
 
 A Spoiled Priest 
 
 of the old man going around listlessly, without 
 a trace of the old fury, touched them deeply. 
 They would have preferred one of his furious 
 explosions of passion. Once in the morning he 
 lifted the rattan to a turbulent young ruffian, 
 but, after swishing it in the air, he let it fall, 
 like one paralysed, to the ground, and then he 
 broke the stick across his knees, and flung the 
 fragments from the window. The boys could 
 have cried for him. He dismissed them at 
 twelve o’clock, and they dispersed without a 
 cheer. 
 
 What was it all ? Was Kevin dead ? 
 
 By-and-by, in whispers around the hearth, he 
 heard that Kevin was coming home no more. 
 Some one whispered : “ He was expelled ; ” but 
 this supposition was rejected angrily. “ He 
 would never be priested,” said another. 
 
 “ Why ? ” 
 
 “ No one knows. The professors won’t tell.” 
 
 And some said they expected it all along. 
 “ These great stars fall sometimes ; he was too 
 proud and stuck-up, he wouldn’t spake to the 
 common people — the ould neighbours.” But in 
 most hearts there was genuine regret, and the 
 truest sympathy for the poor father and mother, 
 
A Spoiled Priest 7 
 
 to whom this calamity meant the deepest dis- 
 grace. They would never lift their heads again. 
 Often, for hours together, Kevin’s mother would 
 linger around the fireside, receiving such sym- 
 pathy as only Irish hearts can give. Her moans 
 sank deep into the soul of the listening child. 
 
 “ Sure I thought that next Sunday I would 
 see my poor boy in vestments at the altar of 
 God, and then I could die happy. Oh, wirra, 
 wirra ! O Kevin ! Kevin ! what did you do ? 
 what did you do at all, at all ? When he was a 
 little weeshy fellow he used to be playing at 
 saying Mass — ‘ Dominus vobiscum,’ and his little 
 sisters used to be serving. Once his father beat 
 him because he thought it wasn’t right. And I 
 said : ‘ Let the boy alone, James ; sure you 
 don’t know what God has in store for him. 
 Who knows but one day we’ll be getting his 
 blessing.’ Oh, my God, Thy will be done ! ” 
 
 “ How do you know yet ? ” the friends would 
 say ; “ perhaps he’s only gone to Dublin, and 
 may be home to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Thank you kindly, ma’am, but no. Sure his 
 father read the letter for me. ‘ Good-bye, father,’ 
 it said ; ‘ good-bye, mother ; you’ll never see me 
 again. But I’ve done nothing to disgrace ye. 
 
8 
 
 A Spoiled Priest 
 
 Would father let me see his face once more ? 
 I’ll be passing by on the mail to-morrow on 
 my way to America.’ ” 
 
 “ And did he go to see him ? ” 
 
 “ Oh no ! he wouldn’t. His heart was that 
 black against his son he swore he should never 
 see his face again.” 
 
 “ Wisha, then,” the women would say, “ how 
 proud he is ! What did the poor boy do ? I 
 suppose he never made a mistake himself, 
 indeed ! ” 
 
 But the young girls kept silent. They had 
 mutely taken down the idol from their shrine, 
 or rather drawn the dark veil of pitying forget- 
 fulness over it. A student refused Orders was 
 something too terrible. The star had fallen in 
 the sea. 
 
 His little friend, however, was loyal to the 
 heart’s core. He knew that his hero had done 
 no wrong. He was content to wait and see him 
 justified. He would have given anything to 
 have been able to say a parting word. If he 
 had known Kevin was passing by, shrouded in 
 shame, he would have made his way to the 
 station and braved even the hissing engine, that 
 was always such a terror to him, to touch the 
 
A Spoiled Priest 9 
 
 hand of his friend once more and assure him 
 of his loyalty. He thought with tears in his 
 eyes of the lonely figure crossing the dread 
 Atlantic ; and his nurse was sure he was in for 
 a fit of illness, for the boy moaned in his sleep, 
 and there were tears on his cheeks at midnight. 
 
 But from that day his son’s name never passed 
 the father’s lips. He had uttered in his own mind 
 the cold, iron sentence : “Non ragioniam di lor.” 
 
 Ill 
 
 The years sped on relentlessly. Never a word 
 came from the exiled student. In a few months 
 the heart-broken mother died. The great school 
 passed into the hands of monks ; and the master, 
 in his old age, had to open a little school in the 
 suburbs of the town. Families had been broken 
 up and dispersed, and event after event had 
 obliterated every vestige of the little tragedy, 
 even to the names of the chief actors or sufferers. 
 But in the heart of the little boy, Kevin 
 O’Donnell’s name was written in letters of fire 
 and gold. His grateful memory held fast its 
 hero. Then he, too, had to go to college — and 
 for the priesthood. On his very entrance into 
 
io A Spoiled Priest 
 
 his Diocesan Seminary he was asked his name 
 and birthplace. When he mentioned the latter, 
 a young Professor exclaimed : 
 
 “ Why, Kevin O’Donnell was from there ! ” 
 The boy nearly choked. A few weeks after, 
 his heart in his mouth, he timidly approached 
 the Professor, and asked : 
 
 “ Did you know Kevin O’Donnell ? ” 
 
 “ Why, of course,” said the priest ; “ he was 
 a class-fellow of mine.” 
 
 “ What was — was — thought of him in May- 
 nooth ? ” 
 
 “ Why, that he was the cleverest, ablest, 
 jolliest, dearest fellow that ever lived. You 
 couldn’t help loving him. He swept the two 
 soluses in his logic year, led his class up to the 
 second year’s divinity, then fell away, but again 
 came to the front easily in his fourth. We used 
 to say that he ‘ thought in Greek.’ ” 
 
 “ And why did he leave ? Why wasn’t he 
 ordained ? ” 
 
 “ Ah ! there’s the mystery, and it’s a clever 
 man that could answer it. No one knows.” 
 They became great friends by reason of this 
 common love for the disgraced student, and one 
 evening in the early summer the Professor told 
 
A Spoiled Priest 1 1 
 
 the boy all he knew. He had an attentive 
 listener. The conversation came around in this 
 way. Something in the air, or the glance of 
 the sun, or some faint perfume of hyacinth or 
 early rose, awoke remembrances in the mind of 
 the boy, and he said, as they sat under some 
 dwarfed elms : 
 
 “ This reminds me of Kevin and his holidays 
 at home. The same summer evening, the same 
 sunlight — only a little faded to me — the old 
 school-room lighted up by the sunset, the little 
 musical parties, the young ladies in their white 
 dresses, my head swimming round as they danced 
 
 by in polka and schottische ” 
 
 “ Ha ! ” said the Professor. But, recovering 
 himself, he said hastily : 
 
 “ Well, go on ! ” 
 
 “ Oh, nothing more ! ” said the boy ; “ but 
 my homeward rides on Kevin’s shoulders, and 
 the long folds of his cloak wrapped around me, 
 and — and — how I worshipped him ! ” 
 
 There was a pause, the Professor looking very 
 solemn and thoughtful. 
 
 “ But, father,” said the boy, “ you never told 
 me. How did it all happen ? ” 
 
 “ This way,” said the Professor, shaking him- 
 
12 
 
 A Spoiled Priest 
 
 self from his reverie. “ You must know, at 
 least you will know some time, that there is in 
 Maynooth one day — a day of general judgment, 
 a ‘ Dies irae, dies ilia ’ — before which the terrors 
 of Jehoshaphat, far away as they are, pale into 
 utter insignificance. It is the day of the ‘ Order 
 list ’ — or, in plainer language, it is the dread 
 morning when those who are deemed worthy 
 are called to Orders, and those who are deemed 
 unworthy are rejected. It is a serious ordeal to 
 all. Even the young logician, who is going to 
 be called to tonsure only, looks with fearful 
 uncertainty to his chances. It is always a sting- 
 ing disgrace to be set aside — or, in college slang, 
 ‘ to be clipped.’ But for the fourth year’s divine 
 who is finishing his course, it is the last chance ; 
 and woe to him if he fails ! He goes out into 
 the world with the brand of shame upon him, 
 and men augur no good of his future. Now, our 
 friend Kevin had been unmercifully ‘ clipped ’ 
 up to the last day. Why, we could not ascertain. 
 He was clever ; too clever. He had no great 
 faults of character ; he was a little careful, 
 perhaps foppish, in his dress ; he affected a good 
 deal of culture and politeness ; but, so far as 
 we could see, and students are the best judges, 
 
A Spoiled Priest 1 3 
 
 there was nothing in his conduct or character 
 to unfit him for the sacred office. But we don’t 
 know. There are no mistakes made in that 
 matter. Students who are unfit sometimes steal 
 into the sanctuary, but really fit and worthy 
 students are never rejected. There may be mis- 
 takes in selection ; there are none in rejection. 
 Well, the fateful morning came. We were all 
 praying for poor Kevin. The most impenetrable 
 silence is kept by the Professors on this matter. 
 Neither by word nor sign could we guess what 
 chances he had ; and this added to our dread 
 interest in him. In fact, nothing else was talked 
 of but Kevin’s chances ; and I remember how 
 many and how diverse were the opinions enter- 
 tained about them. The bell rang, and we all 
 trooped into the Senior Prayer Hall. We faced 
 the altar, three hundred and fifty anxious 
 students, if I except the deacons and sub- 
 deacons, who, with their books — that is, their 
 breviaries — under their arms, looked jaunty 
 enough. I was one of them, for I was ordained 
 Deacon the previous year, and I was certain of 
 my call to Priesthood ; but my heart was like 
 lead. Kevin walked in with me. 
 
 “ ‘ Cheer up, old man,’ I said ; ‘ I tell you 
 
14 A Spoiled Priest 
 
 it will be all right. Come, sit near me.’ His 
 face was ashen, his hands cold and trembling. 
 He picked up the end of his soutane, and began 
 to open and close the buttons nervously. The 
 superiors — four Deans, the Vice-President, and 
 President — came in and took their places in the 
 gallery behind us, and at the end of the hall. 
 An awful silence filled the place. Then the 
 President began, after a brief formula, to call 
 out rapidly in Latin the names of those who were 
 selected ‘ ad primam tonsuram.’ He passed on to 
 the Porters, the Lectors, the Acolytes, the Exor- 
 cists. Then came the higher Orders, and hearts 
 beat anxiously. But this was rapidly over. 
 Then came the solemn words, ‘ Ad Presbyter- 
 atum.’ Poor Kevin dropped his soutane, and 
 closed his hands tightly. My name was read 
 out first in alphabetical order. Kevin’s name 
 should come in between the names O’Connor and 
 Quinn. The President read rapidly down the 
 list, called : 
 
 Gulielmus O’Connor, Dunensis ; 
 
 Matthasus Quinn, Midensis ; 
 
 and thus sentence was passed. 
 
 Kevin was rejected. I heard him start, and 
 draw in his breath rapidly two or three times. 
 
A Spoiled Priest 1 5 
 
 I was afraid to look at him. The list was closed. 
 The Superiors departed, apparently heedless of 
 the dread desolation they had caused ; for 
 nothing is so remarkable in our colleges as the 
 apparent utter indifference of Professors and 
 Superiors to the feelings or interests of the 
 students. I said ‘ apparent ’ because, as a 
 matter of fact, the keenest interest is felt in 
 every student from his entrance to his departure. 
 He is not only constantly under surveillance, 
 but he is spoken of, canvassed, his character, 
 talents, habits passed under survey by those 
 grave, solemn men, who preserve, in their inter- 
 course with the students, a sphinx-like silence 
 and indifference, which to many is painful and 
 inexplicable. 
 
 “ Well, the ordeal was over ; and we rose to 
 depart. Then Kevin turned round and looked 
 at me. He smiled in a ghastly way, and said : 
 ‘ This little tragedy is over.’ 
 
 “ I said nothing. Words would have been 
 mockery under such a stunning blow. Nothing 
 else was talked of in the house for the remaining 
 days. There was infinite sympathy for poor 
 Kevin, and even the superiors dropped the veil 
 of reserve, and spoke kindly to him. It is 
 
1 6 A Spoiled Priest 
 
 customary to ask some one of the Superiors the 
 cause of rejection. To keep away from them 
 savours of pride. Kevin went to the Vice- 
 President, a kindly old man, and asked why he 
 was deemed unfit for Orders. The old priest 
 placed his hands on Kevin’s shoulders and said, 
 through his tears : 
 
 “ ‘ Nothing in particular, my dear ; but some 
 general want of the ecclesiastical manner and 
 spirit.’ 
 
 “ ‘ I haven’t been a hypocrite,’ replied Kevin ; 
 * I wore my heart on my sleeve. Perhaps if — ’ 
 he said no more. 
 
 “ The examinations were over. The day for 
 the distribution of prizes came on. The Bishops 
 assembled in the Prayer Hall. The list of prize- 
 men was called. Kevin was first in Theology, 
 first in Scripture, second in Ecclesiastical History, 
 first in Hebrew. It was a ghastly farce. Kevin, 
 of course, was not there. Later in the day a 
 deputation of the students of the diocese waited 
 on their Bishop. It was a most unusual pro- 
 ceeding. They asked the Bishop to ordain Kevin, 
 in spite of the adverse decision of the College 
 authorities. They met under the President’s 
 apartments. The Bishop, grave and dignified, 
 
A Spoiled Priest 17 
 
 listened with sympathy, and when their re- 
 presentations had been made, he said he would 
 consult the President. 
 
 “ It was a faint gleam of hope. They waited, 
 Kevin in their midst, for three-quarters of an 
 hour, hoping, despairing, anxious. The Bishop 
 came down. With infinite pity he looked at 
 Kevin, and said : ‘ I am sorry, Mr. O’Donnell, I 
 can do nothing for you. I cannot contravene the 
 will of the Superiors.’ Then the last hope fled. 
 Next day Kevin was on his way to America. 
 That is all. You’ll understand it better when 
 you go to Maynooth.” 
 
 He did go in due time, and he understood the 
 story better. Like a careful dramatist, he went 
 over scene after scene in the College life of 
 Kevin. He found his desk, his cell ; he sought 
 out every tradition in the College concerning 
 him ; and that College, completely sequestered 
 from the outer world as it is, is very rich in 
 traditions, and tenacious of them. He stood in 
 the wide porch under the President’s apartments 
 and pictured the scene of Kevin’s final dismissal 
 from the sacred ministry. And the first time 
 he sat in the Prayer-Hall, at the calling of the 
 Order list, although he himself was concerned, 
 
1 8 A Spoiled Priest 
 
 he forgot everything but the picture of his hero, 
 unnerved, despairing, and saw his ghastly smile, 
 and heard : “ This little tragedy is over.” 
 
 Once or twice he ventured to ask one of the 
 deans whether he had ever heard of Kevin 
 O’Donnell, and what was the secret of his 
 rejection. 
 
 “ Ah ! yes, he knew him well. Clever, ambiti- 
 ous, rather worldly-minded. Why was he finally 
 thought unfit for Orders ? Well, there were 
 various opinions. But no one knew.” 
 
 It happened that one of the old men-servants 
 knew Kevin well. 
 
 “ Mr. O’Donnell, of C ? A real gintleman. 
 
 Wouldn’t ask you to clane his boots without giving 
 you half-a-crown. Heard he was a doctor, doing 
 well ; was married, and had a large family.” 
 
 “ You heard a lie,” said the student, the 
 strongest expression he had ever used. But the 
 thing rankled in his heart. Was his hero de- 
 throned ? or was the drapery of the veil drawn 
 across the shrine ? No ; but he had seen the feet 
 of clay under the beautiful statue. The Irish 
 instinct cannot understand a married hero — at 
 least in the sense in which this youth worshipped 
 Kevin O’Donnell as a hero. 
 
A Spoiled Priest 
 
 !9 
 
 IV 
 
 The years rolled by. Ah, those years, leaden- 
 footed to the hot wishes of youth, how swiftly, 
 with all their clouds and shadows, and all their 
 misty, nimble radiances, they roll by and break 
 and dissolve into airy nothings against the azure 
 of eternity ! 
 
 Our little hero-worshipper was a priest, and, 
 after some years, was appointed temporarily to 
 a curacy in his native parish. I am afraid he 
 was sentimental, for he loved every stone and 
 tree and bush in the neighbourhood. He lived 
 in the past. Here was the wall against which 
 he had played ball — the identical smooth stone, 
 which he had to be so careful to pick out ; here 
 was the rough crease, where they had played 
 cricket ; here the little valleys where they had 
 rolled their marbles ; here the tiny trout-stream, 
 where they had fished. How small it seems now ! 
 What a broad, terrible river it was to the child 
 of thirty years ago ! But he loved to linger 
 most of all around the old school-house, to 
 sit amongst the trees again, and to call up 
 all the radiant dreams that float through the 
 “ moonlight of memory.” Alas ! all, or nearly 
 
20 
 
 A Spoiled Priest 
 
 all, the companions of his childhood had fallen 
 or fled. The few that remained he interrogated 
 often about the past. This, too, with them, 
 was fading into a soft dream. Their children 
 were around their knees, and life was terribly 
 real to them. 
 
 One night, again in the soft summer, he was 
 suddenly called to the sick-bed of a dying 
 woman. He hastily dressed and went. The 
 doctor was before him, but reverently made 
 way. 
 
 “ It will be slow, sir,” he said, “ and I must 
 wait.” 
 
 The young priest performed his sacred 
 duties to the dying woman, and then, out 
 of sheer sympathy, he remained sitting by 
 the fire, chatting with the husband of the 
 patient. 
 
 It appeared that the dispensary doctor was 
 away on another call, and they had taken the 
 liberty to call in this strange doctor, who had 
 been only a few months in the country, and had 
 taken Rock Cottage for a few years. He was a 
 tall, angular man, his face almost concealed under 
 a long, black beard, streaked with white. He 
 was a silent man, it appeared, but very clever. 
 
A Spoiled Priest 2 1 
 
 The “ head doctors ” in Cork couldn’t hold a 
 candle to him. He would take no money. He 
 was very good to the poor. His name was Dr. 
 Everard. 
 
 The young priest had seen him from time to 
 time, but had never spoken to him. Perhaps 
 his curiosity was piqued to know a little more 
 of him ; perhaps he liked him for his kindness 
 to the poor. At any rate he would remain and 
 walk home with him. Late in the summer 
 night, or rather, early in the summer dawn, the 
 doctor came out from the sick-room and asked 
 for water to wash his hands. He started at 
 seeing the young priest waiting ; and the latter 
 passed in to the sick woman, who, now relieved, 
 looked pleased and thankful. He said a few 
 kind words and came out quickly. The doctor 
 was just swinging on his broad shoulders a heavy 
 military cloak ; and the priest, lifting his eyes, 
 saw the same old lions’ heads and the brass 
 chain-clasps that he remembered so well in 
 Kevin’s cloak so many years ago. 
 
 “ Our roads lead in the same direction,” said 
 the priest. “ May I accompany you ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly,” said the doctor. 
 
 It was a lovely summer morning, dawn just 
 
22 
 
 A Spoiled Priest 
 
 breaking roseate and clear, preluding a warm 
 day. The birds were up and alert, trying to 
 get out all the day’s programme of song and 
 anthem before the dread heat should drive them 
 to shelter and silence. The river rolled sluggishly 
 along, thin and slow and underfed, for the moun- 
 tains were dry and barren, and the fruitful clouds 
 were afar. No men were stirring. The shops 
 were closely shuttered ; but here and there a 
 lamp, left lighted, looked sickly in the clear 
 dawnlight. Their footsteps rang hollow with 
 echoes along the street, and one or two dogs 
 barked in muffled anger as the steps smote on 
 their ears. They had been talking about many 
 things, and the young priest had mentioned 
 casually that this was his native place. 
 
 “ And there’s the very house I was bom in.” 
 The doctor stopped, and looked curiously at the 
 shuttered house, as if recalling some memories. 
 But he said nothing. 
 
 At last they left the town ; and the priest, 
 rambling on about his reminiscences, and the 
 other listening attentively, they came at last 
 opposite the old school-house, and by some 
 spontaneous impulse they rested their arms on 
 a rude gate and gazed towards it. Then the 
 
A Spoiled Priest 23 
 
 young priest broke out into his old rhapsody 
 about the summer twilights, and the violin, and 
 the merry dances of the girls, and all those 
 things round which, commonplace though they 
 may be, memory flings a nimbus of light that 
 spiritualises and beautifies them. And then his 
 own secret hero-worship for the great Kevin, 
 and the ride on his shoulders home from the 
 dance and the supper, and the great cloak that 
 enveloped him — 
 
 “ Just like yours, with the same brass clasps 
 and chains, that jingled, oh ! such music in 
 my memory.” 
 
 The doctor listened gravely and attentively. 
 Then he asked : 
 
 “ And what became of this wonderful 
 Kevin ? ” 
 
 And he was told his history. And how the 
 heart of one faithful friend yearned after him 
 in his shame, and believed in him, and knew, by 
 a secret but infallible instinct, that he was true 
 and good and faithful, although thrust from the 
 Sanctuary in shame. 
 
 “ We may meet yet,” continued the young 
 priest. “ Of course he could not remember me. 
 But it was all sad, pitifully sad ; and I am sure 
 
24 A Spoiled Priest 
 
 he had grave trials and difficulties to overcome. 
 You know it is in moments of depression, rather 
 than of exultation, that the great temptations 
 come.” 
 
 “ Good night, or rather good morning,” said 
 the doctor. “ What did you say your hero’s 
 
 name was ? Kevin — I think ” 
 
 “ Yes ; Kevin O’Donnell,” said the priest. 
 
 V 
 
 A few weeks after the doctor disappeared, and 
 Rock Cottage was closed again. Twelve months 
 later the young priest was dining with his Bishop, 
 and the latter asked him : 
 
 “ Did you ever hear of a Kevin O’Donnell, 
 from your town ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, of course, my Lord. He was a May- 
 nooth student many years ago.” 
 
 “ Well, here is a letter from him, from Florence, 
 demanding his exeat, in order that he may be 
 ordained priest.” 
 
 A rush of tumultuous delight flushed the cheeks 
 of the young priest, but he only said : “ I knew 
 ’twould come all right in the end.” 
 
 He went home. There was a letter on his 
 
A Spoiled Priest 25 
 
 desk. Florence was the post-mark. With 
 trembling fingers he read : — 
 
 “Certosa, Firenze, 
 
 July 12 , 187-. 
 
 “ Friend and Child, — You have saved a 
 soul ! And it is the soul of your early friend, 
 Kevin. Embittered and disappointed, I left 
 Ireland many years ago. Not one kindly word 
 nor friendly grasp was with me in my farewell. 
 I came back to Ireland, successful as to worldly 
 affairs, but bitter and angry towards God and 
 man. I had but one faith left — to do good in 
 a world where I had received naught but evil. 
 Your faith in me has revived my faith in God. 
 I see now that we are in His hands. If a 
 little child could retain the memory of small 
 kindnesses for thirty years, can we think that 
 the great All-Father has forgotten ? You are 
 puzzled ; you do not know me. Well, I am 
 the doctor with the great cloak, who accom- 
 panied you from a sick-call some months ago. 
 I did not know you. I had forgotten your 
 name. But while you spoke, and showed me 
 how great was your fidelity and love, my heart 
 thawed out towards God and man. I left 
 
2 6 
 
 A Spoiled Priest 
 
 hurriedly and hastened here. I am, thank God, 
 a professed Carthusian, and the Orders denied 
 me in Maynooth Prayer-Hall thirty years ago 
 I shall receive in a few days. 
 
 “ Farewell, and thank God for a gentle heart. 
 You never know where its dews may fall, and 
 bring to life the withered grass or the faded 
 flower. — Yours in Christ, 
 
 “ Kevin O’Donnell (late Dr. Everard.)” 
 
A THOROUGH GENTLEMAN 
 
 Some time towards the end of the Parliamentary 
 Session, 188-, I found myself in London, on 
 the way to Switzerland. I was not long in the 
 great Babylon when I knocked up against an 
 old schoolmate, now developed into an august 
 Member of the British Parliament. It was in 
 the evening, the place was the Strand ; and I 
 remember well what an impression it made upon 
 me, when, as we strolled up and down the 
 crowded thoroughfare, he pointed out to me 
 group after group of Irish Members moving 
 quietly along in twos and threes, clearly strangers 
 in a strange land. It was a day off (Wednesday, 
 I think), and I expressed my surprise that they 
 should not seize the opportunity to scatter 
 themselves, and enjoy the hospitality of many 
 houses which would be glad to open their doors 
 to them. My friend smiled. 
 
 “ There is not one house in London to-night,” 
 he said, “ that would entertain them ; and what 
 
28 A Thorough Gentleman 
 
 is more, not one of them would accept such 
 entertainment if proffered. It is war time ; and 
 in war you don’t sit down to dinner with your 
 enemies.” 
 
 It impressed me deeply. My heart went out 
 to these Irish guerrilleros, isolated and banned 
 on the London streets. 
 
 “ That reminds me,” said my friend, “ you 
 and I are not at war, though we had many a 
 tough battle in days gone by. Come along 
 here ; I know a cosy comer where we can dine.” 
 We left the Strand, and he took me along 
 until we came to a modest, but evidently quite 
 new, little French cafe off Oxford Street. It was 
 pretty full when we entered. There was but 
 one table vacant, far over in a dim, dusky comer, 
 and we at once made our way towards it. 
 
 “ We get an excellent dinner here,” he said, 
 “ and at a singularly moderate price.” 
 
 He lifted his hand, and the waiter came over. 
 Just then a tall, straight, gentlemanly figure 
 entered the room, and placing his hat upon a 
 rack, he looked around inquiringly. My friend, 
 the Member, caught his eye, and whispering 
 to me : 
 
 “That’s P 
 
 , one of our men, Member for 
 
A Thorough Gentleman 29 
 
 the E Division, C County,” he whistled, 
 
 and put up his hand. 
 
 The gentleman, without divesting himself of 
 his overcoat, came slowly towards us, and when 
 he had come quite close, my friend discovered 
 his mistake. 
 
 “ I beg a thousand pardons,” he said. “ In 
 the dusk I quite mistook you for a friend and 
 Parliamentary colleague.” 
 
 “ A most happy mistake,” said the gentleman, 
 removing his gloves. “ May I be allowed to 
 take advantage of it ? I perceive there is no 
 other table unoccupied.” 
 
 It was awkward ; but what can an Irishman 
 do but be civil ? My friend said we would both 
 be most happy to have his company, and he 
 at once, and in a most peremptory, gentlemanly 
 manner, ordered soup. 
 
 He was quite tall, bald on the crown of his 
 head ; he wore a short, thick beard, slightly 
 silvered with grey, and he looked excessively 
 delicate. His cheeks were sunken, the cheek- 
 bones quite apparent, and his eyes glowed as 
 the eyes of a consumptive patient enlarge and 
 shine with the progress of the disease. There 
 was a curious blending of hauteur and deference 
 
30 A Thorough Gentleman 
 
 in his manner ; and a strange odour exhaled 
 from his clothes, which I could not for a con- 
 siderable time define. 
 
 He took his soup rather too hastily, I thought ; 
 and then he rubbed his bread around and around 
 the plate, and ate it almost ravenously. 
 
 “ He has lived abroad,” I thought. “ That 
 is not an English custom.” 
 
 When the waiter brought fish, he sent back 
 the tiny morsel, and looking at the carte, he 
 said : 
 
 “ I see salmon here. Bring me a large slice 
 of salmon, and sauce — mind, sauce ! ” 
 
 Then turning to my friend he said, in an 
 altered tone : 
 
 “ So I have the honour of dining with a Member 
 of Parliament ? ” 
 
 My friend bowed. 
 
 “ I have been in pretty high society,” he said, 
 picking up some crumbs and eating them, “ nay, 
 I have even enjoyed her Majesty’s hospitality ; 
 but I have never aspired to be a Member of the 
 Legislature. It is a great honour, sir, to be 
 allowed to dine with you ; and I perceive, or 
 rather I presume, you are both Irish ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, we are Irish,” said my friend laconically. 
 
A Thorough Gentleman 3 1 
 
 “ Now,” said the stranger, taking up his fork 
 and breaking the salmon cutlet before him, “ I 
 do not share the insular and narrow prejudices 
 of my countrymen against the Irish. I have 
 been lately the guest of one of your excellent 
 countrymen. He maintained the national re- 
 putation for hospitality. In fact if I could 
 complain of anything, it would be that he was 
 almost too pressing in his attentions. But to 
 resume. I am a travelled man ; I have seen 
 all races and peoples and tongues ; and I have 
 learned to distinguish — what, do you think ? 
 Races ? No ! — all races are alike. I have 
 learned to distinguish a gentleman from 
 a cad ! ” 
 
 Somehow, we felt flattered ; and we launched 
 at once into a most amiable discussion on the 
 peculiarities of nations and races ; and there 
 was a singular unanimity in our opinions. We 
 thoroughly agreed that there were gentlemen in 
 every country, even amongst the Turks, and 
 when these were mentioned, the stranger became 
 quite heated. 
 
