 | Traits of American life |  |
THE CATHOLIC CONVERT.
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together?—and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, worshipped thee
With warmer love?”
Mr. Theophilus Redfield, and his wife Susanna,
were a couple that, judging by ordinary occurrences,
such as those in which steam and enthusiasm
have no agency, seemed as unlikely to figure
on the pages of a book, as in the east room at
Washington. They were, in their own sphere, a
pattern couple: prudent, pious and prosperous,
gathering the maxims that guided their temporal
course from the economies of Franklin, and their
summary of religious faith from the Westminster
Catechism.
Let no one understand me as speaking lightly of
that Catechism. It was framed by good men, and
doubtless with the best intentions. But there can
be no perfect system of faith as expounded by
men; and there should be no creed which requires
the human mind to render its unqualified assent
of Nature and the Book of Revelation should be
made familiar studies of the young, and they
should be encouraged to reason, from what is revealed
to their senses and their consciences, of the
past, the present and the future; and to form a
standard of moral rectitude from the precepts of
the Saviour, which, as their own hearts have felt
its justice, they cannot violate without the remorse
of having done wrong. When men accept a theory
on trust, they always have the convenient salvo,
that it was not framed to suit their case—that
others, acknowledging its injunctions, often disobey
them, and that a little extra strictness in one
point, will atone for laxity in another. In short,
that the creed was framed by those who have an
interest in supporting it; and if the evasion can be
so managed as to increase the interest, (otherwise
the pecuniary profit!) a dereliction will be quietly
acquiesced in, if not commended. Mr. Redfield
was, probably, under such an impression, when he
replied to the observation of a truly benevolent
gentleman, who was urging on him the importance
of introducing improvements in the schools, libraries,
and mental and moral pursuits of the people
around him—“that such things must take their
chance; that he paid his taxes punctually, which
was all that could justly be expected of him.”
“But,” urged the gentleman, “you are growing
rich every year; and we, who hold the faith which
teaches us that riches are of no acceptance in the
sight of God, but as they are employed in His service,
should consider how our charities may be
most beneficially dispensed.”
“That may be true,” returned Mr. Redfield,
“but I am persuaded that the most beneficial charity
I can perform, is to pay a large tax for the
support of the Gospel, and this I cannot do without
a large estate to be taxed. Our clergyman told me
the other day, that he wished every man in his
parish was as able to pay as I was. Does that look
like undervaluing property?”
Thus will selfishness always find an excuse,
when only governed by the opinions or examples
of men. And thus Mr. Redfield and his wife
persuaded themselves that, while they kept the
Sabbath day with pharisaical strictness, the other
six days were their own. They strove for earth
and sighed for heaven, and failed of enjoyment
in the pursuit of either. I said they were pious,
and it was not an ironical observation. I believe
that they were Christians, that they did in
their hearts prize the favour of God above that of
the world; but somehow, they had oddly jumbled
ideas of heaven and earth, and never could think
of “treasures,” even in the former, meaning any
why their pleasant farm was never considered by
them in reference to its beautiful situation and scenery,
but only as being worth so much cash.
Did you ever, reader mine, visit Brattleborough,
(Vermont)—or see the “View of Brattleborough,”
a picture by Fisher? If you have done neither, you
can hardly conceive of the peculiar beauties of this
pretty little village, where our story will detain
you a full year. It is a most charming summer
residence; its romantically rural aspect, on the
banks of the soft-flowing Connecticut, which seems
breathing freshness and verdure on the undulating
hills around, and on the living green of the full
foliaged trees, till the landscape is a paradise of
dewy coolness, shady arbours, fountains, fragrance,
and all other felicities comprised in that expressive
word, comfortable—in a burning summer's day.
And here, in this pleasant village, lived, or
rather did live, Mr. Theophilus Redfield. His
dwelling is still there, a neat white house, half hidden
among the shrubbery that surrounds the whole
front of the buildings, obstructing the full view of
the river from the lower windows; but then, there
was a most glorious prospect from the second story!
Behind the house an upland of green fields stretches
far away, and seems to melt into a wild waving
wood, that looks as if it were the fitting haunt of
Melancholy has few temples in our young country.
Her worshippers must commune with the
fallen column, the ivied tower and the desolate
city: we happily have none of these. Certainly
Mr. Redfield and his industrious wife would have
been sorely offended had any person called their
domicile melancholy—but after the occurrence I
am about to relate, they might have confessed it
was a little romantic, or at least that a strange circumstance
had come to pass there.
It was in the month of October, 18—, and about
nine o'clock in the evening; Mr. and Mrs. Redfield
were sitting tête-à-tête before a bright fire in their
winter parlour, for the autumn was a very cold
one, and in fact Mrs. Redfield considered winter as
already begun. She was busy with her needle,
preparing “clothing for her household,” for in all
the excellencies of industry she might have boldly
claimed the premium from Solomon, had he instituted
prizes for such proofs of wisdom in ladies.
Nor did her work wholly engross her mind: she
was delivering a household harangue, which, in its
style, imitated very closely some of our distinguished
poets, being, like their rhymes, diffusive
and digressive, a bundle of words concealing the
ideas, if any there were, as effectually as the covering
good man, was a silent if not attentive auditor,
as, reclining in his chair, he allowed his better
half to speak unmolested, till her lecture was suddenly
brought to a close by a violent rapping, as
with a heavy stick, on the front door.
“What's the matter now—somebody dying!”
ejaculated Mr. Redfield, as he hastily started to
open the door. It was not locked, nor did a thought
of robbers enter into the mind of the peaceful farmer;
for never had an outrage of any kind disturbed
the people of that peaceful village since the
red men had passed away;—but now, when, on
opening the door, he saw a tall man, a stranger,
habited in black, with a black handkerchief drawn
up nearly to his temples, his hat pulled over his
forehead, till nothing of his face was visible, save a
nose of such formidable dimensions as to bid defiance
to concealment, and a pair of keen gray
eyes, deep set beneath coal-black heavy eyebrows,
he felt that kind of sensation, and gave that start,
which in a woman would have indicated fear, but
in a man could have been nothing but surprise.
Mr. Redfield had the light in his hand: he stepped
back one step, probably to prevent it from being
extinguished by the wind, that was at intervals
coming in hollow and sweeping gusts. The stranger
had a heavy walking-cane in one hand; with
mouth; but Mr. Redfield remarked that he kept his
face concealed by his hand, while the following
conversation was going on:
“You are the owner of this estate, I presume,”
said the stranger, speaking in an abrupt, harsh tone.
“I call it mine.”
“If it is not yours in reality, I suppose you reside
here.”
“Yes, yes—I and my family.”
“And your name is?”—
“Redfield, sir—Theophilus Redfield.”
“Shall you reside here another twelvemonth?”
“Shall I?—I guess so—unless I sell the place,
and there is no sort of likelihood of that.”
“Well, sir, I wish to know if you will take a
boarder?”
“Why, as to that, sir, I cannot say. We never
have taken any but the schoolmaster, and one or
two young ministers, that is, students of divinity,
and whether my wife”—The stranger showed
his impatience by his gestures, and Mr. Redfield
hurried to the conclusion with a rapidity he never
before used in a colloquy where a bargain was depending,
and declined taking boarders.
At this juncture Mrs. Redfield appeared beside
her husband. She had heard the conversation, and
regretted the decision