 “ The Turks ? ” he said. “ Why, they are 
 the cream of civilisation. Every Turk is a 
 gentleman. They are the only race which, as a 
 
32 A Thorough Gentleman 
 
 race — I am not speaking of individuals merely — 
 maintain dignity, reserve, courtesy. A Turk 
 never presumes, is never disturbed, is always 
 calm, serene, dignified. And if you want to 
 see the perfection of family life, get, if you can, 
 at Cairo or Alexandria, an invitation from some 
 Sheik to his house, and there — well,” he con- 
 tinued, “ I must not tell. It would be un- 
 gentlemanly — a breach of hospitality.” 
 
 He ate ravenously, voraciously ; but I set it 
 down to his Oriental experiences. He drank 
 nothing, and refused the bottle of Margaux 
 .which my friend pushed towards him. 
 
 “ He is a Mussulman,” I said to myself. “ See, 
 he avoids wine, and he is so enthusiastic.” 
 
 In the intervals of the courses, he spoke as 
 rapidly as he had eaten, giving us details of all 
 his travels in Mexico, Guatemala, on the banks 
 of the Ganges, and the Nile. He had marvellous 
 powers of description, and when he talked about 
 the charms of the Desert, the great dark night 
 hanging down with its rich clusters of stars 
 over the Bedouin tents, evening on the Ganges, 
 the sun setting behind the Pyramids, &c., I 
 began to feel that, after all, a man must travel 
 to know. But, then, his pale, emaciated features, 
 
A Thorough Gentleman 33 
 
 stooped shoulders, and short cough, told another 
 tale. 
 
 “ You have gained by your travels,” I said, 
 “ but you have lost somewhat. Your health 
 appears to have suffered.” 
 
 “ Quite so,” he replied. “ I have suffered.” 
 “I perceive,” said my friend, “that you are 
 using iodine.” The stranger’s fingers were 
 stained a deep, brownish red, and his finger-nails 
 were rough and jagged. 
 
 “ Sir,” said he, “ you are a Sherlock Holmes. 
 Every night, for many weeks, I have had to use 
 tincture of iodine for my lungs.” 
 
 This gave me the clue to the singular odour 
 I had noticed, hanging around his clothes, as 
 he entered. 
 
 “ And you are using creosote ? ” I remarked. 
 
 “ Sir,” he said, “ you are a brother-detective. 
 Yes, I have been using creosote, or coal-tar in 
 some form.” 
 
 Just here the waiter came round, switching 
 on the electric lamps. The stranger looked 
 slightly disconcerted, and bending across the 
 table he whispered : 
 
 “ You are in possession of the table, sir, 
 
 and have the right to interfere. Would you 
 
 c 
 
34 A Thorough Gentleman 
 
 kindly tell this waiter to leave us in the dusk ? 
 My eyes have suffered from the glare of the 
 desert sands, and that abominable light is par- 
 ticularly hurtful.” 
 
 The request seemed strange, but my friend 
 complied. 
 
 “ You don’t wish for the light, sir ? ” the 
 waiter said. 
 
 “ No, we have light enough,” said the Member. 
 
 “ I beg your par’n, sir,” said the waiter, “ but 
 this gentleman belongs to your party ? ” 
 
 “ Well, ye-es ! ” said the Member. “ We have 
 dined together.” 
 
 “ Oh, all right, sir,” said the waiter. “ We 
 only wanted to know.” 
 
 The stranger was not disconcerted in the 
 least. He slewed his chair around, sipped his 
 coffee carefully, lit a proffered cigar, and said : 
 
 “ Now, there’s another instance of the vast 
 gulf that separates Oriental from Occidental 
 civilisation. You noticed that impertinent ques- 
 tion ? That would be impossible in the East ; 
 just as impossible as that a mere servant should 
 be allowed, nay, compelled to wear the garments 
 of civilisation, and these — the full dress of a 
 gentleman. You perceive the incongruity ? 
 
This Gentleman belongs to Your Party? 
 
 To face page 34. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A Thorough Gentleman 35 
 
 Now, in the East, a slave — and that cochon is 
 but a slave — would have approached with defer- 
 ence, salaaming to the ground, lifted your right 
 foot, and placed it on his head, salaamed again, 
 and then protested that you were a son of the 
 Prophet, that sunshine was your shadow, that 
 your eyes lighted the stars at night, and that 
 he, your most humble and adoring subject, would 
 think himself privileged to die a thousand deaths 
 at your bidding.” 
 
 “ But that’s all bunkum,” said my friend 
 the Member. 
 
 “ Bunkum ? Yes,” echoed the stranger. “ I 
 am not sure,” he continued very slowly, as if 
 he had been deeply pained at the expression, 
 but was too gentlemanly to resent it, “ that I 
 would have used the expression. But it is ex- 
 pressive ; and your remark is quite correct. 
 But is not bunkum the oil of life ? This old, 
 decrepit, worn-out civilisation would have been 
 shaken to pieces long ago, and after creaking 
 and moaning enough to make angels or lost 
 angels weep, would have collapsed and lain still 
 for ever, were it not for bunkum. What is 
 ‘ Your Majesty ’ ? Bunkum. ‘ Your Royal 
 Highness ’ ? Bunkum. ‘ Your Grace ’ ? Bun- 
 
36 A Thorough Gentleman 
 
 kum. ‘ My Lord ’ ? Bunkum. When the nurse 
 takes the pink and puling baby, who has wan- 
 dered hither from eternity, to the admiring 
 father, and calls it ‘ a cherub,’ ‘ an angel,’ it is 
 ‘ bunkum.’ And when the headstone declares 
 that a paragon of all the virtues lies here, it is 
 ‘ bunkum.’ Did it ever occur to you, my dear 
 friend, as you sat on the green benches in the 
 House of Commons, and heard a Cabinet Minister 
 address one of your party, which, as you know, 
 he cordially detests, and would sweep into 
 Gehenna without compunction, as ‘ my honour- 
 able and learned friend,’ that this was bunkum ? 
 The only person in your august assembly that 
 is not a lay-figure is the Speaker. No one dare 
 address ‘ bunkum ’ to him. He is ‘ Sir ’ ; no 
 more ; but that is the title of a gentleman.” 
 
 My friend the Member was calmly chuckling 
 to himself at this delightful attack on Society 
 in general, and the “ Mother of Parliaments ” 
 in particular. 
 
 “ Where then comes in the difference between 
 Oriental and Occidental bunkum ? ” continued 
 the stranger, between every furious puff of his 
 cigar. 
 
 “ Mark ! the expression is not mine. I hold 
 
A Thorough Gentleman 37 
 
 you responsible for it. Well, the difference is, 
 that the Orientals are consistent ; you are not. 
 The Oriental never forgets himself, never breaks 
 into anger, is never insolent. He does not call 
 you ‘ Son of the Prophet * to your face, and 
 grimace behind your back. He does not wel- 
 come you effusively to his house ; and, when you 
 are leaving, say : * Praised be Allah, what a 
 riddance ! ’ He may sometimes, under great 
 provocation, cheat you in a bargain, but it is 
 always done in a gentlemanly manner ; and if 
 he does put laudanum in your coffee, at least 
 he calls upon Allah to protect you. But here, 
 whilst you retain all the bunkum — pardon me, 
 the expression is your own — of the East, every- 
 thing else is vulgar, plebeian, monkeyish ; and 
 it reveals itself in such awful be'tises as that 
 wretched creature was just now guilty of. But, 
 here he comes again, the slave of the lamp and 
 the napkin ! ” 
 
 The waiter approached, and proffered to my 
 friend the Member, the bill, on a salver. As 
 he did, I saw him give a searching look on the 
 stranger. 
 
 The latter threw aside the stump of his cigar, 
 and reaching over, he said eagerly ; 
 
38 A Thorough Gentleman 
 
 “ Is my account here ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said the waiter irreverently ; “ the 
 entire account is on that bill.” 
 
 “ Then I shall pay for all,” said the stranger, 
 fumbling in a side-pocket. 
 
 The Member had placed a sovereign on the 
 salver, and beckoned the waiter away. 
 
 “ I cannot allow this, sir,” said the stranger, 
 deeply offended. “ If would be most ungentle- 
 manly to permit a perfect stranger to discharge 
 my debts.” 
 
 “ I wouldn’t have taken the liberty,” said the 
 Member, “ but you didn’t resent it, when I 
 said we belonged to the same party. Besides, 
 it is a way we Irish have.” 
 
 “Yes, I perceive,” said the gentlemanly 
 stranger, and sank into a brown study. 
 
 The receipted bill was brought, the waiter 
 tipped, and we stood up to depart, when, in a 
 pitiful way, the stranger stopped us. 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” he said, “ please be seated one 
 moment, if I may detain you.” 
 
 He had turned away his head, and it sank 
 low on his breast. The cafe was empty. The 
 waiters had gone into the kitchen, as there was 
 nothing further to be done. 
 
A Thorough Gentleman 39 
 
 “ Your generosity has overpowered me,” he 
 said at length. “ I don’t know where to begin 
 my confession.” 
 
 Then, as if he were doing a desperate thing 
 and should do it quickly, he said : 
 
 “ You have entertained a gentleman, and — a 
 jail-bird. I had just come out of prison, starved, 
 emaciated, dying, and — to die ! For God is my 
 witness, I was about to seek my bed to-night in 
 the Thames. But, as I passed this place, I 
 said, ‘ I shall dine like a gentleman once more, 
 and then ” 
 
 He paused for a moment, as if trying to re- 
 member his feelings. 
 
 “ You may ask why I was in jail, or a jail- 
 bird, which implies so much more. It were a 
 tedious story ; but I may say at once that I 
 have never been guilty of an ungentlemanly act. 
 I have never done anything beyond what is 
 done every day and night by the elite of this 
 city. But you will say I have lied to you, and 
 that is not gentlemanly. No ! I have not lied. 
 I have equivocated. I said I had enjoyed her 
 Majesty’s hospitality. So I have. I said that 
 I had been entertained by one of your country- 
 men, and that he was too pressing in his atten- 
 
40 A Thorough Gentleman 
 
 tions. It is true. Rourke, or Crooke, or some- 
 thing else, was my warder. I have said that 
 I used iodine. It is true. But that stain,” he 
 pointed to his thumb and fingers, “ is not 
 iodine. It is oakum. And the prison-odour that 
 clings around me still is not creosote, as your 
 learned friend conjectured, but the odour of 
 tarred rope. You will object that it was not 
 gentlemanly to come in here and order dinner, 
 knowing that I had not the means of paying 
 for it. Bismillah ! Is it not done every day 
 hundreds of times in this city by your greatest 
 swells ? No gentleman pays for such trifles as 
 dinner or habiliments. He pays for a box at 
 the opera, or a diamond ; but for a dinner ? 
 Oh no ! Of course I know that if I had not 
 had the good fortune to meet you, I should 
 have been flung out upon the pavement, and 
 copped instantly. But then, why quarrel with 
 good fortune ? I never do. If I had been 
 copped I should sleep to-night on a dry board 
 instead of the slime of the river. That would 
 have been one gain. But I would have lost 
 an excellent dinner. Well ! there’s the equili- 
 brium of things.” 
 
 He stood up. 
 
 “ I now go to my doom ; 
 
A Thorough Gentleman 41 
 
 but with the sublime consciousness that I 
 have dined, as a gentleman, with gentlemen. 
 And now, one favour more. May I take this 
 cigar ? ” 
 
 The Member nodded. The gentlemanly 
 stranger lighted the cigar leisurely, and smoked 
 for a second or two. 
 
 “ The favour is this,” he said. “ To perfect 
 the compliment by allowing me to accompany 
 you to the door. I see these wretched slaves 
 have come in again, and are watching us.” 
 
 “ Come along,” said the Member. At the 
 door, under the pitiless glare of the pale electric 
 light, all was visible. The soiled collar, the blue 
 melton overcoat white at the elbows and seams, 
 the yellow tips of the fingers showing through 
 the shabby and broken gloves, the silk hat 
 brown and broken — all told their tale. 
 
 The stranger turned and said : “ Gentlemen, 
 I must not intrude on you any longer. I beg 
 once more to thank you. May Allah protect 
 you ! ” Then, lifting his shabby hat, he said 
 to my friend, “ Ave Ccesar Imperator ! moriturus 
 te saluto ! ” 1 He strolled leisurely down the 
 
 1 “ Hail, Emperor and Caesar ! I, about to die, salute you !” — 
 the salutation of the gladiators in the arena. 
 
42 A Thorough Gentleman 
 
 crowded thoroughfare, and the odour of the 
 cigar filled the air. 
 
 I couldn’t help laughing. “ That was a bad 
 sell,” I said. 
 
 “ Never mind,” said the Member, “ you have 
 dined with a gentleman.” 
 
 I did not know how true were his words, 
 until in after years, long after his death, I learned 
 that my friend the Member had that evening 
 parted with his last sovereign to entertain a 
 stranger and a felon. 
 
THE MONKS OF TRABOLGAN 
 
 A STORY OF THE FUTURE 
 
 I 
 
 “ Brother Felix,” said the old Abbot, stopping 
 and looking out over the silent waters, that 
 were now grey as smouldering ashes, for the 
 sun had gone down with wonderful pomp into 
 the West ; “ the evening of your profession was 
 just such an evening as this. How many years 
 ago, did you say ? ” 
 
 “ Eleven years, Father,” said the monk, as 
 if he would shift the conversation. 
 
 “ Eleven years,” repeated the old man slowly. 
 “ How swiftly they pass ! It seems only yester- 
 day that I held your trembling hands in mine ; 
 and I remember how I watched the sun through 
 the chancel window playing in your hair, and 
 I wove mock hexameters out of your name, 
 whilst Brother Alexis was preaching. He was 
 prosy, and rather long-winded, Brother, was he 
 not ? ” 
 
 43 
 
44 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 “ Very,” said the young monk, as he remem- 
 bered the ordeal. 
 
 “ What were these queer rhymes that ran in 
 my head ? You looked so supremely happy, 
 you know, that the caution and foresight of 
 age must needs forecast clouds and darkness. 
 What were they ? Infelix est, cui nomen 
 est nimium felix. That was bad. Was it not ? 
 And : Felix nuncupatus forsitan foret in- 
 
 felix. That was worse. How Brother Aurelian 
 would put his fingers in his ears if he heard 
 me! ” 
 
 They walked along again slowly, the aged 
 monk looking anxious enough under this tone 
 of levity ; and the younger looking perplexed 
 and annoyed. At last the silence became un- 
 bearable. 
 
 “ Father,” said the young monk, “ you wish 
 to say something to me. Say it. You know 
 I have never resented anything your kindly 
 heart has judged right to say to me. But 
 you know, too, I cannot bear suspense or un- 
 certainty. I am too volatile, and unstable. 
 What is it ? ” 
 
 “ My son,” said the old man, pausing and 
 looking with infinite tenderness at the anxious 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 45 
 
 face of his companion, “ what shall I call you, 
 Felix or Infelix ? ” 
 
 “ Infelix, Father,” said the monk, without a 
 moment’s hesitation. 
 
 “ Ah, then, I was right. The clouds have 
 come down. And now, my son, let me tell you 
 why. Sit here. Vespers are over. We shall be 
 in time for night prayers.” 
 
 They sat down on the purple rocks, for the 
 dew had moistened the slender turf on the 
 summit of the cliff. The sea was now dark, 
 and heaving restlessly, though the twilight of 
 a summer evening still lingered. There was a 
 faint odour of heather on the air ; for the wild 
 herbs of the meadows and the high levels were 
 faintly contending with the strong, subtle scents 
 of the sea. The waves broke rather strongly at 
 their feet, and splashed loudly against the black 
 boulders, and rolled the pebbles about uncere- 
 moniously. One heard only the soft crunching 
 of the sheep in the fields. 
 
 A ewe lamb came over and placed her head 
 on the Abbot’s lap. He rubbed her forehead 
 gently. 
 
 “ How shall I begin ? ” said the old Abbot, 
 folding his hands under his scapular. “ Shall I 
 
46 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 say I have a presentiment ? Yes. It is better. 
 I have a presentiment, Brother Felix, that some- 
 where in the near future our dear home shall 
 be broken up, and we shall be scattered, like 
 the sheep, when the shepherd is stricken.” 
 
 “ God forbid ! ” cried the monk, starting up 
 in terror; “ that is too terrible.” 
 
 The Abbot went on, unheeding, in the same 
 calm tones, as if his prophecy affected some 
 strangers, and not themselves. 
 
 “ The Abbey shall be no more. We shall be 
 scattered. The wolves will come down, and you 
 shall be the cause ! ” 
 
 “ Me ? Reverend Father. What have I done 
 to deserve such a horrible fate ? Do you not 
 know that my affection for the dear old Abbey 
 is hardly second to my affection for yourself ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I know it. Nevertheless, such is Fate, 
 Destiny ; or rather, such is the unfolding of 
 Divine designs.” 
 
 “ But this is a serious charge, dear Father,” 
 said the young monk anxiously. “ There must 
 have been something to excite so terrible a 
 suspicion. I am conscious of having done no- 
 thing against the welfare of our home and 
 brethren.” 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 47 
 
 “ No. Our worst and most dangerous acts 
 are those which we least measure. What hap- 
 pened whilst I was away in Rome ? ” 
 
 “ I published that pamphlet,” said Brother 
 Felix unhesitatingly, yet as if he understood 
 the grave import of his words. 
 
 “ I am aware of that,” said the Abbot. “ It 
 was shown to me at Rome.” 
 
 “ What ? ” said the monk in surprise. “ Do 
 you mean, Father, that that wretched little rag 
 went to Rome ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I have brought it back, and with it ? ” 
 
 The young monk was now pale with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 “ Your condemnation ! ” said the Abbot 
 slowly. 
 
 The monk Felix felt the whole force of the 
 blow. Rome strikes like a Nasmyth hammer, 
 silently, smoothly, but the dread weight of 
 nineteen centuries and of the immensities is 
 behind it. 
 
 “ There was nothing wrong in the book,” he 
 said sullenly, as men say when suddenly accused. 
 
 “ Nothing wrong in doctrine ? Quite true. 
 Nothing immature and most inopportune ? 
 Alas, there was ! ” 
 
48 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 “ I wrote in the interests of the Church,” 
 said the monk earnestly. “ I cannot stand any 
 longer these encroachments on our rights and 
 privileges. We are not Frenchmen to lie down 
 tamely in face of oppression. I am not an 
 opportunist. God forbid. I stand up for what 
 is right and just, and God is with me. The 
 people have adopted every one of my ideas. 
 They have answered nobly to my appeal. 
 Yet ” , 
 
 “ Yet ? ” said the Abbot. 
 
 “ If Rome speaks I am silent. I am not 
 going to weigh the feather of my judgment 
 against her vast experience.” 
 
 “ I was asked,” said the Abbot slowly, “ by 
 a few sarcastic people, not by the Church autho- 
 rities, who measure their language, whether we 
 
 had established a new Port Royal ” 
 
 “ Shame ! ” said the monk Felix. 
 
 “ I was asked who was our Mere Angelique ? ” 
 “ Disgraceful ! ” said the monk. 
 
 “ I was asked about our new Lamennais, who 
 would hurl his brutum fulmen against the Church 
 of nineteen centuries, and who would die an 
 unrepentant apostate. And I thought of that 
 lonely brother wandering through the chateau, 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 49 
 
 and making the empty chambers echo with that 
 doleful cry, 0 mon frere ! mon frere ! And I 
 said to myself, shall it ever be that my little 
 brother, the happy one, whose hands trembled 
 in mine when he spoke his vows, shall have 
 come to this ? ” 
 
 “ God forbid ! ” said Brother Felix, weeping 
 bitterly. 
 
 “ Let us return,” said the Abbot, after a 
 pause. They walked slowly homewards, as the 
 evening bell tolled out over the sands and the 
 sea. 
 
 “ Console yourself, my child,” he said, touched 
 by the brother’s anguish. “ That danger is past. 
 We will call in all the pamphlets that we can 
 reach ; and the stirring of the people will die 
 away after a time. Our danger lies not with 
 mother Rome, who is so patient and forbearing. 
 Our danger lies in another quarter. You know 
 what I mean. It was the gist of your book. 
 Be cautious. Our little hermitage is very dear 
 to us all.” 
 
 “ Dearest of all to me,” said the weeping monk. 
 “ Father, bless me, and pray for me.” 
 
 “ Say the ‘ Miserere ’ once, after night-prayer. 
 God and His Mother keep thee.” 
 
 D 
 
50 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 There was a great silence in the choir when 
 the monks departed. But it was broken now 
 and again by terrible sobs that burst from the 
 lips of a prostrate figure before the High Altar. 
 The figure was there when the monks came 
 down at midnight for Matins. But no one dis- 
 turbed it or asked the cause. 
 
 II 
 
 The scene where we have placed the foregoing 
 incident was the high cliff that slopes up gradu- 
 ally from the sheltered nook, just outside Cork 
 Harbour, where a tiny bay of yellow sand is the 
 only barrier between the sea and the mansion 
 of Trabolgan, transformed at the date of our 
 story into an abbey, occupied by a community 
 of religious students, known far and wide as 
 the White Monks of Trabolgan. The time is the 
 dawn of the twentieth century, or, rather, its 
 morning. In its dawn a wave of religious 
 enthusiasm had swept from end to end of Ire- 
 land, just as some grave political changes were 
 revolutionising the social condition of the people. 
 
 Whence that wave originated it would be im- 
 possible to say, for the Spirit breatheth where 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 51 
 
 He wills ; but it was supposed to have reached 
 Ireland from France, where a sudden cataclysm 
 had emancipated the Church from all the terrible 
 restrictions of the Fourth Republic. This had 
 been followed by' a-gwalpredig^us revival, which, 
 in turn, too^,. the shape of '4 reconstruction of 
 the ancierot teligious houses, and-^ie establish- 
 
 , A ' z V- "A 
 
 ment of $ome new' Orders Adapted fp the social 
 
 tions of the ancient convents, whose ruins still 
 testify to their glory. It was thought, too, that 
 above all things the exigencies of the Church 
 demanded the ancient alliance between sanctity 
 and learning ; and whilst the already established 
 Orders devoted themselves to the work of preach- 
 ing and giving public missions, or the still higher 
 work of the great contemplative Communities, 
 for which Irishmen have always had an affinity, 
 there was a demand for a new Order of monk- 
 students, something on the plan of the French 
 Benedictines ; and their first, and mother-house, 
 was established at Trabolgan. 
 
52 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 This beautiful mansion belonged to an ancient 
 and honourable family — the Roches, whose 
 latest representative was Lord Fermoy. As 
 far back as the time of King Edward II. they 
 were an honourable and leading Catholic family, 
 for we find that in the year 1314 the magnificent 
 monastery of the Canons Regular of St. Augus- 
 tine (or, as some say, of the Order of St. Victor), 
 at Bridgetown, just at the confluence of the 
 Blackwater and Spenser’s Mulla, was founded by 
 Alexander F'itz-Hugh Roche, whose successors 
 also built most of the castles that dominated 
 the Blackwater, and commanded the passes to 
 the Nagle Mountains. In time, however, the 
 family was attainted and outlawed for parti- 
 cipation in the Irish rebellion of 1641 ; and 
 then, forgetting their glorious name, de Rupe, 
 de la Roche, they sank into the condition of mere 
 Englishry, and went over to the religion of the 
 conquerors. But they remained a chivalrous 
 and liberal family, loved by the people, and 
 tolerant and kindly towards the race that 
 had once looked up to them as their trusted 
 chieftains. 
 
 And so, when a home was required for the 
 White Student-Monks, the Lord of Trabolgan at 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 53 
 
 the time cheerfully leased the old mansion to 
 them. They had in turn, by the traditional 
 monastic diligence and dexterity, transformed 
 the woods and glens around, and built long 
 rows of stately corridors, and a bijou Gothic 
 library, and a little gem of Gothic design — the 
 chapel — where the monks performed the greatest 
 part of their daily work — singing the praises of 
 the Most High. For study and worship were 
 their daily occupations. Study of all things 
 related to human science, disdaining none, but 
 utilising all for the glory of their Maker. Hence 
 there were gathered into this silent hermitage 
 theologians, philosophers, artists, poets, mechani- 
 cians ; and the world, through its literature, 
 poured into this quiet monastery all its most 
 daring and rebellious, as well as all its most 
 gentle and salutary inspirations ; and in the 
 mighty crucible of religious thought and feeling 
 all were worked up into a concrete mass of 
 spiritual idealism, which enhanced the artistic 
 aspirations of the place, and supplied all the 
 necessary enthusiasm, which showed itself in 
 outward expressions, that drew upon the convent 
 and its inmates the reverence or the jealousy 
 of the world outside. 
 
54 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 The monks, many of whom had been educated 
 abroad, were able, by their constant correspond- 
 ence with the Continental monasteries, to furnish 
 their library with the most rare and costly 
 volumes, many of which were dated from medi- 
 aeval times. And they were able to purchase 
 from suppressed houses in France and Italy 
 examples of the most perfect workmanship in 
 gold and silver chalices and monstrances, which, 
 however, they engaged to restore should happier 
 days dawn upon their Continental brethren. 
 The monastery, therefore, was quite a repository 
 of treasure-trove, which was jealously guarded 
 by the monks. Few visitors were allowed to 
 cross the sacred threshold of the library and 
 sacristy. Occasionally a missionary priest would 
 go into Retreat at the monastery ; the few 
 peasants of the neighbourhood were allowed the 
 privilege of hearing Mass in the chapel ; but 
 no one had ever heard the chaunting of the 
 monks in the choir, or seen their deft fingers 
 turning out the splendidly bound books, which 
 were rapidly becoming as famous as Plantins or 
 Elzevirs. The rumbling of the organ was fol- 
 lowed by the deeper rumbling of the printing- 
 press ; and the strange noise of the machinery 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 55 
 
 was the subject of much superstitious conjecture 
 in the peasants’ cabins around. Yet, though 
 no one ever was privileged to hear the monks 
 in choir, the fame of their beautiful chaunting 
 had gone far and wide. Many piteous appeals 
 were made to the Abbot by devout, or curious 
 dilettanti to allow them, even once, to hear the 
 beautiful and quite novel rendering of the 
 famous Church music. The Abbot smiled and 
 gravely shook his head. He kept for his brethren 
 the doublh secret that was so often put into an 
 academic form of disputation in the chapter-room, 
 
 (1) Whether the religious life could really 
 
 subsist in modem environments without 
 the perpetual presence of our Lord in 
 the Blessed Sacrament ? 
 
 (2) Whether, if the Psaltery were destroyed, 
 
 it would be possible to find any suit- 
 able form for the expression of sacred 
 worship ? 
 
 Then, as may be expected, strange rumours 
 were circulated about the Brotherhood. Their 
 hiddenness and secrecy excited curiosity and 
 envy. The books that were issued from their 
 press became objects of jealous scrutiny. But 
 
56 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 no fault could be found there, unless their 
 enemies desired to anathematise Clement of 
 Alexandria, or Ephrem the Syrian, or St. Hilary, 
 or St. Augustine ; for the Brothers had limited 
 all their labour to reprints of the ancient Fathers. 
 Nothing original was ever allowed to pass the 
 gate until it had been subjected to the most 
 careful scrutiny. Brother Felix had again and 
 again been warned not to attempt to issue a 
 certain pamphlet that had become as dear to 
 him as the apple of his eye. He dared to dis- 
 obey that order : and hence we left him pros- 
 trate in the sanctuary the night of the Abbot’s 
 admonition. The Brothers wore a white habit 
 with the usual scapularies and cinctures ; but 
 the capuce, or hood, was lined with blue or 
 red silk, according to the academic degree of 
 the Brother ; for it was an inexorable rule that 
 only graduates in some home or foreign Univer- 
 sity could be accepted as postulants in the Order. 
 
 And thus they passed their quiet, uneventful 
 life, suffused with perfect peace, labouring to 
 reconcile the feeble hypotheses of modern science 
 with the fixed and stable principles of faith. 
 This was their work. Their pleasure was to 
 exult in the very beautiful and charming scenery 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 57 
 
 which God had put into this little cameo on the 
 earth’s surface, and to rejoice in the glorious 
 melodies that pealed from their noble organ, 
 and which their every effort was to rival and 
 surpass. Ah ! these oak-stalls with their heavy 
 brass hinges, and the lecterns for their breviaries : 
 that floor, parquetted in oak, and polished into 
 the smoothness of a mirror ; those stained 
 windows, grouped around the great apse window, 
 with its exquisite conception of the great Pro- 
 phetess of the Magnificat ; the shifting colours 
 as the sun threw down its tender mosaics of 
 purple, and saffron, and amethyst, and beryl, 
 making the floor like that of Heaven in the 
 Apocalypse ; the odours of flowers and incense ; 
 the magnificent symbolism of the Church in 
 her ceremonies ; and the divine and enthralling 
 sweetness that breathed from that noble organ, 
 as its faint, far-away notes deepened into the 
 solemn bourdon, and descending from the clouds 
 to earth raised the souls of the worshippers from 
 earth to Heaven — all this ethereal dream of the 
 noble and perfect and tranquil life — how it all 
 came back to the memories of the monks, when 
 it was all scattered like the rude awakening from 
 a celestial vision to the hard and barren realities 
 
58 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 of life ! And then Nature, with all its Irish 
 marvels of cloud and sky and sea ! No wonder 
 that many wearied and tired Americans — as 
 they glided past this little nook of Paradise, and 
 saw the shining, level beach, and the noble 
 trees, and sometimes two or three white-robed 
 monks perched like sea-birds on the cliffs, and 
 witnessed the tranquillity that lay like a golden 
 cloud over all — thought that, perhaps, after all, 
 it were better to live under such peaceful condi- 
 tions than under the hot, burning skies and the 
 feverish, passionate, throbbing excitement in the 
 Golgothas of our modem cities. 
 
 And yet the meek Abbot had a presentiment 
 that all this beauty of nature and love would be 
 broken up and scattered, as by a whirlwind ; 
 and that a penitent monk, who loved this retreat 
 more passionately than his brethren, and who 
 was for ever deploring his impetuosity and rest- 
 lessness, would be the innocent and unconscious 
 cause of the dispersal of his Brotherhood. 
 
 Ill 
 
 We have said that the peaceful community of 
 Trabolgan was an object of jealousy. 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 59 
 
 It was inevitable. Their very exclusiveness 
 made them suspected and disliked. It is quite 
 possible that if they had flung open their gardens 
 and grounds, and made their library and chapel 
 common property, human envy would still rage 
 around what was superhuman. But the very 
 singularity of the monks’ position — their trea- 
 sures, their vast learning, and the air of academic 
 peace and power that reigned over their persons 
 and pursuits — excited a great deal of criticism 
 and a great deal of dislike in petty minds. 
 Strange rumours had gone to Rome and been 
 discredited there ; and wise — overwise — people, 
 whose wisdom generally consists in their un- 
 charitable estimates of what is quite beyond 
 their comprehension, began to shrug their 
 shoulders when the White Monks of Trabolgan 
 were mentioned. A vague suspicion of hetero- 
 doxy always attaches to learning — there is such 
 a danger for the learned to slip the leash, and 
 go out into wild unknown regions of speculation. 
 But the danger came not from the Church, 
 which looks at everything with slow, calm eyes ; 
 nor from the people, whose faith is so unerring ; 
 but, as in France, from the professional politi- 
 cians, the empirics in the science of governing, 
 
60 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 especially from the advanced thinkers to whom 
 progress always spells perfection. 
 
 This class, fed on journalism, and magazine 
 literature, knowing the names, but not able to 
 measure the ideas of great thinkers, with scrappy 
 notions of political science, and ragged prin- 
 ciples of economical government, have been the 
 bane of the Church in the last few centuries. 
 They sprang from the “ Encyclopedia ” ; they 
 will end — God knows where. Just now, they 
 had a majority in a provisional government, 
 under the beck of the Imperial Parliament of 
 Great Britain ; and they were bitten with the 
 idea of Gambetta, that the Church was so power- 
 ful it could easily afford to have its claws trimmed 
 and its pinions cut. When it became a little 
 older, and more feeble — well, both should be let 
 grow to their fullest measure. And they fixed 
 their covetous eyes on the little treasure-house 
 of Trabolgan. What a shame to have a few 
 monks left in sole enjoyment of their Raffaelles 
 and Murillos, whilst this metropolitan museum 
 was as bare as the cloisters of a Cistercian 
 monastery ! And would not those noble volumes 
 suit the empty racks and shelves of our great 
 University Library, rather than the tiny book- 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 61 
 
 shelves of an insignificant convent ! And that 
 organ ! What glorious popular concerts might 
 be given on Sunday afternoons to a people that 
 were music-mad ! It was specious, but dan- 
 gerous. The angry growl of a people, always 
 jealous of Church privileges, warned off the 
 hungry jackals. But the Imperial Parliament ! 
 Yes, a hostile Government might fairly slip in, 
 where a popular Parliament dare not. 
 
 Oh, for a pretext ! It came. Brother Felix 
 gave it. 
 
 IV 
 
 He was a specialist, as were all his Brethren ; 
 and his specialty was engineering. He was a 
 calculating machine. He had a passion for 
 figures. Height, breadth, depth, should be no 
 mystery to him. The magician of the last 
 century had left a wonderful legacy to the 
 world. But a legacy to be lent out at vast 
 usurious interest for the benefit of humanity. 
 Brother Felix borrowed, invested, speculated, 
 developed ; and all the deep seas gave up their 
 mysteries to him. 
 
62 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 Many a night, like so many an Irish dreamer, 
 did he lie awake, thinking of vast imaginary 
 triumphs for the motherland. For Ireland, to 
 the rest of the world, withered and unbeautiful, 
 is to the young Irishman the peerless and rose- 
 crowned queen of chivalry, for whom great 
 deeds of daring might be done, and death itself 
 be met and endured bravely. How often to 
 these dreamers has the grip of the stronger 
 country been loosed, as Perseus delivered Andro- 
 meda from the sea-monster ? How often have 
 British armies been decoyed into ambush and 
 destroyed, reliefs thrown into beleaguered towns, 
 fortresses destroyed, battleships blown up ; and 
 then the smile and the glove from my lady’s 
 hand ! Ay de mi ! 
 
 Well, Brother Felix was not beyond such 
 dreamings. He had often calculated how easy 
 it would be to pilot a hostile vessel under the 
 teeth of Camden and Carlisle Forts, anchor her 
 in the great inner harbour, land her marines, 
 and take by one tremendous coup these im- 
 pregnable fortresses, that like the Calpe and 
 Abyla of the ancients guarded this retreat to 
 the Atlantic. He had made all his calculations. 
 It was as easy as hoisting a sail, or steering a 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 63 
 
 pleasure-boat. For Brother Felix was a child 
 of the sea. He had been baptized in its brine, 
 had breathed its salt vapours from infancy, 
 knew every wrinkle and change of colour on its 
 mobile face, loved it with that intense passion 
 which only the mystery of the great miracle of 
 God can arouse. One of his few pleasures was 
 to go out alone, and trust himself into the arms 
 of his great mother. Often in the evening, when 
 the monks had recreation from labour, he pulled 
 out miles to sea — then shipped his oars, drew 
 his capuce over his head, and let the little shell 
 of a boat drift, while he gave himself up to 
 meditation. Sometimes he remained out late, 
 and only came home for the midnight orisons ; 
 but the Rules allowed such elasticity, and the 
 Abbot knew the Brethren well. 
 
 The year had narrowed to October, and the 
 Channel and Mediterranean fleets were mobilising 
 on the Irish coasts. There had been a good 
 deal of public interest in the naval manoeuvres, 
 and daily reports of vast engagements were 
 telegraphed to the London Press. Queenstown 
 was a closed harbour. No ship was to take 
 refuge there, however closely pressed. The 
 three forts that guard the harbour were sup- 
 
64 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 posed to be fully manned, and to have their 
 guns trailed on any daring vessel that should 
 come within three miles of the harbour’s 
 mouth. 
 
 One dark, gloomy evening in this month, 
 Brother Felix was out at sea. He had drifted 
 to the east in a strong current ; and a great 
 darkness had come swiftly down portending a 
 night-storm. Already half a gale was blowing ; 
 and for the first time he was anxious. Then 
 the darkness deepened, and he felt almost de- 
 spairful when a great object loomed suddenly up 
 from the eastward, and he was challenged : 
 “ Boat ahoy ! ” There was light enough to see 
 that it was a powerful war-vessel ; and that she 
 had not the buff chimneys nor the black and 
 yellow hulls of the British men-of-war. That 
 meant nothing, however, for it was quite a 
 usual thing to disguise the colours of the ships 
 during the manoeuvres. Brother Felix fell 
 rapidly under her stem ; and before he had 
 time to remonstrate, he and his boat were lifted 
 lightly on board the man-of-war. Great was 
 the laughter on board when they found they 
 had picked up not a pilot but a monk. They 
 were going to drop him quietly again into the 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 65 
 
 deep, when the captain interfered, and took the 
 monk into his cabin. 
 
 A number of officers were seated around a 
 central table, which was covered with maps, 
 diagrams, &c., and one of the number pointed 
 with a pair of compasses to some spot on a 
 map, about which there was evidently some 
 discussion. The officers rose when the strange 
 apparition of a white-robed monk appeared at 
 the door of the cabin. The captain said, 
 “ Pray, gentlemen, be seated,” and courteously 
 placed a chair for the monk. 
 
 “ I know a great many of your brethren at 
 Einsiedeln,” he said suavely. “ I have often 
 gone up there from Lucerne. What clever, genial, 
 hospitable fellows they are ! ” 
 
 The bewildered monk could only stare at the 
 singular scene, though he took in at a glance 
 that he was on board a German warship. The 
 captain spoke English perfectly. 
 
 “ Now,” the latter said, as he pointed to a 
 particular spot on the map, “ that is your 
 convent ! ” 
 
 The monk leaned over and saw Trabolgan 
 clearly indicated. 
 
 “ And these are the terrible forts,” said the 
 
 E 
 
66 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 captain. “ What clever fellows you are to build 
 your nest under such an impregnable fortress.” 
 He laughed as he spoke,. Brother Felix 
 thought he saw some dawning meaning in his 
 words. 
 
 “ Come, brother,” said the captain, filling out 
 a glass of Niersteiner, “ drink to the glorious 
 Rhine, and the Fatherland.” 
 
 Brother Felix raised his glass to the toast. 
 
 “ You poor monks,” continued the captain, 
 “ live in such seclusion that you know nothing 
 beyond your books and your prayers. Now, if 
 we had not picked you up you might have 
 drifted to America or eternity.” 
 
 “ Hardly so,” said Brother Felix, whom the 
 wine had warmed into emotional heat, “ there 
 is not an inch of the harbour I don’t know.” 
 
 “ Ha ! indeed,” said the captain. “ Try him, 
 Lieutenant Scholz.” 
 
 And then and there the poor monk was put 
 to a stem examination ; but his pride nerved 
 him to the task, and he fairly astonished his 
 hearers by his minute acquaintance with every 
 sounding and sand-bank, every shoal and rock 
 in and around the harbour. But if he surprised 
 them by the minuteness and accuracy of his 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 67 
 
 information, he was in turn surprised by the 
 intimate knowledge they had of the features and 
 geographical minutiae of the bay and coast. 
 
 “And now,” said the captain, when the wine 
 and the interchange of ideas had warmed them 
 into goodfellowship, “ we are entering that har- 
 bour to-night — just as an experiment. But there 
 is a dangerous bank, like the back of a mighty 
 whale, here right in the centre of the channel. 
 What may be the distance from either shore ? ” 
 
 Brother Felix told him to the foot. 
 
 “ Very good. I see you are a seaman. Now, 
 look here, will you take the helm, and pilot 
 us in ? ” 
 
 It was such a tremendous responsibility that 
 Brother Felix recoiled. Yet, it was the very 
 opportunity he had dreamed of for so many 
 years. Yes. Here was a man-of-war, fully 
 equipped ; here was a crew of nine hundred 
 men ; there were the harbour lights. His spirits 
 rose. His heart beat violently. All his vanity 
 and pride summoned him to do a great deed of 
 seamanship. Yet, he knew the risks well — the 
 danger of wrecking that noble ship with its 
 thousand lives, the tempest that had now arisen 
 from a half-gale almost to hurricane, the fierce 
 
68 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 seas that beat resistlessly into the hollow of 
 the harbour’s mouth, the chance of running down 
 a tender or an outward-bound — all these flashed 
 across his mind, and he rubbed his eyes dubiously, 
 and wondered was he dreaming in his cell. No ! 
 there were the maps, there the decanters and 
 glasses, there the nameless odours that float 
 around a large warship, there the calm, expec- 
 tant captain, there the officers, smiling at his 
 bewildered looks. He made up his mind in a 
 moment. 
 
 “ Do you enter as friend, or enemy ? ” 
 
 “ Friend, of course,” they shouted. 
 
 “You know the harbour is closed ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, to the fleets at the manoeuvres. We 
 have just come from them.” 
 
 “ One word more. Shall this be a secret ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, on our honour, if you like.” 
 
 “ Come then,” said the monk, with a beating 
 heart. 
 
 But when he came on deck the terror of the 
 thing struck him. They had slowed down the 
 engines as the ship approached the harbour’s 
 mouth, and she rolled heavily in the trough of 
 the waves. The night was now inky black, no 
 star or moon, only a white cloud of swishing 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 69 
 
 rain, seen when the reflection of the lamps 
 around the binnacle struck it. These, too, 
 were now carefully muffled ; and probably, the 
 first thing that alarmed the would-be pilot was 
 the observation that the vessel carried no lights. 
 He turned to the captain, and pointed to the 
 masthead. 
 
 “ No, no,” said the captain, rather testily, 
 “ this is an experiment.” 
 
 They crossed the harbour mouth, ran out to 
 sea ; and just at midnight slowly turned, and 
 moved, silent as death, into the harbour. Brother 
 Felix stood on the bridge. The captain was by 
 his side, and the navigating lieutenant. Far be- 
 low in the darkness half the crew were mustered. 
 Then the monk’s heart failed him. The lights 
 on Roche’s Point flashed double across the mist 
 of rain, and the monk said : 
 
 “ I dare not do it.” 
 
 “ Rather late, now, I should say,” said 
 the captain, with his hand on the knob of 
 the telegraph. “ Are we in the gangway 
 yet ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Brother Felix. He saw the lights 
 of the monastery twinkling behind the light- 
 house. He wished he was in his cell. 
 
70 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 “ Now, then,” cried the captain, “ Master 
 Pilot, how shall we steer ? ” 
 
 “ God only knows, for I don’t,” said the 
 trembling monk. The rain beat furiously on his 
 face and habit. He could see the tiny streams 
 rolling from the oilskins of his companions. 
 Meanwhile, the huge vessel moved silently 
 through the channel. Already, the lights at the 
 point flashed behind them. The two great forts 
 were invisible. The captain turned to the 
 lieutenant. 
 
 “ Now is the danger. Will they flash the light 
 upon us ? ” 
 
 “ Not they. They are all in bed.” 
 
 Then the moments that appeared hours to the 
 monk passed by. He felt the vessel steered to 
 north-east. Then there was a rattle of chains, 
 and the captain, turning courteously to the 
 monk, said: 
 
 “ Now, Brother, let us descend, and drink to 
 the Fatherland and our pilot ! ” 
 
 Shame-faced, wet through, benumbed with 
 cold, the monk descended. The officers were still 
 around the cabin table. 
 
 “ You see, gentlemen,” said the captain, “ I 
 said it could be done, and it is done. Here’s to 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 71 
 
 the Fatherland ! Nay, nay, Brother,” he said, 
 seeing the abashed and humbled monk, “ you 
 meant well, and your information was useful.” 
 
 Then Brother Felix, to justify himself, told 
 them how he had dreamed in his waking moments 
 of that very adventure ; how he had studied 
 every element of danger in it, and had gone 
 over every incident of that night in imagination. 
 
 “ It’s all so strange,” he said, “ I’m not sure 
 but that I am dreaming in my cell. But I 
 always thought of the completion of the ad- 
 venture.” 
 
 “ And that was ? ” they asked. 
 
 “ The landing of five hundred marines here at 
 Whitegate or Corkabeg, for I presume we are 
 in the man-of-war roads, and the massing of 
 these men, within twenty yards of the forti- 
 fications.” 
 
 “ You are a dangerous dreamer,” said a senior 
 officer. “ You hardly know of what you are 
 speaking.” He spoke angrily. 
 
 The captain looked thoughtful. 
 
 “ It shall be done, by Heavens,” he said, 
 rising. 
 
 And still silently they took that monk, and 
 put him ashore ; and they landed, boat by boat, 
 
7 2 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 five hundred German sailors, fully armed and 
 equipped, and they passed through the sleeping 
 village, and moved up the hill in the teeth of 
 the raging storm, and were marshalled by their 
 officers in one continuous line outside a low 
 ditch within a stone’s throw of Camden Fort ; 
 and the sentinel who walked up and down on 
 the beaten track above the sea, heard only the 
 howling of the wind, and saw only infinite black- 
 ness, and cursed his fate to be drenched with 
 bitter rain, and pierced with cold, when his 
 comrades were in bed. He did not hear the 
 laughter and the muffled “ Hochs ! ” that came 
 from five hundred lips behind him ; nor the 
 watchword “ Sedan,” which was passed from 
 man to man from the captain at one end of 
 the line to his lieutenant at the other. 
 
 And there in the small hours of the morn- 
 ing, in darkness and storm, unable to see each 
 other’s faces, the captain bade the monk good- 
 night! 
 
 “ I thank you,” he said. “ Yours was the in- 
 spiration. By Jove, what a mistake you made 
 when you put on the cowl in place of the 
 epaulettes ! ” 
 
 It was a very wet, bedraggled, humiliated. 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 73 
 
 anxious poor being that let himself quietly 
 into the monastery that morning. He did not 
 think of Matins as he undressed. He thought 
 rather of the desperate, foolhardy adventure 
 in which he had been engaged — its possible 
 consequences to himself and to his monastery. 
 Then a vain emotion swept his soul, as he re- 
 membered what a leading and inspiring part 
 he had taken in that daring enterprise. And 
 then he thought, what if the captain’s words 
 were true ; and I have made a stupendous 
 mistake ? And then came a sinking of the 
 heart as he thought what the morrow would 
 bring. And thus anxious, and full of fore- 
 bodings, he fell asleep. He had a singular 
 dream. 
 
 He dreamt that very early, in the dawn of 
 the October morning, he saw the Abbot entering 
 his cell and, coming over, bend anxiously towards 
 him. Then the same vision went to the door, 
 and saw with a smile the stream of water that 
 had dripped from the wet habit ; and the vision 
 felt the habit and saw it was saturated, and 
 came back, and bent over him again. 
 
 “ Poor little brother,” it said, “ poor little 
 brother ! And how will it all end ? ” 
 
74 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 Then the vision slipped into the usual mock 
 hexameters, the making of which was the Abbot’s 
 weakness. 
 
 “ Sortes infelices prcebuit domui Felix.” And 
 the vision vanished. 
 
 The monk Felix arose betimes y and thought 
 of all that had happened ; and concluded that 
 it was all a dream. 
 
 ’Twas but my white robe glimmering in the dawn, 
 ’Twas but the dawn-wind creeping through my cell. 
 
 But the habit was wet and heavy ; and that 
 pool of water beneath it I 
 
 It may not have been a dream after all. 
 
 And that morning, as soon as he could escape 
 unperceived, he made his way rapidly to the 
 cliff, on which the fort was built. Thence he 
 scanned eagerly the sea in front, the harbour 
 behind. There was no trace of a warship in 
 the roads ; there was not a speck on the face 
 of the broad sea. Not a trace even of the storm, 
 except the few heavy waves that lurched lazily 
 beneath. 
 
 “ It was a dream after all,” said Monk Felix. 
 He looked down at his feet. The wet grass 
 was trampled into mire, where the marines had 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 75 
 
 marched. He took up a match-box. It bore 
 a German inscription. 
 
 “ It was not a dream after all,” said Monk 
 Felix. 
 
 V 
 
 The months rolled by ; and not a word was 
 heard of this daring adventure. The manoeuvres 
 of the Channel and Mediterranean Squadrons 
 had been duly chronicled in the press, had given 
 rise to a feeling of national British pride, had 
 passed from the memories of men. The monas- 
 tery. with the calm of eternity upon it, lay 
 serene and beautiful in its sheltered nook by 
 the Atlantic. The usual work of praise and 
 prayer went on. The secret of the October 
 night was locked up in two bosoms, and it was 
 safe. But what secret is safe ? Spring had 
 scarcely dawned, when the little cloud, not 
 bigger than a man’s hand, appeared. It was 
 only a tiny paragraph in a new paper, called 
 the London Monitor ; but it ran thus : — 
 
 “ A singular secret has leaked out from the 
 pigeon-holes of the Admiralty, where it was well 
 kept. It is to the effect, that during the much- 
 
76 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 vaunted Autumn manoeuvres of last year, a 
 foreign warship, after minutely inspecting the 
 evolutions of the squadrons, entered a certain 
 harbour on the southern Irish coast. That 
 harbour was supposed to be closed to all war- 
 vessels ; and its forts, the most powerful in the 
 kingdom, were fully manned for that purpose, 
 and its guns levelled on the harbour’s mouth. 
 What adds to the mystery is, that this vessel 
 entered the harbour, with all its perilous possi- 
 bilities, in the teeth of a terrible hurricane. It 
 would argue splendid, indeed unheard of, sea- 
 manship, but that it is currently reported that 
 the helm was held by a hand, that was more 
 accustomed to a Breviary. It is further re- 
 ported, but this is incredible, that the entire 
 ship’s crew, fully armed and equipped, landed 
 and surrounded Fort Camden that same night. 
 There may be something of the imagination in 
 this strange rumour : but the country will 
 
 demand an investigation in the face of our 
 vaunted naval superiority.” 
 
 The investigation, indeed, was calmly going on 
 at the time. And by Easter it had progressed 
 so far, that the Abbot had received intimation 
 that a prosecution had been ordered ; but he 
 was given the alternative to close his monas- 
 tery quietly and depart, leaving behind all the 
 Abbey’s treasures, which were confiscated to 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 77 
 
 the Crown, and would be devoted to national 
 purposes. 
 
 For three months, the Abbot delayed his 
 answer. Meanwhile remonstrances poured in 
 upon the Government from many quarters, 
 where the work of the monks was appreciated. 
 The bishop of the diocese went even to London, 
 and represented that what was only a foolish 
 freak had been magnified into an act of high 
 treason ; and that it was unworthy of a great 
 nation to notice it. In vain. Sinister influ- 
 ences were also at work from socialistic sources, 
 and the monastery was doomed. 
 
 One of those long sweet, summer evenings 
 when the day lingers, as if loth to depart, and 
 memory and imagination lend a lonely luxury 
 to human thought, after Compline and the 
 “ Salve Regina ” had been sung by the White 
 Monks of Trabolgan, the Abbot quietly an- 
 nounced that the monastery was to be closed, 
 and the Community dispersed. He added that 
 it would be more than useless to demand the 
 reason. All that human influence could do had 
 been done to ward off the evil. But in vain. 
 
 The Monks, though thunderstruck at the news, 
 retired silently to their cells. But next day at 
 
78 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 Chapter, their tongues were loosed. They de- 
 manded the reason for this sudden and awful 
 catastrophe. The Abbot was inexorable in 
 refusing. Two or three times, Brother Felix, 
 struck to the heart with anguish and remorse, 
 was on the point of throwing himself on the 
 floor of the sanctuary, and confessing his own 
 guilt. But at some mysterious signal given by 
 the Abbot, he held his peace ; and so, wonder- 
 ing, fretful, anxious, the community passed the 
 remaining days. On one point, their minds were 
 fully made up, the only point on which they 
 disputed the judgment of their gentle Abbot. 
 Not a single article of value should pass into 
 alien hands. Whatever was portable would go 
 with them into exile. Whatever could not be 
 removed should be destroyed. 
 
 The exodus of the Monks was secretly fixed 
 for the eve of the feast of St. John the Baptist. 
 On that feast-day the emissaries of the Govern- 
 ment were to come and take possession of the 
 monastery and its treasures. Faithfully the 
 monks kept their vow. They cut the oil paint- 
 ings from their frames, and rolled them in dry 
 canvas ; selected all their valuable books and 
 manuscripts, their chalices and monstrances, and 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 79 
 
 had them secretly conveyed on board a large 
 Norwegian wheat-ship that lay in the harbour, 
 and which they chartered for France. Brother 
 Aurelian’s heart was broken, as he saw his 
 library shelves denuded, and looked around at 
 the empty walls. He refused to remove a book, 
 he remained with averted face, and tear-filled 
 eyes, leaning against a panel of the door. 
 
 But the great trouble came when the Com- 
 munity had to decide whether the great organ 
 was to be left or taken. It seemed such a crime 
 to touch it — such a sacrilege to leave it. These 
 mournful days, Brother Hilarion, the blind 
 organist, could scarcely be torn away from the 
 beloved instrument. He wept with it, cried with 
 it, prayed with it, as his fingers passed listlessly 
 over the ivory keys. At last, it was decided 
 that it should remain. Who knows ? God is 
 more powerful than man ; and perhaps the day 
 would arrive when the exiles would come back, 
 and the echoes would awake once more to their 
 beautiful chant, and the spirit of the organ 
 would return, and speak at the fretful demand of 
 human fingers ! 
 
 But everything else should go with the monks, 
 or be destroyed. And so, all that lonely Eve 
 
80 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 of St. John, the monks were busy, carrying down 
 to the white beach the treasures that were to 
 be placed in the ship’s boats, and piling, as 
 Savonarola did on the square of Florence, the 
 rejected books, picture-frames, &c., which could 
 not be taken. These were to be consumed by 
 fire at the moment of the monks’ embarkation. 
 It was quite understood that one of the monks 
 was to remain behind, to meet the Government 
 officials, and to stay in some dim hope that the 
 Community would return in happier days to 
 resume possession of their beloved home. 
 
 At last, all preparations had been made, and 
 with the utmost secrecy. A large pile was built 
 on the sands. The vessel was to weigh anchor 
 at sunset, and the monks were to meet it far 
 outside the harbour’s mouth, and when night 
 had come down on land and sea. The great 
 bell for Compline tolled mournfully for the last 
 time ; and, for the last time, the White Monks 
 of Trabolgan glided into the bare and deserted 
 chapel. 
 
 The lamp of the Sanctuary, which had burned, 
 night and day, before the Holy of Holies, was 
 extinguished. The great High Altar of carved 
 oak was amongst the debris to be burned on 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 81 
 
 the sands at midnight. So, too, were the carved 
 oak-stalls and lecterns. Nothing remained of 
 all the former splendour and beauty of their 
 chapel but the great organ, and the stained- 
 glass window with its Madonna. The blind 
 monk Hilarion sat at his organ for the last 
 time : his heart was breaking ; and he made 
 the keys and stops proclaim it. The beautiful 
 service commenced. There was something like 
 irony in the Abbot’s response to the demand for 
 his blessing : “ Noctem quietam, et finem per- 
 
 fectum concedat nobis Dominus omnipotens.” 
 
 But there was a ring of defiance and warning 
 in the voice of the Hebdomadarius, when he 
 sang : “ Fratres, sobrii estote, et vigilate, quia 
 adversarius vester diabolus, tanquam leo rugiens 
 circuit quserens quern devoret ; cui resistite, 
 fortes in fide.” 
 
 And let it be said that, if sorrow (such sorrow !) 
 filled the hearts of these holy monks in such a 
 sad hour of farewell, it was mitigated by the 
 reflection that we have no abiding-place in this 
 world ; and that our home is wherever God 
 chooses to place us. But, even their great faith 
 was not proof against their agony, when they 
 came to the Salve Regina, and had to bid fare- 
 
 F 
 
82 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 well to their beautiful Madonna. Three times 
 the Abbot strove to commence the Antiphon, 
 and three times his voice failed him. At length, 
 by a tremendous effort, he intoned the first 
 word. The monks took it up, and sang bravely 
 to the end. But, at the final words : 0 clemens / 
 0 pia ! 0 dulcis Virgo Maria ! the whole Com- 
 munity broke into a violent paroxysm of sobs 
 and tears, and the final prayer was never said. 
 
 Then, after a long interval of poignant, silent 
 sorrow, the Abbot arose, and said : 
 
 “ Brethren, our cross, without which there is 
 no crown, has been placed upon our shoulders. 
 To-night, we leave for France. It is a lesson 
 to us never to place our affections again on 
 what is so shifting and uncertain as the circum- 
 stances of this life. There is nothing lasting, 
 permanent, unchangeable, but God. I have no 
 hope that we shall return to this, our dear home, 
 sanctified by so many years of blessedness ; 
 sanctified, most of all, to me, by your obedience 
 and unvarying love. I thank God that I .go 
 forth not alone, but that you are with me. Yet, 
 in the unknown future, it may be that God 
 shall lead us back again, as He led His chosen 
 people back to the land of Abraham and Isaac, 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 83 
 
 and Jacob. We shall leave one representative 
 here. Brother Felix, you shall remain, to set 
 the torch to that funeral pyre on the sands, 
 when we shall have departed. And, now, 
 brethren, say your farewells, for we depart.” 
 
 The blind monk Hilarion kissed the organ 
 keys, closed down the cover on the manuals, 
 and drew closely the heavy curtains. All the 
 monks kneeled down and kissed the floor of the 
 choir, and, with the Abbot at their head, chaunt- 
 ing aloud, “ In exitu Israel de Aegypto ,” they 
 moved along the solitary beach to the boats. 
 Brother Felix sat down on the grey rocks, and 
 waited for the end. All his brethren had said, 
 “ Good-bye ! ” The Abbot had kissed him on 
 both cheeks, and whispered : “ Exul infelix 
 
 felici pusillo, Vale ! ! ” 
 
 VI 
 
 That night the Baal-fires flashed as usual from 
 hill to hill in this land, so ancient, so conserva- 
 tive of traditions. But the greatest beacon 
 that flared to the sky was the one seen from 
 the sea but invisible from the land side, except 
 
84 The Monks of Trabolgan 
 
 for the thick black cloud that ascended beneath 
 Camden Fort, and carried its odour of burning 
 wood far to sea, and far inward over the harbour. 
 
 Just at dawn, at the Feast of St. John the 
 Baptist, a large posse of police and military 
 marched into the monastery precincts, and 
 grounded arms before the now deserted home of 
 the monks. Something in the aspect of the 
 place struck the Inspector at once. He turned 
 around, and saw a white-robed monk seated on 
 a rock near the sea. He was looking mourn- 
 fully on a huge pile of ashes that still smouldered 
 at his feet. 
 
 “ I beg pardon,” said the officer approaching, 
 “ but where is the — Superior ? ” 
 
 “ There ! ” said the monk, pointing to a dim 
 plume of smoke that hung on the verge of the 
 horizon. 
 
 “ And the monks ? ” said the officer in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 “ There ! ” said the monk without emotion. 
 
 Just then a sergeant of police, who had ex- 
 amined the empty and dismantled monastery, 
 came over and whispered to the Inspector. 
 
 “ I understand,” said the latter sternly, “ that 
 this house is evacuated, and the chattels re- 
 
The Monks of Trabolgan 85 
 
 moved. Now these are Crown property — so I 
 am instructed. You will, therefore, make your- 
 self liable for a felony if you have these things 
 abstracted and concealed. I hold an exact 
 inventory, and demand to be informed where 
 they are, and to be shown the place.” 
 
 “ There ! ” said the monk, pointing to the 
 white ashes which the dawn-wind was now and 
 then fanning into a blaze. 
 
 The monastery remained unoccupied. A 
 feeble attempt was made to convert it into a 
 military college. But the White Monk Felix 
 remained till his death, haunting the dear old 
 place, and living from hand to mouth in the 
 peasants’ cottages, and the houses of the priests. 
 The deep rumbling of the printing-press was 
 heard no more. But the fishermen, who have 
 to go out on the high seas at midnight, declare 
 that lights bum in the monastery in the small 
 hours of the morning ; and that the sounds of 
 a mighty organ, and the deep, bass chanting of 
 the monks, are wafted over the breakers from 
 the lonely shore. 
 
RITA, THE STREET-SINGER 
 I 
 
 It was a close, sultry day in the midst of the 
 “leafy month of June.” The bright air was 
 throbbing with heat. Not a breath stirred the 
 foliage of the elms and beeches, in whose shadow 
 an occasional twitter told of the hiding-place of 
 some songster, who could not pour out the full 
 tide of his music on the stifling air. It was a 
 day when rest was absolutely necessary. Work 
 was impossible. All ideas of happiness were 
 summed up in a dream of lying swung from the 
 trees in some leafy arbour, or rocked in a boat 
 in the cool waters of some sheltered nook. 
 
 A pile of correspondence lay before me — 
 
 letters that had remained unanswered many a 
 
 day. I drew my desk to the window, took out 
 
 pens and ink and paper, and had just dated 
 
 the first letter, when buzzing, droning on the 
 
 summer air came a sound that put out of my 
 
 mind for the moment all thoughts of correspond- 
 
 86 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 87 
 
 ence. Back came all my fancies from my friend 
 in Devonshire, and my friend in Dublin, and 
 my friend who was yearning under the tropical 
 skies of India for a word from “ dear old Ire- 
 land,” to every-day life, and this dreary mono- 
 tone of music that was startling the sleeping 
 moths and butterflies from the grass and flowers 
 in the Park. At last, after many interruptions, 
 it came before my window. I lifted the curtains 
 and looked. 
 
 A pair of Italian eyes, black as midnight, 
 and set in an olive face, shone on me, and a 
 set of white teeth gleamed forth a salutation. 
 It was a little Italian girl, who might have been 
 of any age from eight to fourteen. Her black 
 hair was tossed and tangled, and whitened with 
 dust, her shoulders were wrapped in a coloured 
 shawl, her little dress was patched and stained, 
 and her feet — what were they covered with, my 
 little girls ? Softest kid and cloth ? No ! But 
 a huge bundle of rags concealed and disfigured 
 each foot ; and my fancy went on and saw 
 that these feet were bruised and swollen and 
 bleeding, as they went up and down, up and 
 down in time with the music, and the smiling 
 face seemed to be unconscious of the hidden 
 
88 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 pain and anguish. Poor child, wearily working 
 on the tread-mill of life ! On the hard pave- 
 ments of mighty cities, along the dreary roads, 
 in the dust of summer, and the slush and mire 
 of winter, aching and tired, and sore and bleed- 
 ing, these poor feet had carried their burden, 
 and danced each measure in obedience to the 
 strong heart above them. Brave strong heart, 
 that sent its smiles to the little face, whilst 
 wrung with agony — agony from the physical 
 pain, and agony from the fear that the pence 
 may not come, and the little home be fireless, 
 and the friend comfortless and supperless in the 
 evening ! 
 
 I took the poor child in. A biscuit and a 
 glass of pure milk were very welcome. And 
 then, full of curiosity, I asked her name. 
 
 “ Rita,” was the smiling answer. 
 
 “ And where does Rita come from ? ” I asked. 
 
 “ Napoli,” she replied. 
 
 “ And where does Rita now live ? ” I ques- 
 tioned. She flung out her brown arms signify- 
 ing the wide, wide world. 
 
 “ And where are Rita’s parents ? ” She 
 shook herself mournfully. 
 
 “ And has Rita no living friends ? ” 
 
“And where does Rita come from?” To face page 88. 
 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 89 
 
 Back went the head in a little impatient toss, 
 and she flung out the first finger of her right 
 hand, and an expression of pain chased away 
 the smile from her face. I asked no further. 
 She bowed, flashed out again her sunny smile, 
 and my summer vision vanished. 
 
 I went back to my letters, wrote them, sealed 
 them, and then sat down to think. I could 
 not put out of my mind this poor child. I had 
 heard strange stories of Italian girls kidnapped 
 from their homes, and dragged about the cities 
 of Europe by evil men, who sent them out on 
 this miserable quest day by day, and taught 
 them to deceive the kind-hearted by fictitious 
 tales of starving fathers, or brothers lying in 
 sickness, and then beat the poor children if 
 their begging was unsuccessful, or drank their 
 little earnings. Was Rita one of these exiles ? 
 Perhaps lying on the wharves of this great 
 seaport was some idle, thriftless vagabond, who 
 had obtained power over that child, and was 
 using her innocence and childishness to maintain 
 himself in a life of indolence and sin. Perhaps 
 away in glorious sunny Naples some poor mother 
 was frantically praying the Madonna to restore 
 her child, and some sturdy young lazzarone 
 
go Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 was bewailing the absence of his playmate. 
 But, after all, the laws are very stringent against 
 such ill-doing, and if there were such a criminal 
 here, he could not well escape detection. What, 
 then, is Rita’s history ? 
 
 We shall see. 
 
 II 
 
 A few nights after this event I had closed 
 up my books and papers, and was about to 
 retire, when a sharp, clear, continued knock 
 was thundered at the door. 
 
 “ A sick call,” said the servant. 
 
 I made inquiries of the messenger, and was 
 told that a poor old woman, whom I had been 
 attending for some time, was lying on the point 
 of death in a house on the outskirts of the 
 town. I hurriedly made my preparations, and 
 stepped from the dark hall into the moonlight. 
 It was a beautiful night ; all things were silent 
 and still ; and a splendour as of noon lit up 
 the sleeping landscape. There was a faint tinge 
 of purple in the sky, which the departing sun 
 had left, but the full round moon flooded all 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 91 
 
 things with her pale light, as if determined to 
 assert her right to the empire of the night. 
 Across the dark blue waters of the bay there 
 was a track of silvery light, tossed and broken 
 by the fretting of the waves. There lay the 
 huge guardship, with its lines of white and 
 black, and its frowning guns distinctly visible. 
 Far out were the foreign vessels ; and close by 
 the quays the tugboats that had parted and 
 tossed the water all day, were held tight and 
 fast by their hawsers. One solitary boat full 
 of belated foreigners was making its way across 
 the bay to its vessel, and the sound of its oars 
 as they dipped and flashed in the moonlight 
 alone broke the stillness of the night. 
 
 I came to the house marked out, compared 
 the number on the door with the number in my 
 notebook, and finding the door open ascended 
 the creaking staircase. I stepped lightly, fear- 
 ing to arouse the occupants who might be asleep. 
 On the second landing, hearing the sound of 
 voices, I paused. A broken exclamation, fol- 
 lowed by a moan, then a rapid flood of words, 
 spoken in a foreign tongue, and ever so earnest 
 and soothing, was all I heard. I couldn’t help 
 lingering. I heard the attendant rise and pass 
 
92 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 to a chair or table and come back. Then to 
 some question briefly put came the affirmative 
 “ Si ! si ! ” of the Italians. Then softly and 
 quietly I heard a lullaby song, accompanied by 
 some sweet notes from some musical instrument. 
 Here it was, as I afterwards found, a prayer to 
 the Madonna, the great Mother of the Italian 
 race : — 
 
 O Vergine bella 
 Del ciel regina 
 A cui s’ inchina 
 La terra, ed il mar. 
 
 O tu sei Stella 
 Del mare si bella, 
 
 Che guida al porto 
 Col tuo splendor. 
 
 I hurried upstairs to the attics, found my 
 poor patient bad indeed. I consoled her as 
 best I could for her last journey. Then I in- 
 quired of the attendants who were the occupants 
 of the front room on the second floor. 
 
 “ Well, then, your Reverence,” said Mary 
 Allen, “ we know little about them, but a few 
 days ago they came down the street arm-in- 
 arm like, the little one leading her sister, who 
 was ill and fainting, and they sat down on the 
 door-step, and the neighbours came around 
 them, and seeing them so poor and destitute 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 93 
 
 like, we asked them in, and they are since in 
 that room, which was empty since the Widow 
 Halligan left it. There’s a little bed there and 
 a chair, or rather,” said my poor faithful Irish- 
 woman, “ we made a little bed on the floor for 
 the sick girl, and we threw a few gowns and 
 things over her, and there she lies patient and 
 quiet except during the night, when ’twould 
 break your heart to hear her cough.” 
 
 “ And no one visits them ? ” I asked. 
 
 “ No, then, your Reverence. Of course, we 
 go down and give them a cup of tea occasionally, 
 and we sit with the sick girl during the day 
 and settle her pillow and ease her head, and 
 sometimes Mrs. Hallissey round the comer there 
 comes and brings her a lemon or an orange, and 
 she likes it.” 
 
 “ And are they Catholics ? ” I asked. 
 
 “ Well, then, your Reverence, we can’t say 
 for certain, for not a word can we understand 
 from them ; but we think they are, for yester- 
 day one of the girls here who is very fond of 
 the poor creature, took down to her a picture 
 of Knock Chapel, and it would do your heart 
 good to see how the poor creature’s eyes opened 
 and began to shine. And then we went a bit 
 
94 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 farther, and gave her our beads that we got 
 blessed at the last Mission, thank God, and she 
 kissed the Cross like any Christian ; and there 
 she lies the whole day long, her big eyes fixed 
 on that picture, and the beads rolling through 
 her fingers and the lips going. The girls say 
 she’s a real saint ; but the little one, your 
 Reverence, she’s the queerest creature you ever 
 saw. Before we’re up in the morning, out she 
 goes with that banjo or thing she has, and up 
 and down, up and down through the streets 
 she sings and dances and plays, and every one 
 is kind to her and pities her, and then she 
 comes home fagged and tired, and she takes 
 her little supper, and then we all go away, for 
 she stops alone with her sister, singing and 
 whispering through the night. We look in 
 occasionally, and there she is, cuddled up like 
 a ball at the foot of the bed ; but she never 
 sleeps, for if you open the door ever so little 
 you see her little black eyes watching you. 
 But there’s one curious thing about her that 
 we can’t make out, for Mary, looking in the 
 other night sudden like, saw lying on the chair 
 a bundle of clothes or rags, and they were so 
 dirty, begging your Reverence’s pardon, you’d 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 95 
 
 think they were after washing the floor, and,” 
 said my friend, dropping her voice to a whisper, 
 “ there were spots of blood all over them. Mary 
 came away frightened.” 
 
 Here, then, was my little Rita, clearly. Now, 
 what was to be done ? 
 
 “ I suppose,” said I, “ it would be rather late 
 to see them ? ” 
 
 “ Well, then, your Reverence,” said Mary, 
 “ it’s all the same to them, night and day. She 
 never sleeps during the night.” 
 
 Coming down to the second floor, we gently 
 tapped, and in answer to a faint invitation, 
 walked in. The room surely was bare enough. 
 Nothing but the chair, and lying on the little 
 straw that made the bed was the invalid of 
 whom I had heard. Rita started up and recog- 
 nised me in the moonlight, and in a few words 
 told her sister who I was. The sick girl turned 
 round slowly and fixed her large eyes on me, 
 but spoke not a word. Her cheeks were sunken 
 and their native olive was tinged with a faint 
 blush that told too clearly of the deadly work 
 of consumption. She breathed heavily and 
 with difficulty, the light covering heaving with 
 every painful respiration. Large beads of per- 
 
g6 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 spiration stood out on her forehead, which Mrs. 
 Allen, kneeling down gently, wiped away with 
 many a sigh of sympathy and many a word of 
 comfort in her own native Irish. 
 
 “ Sure, here’s the priest now, alannah, and 
 ’tis sorry I am we didn’t send for him before, 
 and he’ll pray for you, and make you better, 
 please God.” 
 
 And then I took her place, bent over the 
 poor sick girl, and spoke to her of the great 
 Father we all have in Heaven, and the Friend 
 and Master who is nearer to us and dearer to 
 us than all beside, and the fond Mother who 
 opens wide her arms to receive us and gather 
 us in safety under her protection. She stretched 
 forth her hand, moist and damp with the sweat 
 of death, silently pressed mine, and I left her 
 there in the shadow of the night, alone with 
 God. 
 
 The following Sunday, just as midday Bene- 
 diction was over, and I was passing through 
 the Convent gates, I saw Rita waiting under 
 the shadow of a tree. She was closely wrapped 
 from head to foot, and looked more than usually 
 pale. She silently lifted her hand, beckoned, 
 and I followed. Her sister’s last moment was 
 
“ She sat by the Window, looking earnestly across the 
 
 TRACK OF LIGHT THE SUN WAS MAKING ON THE WATERS. 
 
 To face page gy. 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 97 
 
 at hand. She sat on a chair by the window, 
 looking long and earnestly across the track of 
 light that the sun was making on the waters. 
 Her brow was cold and damp, her eyes widely 
 opened, her breathing scarcely perceptible. I 
 spoke to her. She did not answer. Fearing 
 she was dead, her sister lifted her and drew 
 her back gently. Still she made no sign. Her 
 eyes were fixed with terrible intensity on some- 
 thing that we could not see. Suddenly she 
 trembled, clasped her hands together tightly, 
 and cried, “ O God, Thou art terribly just, but 
 be merciful. Pray, Rita, pray. Look at 
 father’s vessel tossing in the storm. She cannot 
 live. There is father himself toiling and strain- 
 ing at the helm. O God ! what will they do ? 
 And there, close by father, is Maddalena, her 
 eyes wild, her hair wet. Hist ! they are round- 
 ing the point, coming for us, Rita. Ah ! I knew 
 they’d repent. But see, O my God, they have 
 struck ! Listen to the horrid grinding of the 
 keel. Save them, O Mother of God, save them 
 from the angry waters.” Then came a long 
 pause, and then, gently swooning away, she 
 exclaimed, “ O God, Thou art terribly just.” 
 
 I looked at Rita. Her sister’s words had 
 
 G 
 
98 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 excited her very much. She, too, looked 
 earnestly athwart the waters, where not a ripple 
 broke the blue surface. But in a moment her 
 sister had recovered, and now her vision was 
 changed. Peace and grace were beaming from 
 her face as she looked with the calm contem- 
 plation of a saint at some new picture which 
 her dying fancy painted. “ Do you remember, 
 Rita,” she said, holding her sister’s hand firmly 
 in her own — “ do you remember the wonderful 
 eyes of Madonna that looked at us so sadly 
 and gently ? I see them now. Do you re- 
 member how we used to come in the cool even- 
 ings to pray ? and you said our Lady some 
 day would come down and give us her Bambino 
 to kiss. She is coming, Rita, to me ; look, 
 dear. Yes, Mother, I am ready.” 
 
 She stretched forth her hands and leaned 
 forward. We waited a few moments, and then 
 I drew Rita gently away, whilst the Madonna 
 and her Child were carrying the soul of her 
 sister to Heaven. 
 
 The following Tuesday a simple funeral pro- 
 cession passed through the streets to the new 
 cemetery. We buried the poor young stranger 
 in a quiet spot, where the summer sun would 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 99 
 
 shine warmly and the winter winds would not 
 blow too fiercely, and we placed over her grave 
 a plain wooden cross with the simple inscription : 
 
 HERE REPOSETH 
 AGNESE MONDELLA, 
 
 BORN AT NAPLES, SEPTEMBER, 1 862. 
 
 DIED AT REINEVILLE, JUNE 24TH, 1880. 
 
 May she rest in peace ! 
 
 So the poor stranger was buried. With great 
 difficulty we tore away Rita from the grave. 
 She submitted at last, and went home gently 
 with her newly found friends. But next morn- 
 ing when I inquired for her, she was gone. She 
 must have left before daylight, and not a word 
 or token did she speak or give. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Now, th£ world, after all, is very small. It 
 looks very large, and full of people ; but some- 
 how, we are for ever meeting persons whom 
 we thought separated from us for ever. Five 
 long years had gone by, bringing many changes 
 with them. The grass over Agnese’s grave 
 was very long ; the cross was green with mould ; 
 
ioo Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 the letters were beginning to fade ; and it is 
 no harm to say that probably she was well- 
 nigh forgotten. 
 
 It was winter time, and I was obliged to 
 run up to the capital on business. A long, 
 cold, weary drive in the express train, and I 
 found myself at my hotel, with every prospect 
 of being comfortable for the evening. I had 
 scarcely sat down to dinner, however, when 
 the clanging of bells, the tramping of many 
 feet, and a singular silence in the street, told 
 me that something unusual was going on. Very 
 soon it became evident. The Theatre Royal 
 was on fire. And already experienced persons 
 were declaring that nothing could save it. I 
 passed into the street, and went along with 
 the stream of people towards the burning build- 
 ing. Suddenly a hand was laid on my shoulder, 
 and, looking up, I saw an old schoolfellow, 
 named Edward Ashe, who was now a resident 
 pupil in one of the city hospitals. We had 
 hardly exchanged greetings, and asked the 
 usual questions, when a fireman, black and 
 heated, came up, and touched his helmet — 
 
 “Yer wanted, sir, immediately, at the 
 hospital.” 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer ioi 
 
 My young friend hastened away with a pro- 
 mise that he would call in at the hotel after 
 his work had been attended to. I passed on to 
 the fire, looked on curiously like the rest of 
 the crowd, and returned' at ten o’clock to see 
 my friend sitting before the fire, and impatiently 
 expecting my return. He looked very de- 
 jected, and after a few moments he exclaimed — 
 “ I’ve met a curious case at the hospital. 
 One of these actresses, a middle-aged woman, 
 was severely burnt at the theatre, and I was 
 ordered to attend her. She is very bad ; I 
 don’t think she can recover, and she is delirious. 
 She is raving about Italy, and singing snatches 
 of Italian airs. It is not pitiful, but fearful, 
 to hear her voice ringing clearly through the 
 long wards of the hospital. But I think she 
 has some terrible trouble on her mind. She 
 looks like a person that would have a guilty 
 conscience, and, she cries out repeatedly in her 
 agony, ‘ Perdono, Agnese ! perdono, Rita ! ’ ” 
 
 “ Edward,” I exclaimed, “ would you repeat 
 these words ? ” 
 
 He repeated them. They brought a thou- 
 sand things to my mind. Were they not the 
 names of the poor waifs that had come ashore 
 
102 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 at Reineville five years ago ? I made up my 
 mind to see this woman. 
 
 “ Will you go to the hospital in the morn- 
 ing ? ” I asked Dr. Ashe. 
 
 “ Yes, I must be at hospital at ten.” 
 
 “ Call for me and I will accompany you.” 
 
 He looked surprised, but consented. Next 
 morning I found myself at the door of the 
 hospital. We were ushered into the hall by 
 one of the Sisters, who looked as calm and 
 peaceful as if she was not dealing every day 
 with every description of human misery. 
 
 “ How is my patient, Sister ? ” said Edward. 
 
 “ A great deal quieter,” said the Sister ; 
 “ but you know there is no hope. She has 
 recovered her senses, and is anxious to prepare 
 herself for death.” 
 
 “ Well,” said Edward, “ I shall see her first, 
 
 and Father J , too, is anxious for some 
 
 reason of his own to say a word to her.” 
 
 “ Of course,” said the Sister, and I was 
 ushered into the physicians’ room, until my 
 friend returned. 
 
 “ Now, very gently,” said the Infirmarian, 
 as we passed into the accident ward of the 
 hospital. It was hard to believe that this was 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 103 
 
 a place of agony and suffering, everything was 
 so cool, and clean, and quiet. There was no 
 noise, no moaning, no cries of suffering. The 
 patients in their tidy beds looked ever so happy. 
 In a moment we were by the bedside of the 
 unhappy actress. 
 
 I beckoned the Sister and Dr. Ashe away, 
 and sat down. With all the gentleness in my 
 power I spoke to her, and asked her if she ever 
 knew any children of the names she had spoken 
 in her delirium. She hesitated, moved her lips 
 in prayer, and answered “ Yes.” 
 
 I told her then what I knew of the children. 
 She was very quiet. She listened eagerly to 
 all I had to say, but when I came to the vision 
 that had crossed the dying eyes of the young 
 girl, she looked terrified, and murmured twice, 
 “ It was God’s judgment ! it was God’s anger ! ” 
 And when I told her how Agnese had spoken 
 of her father and some friend named Maddalena, 
 she wept silently but freely, and at length said 
 to me, “I am she ; I am Maddalena ! ” After 
 a while she said again, “ I am now tired, 
 Father ; but I must see you again. Will you 
 come to me when I send, and I will tell you 
 all ? ” I promised, and departed. 
 
104 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 That evening a note was put into my hand. 
 “ The patient whom you saw this morning is 
 asking for you ; she is very weak ; she won’t 
 live through the night.” I was again on the 
 streets, making my way through the crowds to 
 the bedside of the poor Italian. I could not 
 help noticing the multitudes that were throng- 
 ing to a large house I was passing. I stopped, 
 asked a passer-by what was the cause of all 
 this bustling and thronging. He pointed to a 
 flaming placard, which told the world that a 
 young and gifted Italian artist was this even- 
 ing to appear in the opera of “ Maritana.” She 
 had been highly praised in London, and Paris, 
 and Vienna, and there was great excitement 
 about her here. I passed along, thinking how 
 closely death and life are placed together. Here 
 were crowds wishing to hear a young singer ; 
 here was I hurrying to the deathbed of another. 
 
 The silence of the hospital was deeper than 
 ever when I entered. The lights were out, 
 and the patients asleep. We passed long rows 
 of beds in the darkness. We came at length 
 to one over which a light was burning. A 
 Sister knelt by the side, praying and watching. 
 My poor friend had already been prepared for 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 105 
 
 death, and now was calmly awaiting the dread 
 summons. 
 
 I sat by the bedside, and without delay she 
 asked me, “ Where is Rita ? ” I said, I did 
 not know. Neither did I, nor had I the slightest 
 suspicion that the famous singer whom the 
 crowds were rushing to hear was the little 
 street girl whom I had spoken to five years 
 before. 
 
 “ Because,” said the dying woman, “ I have 
 a feeling that she is near me to-night. I 
 thought you might know. I should like to 
 see her before I die.” 
 
 The Sister moistened her lips with an orange, 
 and she told me her strange history there in 
 the night, while death hung over her, and Rita 
 was thrilling the vast audience in the neigh- 
 bouring theatre. 
 
 “ I was bom at Genoa,” she said ; “ at least 
 I think so, for I remember nothing until I 
 was seven years old, and what I remember 
 then was, that I used to carry oranges and 
 figs to the foreign vessels in our harbour, and 
 sleep at night in the porches of churches. I 
 never had any name but Maddalena. I never 
 knew father or mother. When I was twelve. 
 
106 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 I was picked up by some strollers, and joined 
 a tribe of Gipsies. We came to Naples. I 
 left them there, and became a servant in a 
 large English mansion, where I remained nearly 
 five years. Then I became the wife of Mon- 
 della. He was a sea-captain, trading along 
 the west coast of Europe in olives, sugar, and 
 wine. Sometimes he would go away on long 
 voyages, sometimes he would return in a few 
 weeks. He was a widower, and had two chil- 
 dren, whom you knew, Agnese and Rita. 
 Agnese was tall and delicate, Rita was strong 
 and active. Both were very good. Their 
 
 mother must have been a saint, because her 
 children were saints. Their father worshipped 
 them. I grew jealous of the love of the father. 
 I grew by degrees to hate those children ; they 
 never knew it. Hand in hand they used to 
 go in the soft twilight to the church, and sit 
 for hours before the altar, praying and speak- 
 ing of the saints and the Madonna. Many a 
 night I crept to their chamber, and heard 
 them pray for father, and pray, too, for me. 
 They both had beautiful voices, Agnese’s pure, 
 and clear, and soft ; Rita’s, deep and rich. 
 The father had also a magnificent voice, and 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 107 
 
 the people of the neighbourhood would crowd 
 round our house by night to hear the three beau- 
 tiful voices blending together. They formed 
 our church choir, and the Padre declared 
 that no one else should sing in the church, so 
 long as Mondella and his children were there. 
 Yet I disliked these children all the more from 
 the love which their father gave them. He 
 had taught them all the beautiful music of 
 our operas, and whenever he returned from a 
 long voyage, the children would go down to 
 the pier to meet him. The moment the vessel 
 came near enough, the deep bass voice of the 
 father would come sounding over the waves, 
 and the children, laughing and flinging their 
 scarves around them, would chant back some 
 piece from a favourite duet, and the singing 
 would go on, the sailors sometimes joining in 
 the chorus, till Mondella put his foot on the 
 pier, and clasped his children in his arms. Oh ! 
 how angry I used to be ! I could sing too, 
 but the children’s voices he loved most dearly, 
 and I had to sing to my guitar, for he would 
 not listen to me. 
 
 “ This state of things could not last. We 
 might have been very happy, had I wished ; 
 
108 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 but the demon of jealousy got hold of me. I 
 struggled, oh ! so hard against it, but finally 
 yielded ; and then came the question, what 
 should I do, for they and I could not live 
 together. I thought of many evil things, 
 thought of running away and returning to my 
 gipsy life, thought of secretly selling the chil- 
 dren to some roving band, who would demand 
 money for their release, thought of more terrible 
 things still, and then came an event which put 
 all previous plans from my mind, for it gave 
 me an opportunity of doing what I desired, 
 but still dreaded. On his return from the last 
 voyage, Mondella invited myself and the girls 
 to accompany him as soon as he got orders to 
 sail again. We accepted the invitation with 
 pleasure ; I, because I hoped to rid myself of 
 these tormenting children for ever ; and they, 
 poor souls, because the novelty of the voyage 
 was attractive, and the pleasure of seeing foreign 
 shores and all the good things that fancy pro- 
 mised them. We were impatient for the orders 
 which were to send the good ship once more 
 on her mission over the waves. We counted 
 the days ; and Agnese and Rita spent many 
 a sleepless night wondering and hoping that 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 109 
 
 the morning would bring the long-wished-for 
 papers. At last they came ; then there were 
 a few days of busy preparation, and at last 
 the morning came for our departure. All the 
 villagers thronged the pier to say ‘ Good-bye,’ 
 for the girls were the pride of the simple in- 
 habitants. And any one but myself would 
 have loved them as they stood by their father’s 
 side on the vessel, Agnese dressed in pure 
 white, and looking in her delicate beauty like 
 a statue of her patron saint ; and Rita in blue, 
 bright and vivacious at the prospect of a plea- 
 sant time on the blue waters. There also was 
 the Padre, who came down to bless the ship 
 for her long voyage. Well, I remember how 
 he warned us all, and seemed to look into the 
 depths of my heart as he spoke, to bring back 
 to him his two dear children, ‘ for,’ said he, 
 and his voice trembled, ‘ the old church will 
 be silent till they return. May it be soon, for 
 something whispers me I shall not see them 
 again.’ 
 
 “ Every one seemed sad. They sang with 
 trembling voices in echo to the song of the 
 sailors, as the anchor was heaved, and while 
 the fond farewells came over the waves, I passed 
 
no Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 down into the cabin, and when I next looked 
 abroad over the waters, there was not a speck 
 on the horizon. Then I commenced to work 
 out my deadly sin. Gradually and silently as 
 the ice gathers and hardens on the water, I 
 made the father’s heart cold and suspicious 
 of the beings whom he had fondly loved. Don’t 
 ask me how I did it. I cannot tell even myself. 
 When an evil thought arises in the mind, it is 
 not difficult to find means to accomplish it. 
 The Evil Spirit is always near at hand, with 
 means adapted to the evil work. And I had 
 no hopes of being so successful in my crime, 
 when the thought first flashed on me. But 
 the days went on, and I dropped the poison 
 stealthily into his heart, and it took effect. 
 Meanwhile, the children had made themselves 
 the idols of the sailors. They sang and played 
 and amused the men in a thousand ways. Rita 
 climbed with them into the rigging, where 
 they had fitted up a look-out specially for her ; 
 Agnese stood at the prow, looking out dreamily 
 over the waters, and the sailors believed in 
 her as if she had been deputed to act as guardian 
 Angel to the vessel. They would have gone 
 in that ship to the North Pole, they would 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer in 
 
 have navigated her in the stormy Antarctic 
 Seas, so long as that beautiful figure of purity 
 and hope protected them. As for me, I seldom 
 spoke to them, for I feared with a guilty con- 
 science to face them. 
 
 “ At last my time came. We put into the 
 harbour of Reineville, on the southern coast 
 of Ireland. It was summer, and very warm 
 for a northern latitude. We lay at anchor for 
 many days. The sailors began to complain. 
 Why did we delay ? Twice a favourable breeze 
 sprang up, and many a barque sailed out into 
 the open sea, yet we lingered. The sailors grew 
 mutinous. Mondella was gloomy and stem. I 
 had persuaded him at last to second me in my 
 crime — to abandon the children in this harbour. 
 Long and terribly he struggled. The memory 
 of their dead mother, the old love he bore the 
 children, the pleasant welcome in sunny Naples, 
 the innocence and the purity of the children, 
 — all fought against my sinful torturings of 
 the father’s heart ; but sin is the conqueror 
 in this sad world, and I, who had abandoned 
 myself to sin, was conqueror here. You ask, 
 how could I do it ? How could I abandon 
 these dear children on that shore ? Did not 
 
1 12 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 the pale face of Agnese plead with me, and 
 against me ? Did I not know that I was 
 dooming her to certain death ? Well, I am 
 only telling my tale. One morning Mondella 
 gave orders to sail. The men obeyed cheer- 
 fully. Agnese and Rita were in high spirits 
 at the prospect of returning home speedily. 
 They had gathered together all kinds of strange 
 things at the different ports at which we had 
 touched. Presents for the ragged brown chil- 
 dren, for their playmates, and a splendid snuff- 
 box for their Padre. Little did they know 
 that they were leaving all behind. Little did 
 they dream of the awful crime I was meditating 
 against them. At noon, the long-boat was 
 ordered out, and six sailors, Agnese and Rita, 
 Mondella and I, entered her. I was afraid he 
 would relent at the last moment, and was de- 
 termined that now or never I should succeed. We 
 landed, purchased some provisions, and returned 
 to the pier. The girls had turned towards the 
 town, as if to get a last long look at some 
 familiar object. The boat was ready. I sat 
 at the prow, Mondella at the stern. He said 
 quietly, but sternly, ‘ Give way.’ The sailors 
 did not heed him. ‘ Give way,’ said he, more 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 1 1 3 
 
 angrily. One of the men, a rough Neapolitan, 
 touched his cap, and respectfully called Mon- 
 della’s attention to the children on the pier. 
 They had now looked round, and were hasten- 
 ing to the boat. With an oath, which I never 
 heard him use before, Mondella shouted again, 
 ‘ Give way,’ and the men dipped their oars in 
 the water, and we glided away from the shore. 
 The sailors thought their captain only intended 
 to frighten the children. If they had known 
 my dreadful purpose, they certainly would 
 have mutinied. Silently they plied their oars 
 — silent sat Mondella, his face wrapped in his 
 huge sea-cloak. 
 
 “ We had gone half-way across the bay, when 
 I looked again. Agnese was leaning, a pale, 
 dead figure, against the rough green railings 
 that surround the pier, and Rita was beside 
 her, terror-stricken, but, oh ! so faithful and 
 tender, as she clung to her sister and supported 
 her in her arms. We mounted the ladder. 
 Dark angry faces from the boat met dark 
 scowling faces on the deck. The truth soon 
 became known. A few of the rough men shed 
 bitter tears, and many a dinner was untasted 
 that day. But deep, bitter hatred took hold 
 
 H 
 
1 14 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 of these sailors’ hearts when they heard that 
 their sweet children were cast on shore. Now 
 and again during the watches I heard rough 
 voices mutter, ‘ Demons,’ ‘ murderer,’ but the 
 strong voice of Mondella, which they had never 
 disobeyed, kept down sternly the mutinous 
 spirit that was rising. The anchor was heaved, 
 the sails were filled, and in silence and gloom, 
 and the darkness of evening, and with the sense 
 of an awful crime hanging over the devoted 
 vessel, we passed beyond the lighthouse, and 
 steered for the open sea. 
 
 “ Many a weary day and night we sailed. 
 Not a word of joy, not a song of cheerfulness 
 broke the stillness of the solitary waters. Mon- 
 della never spoke, except to give orders ; the 
 sailors whispered to one another, but never 
 uttered a word to the captain or to me. You 
 have a legend in your language, called the 
 ‘ Ancient Mariner,’ in which it is told how a 
 sailor shot a beautiful bird, and it was hung 
 around his neck, as the penalty of his crime, 
 and all kinds of evils followed the doomed ship, 
 and his hapless comrades. Something like this 
 was our fate. We had sinned : and sooner or 
 later, our punishment would come upon us. 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 1 1 5 
 
 It was even nearer than we supposed. We did 
 not return to Naples ; we dared not return 
 without the children. We put into Antwerp 
 for a few days ; and then determined to coast 
 along by France and Spain, exchange our crew, 
 and at last return home, and say the children 
 had died, and no one could give testimony 
 against us. A few weary months passed by. 
 We had failed to obtain a new crew, and were 
 obliged to keep on the sailors whom we had 
 hitherto employed. And they, for some reason 
 unknown to us, remained with us in spite of 
 their superstitious fears that evil would come 
 upon us and upon them for the crime. Perhaps 
 they hoped that we would return, and take 
 back the children, and that all would be well 
 again. In the beginning of December we 
 found ourselves in the Bristol Channel, and as 
 the weather looked very uncertain, we were 
 bearing up for a port of refuge on the southern 
 English coast. All at once, a hurricane sprang 
 up, and for several hours we drifted before it, 
 at terrific speed, sea after sea sweeping our 
 decks, and with the sails torn into ribbons by 
 the fury of the blast. As you may suppose, 
 we were terribly frightened. The men worked 
 
1 1 6 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 with a will, tearing down the shattered sails, 
 and making the vessel tight under the awful 
 pressure of the wind. Still, one could easily 
 see how terrified they were. They felt, and 
 so did I, that the hour of just judgment was 
 coming fast upon the ship. 
 
 “The morning broke, the gale had not 
 abated ; we took soundings ; we were drifting on 
 to a rock-bound coast. A group of sailors was 
 gathered round the wheel. They were gesticu- 
 lating wildly, and in a moment one came for- 
 ward, and asked Mondella what was this coast 
 on which they were drifting. He hesitated a 
 moment, then said quietly, ‘ The coast of 
 Ireland.’ ‘ What part ? ’ said the sailor. ‘ Just 
 outside the harbour of Reineville,’ said Mon- 
 della. ‘ Exactly what we thought,’ said the 
 man, as he retired and communicated the fatal 
 intelligence to his companions. From that 
 moment the sailors refused to put a hand to 
 the ship. Mondella swore at them, threatened 
 them. They were silent, but determined. ‘ We 
 knew it all along,’ they said, ‘ we knew it 
 should come ; such a terrible crime could not 
 pass unpunished ; now the vengeance of God 
 is falling upon us ; there is no hope. We cannot 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 117 
 
 fight against God.’ With my assistance, Mon- 
 della threw out signals of distress. They were 
 answered on shore. 
 
 “ Nearer and nearer we approached. We 
 passed out two anchors, but the chains were 
 snapped in a moment. We could see the white 
 foam, crawling up on the rocks and swirling 
 and curling in tiny whirlpools between the 
 sunken reefs. We could see the white faces of 
 the men on shore, as they prepared to send their 
 rockets flying over our heads. The ship was 
 rolling heavily, flung to this side and to that 
 by the furious waves. The men had clambered 
 into the rigging ; Mondella stood at the wheel ; 
 I was near him, lashed to the wheel with ropes. 
 At last one terrible wave came upon us. I saw 
 it approaching. I could look through the green, 
 transparent mass of water as it frothed and 
 curled, and bore down on us. Then I shut my 
 eyes. I was drenched from head to heel. I 
 looked round ; Mondella was gone from my side. 
 In another moment came a shock as if the ship 
 were parting asunder. I could hear the grating 
 of the keel on the rocks. I could hear the rush 
 of the waters into the cabin. I looked to the 
 rigging. All the men were swept away but two. 
 
1 1 8 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 They slowly descended, their faces and hands 
 bleeding, came to the wheel to which I was 
 lashed, cut the ropes, and set me free. I couldn’t 
 stir ; I was frozen and weak from the beating 
 of the waves. They bore me gently to the side 
 of the vessel. In a moment a rocket was shot 
 from the shore, and its rope made fast to the 
 rigging. I fainted away ; and when I recovered 
 consciousness, I saw the faces of men and 
 women bending over me, with looks of compas- 
 sion and pity. I looked around, and saw the 
 black thatch and the smoked rafters of a fisher- 
 man’s cabin ; I knew I was saved, and thanked 
 God for His mercy. 
 
 “ Then I said ‘ Mondella,’ and they whispered 
 he was saved too, but that I must not speak 
 again. So I lay quiet, I thought, for many 
 days. And after many days I was able to move 
 about again. The first sight that met my eyes 
 was the wreck of the doomed ship, lifted high 
 upon the beach. The second sight was the 
 graves of our brave sailors, whose superstitious 
 fears were only too well grounded. After a 
 little while, when I had strength to depart, I 
 left the quiet fishing village, and wandered, a 
 lonely woman, through the world. But every- 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 119 
 
 where I was haunted by the apparition of these 
 two faces that looked after us, pale and despair- 
 ing, when we abandoned them. I have not 
 seen Mondella since. He was saved from the 
 wreck, and left for a neighbouring city very 
 soon. All tidings of him, however, have been 
 lost. I think he did not care to meet me again. 
 I had brought terrible troubles upon him. I 
 had made him commit an unpardonable sin. 
 Through me he lost his children and his vessel. 
 I am sure he must have assumed a strange name, 
 and is still living under it, lest I should discover 
 him. But I do not care to do so. Since that 
 terrible day I have earned my own bread. I 
 became a gipsy again, and joined a company 
 of actors. With them I have lived comfortable, 
 but not happy. Nor shall I die happy, until I 
 shall be assured of the forgiveness of Agnese 
 and Rita.” 
 
 She paused. The Sister wiped the damp dews 
 from her forehead with a sponge. And then I 
 told her what I knew of the children, of Agnese’s 
 illness, of Rita’s care, of the vision of the ship- 
 wreck that came across the eyes of the dying 
 girl, of her forgiveness and her dying words. 
 She was silent, but looked inexpressibly happy. 
 
120 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 I passed from the room, leaving her, as I left 
 Agnese years before, in the darkness, alone with 
 God. 
 
 IV 
 
 The following day the city was ringing with the 
 praises of the wonderful singer, whose youth and 
 grace and talent had captivated all hearts. The 
 newspapers devoted whole columns to descrip- 
 tions of her rare powers ; and on reading over 
 one of these articles, which contained a brief 
 history of her life, the truth flashed on me 
 suddenly, that this great wonder was none othe? 
 than Rita, the little ragged street-singer of a 
 few years ago. A few inquiries confirmed the 
 truth of my surmises, and at last I determined 
 to call to see her, knowing all that I did about 
 Maddalena. 
 
 Next day, therefore, I drove to the hotel where 
 she was staying ; and was ushered into a magni- 
 ficent private drawing-room, where I was left 
 to amuse myself with drawings, photographs, &c. 
 After a little while the door opened, and there 
 entered a lady, so bright, and dressed with such 
 splendour, that I could not recognise her. She 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 12 1 
 
 advanced quietly, and held out her two hands to 
 me, and I knew then that I was speaking to the 
 same Rita, whom I had succoured and assisted 
 only a few years ago. How changed she is ! 
 What wonderful Providence has protected her, 
 and made her so great ? What is her history, 
 since she left us suddenly on the morning that 
 Agnese was buried ? Such were the thoughts that 
 crossed my mind, whilst Rita was summoning 
 up courage to ask me, had I seen her father ? 
 This was the one thought of her life ; this, the 
 great question ; this, the one thing that troubled 
 her amidst all the splendours and excitement of 
 the new life she was leading. 
 
 I had nothing to say of her father ; but “Tell 
 me,” said I, “ your own history first, and then 
 I have something to tell you.” 
 
 Without hesitation she commenced : — 
 
 “ That morning, after Agnese’s burial, I found 
 myself alone in a strange country, and amongst 
 strange people. The loneliness of my life came 
 upon me terribly. I felt as if I too could cheer- 
 fully die, and be laid with my beloved sister. I 
 thought what had I done, that God should afflict 
 me ? I thought of the awful crime my father 
 had committed against us, and I asked for the 
 
122 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 hundredth time what had made him change so 
 much towards us. Then I began to think, what 
 should I do ? Where should I go ? I was in 
 despair. Suddenly I found myself singing that 
 psalm of Complin where the words occur : * He 
 hath given His angels charge over thee, to guard 
 thee in all thy ways. In their hands they shall 
 bear thee, lest thou dash thy foot against a 
 stone.’ You know, we used to sing in our 
 village church at home, and I was specially 
 fond of the evening service ; I felt an inspira- 
 tion that God and our Lady would not abandon 
 me ; that I was the child of Providence and 
 the child of the Madonna. I wandered down 
 to the quay, I rested against the railings on 
 which Agnese leaned on that terrible day when 
 we were abandoned. I imagined again that 
 awful scene, and the despair that came upon us ; 
 and once more my spirits were sinking when I 
 heard a gruff voice : * Come along, little one, 
 you can play for us while we row.’ A party 
 of rough men and a few women were moving 
 to a boat that was moored under the quay ; 
 and without a word, and without any fear, I 
 went with them. They were going to a large 
 Transatlantic steamer that lay outside the 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 123 
 
 harbour, and they hoped to be able to sell to 
 the passengers the oranges, apples, &c., with 
 which their boat was stocked. They handed me 
 an orange, seated me in the stem of the boat, 
 and we rowed across the harbour, the oars keep- 
 ing time with the music that I was playing. 
 Very soon we came under the shadow of the 
 mighty ship. I had never seen anything like 
 it before. My father’s ship was large, but this 
 was very much larger. It seemed to me like a 
 mountain on the waters. The crew went on board, 
 but I remained behind and continued playing, 
 hoping to attract the attention of the passengers. 
 
 “ Presently a few ladies and gentlemen gathered 
 together, and leant over the bulwarks of the 
 vessel. One lady in particular looked at me, 
 as if her eyes would burn into my soul, and 
 said at last in perfect Italian, ‘ This is tire- 
 some, child ; can’t you sing ? ’ Nothing loth, 
 I laid down the accordion, stood up in the stern, 
 and sang with gestures one of those operatic 
 airs which my father had taught us. Before 
 I had done, a crowd had gathered on the side 
 of the vessel, and money was showered into the 
 little boat. But when the crew had returned, 
 and the anchor was swung up, and all prepara- 
 
124 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 tions made for our departure, I was beckoned 
 on board by the lady of whom I had spoken. 
 She inquired who I was, and what was my 
 history, then hastily spoke to the captain, and 
 then informed me that I was not to return, 
 but proceed with her on the voyage. We de- 
 scended to the ladies’ cabin, and my first act 
 was to kneel down, and thank God that I had 
 not lost confidence in Him. 
 
 “ The lady belonged to a company that were 
 going to America to carry out an engagement 
 there, and she was the leading singer, the prima 
 donna of the company. I became her maid. 
 She made me again repeat more fully for her 
 my history. She wept when I told her all that 
 Agnese and I had suffered. In the evening she 
 brought me into the saloon, where I played and 
 sang. Then suddenly she stopped me, and com- 
 manded me to tell aloud all that I had told in 
 secret. They must have been very good people, 
 for they pitied me so much, and the lady used 
 to cry and ask me all about Agnese. I had to 
 sing all my songs for them ; and one day a tall, 
 dark gentleman said to me very kindly, ‘ Rita, 
 you will be famous yet.’ I did not know what 
 he meant. 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 125 
 
 “ We came to New York. Every evening I 
 had to dress my mistress’ hair for the opera, 
 and on these occasions I had to sing for her the 
 whole time, and she always kissed me when she 
 stepped into her carriage. During the day, too, 
 a foreign gentleman, a German, used to come 
 to the house, and I was obliged to spend hours 
 with him whilst he taught me. I then discovered 
 that I had a great deal to learn, for I had to 
 commence again in a new way to learn, and 
 many things I thought beautiful I had to 
 abandon altogether. But I soon learned how 
 poor, how weak my singing was. For one 
 evening, just as I had finished my lady’s toilette, 
 I asked her tremblingly would she take me to 
 the opera. She looked surprised, then said, as 
 if speaking to herself, ‘ Would it be well for 
 the child ? ’ and finally consented. I wrapped 
 myself up, entered the carriage with her, and 
 soon found myself in the midst of a crowd of 
 ladies and gentlemen grandly dressed in a large 
 room that opened out upon another, which I 
 found was the stage. I was frightened, but I 
 kept close to my mistress. I heard great noise, 
 as of talking in front ; and I think I must have 
 looked dazed, for my mistress beckoned to a 
 
126 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 young friend of hers, who took me gently by 
 the hand and led me into the theatre, where 
 I sat in mute astonishment until the curtain 
 was lifted, and there stood my lady. What shall 
 I say ? She sang, and I thought my senses 
 would leave me. I grew white and rigid ; and 
 clenched my hands together, and could neither 
 speak nor think while the air was filled with 
 the divine harmony. It was over ; the applause 
 had subsided ; I saw my mistress bowing and 
 smiling at me, yet there I sat and couldn’t stir, 
 until I heard some one say, ‘ What ails that 
 Italian girl ? ’ Then I rose up, went to meet 
 my mistress, and drove home with her without 
 uttering a word. 
 
 “ That night, as I attended her, my strange 
 emotion continued. I couldn’t speak, but wept 
 silently. At last she bade me sit beside her, 
 took my two hands in her own, and said, 
 ‘ Rita, my child, you are amazed and astonished 
 by what you have seen and heard. Know, 
 then, that God has given you talents and a gift 
 far greater than I possess. Friends unknown 
 to you are silently watching you, watching your 
 voice growing in strength and sweetness every 
 day. Before many years, and when my voice 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 127 
 
 shall be no longer heard, you will be the wonder 
 and pride of our musical world. Far more 
 grateful to me than this thought, however, is 
 the reflection that you are deeply religious, and 
 that you give promise that you will not forget 
 the great God who has watched over you so 
 well, when, hereafter, your ears are filled with 
 the praises of the world.’ 
 
 “ I kissed her hands, and told her how deeply 
 grateful I was to her. The change came on me 
 suddenly. Before I had time to think I was 
 famous. My name was in the mouths of men be- 
 fore I had forgotten my privations and sorrows. 
 My dear benefactress sees me occasionally ; and 
 I tell her every time I see her, as I tell you now, 
 that the more my name is spoken of amongst 
 men, the more fully do I throw myself on the 
 tender mercies of my God. Rita, the street- 
 singer, was far more self-confident, far more in- 
 dependent, than Rita, the great artist.” 
 
 She was silent a few moments, and I was 
 pondering on the strange story I had heard. 
 Then, drawing a deep sigh, she cried, “ I think 
 I should be happy if I could see my dear father 
 again. And I feel that I shall see him — how 
 or where, God only knows.” 
 
128 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 “ I have not seen your father,” said I, “ but 
 I have seen another very dear to you ; I mean 
 Maddalena.” 
 
 I watched her face. She started slightly, but 
 said nothing. Then, without revealing Madda- 
 lena’s crime, I told her painful history, and 
 when I had ended she rose suddenly, and, in 
 a voice broken with emotion, cried, “ Take me 
 to her.” 
 
 “ She may be dead,” said I, fearing the terrible 
 shock Rita would receive if she found her step- 
 mother lifeless. 
 
 “No matter, take me to her,” again she cried ; 
 and I could only comply with her urgent request. 
 
 We rolled along in her carriage to the hospital 
 door, once more passed through the ward, when 
 a Sister met us and said, “ Not here ; come 
 with me ; ” and she led us across the grounds 
 to a lonely house that stood by itself near the 
 walls. She opened the door ; the gloom was 
 made visible by six lights that burned at the 
 foot of a bed on which lay a white- veiled figure. 
 We approached, knelt, and prayed, Rita bury- 
 ing her face in the bedclothes. After a while 
 we rose. The Sister gently lifted a white cloth 
 from the face and revealed the features of Mad- 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 129 
 
 dalena. They were all unchanged, except for 
 the scars left by the burns. Long and silently 
 Rita gazed on the face of her who had done her 
 such fearful wrong, then she stooped gently and 
 kissed the face on the brow and lips, and we 
 passed from the house of death into the busy 
 and noisy world. So was Rita united to her 
 stepmother. Was she united with her father ? 
 We shall see. 
 
 Charity is the queen of virtues : and it is 
 never better seen than in those who have been 
 raised by God’s Providence from poverty to 
 affluence, from misery to comfort. Now, Rita 
 made charity the practice of her life. She 
 never undertook any serious engagement without 
 promising at the same time to devote part of 
 her profits to the poor ; and she never left any 
 great city or centre of population without having 
 given a special entertainment for the charitable 
 Institutions that happened to exist there. 
 
 V 
 
 It was the close of the year 1880. The winter 
 
 Operatic Season was just closing ; and Rita was 
 
 1 
 
130 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 after adding fresh laurels to those already gained. 
 It was admitted that she was peerless, had no 
 equal on the stage. She had had a specially 
 brilliant season in a great Southern city ; and 
 carrying out her great principle, she had arranged 
 for an entertainment to be given in the presence 
 of the inmates of the asylums, orphanages, and 
 refuges of the city. The general public were 
 to be admitted on payment of a large stun, 
 which was to be devoted to the charities above 
 mentioned. The great day came. The vast 
 theatre was filled from floor to ceiling. Not 
 an inch of space was to be had. And when all 
 were seated, silent, with all eyes bent on the 
 drop-scene, it was perhaps as curious a sight as 
 fancy could conceive or pencil depict. The 
 upper tier of boxes was filled with boys from a 
 neighbouring orphanage. They looked healthy, 
 and though a little impatient of the delay, they 
 were, on the whole, very quiet. On the next 
 tier below them were the girls of an industrial 
 school, looking bright and cheerful and happy. 
 Farther down were the inmates of a blind 
 asylum, the boys on the right, the girls on the 
 left. They were a solemn and touching picture. 
 Some had lost the eyes entirely, and there was 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 13 1 
 
 upon their faces that strange, calm, placid look 
 which we always notice on the faces of the blind. 
 Their faces were all turned upwards, though 
 they knew the stage was beneath them. Others, 
 again, had large and brilliant eyes ; but the 
 sight was destroyed, and they looked straight 
 before them into the awful darkness which ever 
 accompanied them. But all were gentle, solemn, 
 beautiful, under their trying misfortune. The 
 next tier, which was the dress-circle, was occu- 
 pied by the public, journalists, artists, managers, 
 actors. And in the pit, near the orchestra, were 
 a group of aged men, belonging to the institute 
 of charity under the care of the Little Sisters 
 of the Poor. 
 
 The theatre was darkened, and the gas was 
 lighted. There was deep silence, broken only 
 by the hum of the boys. Now, the manager of 
 the theatre proposed that this should be a 
 concert, to be got through hastily and lightly. 
 But Rita rejected this ; and, knowing the pas- 
 sion of children for bright scenery and rich 
 dresses, and music, she insisted that an opera 
 should be put on the stage ; and so well beloved 
 was she, that all her fellow-artists eagerly em- 
 braced her wish, and engaged to correspond 
 
132 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 with her, and help her. Now, the simplest, 
 the most touching, and the most popular of 
 operas is “ Trovatore,” and “ Trovatore ” was 
 just the one Rita selected. 
 
 The tiny tinkle of a bell causes an immediate 
 hush : then slowly the curtain rises, and a 
 
 scene of brilliancy and splendour flashes on the 
 astonished senses of the children. Their eyes 
 opened wider, their lips parted as they gazed 
 on the strange castles and bridges, and sylvan 
 scenery on the stage. But when the singers 
 came forth, dressed so beautifully, and their 
 voices floated out in the richest melodies on 
 the air, the delight of the children was boundless. 
 Scene after scene came on, and each change 
 brought a new delight. Even the old men in 
 the pit looked up, leaning on their sticks, and 
 the tears rolled down their withered cheeks, as 
 the beautiful harmony stole into their hearts. 
 All except one, and he remained cold and still 
 and silent, except once, when Rita flung forth 
 her glorious voice ; then he started, but in a 
 moment subsided again, leaning his head on 
 his hands. He was not old, but his hair was 
 white as snow. His face was a deep olive, and 
 looked almost black in the gaslight, under the 
 
Rita, the Street-Singer 133 
 
 white framing of his hair ; and it was seamed 
 and scarred and wrinkled as if beaten by a 
 thousand storms. He seemed very sad, speaking 
 to no one, nursing his misery in silence. Either 
 some awful calamity had befallen him, or the 
 memory of some great crime haunted him. 
 The scenes changed ; the music went on with- 
 out interruption. At last they came to that 
 beautiful melody, “ Ai nostri monti,” or, as it 
 is known in English, “ Home to our Mountains.” 
 Now, that was Rita’s favourite duet, because 
 it was the very one that they used to sing long 
 ago in Naples when father’s ship was return- 
 ing from its long voyages. The father’s deep 
 voice would sound over the waters, and it 
 would be immediately caught up and an- 
 swered by Rita and Agnese on shore. There- 
 fore, whenever Rita sang it, she did so with 
 the memory of these happy days before her, 
 and therefore with a sweetness that was very 
 touching. 
 
 To-day some strange, dark melancholy pos- 
 sessed her. The sight of the orphans and the 
 blind deeply affected her ; she felt that she 
 was singing to souls, perhaps more deeply tried 
 than her own. They, too, had homes once ; 
 
134 Rita, the Street-Singer 
 
 but the father or the mother had died or de- 
 parted, and left these children, as she was left, 
 alone in the wide, wide world. Once or twice 
 she strove to sing these beautiful lines, but her 
 voice was choked with emotion. At last, by a 
 powerful effort, she controlled herself, and the 
 liquid notes streamed forth, until the air thrilled 
 and palpitated with them. 
 
 But before her fellow-artist, who sang with 
 her, could utter a single word, a deep, beauti- 
 ful voice came up from the pit ; and, raising 
 his head, the man with the olive face and the 
 white hair sang forth the rich melody without 
 mistake or interruption. The audience were 
 struck dumb, as Rita’s voice and the voice of 
 the old man sounded in singular harmony 
 through the theatre. All listened spellbound. 
 The members of the company who were not 
 engaged on the stage, crept to the side-scenes 
 and peered forth ; artists took out their pencils 
 and began to sketch the touching scene, until 
 it closed. There was a pause ; Rita stood like 
 a beautiful speechless statue, her eyes wide 
 open, her lips parted, as if a dream of her child- 
 hood had come upon her. Then, suddenly 
 rising, the white-haired singer flung out his two 
 
Rita ! ” To face page 134. 
 

Rita, the Street-Singer 135 
 
 arms to the stage, and shouted the simple word, 
 “ Rita ! ” 
 
 And Rita, the hope of whose life was accom- 
 plished, stepped quickly from the stage, and in 
 a moment was in the arms of her father. 
 
REMANDED 1 
 
 I tell the tale as ’twas told to me. And it 
 was told by a venerable old man, almost blind, 
 as he stood by the battlements of Mallow Bridge 
 one sunny day, and I looked from his intelligent 
 face into the clear, swift waters, or watched 
 the long plumes from a passing engine fading 
 into the clear sky. 
 
 It was not on this bridge it happened, but 
 on this bridge’s predecessor — a long wooden 
 structure that was swept away in the great 
 flood of ’41, when the big elm was blown down, 
 the sister of that splendid tree that now throws 
 its rugged branches far and wide across the 
 road and seems to be looking for its souls of 
 roots far down beneath the loam of the meadow. 
 It was the time of the yeomen. 
 
 1 This story, founded on fact (the hero-priest is buried in Done- 
 raile), was appropriately printed in Australia at the time of certain 
 sensational accusations publicly brought against a priest by an 
 unhappy woman. 
 
 136 
 
Remanded 
 
 I 37 
 
 Bitter and black are the memories which 
 that word calls up to the Irish mind. And the 
 yeomen of this particular little town by the 
 Blackwater were a particularly detestable speci- 
 men of their class. They hated the people, 
 they hated, above all, the people’s priest. It 
 is not kind to recall it in these peaceful days, 
 but history is history. And they had a par- 
 ticular, undiluted, undisguised hatred for one 
 priest, who was correspondingly beloved by the 
 people, and his name was Rev. Thomas Duan. 
 Why he was so detested by the yeomen history 
 does not tell, but they say he had a sharp 
 tongue, a fearless eye, was cool, firm, daunt- 
 less, and when he smote he struck straight from 
 the shoulder, and the man that was smitten 
 remembered it. And he flung the shelter of a 
 protection that was Providence in miniature 
 over his shivering flock, and woe to the man 
 that touched with a wet finger the little lambs 
 of his fold ! The wolves might come prowling 
 around and show their teeth and snarl, but 
 they feared this strong shepherd with the keen 
 grey eye, and slunk from him with the flame 
 of hate and the might of vengeance in their 
 hearts. 
 
Remanded 
 
 138 
 
 But fate played into their hands. Was it 
 fate or that higher Power that rules our fate ? 
 No matter. Suborned and perjured, one lost 
 soul swore informations against him, and eight 
 gentlemen yeomen passed here under the arch- 
 ing elm and across these waters to his home 
 at Sandfield to arrest him. It was cheerful 
 work, yet somehow their hearts misgave them. 
 They had not come into close quarters yet with 
 this giant. They had never yet touched the 
 supernatural. And they knew and believed 
 and felt that a halo of the supernatural floated 
 like a spiritual essence around this frieze-coated 
 priest. Could they break through that, they 
 would arrest him and hang him like a dog. As 
 the savages on Tahiti, the moment they lost 
 faith in the godhood of Captain Cook, fell on 
 him and tore him to pieces, so our brave yeomen, 
 who thought as lightly of a hanging as of a 
 ball or a spin with the hounds, would gladly 
 touch and maul and quarter this rebel, but 
 — here again this supernatural burst upon 
 them. 
 
 “ We want your master, the priest Duan ! ” 
 
 “ The priest has just left and is now crossing 
 yonder bridge.” 
 
Remanded 
 
 139 
 
 And the old housekeeper stretched her skinny 
 hand towards it. 
 
 “ It’s a lie. We’ve just crossed the bridge, 
 and no one passed us.” 
 
 “ It’s the truth. I saw the priest turn to 
 the left and pass to the town.” 
 
 “ The woman speaks the truth,” said Bam- 
 bridge. “ The priest passed us, and ye did not 
 speak.” 
 
 “ Then you saw him ? ” 
 
 “Yes, I saw him ; he passed outside us 
 nearer to the road. I would have spoken to 
 ye, but I thought ” 
 
 “ You thought ” 
 
 “ I thought ye were afraid.” 
 
 “ What ! afraid of a Popish priest ? ” 
 
 But their lips were dry and white. They 
 went home. 
 
 So did Bambridge, anxious and afraid and 
 puzzled. He would solve that puzzle. He 
 opened a drawer and took out a horse-pistol, 
 such as they swung from saddle bags when on 
 the Croppy track. It threw a bullet twenty 
 yards, and the Croppy pike didn’t reach so far. 
 That explains a good deal of Irish history. 
 
 Bambridge rang the bell. 
 
Remanded 
 
 140 
 
 “ Call Nan.” 
 
 A poor, old, shrivelled, wrinkled creature 
 came into the room, looking questioningly, pity- 
 ingly out of rheumy eyes at her master. He 
 rarely saw his old nurse, but he loved her. 
 Times were changing. He had often been asked 
 to send away that old witch, but he would not. 
 
 “ Sit down and answer me truly, as you 
 value your life. You see that pistol ? I 
 wouldn’t harm a hair in your old grey head, 
 Nan,” he said, softening, and rubbing down the 
 poor white wisps that lay beneath her cap. 
 “ But this is life or death to me.” He moistened 
 his dry lips before he spoke. 
 
 “ What happened when I was bom ? ” 
 
 She looked up frightened. 
 
 “ What happened when I was born ? ” 
 
 She took up her apron and folded it with 
 clammy hands. 
 
 “ Once more. What happened when I was 
 born ? ” 
 
 “ God forgive me,” whimpered the old woman, 
 “ but I baptized you a Catholic ! ” 
 
 “ Did my mother know it ? ” 
 
 “ No ; I did it in my own room. You were 
 awake and convulsed, and I said I’d save your 
 
Remanded 
 
 141 
 
 soul. I brought you back and your mother 
 kissed you, as if she knew something. Of course 
 the minister christened you after, but I didn’t 
 care. He couldn’t do you any harm.” 
 
 The grim man smiled. 
 
 “ That’ll do, Nan,” he said. 
 
 The next day the Priest strolled over to the 
 nearest Magistrate and asked, Was he required ? 
 Yes. He came to be arrested. They wouldn’t 
 offer such an indignity to a minister of religion ; 
 but, you know, informations have been sworn, 
 and the case must go on. They would take 
 his own recognisances, on a single summons, to 
 appear at Petty Sessions Court on Tuesday. So 
 far all was smooth. 
 
 Then human passion blazed up, as the smoul- 
 dering furnace fires leap into swords of flame at 
 the breath of the south wind. Fear, the servile 
 fear of the poor, whipped Celt, leaped from 
 white ashes into white flame ; and the record- 
 ing angel, if he heeded such things, had a well- 
 filled notebook during these days. 
 
 Tuesday came, and a motley procession moved 
 up the hill with the gruesome title of Gallows 
 Hill, on the brow of which the Courthouse stood. 
 They were sad at heart. Their priest, their 
 
14 2 Remanded 
 
 hero, was cowed. He had said last Mass on 
 Sunday, and not a word came from lips that 
 were always feathered with the fire of zeal or 
 holy anger. They had crowded up to the altar 
 rails, men and women — and children peeped 
 between their father’s legs to see the great 
 gladiator, who was to laugh and discomfit his 
 foes one of these days. Now for an avalanche 
 of thunderous denunciation — a stern, awful de- 
 fiance of the foe — an appeal to the down-bending 
 heavens to justify him and mark, by some 
 awful vengeance, its condemnation of his and 
 their and God’s own enemies ! They swung 
 from the iron rails, they panted with excitement 
 — the holy place alone prevented them from 
 uttering their faith and their everlasting trust 
 in his holiness and purity. Oh ! but for one 
 word from his lips. No ! 
 
 “ In the law of Moses it is ordered that such 
 a one should be stoned. What, therefore, 
 sayest thou ? But Jesus, bending down, wrote 
 with His finger on the earth.” 
 
 And then he asked, “ What did He write ? 
 We shall see.” 
 
 The people wondered and were sad. And so, 
 on this fatal morning, they climbed the grue- 
 
Remanded 
 
 H3 
 
 some hill with sad hearts and sad forebodings 
 as to what the day would bring. 
 
 II 
 
 Clayton of Annabella was Chairman of the 
 Court. Two Magistrates sat with him, one on 
 either hand. They looked disquieted, and 
 seemed glad to study the ceiling rather than 
 the sullen faces that gloomed under shaggy 
 eyebrows and unkempt hair. The Chairman 
 was defiant with the defiance of levity. He 
 smiled at the surging mob that poured into the 
 Courthouse and filled every available space, bit 
 his pen, took notes or sketches, looked every- 
 where, except at one face ; that alone was calm 
 and unmoved in the little drama. 
 
 There was some delay and then the Court 
 opened. A few uninteresting cases of drunken- 
 ness and petty squabbles were heard. Then the 
 Chairman stooped over his desk and whispered 
 to the Clerk. The latter looked anxiously 
 around, peering into every face. He was dis- 
 appointed. With a smothered curse, Clayton 
 dropped back into his armchair and whispered 
 
144 Remanded 
 
 to his brother benchers. There was an awkward 
 pause and something like a titter passed around 
 the Court. These quick-witted people were not 
 long in divining the cause of the embarrassment 
 of the Bench. 
 
 After some communing, the case was called 
 — “ The King v. Thomas Duan.” The indict- 
 ment was read, the witness called. “ Abina 
 Walsh ! ” rang through the corridors, was taken 
 up at the doors, passed down the street, until 
 its echoes were lost over the demesne wall and 
 the rabbits pricked their ears, rubbed their 
 whiskers and listened. There was no reply. 
 The titter deepened into a broad smile, that 
 spread itself over sallow, grimy faces ; and 
 the smile deepened into a laugh, until a roar 
 of merriment rang through the court, and the 
 Magistrates grew red and furious and the Clerk 
 roared “ Silence.” One face alone was un- 
 moved. Once more the name was called ; the 
 echoes died away, the chuckle of the people was 
 checked. 
 
 “ The Court stands adjourned.” 
 
 “ You mean the case is dismissed ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly not. The accused is remanded to 
 this day week. There is some foul play here.” 
 
Remanded 
 
 H5 
 
 Then the Priest spoke and the people hung 
 on his lips. 
 
 “ There is foul play,” he said, slowly and 
 solemnly, “ foul play for which the doers will 
 answer before a higher Tribunal than this. You 
 say I am remanded ? ” 
 
 “ Yes — the case will come up on this day 
 week. We shall again accept your own recog- 
 nisances to appear before me on that day.” 
 
 “ To appear before you ? ” echoed the Priest. 
 
 “ Yes,” replied the Chairman. “ Here, I’ll 
 put you on oath. Come hither ! ” He held 
 out a tiny book, corded round. 
 
 The Priest approached and solemnly laid his 
 hand upon the book. Their fingers touched. 
 
 “ I swear ” 
 
 “ I swear ” 
 
 “To deliver myself up to you for trial ” 
 
 “ To deliver myself up to you for trial ” 
 
 “ On next Tuesday ” 
 
 “ On next Tuesday ” 
 
 “ March 29 ” 
 
 “ March 29 ” 
 
 “ So help me God ! ” 
 
 “ So help me God ! ” 
 
 The people poured out of the Courthouse and 
 
 K 
 
Remanded 
 
 146 
 
 down the hill, murmuring, laughing, questioning, 
 doubting, fearing, denying. 
 
 “ Why the divil didn’t he cling them to their 
 sates ? ” 
 
 “ He’s too aisy altogether with them ! ” 
 
 “ Wait, an’ you’ll see. Didn’t the ould 
 fellow look black, though ? I wonder where 
 is she ? ” 
 
 “ The divil flew away with her. Sure he was 
 lonesome without her ! ” 
 
 “ May the Lord spare us till next Tuesday, 
 however ! Won’t there be fun ? He’s goin’ to 
 do somethin’.” 
 
 “ He looks too quiet to be wholesome. I’d 
 give a whole week’s wages to see Clayton’s black 
 mug again, when he called on Abby. Sweet 
 bad luck to her ! ” 
 
 “ They say the whole country will be riz before 
 Tuesday.” 
 
 “No, no, no ! we’d rather lave it to himself. 
 He’s enough for them.” 
 
 But pikeheads were sharpened in many a 
 forge ; and down where the willows drew their 
 fingers through the swift waters there was a 
 massing of men and a lifting of hands to 
 heaven. 
 
Remanded 
 
 H7 
 
 hi 
 
 That night a wild beast howled until the early 
 watches around the Priest’s house. It was the 
 wail of a hungry wolf ; yea, rather, the moan 
 of some beast in pain. At intervals of five or 
 six minutes it beat around the house, coming 
 from the thickets of speckled laurel and going 
 round and round the dwelling, then wailing into 
 silence again. 
 
 Once or twice the Priest, as he sat in the 
 wicker chair reading his Breviary, thought he 
 heard the tap of fingers at his window, but he 
 said it was the trailers of the jasmine or clematis 
 that were lifted by the night wind. But when 
 eleven o’clock chimed, he rose and passed into 
 the moonlight and peered around. The glisten- 
 ing laurel leaves looked meekly at the moon, 
 and the lattice work of the nude tree threw its 
 netted pattern on the gravel ; but there was no 
 one there. Three times he walked around the 
 house, studying every nook and cranny to find 
 the weird, uncanny voice. Then he paused 
 and listened in the moonlight to the murmur 
 of the river as it fretted over the ford beneath 
 
Remanded 
 
 148 
 
 the bridge. He did not see two gleaming eyes 
 that shone in the thick darkness of a shrubbery 
 close by — eyes that gleamed with despair and 
 one little ray of hope, that just now was fading 
 away. Where was her guardian angel that 
 moment ? Where the last mercy, that would 
 drag her, despite herself, from that retreat, and 
 fling her on her knees for pardon from the man 
 she had so foully wronged ? 
 
 Alas ! these things are beyond our ken. 
 During ten long minutes of grace he stood there, 
 unconscious of the presence near him, listening, 
 half in a dream, to the music that came from 
 the river and the night silences. Then he passed 
 into the house, and turned the key in the door. 
 It was to her, poor soul ! the rolling to of heaven’s 
 gates — the crash and clangour of bolts and locks 
 that shut her out of Paradise for ever. 
 
 In the grey dawn of the morning, the water 
 bailiff, who was coming home from his night- 
 rounds on the river, saw something black, where 
 the river lipped the sands, just below the deep 
 hole called the Bulwarks. He went towards it 
 and turned it over with his foot. Before nine 
 o’clock it was known to every man, woman, 
 and child in town that Abbey Walsh, the per- 
 
Remanded 
 
 149 
 
 jured and suborned girl, had been drowned. 
 Crowds came to look at the black heap lying 
 on the grey sands, but no one touched it ; and 
 there it lay, the March sunshine playing on 
 it, and making its own lustre among the black, 
 wet garments, while the river came up like a 
 dog which, having killed its prey, returns to 
 worry the dead bird or beast, and lifted one 
 cold hand, and washed around the naked feet, 
 and played with the black fringe that fell from 
 the shawl of the dead girl. It was only when 
 the dusk was falling that the Priest heard of 
 this frightful thing, and he hurried down to the 
 big meadow, and very soon stood amongst a 
 curious but most irreverent throng. 
 
 “We was only waiting for your Reverence, 
 to see her, till we threw her back into the river,” 
 said big Dave, the smith, black, brawny, and 
 fiercely and aggressively honest. 
 
 “ I’m surprised at you, Dave,” said the Priest 
 gently. “ You weren’t at Mass on Sunday.” 
 Dave looked confused. And the Priest, moving 
 down along the sand, stood over the dead. 
 
 “ Such of you,” he said, with just a suspicion 
 of contempt in his voice, “ as were at Mass on 
 Sunday, may remember the Gospel I read and 
 
Remanded 
 
 I S° 
 
 the remark I made. There may be outcasts 
 from the bosom of God — sheep whom the Good 
 Shepherd had not found. But it would be the 
 wildest presumption in you or me to judge those 
 whom, perhaps, God Himself may judge only 
 with a heart of compassion. I told you, I think, 
 that the Master stooped down and wrote on 
 the sands. So do I.” 
 
 He stooped, and with his fingers drew letters 
 on the sand, but the tradition is that each 
 letter disappeared as he finished it, and to this 
 day it is a matter of conjecture what the letters 
 signified, and many a fierce debate has taken 
 place in forge and tavern as to what the Priest 
 wrote on the strand near the Bulwarks. 
 
 “ Now I said to you,” continued the Priest, 
 raising himself, as he stood head and shoulders 
 over the tallest man present, “ that what the 
 Master wrote we shall see. We have seen 
 something,” he said, pointing to the dead figure ;■ 
 “ whether it is His justice or His mercy we do 
 not know. But we shall see more. Go, Dave, 
 and fetch a coffin.” He walked up and down 
 the sands, reading his Breviary, till the men 
 returned. “ Now raise this poor girl, and re- 
 member the Magdalen and Christ.” 
 
Remanded 1 5 1 
 
 But not a man stood forward. Their horror and 
 their dread were beyond their compassion. They 
 stared at this man, who was giving them such 
 unpleasant shocks, and they sullenly shook their 
 heads. “Touch her! God forbid. Our children and 
 our children’s children would never forgive us.” 
 Then the Priest took off his great frieze coat 
 and went over and knelt down by the prostrate 
 figure. 
 
 “ Oh, don’t. Oh, don’t ! your Reverence ! ” 
 wailed the women. Then they turned angrily 
 on the men. “ You big, lazy hounds, don’t you 
 see what his Reverence is doing ? ” 
 
 Two or three big, hulking fellows stepped 
 forward. But the Priest waved them back, 
 and gently putting his strong arms around the 
 dead girl he raised her up and moved towards 
 the rude coffin. As he did so her head fell 
 back, and one arm dropping down, a paper 
 fell from her hand, and five bright, wet guineas 
 rolled upon the sand. One little, ragged urchin 
 leaped forward to seize the prize, but big Dave 
 caught him by the collar and swung him six 
 feet away among the ferns, saying — 
 
 “ You little cur. You’d take her blood money, 
 would you ? ” So there the guineas lay, bright and 
 
Remanded 
 
 152 
 
 round, under the steely sky, but though many an eye 
 hungered after them, no hand would touch them. 
 
 Meanwhile the Priest had lifted up the drooping 
 head, from which the long black hair was weep- 
 ing, and, placing his hand under the neck, drew 
 the face upwards. And men will swear to this 
 day that the eyes of the dead opened on his 
 face, and that the white lips moved to thank 
 him. But he, the “ Kalos Poimen,” the beauti- 
 ful shepherd, whose prototype was so familiar 
 to the haunted Christians of the Catacombs, saw 
 nothing, but reverently placed the poor dripping 
 figure in the coffin, reverently straightened the 
 head and covered the naked feet, and then 
 placed and fastened down the lid. 
 
 “ Perhaps,” he said, with the slightest touch 
 of sarcasm, “ you expect me to take the coffin 
 to the grave ? ” But those fierce people were 
 beginning to be awed by this wonderful man — 
 more awed than ever they were by his thunders 
 from the Altar, or the fierce invectives that he 
 exulted to pour forth against the enemies of his 
 Church and people. With shamed faces, four 
 men stepped forward and slung the coffin on 
 their shoulders. The Priest moved to the front, 
 and a wondering crowd followed. 
 
Remanded 
 
 *53 
 
 When they emerged into the main thorough- 
 fare there was again a pretence at rebellion. 
 
 “ To the Banfield, I suppose, your Rever- 
 ence ? ” said the coffin-bearers. The Banfield 
 was .the local Aceldama, the place for the 
 nameless and outcast dead. 
 
 “ Certainly not,” he replied, without look- 
 ing back ; “ down to the churchyard.” 
 
 To the churchyard, where their own dead re- 
 posed — their decent fathers and mothers and 
 children ! To place this perjured suicide among 
 the good Catholic dead ! What next ? 
 
 With head bent and hands firmly clasped 
 behind his back, the Priest moved on. Great 
 pity filled his heart. The thought of that 
 woman’s wail last night, his own possible neglect 
 in not seeking her and saving her ; the splendid 
 chance of salvation which was held out to her, 
 and which was snapped, perhaps, by his stupi- 
 dity or negligence ; the remembrance of that 
 upturned face, so beautiful, so pitiful, even the 
 little human feeling of patronage and protection 
 (almost the only human feeling a Priest is per- 
 mitted to entertain), as the head of the dead 
 girl rested against his breast, — all these things 
 filled him with such pity and divine love that 
 
Remanded 
 
 *54 
 
 he almost forgot his own wrongs. But, then, 
 Irish priests are fatalists. They are so habitu- 
 ated to the drama of relentless iniquity that 
 is always going on around them — the striking 
 of the feeble with the mailed hand, the chaining 
 of the captive to the victor’s car, the sleek, 
 hypocritical but unbending despotism, under 
 which the helpless victims hopelessly writhe ; 
 the utter despair of all, as destiny for ever 
 mockingly destroys them, — all these things 
 make the Irish priest patient under circum- 
 stances that ordinarily drive men to madness. 
 He has to lean on some dim philosophy that 
 the wrong side of the tapestry, with blurred 
 figures and ugly colours, is turned towards him ; 
 and that it is only when he goes above and looks 
 down he will see how fair were the patterns of 
 the Almighty, how brilliant His colours, how 
 faultless His designs. 
 
 Some such thoughts ran through the Priest’s 
 mind as he passed down the thronged street, 
 while the crowds looked at him and wondered. 
 Then one wave of awful indignation against 
 his pursuers swept these tender thoughts away. 
 But he tried to suppress it. And it was then, 
 while yet quivering under its excitement, he 
 
Remanded 
 
 155 
 
 approached the gate that led to the graveyard, 
 that some one came to him and said — 
 
 “ They have locked the gate.” 
 
 He looked up. The gate that opened into 
 the avenue that led down to the Protestant 
 church, around which were located the resting- 
 places of the parishioners for six hundred years, 
 since the old Abbey was founded, was locked 
 and chained. The sight of this new assertion 
 of supremacy goaded him to anger. 
 
 “ They drove her to death,” he said, “ and 
 they refuse her a grave ! ” 
 
 And running down the little steep, he struck 
 the iron gate with his shoulder, flinging all his 
 strength into the assault. The rotten chain 
 parted, the lock was smashed in pieces, and 
 with a suppressed cheer of triumph the people 
 swept into the broad avenue. They chose a 
 quiet, green spot for her burial, down near the 
 wall that cuts off the big meadow. There the 
 Priest’s mind went back to the little child that 
 had learned “ Hail Marys ” at his knee ; to 
 the young girl that had received her first Com- 
 munion from his hands, to the bright young 
 woman who was the idol of her father, to the 
 wailing soul around his house last night, to the 
 
Remanded 
 
 156 
 
 poor suicide by the river’s brink — to this poor 
 coffin, this lonely grave ; and he said as he 
 turned to his little cottage — 
 
 “ Thy ways are upon the seas, and Thy path- 
 way on the waters, and Thy footsteps are not 
 known.” 
 
 IV 
 
 The quick impulsiveness of the Celtic nature 
 hates the silence of mystery and dreads it. It 
 is eager to get behind the veil, and it will some- 
 times drag it down to discover its secrets, but 
 always with a dread that the discovery may 
 lead to something uncanny and unwholesome. 
 
 The impatience of the people, therefore, in 
 this little drama, to hear what their Priest was 
 going to do, had reached its culminating point 
 on the Sunday morning after the discovery of 
 the dead body by the river ; and at last Mass 
 on that day the congregation was a dense, close 
 mass of humanity that pressed against the 
 iron rails of the sanctuary, was packed against 
 the walls and pillars, and overflowed beyond the 
 precincts of the spacious church far out to the 
 gate that opened on the street. Crowds had 
 
Remanded 
 
 r 57 
 
 come in from the country districts, strong, 
 prosperous farmers on their horses ; labourers 
 with rough, red breasts opened freely to the 
 March winds, with just a pretence of protec- 
 tion in a rough, homespun jacket of flannel, 
 tied in a knot at the waist ; tradesmen with 
 some distinguishing mark of their occupation ; 
 a crowd of women and girls drawn thither by 
 curiosity and fear. And one hope was in all 
 hearts, that this day the avenging hand of the 
 Almighty would be explained and a clear fore- 
 cast of future impending judgments be given. 
 
 There was something very like a smile around 
 the firm, curving lips of the Priest when he 
 turned towards his people at the Post-Com- 
 munion of the Mass. He knew what was ex- 
 pected, and he knew they were going to be 
 disappointed. He read a long list of names 
 of deceased persons to be prayed for, and he 
 closed the list with the name of Abina Walsh, 
 who died during the week. Usually a deep 
 murmur of prayer follows such announcements 
 in the Irish churches. This day there was a 
 sullen silence. The Priest looked them over 
 calmly for a moment, rolling between his fingers 
 the list of names. Then he said — 
 
Remanded 
 
 ! 5 8 
 
 “ How often have I told you, in the words 
 of our Divine Master : You believe in God, 
 believe in me. You might have learned this 
 past week that God’s arm is not foreshortened, 
 nor His eye made blind to the iniquity that 
 pursues us. Yet you forget. Your solicitude 
 for me blinds your faith in God. Fear not, 
 for I have no fear. I do not miscalculate the 
 malice, nor the power underlying that malice 
 that seeks my life — or, what is dearer than life, 
 my honour. But so far as this little drama 
 has proceeded the machinations of my enemies 
 have been checked, and God, and I, His un- 
 worthy servant, have been justified. What the 
 future will bring forth I know not ; but I know 
 He in whom I trust will deliver me. from the 
 toils of the hunters and the bitter word. It is 
 not for myself, it is for you I am solicitous. 
 It has come to my knowledge that several young 
 men amongst you contemplate violence next 
 Tuesday, should an adverse decision be given 
 against me on evidence which may again be 
 suborned. I beg of you, as you love me, I 
 implore you to desist from any demonstration 
 of force on that day. I know that you will 
 only be playing into the hands of your enemies. 
 
Remanded 
 
 159 
 
 Large forces will be drafted into town next 
 Tuesday. I don’t want to see you falling under 
 the sabres of troopers or the musket-butts of 
 yeomen. Believe me all will be right. God 
 will justify me, and before the red sun sets 
 you will know who hath the power — the unseen 
 Judge of the living and the dead, or the hire- 
 lings of perjurers and despots.” 
 
 A deep breath was drawn when he had con- 
 cluded. The women were satisfied — their faith 
 always leaps highest. The men were not. 
 They hated this mystery. They hoped he would 
 appeal to their manhood to defend him. They 
 grudged the defence to God. And when the 
 Priest, about to leave the altar, turned once 
 more to exact a promise that there should be 
 no violence, the young men sidled out of the 
 church, and to the request that all hands should 
 be raised in promise, only a few trembling old 
 men raised their half-palsied hands and in- 
 stantly lowered them. 
 
 And so there was no surprise on the eventful 
 day when, every shop shuttered, every door closed, 
 the streets were paraded by bodies of young men, 
 who walked with a kind of military precision, but 
 apparently had no weapons of offence. 
 
i6o 
 
 Remanded 
 
 Those who were in the secret understood 
 that in yards and recesses arms were piled. 
 And when a phalanx of labourers entered the 
 town from the north and took up their places 
 in front of the Courthouse, leaning, as is their 
 wont, on their spades, every one knew that 
 these light spade handles were never intended 
 to battle with the brown earth, and that some- 
 where away in these voluminous flannel vests 
 the Croppy-pike with its sharp lance, the hook 
 to drag down the hussar, and the sharp axe to 
 cut the bridle were hidden. And it may be 
 said that no fear, but the joy of battle, filled 
 these honest hearts when, just at ten o’clock, a 
 troop of dragoons, with drawn sabres, moved 
 slowly down the main street and drew up in 
 two lines close to the demesne wall and oppo- 
 site the Courthouse. The soldiers were good- 
 humoured and laughed and chatted gaily. 
 Their officers looked grave. So did the mounted 
 yeomen that acted as a bodyguard to the 
 magistrates, who, under the sullen frowns and 
 muttered curses of the people, took their way up 
 the hill to the trial that was to be eventful for 
 them. But there were no shouts of execration, 
 no hysterical demonstrations of hate. 
 
Remanded 
 
 161 
 
 Neither was a single shout raised when the 
 Priest moved slowly through the thick masses 
 of the people. But every hat was raised, and 
 the women murmured, “ God bring him safe from 
 his enemies ! ” For it was generally supposed 
 that the indictment would not fail, even though 
 the principal witness was dead — there was a 
 deep suspicion that some clever machination 
 would yet involve their beloved Priest with 
 the law ; and “ you know, Clayton is the divil 
 painted, and he can do what he likes with the 
 rest.” It was some surprise, therefore, to find 
 that Clayton had not yet appeared. Eleven 
 o’clock struck. The crowds that crammed the 
 Courthouse began to grow curious. It was the 
 scene of last Tuesday repeated — anxious Magis- 
 trates, a bewildered clerk, a jeering, sullen crowd, 
 one calm figure — but the central seat on the 
 Bench was empty. 
 
 At last the case was called : “ The King v. 
 Rev. Thomas Duan.” The prosecutor arose, 
 mumbled something about withdrawing the case, 
 he understood witness — the chief witness — could 
 not appear, &c. The Magistrates declared the 
 case dismissed. The crowd, taken by surprise, 
 
 looked stupidly at the Bench and at one an- 
 
 i. 
 
1 6 2 Remanded 
 
 other. Then a shout arose that made the old 
 roof tremble, and filled the court ; it was taken 
 up outside, and the cavalry drew their bridles 
 and backed their horses and clutched their 
 sabres, as the roar of triumph was taken up 
 and passed from lip to lip, until the hoarse 
 murmur filled the air and the people seemed to 
 have gone mad with joy. 
 
 In the Courthouse, however, not one stirred. 
 The Magistrates on the bench looked as if glued 
 to their seats ; the people waited the signal 
 from their hero. He rose slowly and said in 
 his quiet, emphatic way : 
 
 “You say the case is dismissed. The prisoner 
 is not dismissed as yet.” 
 
 “ Oh yes,” said the Magistrate, “ you may 
 go-” 
 
 “ Thank you,” he said contemptuously. Then 
 knitting his brows, he bent them on the quailing 
 justices, and in a voice full of wrath and in- 
 dignation he cried : 
 
 “ I took a solemn oath before the Most High 
 God last Tuesday that I would deliver myself 
 into Clayton’s hands for trial to-day. We held 
 the Book of the Gospels together, and my hand 
 touched his. I am bound by that oath to 
 
Remanded 163 
 
 deliver myself into his hands to-day. Where 
 is he ? ” 
 
 “ We don’t know,” replied the Magistrates. 
 “ He is not here.” 
 
 “ Then I go to seek him,” said the Priest 
 turning to the door. 
 
 The vast multitude poured out after him, as, 
 with long strides, he passed down the hillside 
 and emerged on the square. Here the shouting 
 was again taken up, hats were waved — but all 
 were stilled into silence when they saw the 
 grave man moving rapidly onward, looking 
 neither to the right nor to the left, and an awed 
 and silent multitude following. 
 
 Then the whole crowd fell into line, and, 
 with wondering eyes and parted lips, followed 
 the Priest. 
 
 V 
 
 The Main Street is a long, narrow street, curving 
 in a crescent from the bridge, and extending pro- 
 bably about a mile from the extreme end where 
 the Courthouse was situated to Annabella House, 
 the residence of the Magistrate, Mr. Clayton. 
 Silent, but tumultuous in their actions and 
 
Remanded 
 
 164 
 
 motions, wondering, curious, afraid, the great 
 crowd poured in a rapid stream, swelled here 
 and there by contingents from narrow lanes 
 and side streets. 
 
 The Priest walked a few paces in front. No 
 one spoke to him. He moved along quickly, 
 as one questing for some object that might evade 
 him, his head erect, and the ordinary pallor 
 of his face heightened by a pale pink flush. 
 In less than ten minutes he stood at the iron 
 gate that led into the park, and the multitude 
 swept round him in curves that gradually 
 thickened into one compact mass of humanity. 
 It was a bright March morning. The black 
 buds were just breaking into tiny beads of soft 
 green. A heavy dew lay on the grass, and was 
 smoking under the sun’s rays, except where the 
 shadows of the elms fell. The house, a square 
 mansion, without pretensions to architecture, 
 looked very white in the morning light, and the 
 shuttered windows stared, like the white eyes 
 of a blind man, at the sky. 
 
 “No man passes this gate but myself,” said 
 the Priest. “ I go alone to see what awaits me.” 
 
 A murmur of disappointment trembled through 
 the crowd, and some ragged youngsters, to 
 
Remanded 
 
 165 
 
 console themselves, clambered on the walls, 
 from which they were instantly dislodged. The 
 Priest closed the gate and moved along the 
 gravelled walk to the house. The blinds were 
 down and the shutters closed. He knocked 
 gently. No answer. Then imperiously, and a 
 footman appeared. 
 
 “ I want to see your master, Mr. Clayton.” 
 
 “ You cannot see him,” said the man angrily. 
 
 “ I insist upon seeing him,” said the Priest ; 
 “ I have an engagement with him.” 
 
 “ You cannot see him,” said the man nervously. 
 
 “ Take him my message,” said the Priest. 
 “ Say that Thomas Duan, priest and prisoner, 
 must see him.” 
 
 “ Take your own message, then ! ” cried the 
 man, as he passed into the kitchen. 
 
 The Priest walked upstairs, whither the man 
 had pointed. He paused on the lobby un- 
 certainly, then pushed open a half-closed door 
 and entered. The room was dark. He opened 
 the shutters and drew the blind. Then even 
 his great nerve gave way. For, lying on the 
 white coverlet, his head shattered into an un- 
 distinguishable mass of bone and blood, his 
 brains blackening the white wall behind his 
 
i66 
 
 Remanded 
 
 pillow, his right hand clutching a heavy pistol, 
 was Clayton ; and there, on the floor, was the 
 mouldering, disinterred corpse of Abina Walsh, 
 the face just darkening in incipient decomposi- 
 tion, and the brown earth clinging to her bare 
 feet and black clothes. 
 
 The Priest could not restrain a cry of horror 
 as he rushed from that awful chamber of death. 
 Whatever he had expected, it was his inten- 
 tion to give himself up formally into the custody 
 of his enemy by placing his right hand on 
 Clayton’s and interlocking his fingers, as had 
 happened on the day when he took the oath. 
 But all other feelings vanished at the dreadful 
 spectacle he had just witnessed. Full of horror 
 and self-humiliation at the sight of such awful 
 retribution, he passed rapidly to the gate. Then 
 raising his sonorous voice to its fullest pitch, 
 he said to the expectant multitude : 
 
 “ Go back to your homes and fall upon your 
 knees to implore God’s mercy. And let them 
 who have touched the dead beware ! ” Then, 
 in a lower voice he said, almost to himself, 
 “ I know not which is more dreadful — the wrath 
 of God or the vengeance of man ! ” 
 
 For years Annabella House lay untenanted. 
 
Remanded 
 
 167 
 
 It was believed that no human power could 
 wash away the dread blood stains on the wall. 
 Paint and lime were tried in vain. Even when 
 the mortar was scraped away the red stains 
 appeared on the masonry. About thirty years 
 ago it was pulled down, and the green grass is 
 now growing on the foundations of a once famous 
 mansion. 
 
HOW THE ANGEL BECAME HAPPY 
 
 I 
 
 The angel’s name was Astrael. 
 
 He was not one of the great Archangels that 
 stand close before the throne of God, nor did 
 he belong to any of the seven orders of spirits, 
 but his place was far down in the lower choirs, 
 but directly facing the great white throne of 
 the Lamb. He was one of the faithful few 
 that smote and hurled from the battlements 
 of heaven the fallen angels, when St. Michael 
 raised his battle-cry, “ Who is like unto God ? ” 
 and from that time he had many chosen and 
 delicate duties appointed him, all of which he 
 discharged most faithfully for the love of his 
 great King. For the first thousand years after 
 the fall of the angels, he was charged with the 
 care of a great beautiful star that was quenched 
 when the angels fell, for you must know that 
 every star in heaven is called after its angel ; 
 and the stars that belonged to the rebel angels 
 
How the Angel became Happy 169 
 
 were suddenly extinguished when God drove 
 these unfaithful servants from heaven. Then 
 they were re-lighted. So every night our angel 
 had to fly through the fields of space, and light 
 up this beautiful star, and hold it aloft in his 
 great right hand, whilst he himself fronted the 
 Almighty. Hence, he took his name Astrael, 
 that is, angel of the star. 
 
 But after a thousand years his duties were 
 changed. And for a thousand more he was 
 charged with the duty of watching a great 
 white lily, that budded and expanded from 
 spring to summer, and was finally gathered 
 and placed before the Blessed Sacrament. So 
 every springtide he came upon earth, and drew 
 up the tiny green shoot from the brown mould, 
 and every day made it stronger, until at last 
 the white petals would peep out from the green 
 sheath. And then as it grew and broadened, 
 and the white velvet leaves expanded, he had 
 to keep it very pure and unstained, and ever 
 and anon he shook his wings over it, and a 
 beautiful perfume fell on the lily, and was 
 wafted over the garden. At last it was tenderly 
 cut, and placed in a beautiful vase, and our 
 angel came with it into the silent chapel, and 
 
170 How the Angel became Happy 
 
 bent over it, and touched the leaves with his 
 lips to keep them fresh, and then bent very 
 low before the Tabernacle, and flew back to his 
 place in heaven. 
 
 Now, our angel was not very happy out there 
 amongst the great lonely stars ; and, though 
 he was much happier amongst his lilies, there 
 was always a pain at his heart — a sad, melan- 
 choly feeling that he could not put aside. Be- 
 cause he saw day after day in the courts of 
 heaven a strange thing take place. Several of 
 his companions would return to their places 
 after many years’ absence, and many would 
 return very sad, and he could see their eyes 
 red from weeping, and notice that they always 
 kept their wings closed, yet their hot tears 
 would drop on the bright shining floors. But 
 some would return, their faces full of joy, and 
 now and again they would bring with them 
 another beautiful spirit, not an angel, yet very 
 like an angel, and Astrael was quite jealous to 
 see the deep love and affection which his com- 
 panions had for these souls. And he heard 
 them called the “ children of the angels,” and 
 the angels called their guardians. And he was 
 hoping and praying every day that the great 
 
How the Angel became Happy 1 7 1 
 
 King would call him, and send him to earth, 
 and give him such a precious charge ; but 
 hundreds of years rolled by, and Astrael was 
 unnoticed. 
 
 It was the eve of the Assumption of our 
 Blessed Lady ; and there was great joy in heaven. 
 They were all preparing to celebrate the feast 
 of God’s Holy Mother in a worthy manner ; 
 but Astrael noticed that there was the greatest 
 eagerness to do honour to the great Queen 
 amongst the children of the angels. Suddenly 
 a bright thought struck him. He would ask 
 the Blessed Virgin to grant him the great desire 
 of his heart. He prayed for the favour. But 
 he had no need of asking. For our Blessed Lady 
 read his thoughts ; and the morning had scarcely 
 dawned, when he heard his name, “ Astrael ! 
 Astrael ! ” shouted through the courts of heaven. 
 He looked up in amaze. All eyes were turned 
 to him. Suddenly there came flashing along 
 the great choirs who bent humbly before him, 
 a mighty Archangel, his broad wings extended, 
 his hair flying like a cloud behind him, and he 
 stood over Astrael, and said, “ Follow me ! ” 
 And Astrael rose, and followed him far up 
 among the Cherubim and Seraphim, until at 
 
172 How the Angel became Happy 
 
 last a great light shone upon him, like the light 
 of a thousand suns, and he covered his face 
 with his hands, for he was blinded, and found 
 himself standing face to face with the Queen 
 of Heaven. Gabriel stood beside him. And 
 his Queen spoke thus, and her voice was soft 
 and gentle : “ Astrael, I know the prayer of 
 
 your heart. To-day it is granted to you. For 
 to-day there is bom on earth a child whom 
 I place under your protection. She shall be 
 called Mary. Bring her safe here to the foot 
 of my throne to bless you and me for ever ! ” 
 Astrael thought he should have died from joy 
 at this mark of favour from the great Queen. 
 He could not speak, so he bowed very low ; 
 and, accompanied by Gabriel, shot down like 
 an arrow from heaven, and passed out amongst 
 the stars. 
 
 II 
 
 A dark and narrow lane in a crowded city, 
 a tall house, black and begrimed from smoke, 
 windows broken and patched with paper, a 
 rickety staircase that led up and up ever so 
 high to an attic, where the rafters, festooned 
 
How the Angel became Happy 173 
 
 with cobwebs, were plainly visible, and under 
 the rafters a wooden box filled with a little 
 straw, and on the straw a little babe just born 
 — here is what Astrael saw when he had swept 
 the bright skies and fluttered to the earth. It 
 was a tiny babe, but very beautiful, with blue 
 eyes that blinked at the light, and a little rose- 
 bud of a mouth, and pink fingers that opened 
 and shut, and found nothing. And Astrael 
 bent over the cradle lovingly, and fanned the 
 babe with his great wings, and felt very happy. 
 After a few days he stood beside the baptismal 
 font, saw the white robe of innocence placed 
 round the infant, and heard it called by the 
 sweet name of “ Mary.” Then he rested for 
 seven years, gathering all his strength for the 
 struggle which he knew was coming. Now and 
 again he would sweep down to the earth, and 
 whisper some things to the mother, and then 
 she would clasp her child closer, and pray and 
 pray that God would save her child from sin. 
 And then, when Mary could walk, and was be- 
 ginning to know the names of things, Astrael 
 would teach her the names of Jesus and His 
 Mother, and put little pictures in her way, and 
 lead her sometimes into the quiet church, where 
 
1 74 How the Angel became Happy 
 
 she would sit for hours, the angel by her side, 
 looking up and wondering at the pictures in 
 the stained-glass window, at the statues of the 
 Sacred Heart and the Madonna, and, above all, 
 at the great crucifix that stood by the pulpit 
 with the white figure upon it, and the red 
 marks in the hands and feet and side. Some- 
 how, she could scarcely tear herself away from 
 the study of this crucifix. She would sit, her 
 hands folded in her lap, her blue eyes wide open 
 and sorrowful, gazing at the sad face and droop- 
 ing figure, the wreath of thorns on the head, 
 the black nails, the red blood. But above all, 
 the sad eyes of the figure haunted her. She 
 thought they were looking straight into her 
 own, and once or twice she thought she saw the 
 lips parting, and heard the voice speaking, and 
 she was going up to the crucifix, when her 
 mother lifted her from the bench, and took 
 her home, and said she was a strange child. 
 
 Now, the seven years went by, and the struggle 
 commenced. One day, when Astrael, full of joy, 
 had entered the little room, he saw sitting close 
 by Mary a dark spirit, in whose eyes there was 
 a baleful fire, but who spoke so softly, so sweetly, 
 that the angel Astrael was deceived, until he 
 
How the Angel became Happy 175 
 
 saw on the forehead of the spirit the red mark 
 that denoted eternal reprobation. He was face 
 to face, the first time for several thousand years, 
 with a fallen spirit. He trembled, but recovered 
 himself, and took his usual place by Mary’s 
 side. But, when he looked on the child, he 
 was frightened. The sweet look of peace had 
 died away from the blue eyes, which were now 
 troubled, the face was hot and flushed, and 
 the hands that had lain so peacefully together 
 were clenched and moistened. Some dark 
 thought was in the mind of the child. It was 
 the first temptation. The dark spirit spoke, 
 and the face became more clouded. He brought 
 up before the mind of the child some hard 
 words that had passed in school between the 
 children that day, and he touched with his 
 dark finger a red burning spot where a little 
 girl had struck Mary’s cheek in her anger. He 
 prompted her to revenge, told her how sweet 
 it would be to strike back again, and how her 
 companions would applaud her. The child’s 
 face grew' darker and darker ; the crimson on 
 her cheek grew brighter and brighter. 
 
 Astrael was in despair, and in despair he 
 cried aloud to his Queen to assist him. That 
 
176 How the Angel became Happy 
 
 moment the mother entered. She had on her 
 shawl and bonnet. She had returned from 
 market, and thought she would pay a visit to 
 the church. She called to Mary to come ; but 
 Mary did not heed her. She came over and 
 shook the child, and then, seeing her burning 
 face and her eyes bloodshot, she cried out with 
 a great cry, fearing that her child was sick. 
 And, snatching her up hastily, she fled to the 
 church, flung herself at the feet of the crucifix, 
 and cried to God with all her heart to save her 
 child. Now, the child was saved ; but not, as 
 the mother thought, from death, but from sin. 
 For no sooner had Mary seen the crucifix, and 
 looked into the sorrowful eyes that seemed ever 
 so sad to-day, and recollected all that she had 
 heard of the sufferings of her Saviour, than 
 her heart was broken with sorrow, and she 
 felt a great lump in her throat, and she leaned 
 on her mother and wept bitterly. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Now, months and years rolled by, and every- 
 thing seemed to go smoothly with Mary, but 
 it was a terrible and anxious time for her angel. 
 
How the Angel became Happy 177 
 
 If he never left her side, even for an instant, 
 neither did the dark spirit. And no one can 
 suspect what an awful conflict was being waged 
 around the soul of that little child. Daily she 
 went to school, her face shining, her yellow 
 curls tossed over her shoulders, her blue eyes 
 looking before her, and above her; and within 
 her was raging the conflict of sin and grace, 
 of darkness and light. How watchful all the 
 time her good angel was ! How carefully he 
 removed from her way the snares that were laid 
 for her by the enemy ; how often he laid his 
 fingers softly over her eyes, lest they should 
 stray from curiosity into danger ; how often 
 he closed her lips when she was tempted to 
 utter angry words ; and how tenderly he put 
 her hands together, and guarded the wander- 
 ing mind when she knelt at prayer, and gave 
 up her soul to God ! 
 
 These last were happy times for Astrael. They 
 were the only moments of relief he enjoyed 
 during the day. When the mother took Mary 
 to morning Mass, or to evening Benediction, 
 Astrael could go aside into some private chapel, 
 and join his brother angels in the canticle of 
 triumph that goes up everlastingly from the 
 
 M 
 
 I 
 
178 How the Angel became Happy 
 
 choirs of angels, both in heaven and upon earth. 
 But these were brief moments. The instant 
 Mary set foot outside the church, the angel’s 
 charge commenced again, and lasted through 
 the day, and even into the watches of the night. 
 For even when darkness was upon the face of 
 nature, darkness unbroken save by the silver 
 lamps which the angels hung out in heaven, 
 and when the restless eyes of the world were 
 closed, and Mary amongst other children of 
 humanity breathed peacefully in her little cot, 
 Astrael stood watching, his broad wings closed, 
 and himself motionless except for the night 
 wind that lifted now and again his long hair 
 from his shoulders. It was a beautiful sight — 
 the angel and the child. Mary peacefully 
 breathing in the calm sleep of childhood, her 
 yellow hair tossed over the pillow, like threads 
 of gold', and her face calm and beautiful. The 
 angel looking at her intently, dreaming of the 
 time when she would be a saint in heaven, and 
 he would claim her as his child, and now and 
 again turning from her to look up into the eyes 
 of the stars, and thinking of the bright courts 
 above them. 
 
 In childhood time passes quickly, because it 
 
How the Angel became Happy 179 
 
 is a period of enjoyment. The days flew by 
 rapidly, and whenever her birthday came round, 
 Mary wondered how a year could seem so short. 
 At last one morning she awoke, and her mother 
 kissed her, and some little' friend sent her a 
 pretty book, and on the inner page was written : 
 “ To Mary on her eleventh birthday.” “ Eleven ! 
 Can it be possible ? ” thought Mary. “ Why I 
 am quite an old woman,” and she ran rapidly 
 to the looking-glass ; but there was not a single 
 grey hair in her yellow plaits, not a single 
 wrinkle in the pink cheeks ; but, all the same, 
 Mary looked very grave, for she felt life was 
 commencing in earnest, and when she knelt 
 down that morning she said with double fervour 
 that beautiful prayer to her guardian : “ O 
 
 Angel of God, to whose holy care I am com- 
 mitted,” &c. 
 
 But there was something else that made our 
 child very grave, yet very happy this morning. 
 For the great event of her childhood, her First 
 Communion, had been deferred until her eleventh 
 year. Mary was one of the quickest in her 
 class. She was not only studious, but God had 
 given her great gifts, and she had not only 
 mastered her Catechism, but she knew the 
 
1 8 o How the Angel became Happy 
 
 meaning of every word, and could sometimes 
 give a little lecture of her own on the mysteries 
 of our holy faith. But it was thought better to 
 wait until she was a little more grown, that she 
 might have more time to prepare carefully for 
 the great day of First Communion. But now 
 that she was eleven, there was no further obstacle 
 in the way, and hence was she very grave, very 
 serious, but very happy on this birthday morning. 
 
 The next few months flew rapidly by. It was 
 midsummer, and one morning when the sun was 
 shining eyer so warmly on the earth, and the air 
 was full of the incense which the flowers sent up 
 towards heaven, sixty children assembled in their 
 parochial church to make their First Communion. 
 
 There was a vast number of people present, 
 the mothers and sisters of the children, and 
 what they saw was this : Six rows of children, 
 all dressed in white with blue sashes, with veils 
 over their head^, and flowers and candles in their 
 hands ; and they looked so serious, yet so 
 happy, that many aged persons felt themselves 
 deeply touched, and sometimes a tear would 
 gather and steal down the furrowed cheeks of 
 some who remembered their own First Com- 
 munion of long ago, and thought of the many 
 
How the Angel became Happy 1 8 1 
 
 things that had happened since then. But I 
 saw something more than the people. For I 
 saw amongst the ranks of the children many 
 bright spirits that stood motionless and silent, 
 each watching his precious charge, and amongst 
 them I recognised Astrael, looking ever so happy 
 and so bright, as he bent over Mary’s golden 
 hair, and whispered to her many beautiful 
 things of God and the Blessed Sacrament, and 
 the Holy Mother. Not a trace was there of 
 the dark spirits this morning. They dared not 
 come into so holy a place ; and as the angels 
 hovered over their precious charges, I could 
 not see a trace of anxiety on their faces. They 
 seemed as happy as the children. 
 
 Well, the Mass went on. The children had 
 approached the altar rails, and had now re- 
 turned to their places, when I saw Astrael arise 
 and leave Mary’s side, and hovering in the air 
 for an instant, I saw him kneeling before a 
 statue of the Virgin and Child that was placed 
 in one of the side-chapels. For a while he was 
 motionless. He then passed his hand slowly 
 across his forehead as if he were thinking 
 whether he was going to do what was right. At 
 last he fully made up his mind, and, with his 
 
1 8 2 How the Angel became Happy 
 
 hands clasped, and his eyes fixed on the statue 
 of his Queen, he prayed ever so earnestly — that 
 Mary might die ! 
 
 What a terrible thing, you will say ; but 
 nevertheless it is true. He prayed that Mary 
 might die in her perfect innocence. He thought 
 of the past, of the first temptation, of the risks 
 that Mary ran, of the narrow escape from sin 
 she had had ; he thought of heaven, and how 
 certainly now Mary would be admitted there ; 
 he thought of the angels whom he had some- 
 times seen returning, and whose hot tears fell 
 on the shining floors of the heavenly city, and 
 he shuddered and trembled to think that this 
 might possibly be his own fate if Mary should 
 live, and he prayed ever so earnestly that his 
 Queen would now take her child to heaven in 
 her innocence ; and, strange to say, his prayer 
 was heard, for he saw distinctly the statue bend 
 its head towards him ; and, full of joy, he flew 
 back and once more took his place at the side 
 of Mary. 
 
 IV 
 
 There were a few days of rejoicing, of intense 
 piety and happiness, and then Mary felt a 
 
How the Angel became Happy 183 
 
 strange languor creep over her. The hand of 
 the great dark angel, called Death, was laid 
 upon her. 
 
 She struggled against it, became more gay 
 and playful than ever for a while, but the angel 
 was too strong for her, and gradually she faded 
 away. The roses disappeared from her cheeks, 
 her quick, elastic step became slow and heavy, 
 her breathing became very difficult, and she 
 often felt inclined to lie down and rest, though 
 she had done nothing to tire herself. Her 
 mother, for a while, shut her eyes to Mary’s 
 illness, but one day, whilst the child was bend- 
 ing over the fire, there came upon her a sharp, 
 dry cough, that shook her and made her tremble 
 all over ; and the mother started from her seat, 
 and then resumed her work, but a great lump 
 gathered in her throat, and a big tear slowly 
 filled, and fell upon her hand. But when Mary 
 asked, “ What is the matter, mamma ? ” she 
 said nothing, but proceeded with her work. 
 
 And now Mary felt a strange longing for soli- 
 tude. The noise of the children in the streets 
 distressed her, and she would steal away from 
 her playmates, and hide herself behind the 
 pillars of the church, turning over and over the 
 
1 84 How the Angel became Happy 
 
 leaves of the prayer-book, or the beads of the 
 Rosary. Her favourite spot was before that 
 very statue near which Astrael had prayed for 
 her death. And her angel, when he saw her 
 there, her white face lifted up towards our 
 Blessed Lady, her thin fingers rolling the beads, 
 and death, all the time, stealing away her life, 
 felt a kind of remorse and pain, because he had 
 prayed that the great Queen might take her 
 to heaven. And so the days went on, and every 
 day Mary grew more weak and pale and thin, 
 and the cough became worse, until at last she 
 could no longer move of herself, but her mother 
 used to lift her, and place her on the sofa, and 
 put before her a picture of her dear Madonna, 
 which she had won as a prize at school. And 
 now came a time when Astrael had to pray 
 and watch without ceasing. For now the dark 
 spirit redoubled his attacks on the soul of the 
 child, and seven other spirits, worse than him- 
 self, were there, to tempt the poor child to sin. 
 But prayer and holy inspirations, and pious 
 thoughts came to help her, and the grace which 
 she had received in her First Communion was 
 there untouched and undiminished. 
 
 At last the great harvest feast of our Lady 
 
How the Angel became Happy 185 
 
 came round. It was again the eve of the Assump- 
 tion. All the children were to go to Holy Com- 
 munion in the morning ; and Mary, now brought 
 very low, yearned to go with the rest, and kneel 
 at the Holy Altar, where she had received such 
 graces before. She asked her mother might she 
 go ; but her mother shook her head sadly. She 
 promised, however, that early in the morning, 
 immediately after the first Mass, the priest 
 should come to her. That night the angel never 
 stirred from his post by the foot of Mary’s bed. 
 Deep down by the corners of the walls, and up 
 in the corners of the ceiling, were myriads of 
 dark spirits, crouching and afraid, yet with 
 baleful eyes fixed on the dying girl. They 
 dared not approach. For Astrael, with wings 
 stretched out and head bowed down, held a 
 long sword of flame, extended along Mary’s 
 couch, and it quivered and shone in the dark- 
 ness, and its bright light was a terror to the 
 spirits of evil. And there was the angel, calm, 
 silent, quiet, but determined that no harm should 
 reach that soul which he had kept pure till now. 
 
 The morning dawned bright and warm. The 
 deep bell tolling for Mass awoke Mary, and for 
 the last time she whispered her prayer to her 
 
1 8 6 How the Angel became Happy 
 
 Angel Guardian. Her thoughts went out to the 
 church, and the groups of happy communicants ; 
 and, as the music of the hymns which the children 
 sang came into her memory, she could not help 
 crying very softly to herself. And then her 
 mother came, and put on her white dress and 
 blue sash, and placed on her head the wreath 
 of flowers that she had worn before, and as she 
 lay in her bed, very peaceful and very happy, 
 the tinkling of a little bell stole into her ears, 
 and she knew that her Lord was coming to her. 
 How the dark angels trembled and feared, and 
 pushed each other against the walls, as the 
 priest mounted the' stairs and deposited on 
 the table the sacred vessel that contained Our 
 Lord ! And when, kneeling lowly, he uncovered 
 it, Astrael sheathed his sword of flame, and 
 drew in and covered his face with his wings, 
 for even he dared not look on the Holy One, 
 the Mighty, “ before whom the stars are not 
 pure.” But Mary, propped with pillows, her 
 hands clasped, her eyes shining, received her 
 Lord meekly and holily, and then, shutting her 
 eyes, lay back very peaceful and very happy. 
 And now Extreme Unction was administered, 
 and the Plenary Indulgence imparted, and the 
 
How the Angel became Happy 187 
 
 priest passed away. But Astrael stirred not, 
 but kept his watch. 
 
 The day wore on. Many prayers were offered 
 up for the dying child, she herself slumbering 
 peacefully. Murmurs rose all day long round 
 the bedside ; murmurs of supplication to the 
 throne of heaven for the sweet child whom every 
 one loved for her meekness and sanctity. Her 
 schoolmates came in during the afternoon in 
 their white dresses. They came to say a last 
 word to their dear companion. But when they 
 saw her sleeping so calmly they would not 
 disturb her, but each of them in turn put a 
 little offering of flowers on the bed, and kissed 
 the white lips, and said “ Good-bye, Mary ! ” 
 
 Evening came'. High up in the sky the clouds 
 were piled. You could see them plainly from 
 Mary’s bed in the attic ; and they were turned 
 all red and purple and gold by the rays of the 
 setting sun ; six o’clock came, and in a few 
 seconds the Angelus Bell rang out its three 
 clear notes. Mary started up, and looked round 
 frightened. In a moment her mother’s arm was 
 around her. 
 
 “ Where am I, mamma ? ” said she. 
 
 “ Here, my child, at home,” said the mother. 
 
1 8 8 How the Angel became Happy 
 
 “ And those flowers, what brought them here ? ” 
 said Mary feeling the leaves, to assure herself 
 that they were real. 
 
 “ Your companions brought them, my child,” 
 said the mother. 
 
 “ Because — because,” said the dying girl, pass- 
 ing her hand slowly over her forehead, “ because 
 I was dreaming, and I thought that I saw the 
 Blessed Virgin in the heavens, seated on a golden 
 throne amongst the clouds, just like them,” 
 pointing to the red clouds piled above her win- 
 dow, “ and there was a multitude of angels 
 with her, and there was one I knew — at least, 
 I thought I knew — and he looked at me so 
 kindly, and he flung these flowers at me, and 
 then — and then ” — her breathing came very 
 fast — “ and then — our Lady — beckoned to me, 
 and I was just — rising — up — to go to her, and 
 then — and then — and then ” — the rosy clouds 
 threw a beautiful light on her face, then came 
 a white shadow, and the eyes closed and the 
 lips parted in a smile ; and the mother, sobbing, 
 bent down and kissed the poor white lips, and 
 said, as the last tones of the Angelus were linger- 
 ing in the air, “ And then, my pet, our Lady 
 took you safe to her home in heaven.” 
 
How the Angel became Happy 189 
 
 But that wasn’t quite right, for I saw Astrael 
 with a look of joy I shall remember for ever, 
 put his sword into its sheath, and clasping the 
 beautiful soul of the child in his arms, he sped 
 upwards through the rosy clouds, cleaving the 
 light air with every pulsation of his wings, and 
 singing a carol of triumph, that made the lark, 
 who was enjoying his evening song, quite 
 ashamed, and fly down to his little ones in the 
 nest. 
 
 Wasn’t there joy in heaven, as Astrael, with 
 his precious charge, stood once more on the 
 shining floors ! How the angels smiled and 
 welcomed him ; and then made a long avenue 
 for him and Mary, as they sped up and up 
 and to the great White Throne of the Judge. 
 And how did Astrael feel when, passing the 
 throne of our Lady, she smiled on him, and 
 said, “ Well done, good and faithful Astrael ! ” 
 and when, still farther up, he placed his precious 
 charge before the Judgment Seat ; and without 
 a word of examination, the Eternal Word took 
 the child and presented her to the Father and 
 to the Holy Ghost. 
 
 The mother was weeping by the little bed, on 
 which lay the lifeless body of her child. She 
 
1 90 How the Angel became Happy 
 
 had composed the arms on the bosom, and placed 
 a crucifix between them, and ever and anon she 
 hid her face in the bedclothes, and murmured, 
 “ God help me this holy night.” She didn’t 
 understand that her child was standing bright 
 and beautiful, amongst the heavenly choirs, nor 
 that there was an angel, named Astrael, who 
 would not be contented with stars and flowers, 
 but he had a child given him, and he had saved 
 her, and that child was Mary. 
 
 And this was how the angel became happy. 
 
FRANK FORREST’S MINCE-PIE 
 
 I 
 
 “ I declare, Frank,” said Mrs. Forrest, “ that 
 is the fourth mince-pie you have eaten this 
 evening. I am afraid, my boy, they will make 
 you ill, so put away this one until to-morrow.” 
 
 Frank knew not how to disobey his beloved 
 mother ; so he promptly took up the delicacy, 
 and placed it in the cupboard. It was Christmas 
 Eve. Presently a feeble, timid knock was heard ; 
 and, as cook was ever so busy preparing tarts 
 and pies for the morrow, Frank ran to the door 
 and opened it. A gust of sleety wind nearly 
 lifted him from his feet, and a few snowflakes 
 fell softly on the floor, and melted slowly on 
 the carpet in the hall. 
 
 “ Something for the children,” said a weak, 
 faltering voice ; and Frank saw before him a 
 pale, delicate woman shivering in the icy wind. 
 She had a child in her arms, looking sickly, 
 and the snow had made a little crown for his 
 
 1 91 
 
192 Frank Forrest’s Mince-Pie 
 
 head on the cloak which his mother had wrapped 
 around him. She held another child by the 
 hand, and its little rags flapped and fluttered, 
 as the cruel storm tossed them, and pierced the 
 little limbs with its icy needles. 
 
 “ Stop a moment,” said Frank, who was a 
 rough, brusque, manly lad, but had tender feel- 
 ings, though he was unconscious of possessing 
 them. In a few moments he returned with the 
 following miscellany, several buns, scraps of 
 cold meat, a paper of tea, a paper of soft sugar, 
 a bunch of raisins, a wooden monkey on a stick, 
 a battered doll, and, crowning all, his own mince- 
 pie which he had put away for the morrow. 
 
 “ God bless you, dear,” said the woman, as 
 she opened her apron and wrapped up all these 
 treasures ; and a smile flashed across her face 
 and lighted up her eyes, as if an angel had 
 rushed by and touched and transfigured her. 
 
 Nine o’clock came, and Frank sat by his bed- 
 room fire, watching the flames dancing and 
 leaping, and gambolling around the bars. Then, 
 slowly and reluctantly, he pulled off one shoe 
 after another, and soon found himself nestling 
 in his little cot, listening to the wild storm that 
 shook the windows, and wondering where were 
 
Frank Forrest’s Mince-Pie 193 
 
 the children resting whom he had seen that 
 afternoon. Softly sleep stole upon him, and he 
 closed his eyes in the peaceful slumber of boy- 
 hood. 
 
 Boom — boom — boom. It was the great 
 Cathedral bell swinging out the midnight hour, 
 and sending its welcome tones on the wings of 
 the storm. Frank started up. 
 
 Ding - dong, ding - dong, ding - dong ; and, 
 mingling their sweet silvery notes with the deep 
 booming, the joybells pealed out rapturously 
 the Christmas chimes. Frank heard the hall- 
 door open and shut, and he knew that mother 
 was going through the storm to the midnight 
 Mass. He rubbed his eyes, and looked around. 
 Heigho ! what’s this ? He rubbed his eyes 
 again, then started up and leaned on his elbow. 
 No doubt about it. There, in his own chair, 
 opposite the fire, was a little old man, not a bit 
 bigger than Frank himself. He held his hands 
 before the fire, and Frank could see their dark 
 shadows distinctly before the red embers. For 
 a moment the boy was astonished, but presently 
 his boyish daring and courage came back, and 
 he shouted cheerily : 
 
 “ Hallo ! old fellow, a happy Christmas ! ” 
 
 N 
 
194 Frank Forrest’s Mince-Pie 
 
 The stranger rose slowly, then came to the 
 bedside, his two hands folded behind his back, 
 and bending over the boy, he exclaimed, half- 
 seriously, half- jestingly : 
 
 “ Ah ! you bad boy ! ” 
 
 “ I am not a bad boy,” said Frank, indignant 
 at such an answer to his welcome, “ and you 
 have no right to say so.” 
 
 “ Where’s my mince-pie ? ” said the old 
 man, lifting up one finger, and shaking it 
 warningly. 
 
 “ I am sure,” said Frank, “ I don’t know 
 where’s your mince-pie ; but I gave mine to a 
 poor woman.” 
 
 “ Ah ! you bad boy,” said the stranger again, 
 as he slowly turned away and took up his seat 
 by the fireplace. 
 
 But Frank knew that the old man did not 
 mean what he said. Presently, his hand dived 
 deep, deep down into his pocket, and he placed 
 on the table, near Frank’s collars and cuffs, the 
 very identical mince-pie which Frank had given 
 the poor woman at the door. There it was, 
 with its mitred edge, its brown crust, and the 
 five currants which Frank had ordered the cook 
 to place crosswise on the top. The old man 
 
Frank Forrest’s Mince-Pie 195 
 
 lifted off the crust and placed it gently beside 
 him. 
 
 “ He’s going to eat it, the old glutton,” 
 thought Frank ; “he surely stole it from the 
 poor woman.” But no ! he simply lighted a 
 match on the coals, and swiftly passed it round 
 the edge of the pie before him. A bright blue 
 flame shot upwards, flickering and flashing in 
 the darkness till it reached the ceiling. Then 
 it assumed gradually the form of a house on 
 fire. The windpws were shown clearly against 
 the dark walls by the terrible flames within, 
 and Frank could see the little spurts of fire that 
 broke from the slates on the roof. Now there 
 was a rumbling and the confused murmur of 
 many voices, and the tramping of many feet, 
 and a noise like the roaring of the sea. Then 
 therb was a wild shout, and a tiny jet of water 
 rose like a thread from the crowd and scattered 
 its showers upon the fire. Another shout, and 
 the boy’s heart sank within him as he saw at 
 the window of the burning house a young lad 
 like himself, clad only in his night-dress, terror 
 and agony on his face, and his arms flung wildly 
 hither and thither. A cheer went up, and a 
 ladder was planted firmly against the window, 
 
196 Frank Forrest’s Mince-Pie 
 
 and a sailor lad swiftly ascended, and in a 
 moment the little fluttering figure was grasped 
 in the strong arms, and carried safely where 
 gentle hands and warm hearts would protect 
 him. Frank’s heart was throbbing wildly, the 
 perspiration stood out in beads on his forehead, 
 when he heard the harsh voice of the old man : 
 
 “ Shut your eyes ! ” 
 
 Frank shut them, but kept one little corner 
 open, and he saw the old man quietly taking up 
 the crust and place it in the pie, completely 
 extinguishing this awful conflagration. And the 
 Christmas bells were chiming. 
 
 “ Shut your eyes ! ” said the old man again, 
 quite angrily. And Frank shut them, and kept 
 them closed for a long time, as he thought. 
 
 “ Look,” said the same voice. 
 
 Frank opened his eyes, fearing and wondering 
 what new strange vision was going to burst 
 on him. It was nothing terrible, however ; but 
 somehow the mince-pie had expanded and grown 
 into a deep and broad valley, with rugged rocks 
 and strange dark places, and black mountains 
 huddled together, and tossed about as if by an 
 earthquake. And from their midst rose a mighty 
 peak, the base of which was. clothed with fir 
 
Frank Forrest’s Mince-Pie 197 
 
 trees, and farther up were black frowning rocks, 
 and the top was crowned by a pinnacle of snow 
 that shot up high into the air, and was lost 
 beyond the ceiling of the little bedroom. At 
 the base of the mountain was a village, and 
 there was a bustle in the village, and the noise 
 of many tongues. In the street many mules 
 were standing, laden with provisions, and three 
 guides, tall and strong, and brown, strolled up 
 and down, their alpenstocks in their hands, and 
 huge coils of rope strung across their shoulders. 
 Three young gentlemen stood apart, talking 
 earnestly. They were young, scarcely more 
 than boys, but there was vigour and courage in 
 their looks, and gait and manner. They had 
 not heard of the word “ Danger ! ” At last one 
 separated from the rest, and walked away quite 
 dejected and angry. The word was given, and 
 the two gentlemen and their guides set out to 
 scale the mountain. They were watched until 
 they turned the spur of the hill. Then one 
 ringing cheer, and they disappeared in the 
 shadows of the mountains. The day wore on, 
 and evening came. But before the twilight 
 descended, Frank saw that people came from 
 their houses with long telescopes, and levelled 
 
198 Frank Forrest’s Mince-Pie 
 
 them at the snowy summit. Nothing was 
 visible there, as Frank could see, but the cold, 
 hard, glittering snow, shining pink and ruby 
 from the reflections of the fire. Suddenly there 
 was a shout : “ There they are ! ” Frank 
 
 looked, and thought he saw five tiny black 
 specks in the snow, linked together by a thread. 
 Slowly these specks moved up the slippery sur- 
 face until they were lost in the clouds. A few 
 minutes those same black specks reappeared, 
 toiling down the steep side of the mountain of 
 ice. Frank held his breath. They had already 
 travelled down half the mountain, when the 
 lowest figure on the rope fell, and one after 
 another the brave climbers were tossed from 
 cliff to cliff, from precipice to precipice, until 
 they were lost in the black valleys beneath. A 
 cry of horror had gone up from the village. 
 Frank shut his eyes, and put his fingers in his 
 ears. After a few moments he looked again, 
 and saw lights flashing in the village, and dark 
 figures hurrying to and fro, and he felt they 
 were going out to seek for the dead bodies of 
 the guides and the two gentlemen. Presently 
 a bell began to toll, and Frank thought it too 
 cheerful for a funeral ; for now down the slope 
 
Frank Forrest’s Mince-Pie 199 
 
 of the hill, in amongst the trees, out across the 
 valley, he saw the lights shining, and slowly the 
 procession entered the village. Mountaineers, 
 with their heads bent down, carried on their 
 shoulders a bier, and on the bier was something 
 covered with a black cloth. Behind them came 
 a young man, whom Frank recognised as the 
 companion, who was left behind in the morning. 
 He was weeping silently, now and again passing 
 his handkerchief across his face. 
 
 For one moment he raised his head, and the 
 red light of the torches fell upon him, and Frank 
 saw that it was himself, and he felt himself 
 choking at the thought of his narrow escape 
 from a terrible death. He lay for a while think- 
 ing and thinking, when once more he saw the 
 old man by the fire with the mince-pie on the 
 table, but the vision of the valley was gone. 
 But the Christmas chimes were ringing. 
 
 After a little while, once more the voice of the 
 old man, now very gently and lovingly, said, 
 “ Shut your eyes ! ” Frank closed his eyes 
 sorrowfully, for he felt very sad and frightened, 
 and he dreaded another terrible picture. 
 
 “ Now,” said the old man, “ you may look ! ” 
 
200 Frank Forrest’s Mince-Pie 
 
 ii 
 
 Timidly enough, Frank peered forth ; but 
 how his heart bounded with joy when he saw 
 his own beautiful harbour painted in its richest 
 colourings of blue and gold, the sunshine stream- 
 ing over its surface, and the little waves dancing 
 and leaping and flashing. He looked for a long 
 time out over the waters, but he heard the noise 
 of laughter and talking quite close at hand, and 
 he saw just beneath him a large, beautiful boat, 
 and somehow he thought that this boat was but 
 his mince-pie lengthened out and decorated. It 
 was heaving and rocking on the water, and it 
 had the straightest mast and the whitest sail in 
 the world. And in the stern Frank saw quite 
 a crowd of “ fair women and, brave men,” and 
 he knew them all as the friends of his boyhood, 
 though they were changed. Stout watermen in 
 blue jerseys were lifting hampers over the gun- 
 wale, and over all there was a something Frank 
 never saw before. It was a joy and a peace and 
 a glory as if reflected from some light brighter 
 than the sunshine. But he himself was very 
 sad. And they pitied him, and said, “ Another 
 
Frank Forrest’s Mince-Pie 201 
 
 time, Frank ; don’t grieve too much.” And 
 then the oars were planted firmly on the gravel, 
 and the boat was pushed away, and after a few 
 strokes the sail was lifted, and the breeze caught 
 it and carried the gay barque like a bird over 
 the bright waters. Frank turned away sick and 
 disappointed, but lo ! as he came along from 
 the Admiralty Pier, he saw facing him the poor 
 woman whom he had relieved and her children. 
 But she was changed. She had on that strange 
 look which passed across her face when the 
 angel touched her, and her child was bright and 
 ruddy, and held forth his hands to Frank, and 
 the little girl, dressed ever so beautifully, caught 
 Frank and bent him down towards her, and 
 whispered something that Frank could not hear. 
 But a strange peace stole over his heart, and 
 all the sorrow and disappointment were gone. 
 
 But when the evening came and the lamp 
 was lighted, and the books were opened, the 
 same sadness stole into his heart. Suddenly 
 there was a sharp ring, and a succession of 
 knocks, and hurried whisperings at the door, 
 and he heard his mother’s voice saying, “ My 
 God ! ” and then the door of his room opened, 
 and his mother glided in, and her face was wet 
 
202 Frank Forrest’s Mince-Pie 
 
 with tears, and Frank knew that the gay barque 
 of the morning was drifting out a sad wreck 
 into the high seas, and he knew also that his 
 dear friends from whom he had parted so sadly 
 in the morning were now lying cold and still on 
 the sand and shingle down deep beneath the 
 cold blue waters. But mother came near him, 
 and flung her arms round him, and he heard her 
 say : 
 
 “ Why, Frank, you lazy boy, still in bed at 
 eight o’clock Christmas morning. You promised 
 to be first in the sacristy to bid Father Ambrose 
 a happy Christmas ; and now you must wait 
 for High Mass, and there’s a pile of Christmas 
 Cards waiting for you.” 
 
 Frank lay still a moment, collecting his 
 thoughts, doubting all things, thinking all things 
 a dream. But there was the white light of the 
 Christmas snow shining in his room, and there 
 was the bell ringing for Mass, and drawing a 
 long sigh, he exclaimed : 
 
 “ O mother, I had such a dream.” 
 
 “ Never mind, my boy,” said his mother ; 
 “ you can tell it by-and-by ! ” 
 
 And by-and-by, when the tables were cleared 
 and they were sitting round the fire, and there 
 
Frank Forrest’s Mince-Pie 203 
 
 was not a shadow of gloom on the gay little 
 circle, Frank told his dream, his hand softly 
 clasped by his mother. And when he had done, 
 she smoothed away his fair locks from his fore- 
 head, and kissed him gently, and said : 
 
 “ It was not a dream, Frank, but a vision of 
 dangers from which the good God will preserve 
 my boy for his kindness to the little ones of 
 Christ.” 
 
TOPSY 1 
 
 Topsy, you must know, is a little terrier, with 
 the shaggiest coat of hair, the blackest eyes, 
 and the pertest little nose in the world. Topsy 
 is quite a genius. He not only possesses the 
 small qualifications of ordinary dogs, such as 
 fetching sticks, begging, &c., but he can balance 
 biscuits on his nose, and catch them with extra- 
 ordinary agility, carry letters and newspapers 
 to the post, and take the market-basket in his 
 mouth for the housekeeper. He also under- 
 stands the science of numbers, and won’t touch 
 a crumb of bread until twelve is counted. He 
 is a patriotic dog, with a green and gold collar 
 of which he is evidently proud. And he can 
 “ die for the Pope,” stretching himself at full 
 length, and remaining perfectly quiet and rigid, 
 until bidden to rise. 
 
 Topsy is the pet of the family, but he is my 
 
 1 The first story written by Canon Sheehan. 
 
 204 
 
lopsy 205 
 
 special friend. I am a physician ; and when I 
 return in the evening from my sick calls, up 
 he jumps from the garden seat, on which he 
 is usually rolled up like a ball, and frisking, 
 yelping, and throwing somersaults, he flies for- 
 ward to welcome me, and then rushes to the 
 house to apprise the family of my arrival. At 
 dinner, he sits patiently on the hearthrug, 
 accepting gratefully the morsels that fall to his 
 lot ; and when the children retire for the night, 
 and I draw my easy-chair to the fire, and trim 
 the lamp, and open my favourite book, Topsy 
 is my constant companion. This is explained 
 when I mention that I picked up Topsy one 
 day on the streets of London. It appears he 
 had been stolen from a lady, who was very fond 
 of him, and had been thrown away by the thief. 
 He was dirty and draggled, wet and starving, 
 when I whistled to him. He came, and since 
 that time has been an inmate of our house, 
 and a very pleasant and grateful one indeed. 
 
 Lately, however, I began to notice a change. 
 Something evidently was wrong with Topsy. 
 He came at my call as usual, but in a slow, de- 
 pressed kind of way, that showed he was entirely 
 out of spirits. He began to be fond of going 
 
206 
 
 by himself into the stable, and lying on the 
 hay asleep during the day. He shunned the 
 house, and even turned away from the little 
 dainties that were placed before him to eat. 
 This was the case for a fortnight or so. I began 
 to think he was sick. But no ! There were no 
 symptoms of illness about him. So I thought 
 I would solve the difficulty by putting the 
 question plainly to him. There is nothing like 
 an explanation. A few words often settle little 
 differences, that may possibly grow into serious 
 disputes. 
 
 So last Saturday evening, when the drawing- 
 room was cleared out and the little ones, after 
 rubbing their eyes and crying for being sent to 
 bed so soon, were safely nestled in their cots 
 in the nursery, I determined to argue out the 
 question with Topsy. So I lighted the lamp, 
 turned it on fully, and began : 
 
 “ Topsy ! ” He got up, stretched himself, 
 yawned, and waited. 
 
 “ Tops,” said I, “ get up here, old fellow,” 
 pointing to a chair, which I drew near myself. 
 He jumped up, and for the first time for many 
 days he faintly wagged his tail. 
 
 “ Tops,” said I, “ there’s something wrong. 
 
Topsy 207 
 
 Now you and I are friends Out with it, and 
 let us see if we cannot make matters straight.” 
 
 “ There’s nothing wrong, sir,” said Topsy, 
 looking very serious. 
 
 “ Tops,” said I, “ you cannot deceive me. 
 You know I am accustomed to study people, 
 and it takes only a glance sometimes to see 
 that something is wrong in health or spirits. 
 Now, you who were the friskiest and liveliest 
 little dog in the world are getting quite stupid. 
 You mope about, and refuse to eat, and, in 
 short, you are not a bit like yourself. What’s 
 wrong ? 
 
 “ Nothing, sir,” said Topsy, looking down and 
 studying his toes. 
 
 “ Now, look here, Tops,” said I looking very 
 stem, “ there is something wrong, and people 
 are saying it. Now I know you well, and I 
 don’t believe what people are saying about you.” 
 
 “ What are they saying ? ” said Topsy, in- 
 dignantly, and looking me full in the face. 
 
 “ Well, I don’t like to tell you, Tops,” said I, 
 “ but as you will have it, they are saying that 
 you are getting mad.” He jumped from his 
 seat in alarm and anger. 
 
 “ Me mad ! ” said he, looking as brisk and 
 
208 
 
 fierce as if he was challenged then and there to 
 mortal combat with an insignificant rat. 
 
 “ Oh, well, don’t mind them,” said I sooth- 
 ingly. “ People will talk. I don’t believe a 
 word of it, and that ought to be enough for you, 
 I think.” 
 
 “ Well, it is enough,” said Topsy, decisively. 
 “ And now as things have gone so far, though 
 of course I don’t mind what people say — I am 
 above all that — but I’ll tell you.” 
 
 He resumed his seat near me, and commenced : 
 “ You must know, sir,” said he, “ that I am 
 not a common dog.” 
 
 I bowed assent. 
 
 “ I belong to the best and purest blood. I 
 was born in a palace, and fed by a Princess. 
 Now, in the refined society in which I moved, 
 I was taught dignity, reserve, and easy manners, 
 that should never admit excitement. I confess 
 it did not quite suit my tastes. When I was 
 glad, I’d like to show it, and when I was vexed. 
 Sometimes, I confess, I’d give worlds to be able 
 to wag my tail, but that would be very wrong. 
 And I was often choking, for I was full of joy, 
 and I dared not bark. However, it was re- 
 spectable, and I was content. Since I came 
 
Topsy 209 
 
 into the bosom of your family, sir, all this is 
 
 changed. There is no respectability here ” 
 
 “ Topsy, sir,” said I, “ what do you mean ? ” 
 
 “ I beg your pardon, sir, I am sure,” said 
 Topsy ; “ but I didn’t mean any offence. I 
 meant that people here are free to show their 
 feelings, and I was not slow in showing mine. 
 I ran and barked at my own pleasure. I gave 
 myself up to my impulses. I became familiar, 
 and I suffer the consequences. Nobody re- 
 spects me.” 
 
 “ I am sure I have the greatest regard for you, 
 Tops,” said I, “ and I know the boys and girls 
 are really fond of you.” 
 
 “ Ah, there it is,” said Topsy; “ they may be 
 fond of me, but they don’t respect me. Imagine,” 
 said he, waxing very angry, “ imagine the impro- 
 priety of that wretched cook who flung me a 
 huge nasty bone the other day, big enough for 
 a mastiff, me who was daily fed on chicken and 
 biscuit and sherry. Then your wife, sir (I speak 
 of course with all deference), never allows me 
 to enter the drawing-room when she is present, 
 and is quite alarmed when I romp with the 
 children. Your boys, too, put mustard on 
 bread, and even whiskey, pah ! and compel me 
 
210 
 
 Topsy 
 
 to eat it. They put pepper in my eyes and 
 fling me into dirty pools : me, whose coat was 
 daily washed with perfumed soap and eau-de- 
 Cologne : nay, they have had the audacity of 
 striking the piano with my paws and creating 
 hideous noises, me, who have listened with de- 
 light to the sonatas of Mozart and Beethoven.” 
 
 “ Topsy,” said I gravely, “ Topsy, isn’t this 
 a little too strong ? ” 
 
 “ Not at all, sir,” said Topsy. “ In my former 
 place, I always attended the theatre, particu- 
 larly when operas and high-class music were 
 being performed, and sat with my paws on the 
 velvet cushions of the boxes, listening with de- 
 light to the melody, and every glass in the 
 house was levelled at me.” He looked quite 
 proud and pleased for the moment. “ But I 
 could stand it all,” he resumed bitterly, “ if I 
 were not perpetually reminded of my dependent 
 and degrading position by that person upstairs 
 whom they call * The Baby.’ One would think 
 there never was a baby in the world before. 
 I’m sure I don’t see anything remarkable about 
 the Baby. Until she came, people used to pet 
 and fondle me. Now everybody despises me. 
 Yet she has no hair ; and look at me. Her eyes 
 
2 I I 
 
 are closed half the day and all the night ; and 
 look at mine. She screams most dreadfully. In 
 fact, my nerves are quite disturbed. And she 
 has had the audacity to patronise me, and call 
 me, ‘ Poo’ doddy ! poo’ doddy ! ’ I really cannot 
 stand it any longer.” And Topsy put on an 
 air of offended dignity that would have done 
 credit to a judge. 
 
 “ Topsy,” said I quietly, “ there is a great 
 deal in what you say. I certainly must check 
 my boys for treating you so cruelly. Boys are 
 thoughtless. And really, I know, Charlie and 
 Willy are very fond of you. I’ve heard them 
 boast of your beauty and accomplishments to 
 strangers, and in fact they think there’s no 
 dog in the world like you.” 
 
 Topsy looked quite delighted, but he had not 
 given in. 
 
 “ Then you know,” I continued, “ cook does 
 not understand your history, and does not ap- 
 preciate the distinctions you have made. But 
 as to Baby — I am afraid, Tops, Baby won’t 
 trouble any of us much longer.” 
 
 “ What, sir,” said Tops, jumping in alarm from 
 his seat, “ is Baby going away ? ” 
 
 “ She is very sick,” said I quietly. “ Doctor 
 
212 
 
 Topsy 
 
 Smith was here this afternoon, and he and I 
 think she can scarcely live. The poor litde 
 thing is convulsed, and is suffering very much 
 pain. And we were all so fond of her. And I 
 am sure she was fond of you, Topsy.” 
 
 Topsy was looking intently at the fire. All his 
 discontent and defiance had passed away. He 
 looked at first alarmed, then ashamed, then as 
 memory brought the past before him, he be- 
 came very much grieved, until I saw a big ball 
 slowly gathering in his eyes, and then rolling 
 along his furred cheek. He put up his paw, 
 and secretly wiped it away. 
 
 I had said enough. “ Good-night, Topsy,” I 
 exclaimed, as I threw the end of my cigar into 
 the fire, and slowly turned down the lamp. 
 
 “ Bow-wow ! ” said Topsy very demurely, as 
 he silently left the room. 
 
 Next morning, while at breakfast, nurse 
 came in. 
 
 “ How is Baby, nurse ? ” 
 
 “ Very much better, sir,” said nurse. “ But 
 that dog ” 
 
 “ What about Topsy ? ” said I, remembering 
 our conversation the previous evening. 
 
 “ Why, sir,” said she, “ he came up late last 
 
Topsy 213 
 
 night, when all were in bed, and began scratch- 
 ing at the door of the nursery. I was at first 
 alarmed, but I quietly opened the door, and let 
 him in. He came over, and looked at me wist- 
 fully, and then at Baby, and then lay down 
 and began whining in a low tone, and whenever 
 Baby put her hand outside the clothes, he licks 
 her hand until I stop him, and I am afraid to 
 remove him, and the doctor is coming.” 
 
 “ Never mind, nurse,” said I ; “I understand ; 
 let him alone.” 
 
 Baby got well, and no knight of old was ever 
 so attentive to “ faire ladye ” as Topsy is to 
 Baby. He sleeps at the foot of her cradle, runs 
 before her when she is rolled in her perambulator, 
 plays a thousand tricks to amuse her, and 
 thinks “ poo’ doddy ” the greatest compliment 
 in the world. 
 
 Like many whom we meet, Topsy had had a fit 
 of dignity, and he was miserable. He is again 
 himself, and is happy. 
 
 Printed b.y Ballantyne, Hanson dr* Co. 
 Edinburgh dr* London 
 

 
 
 
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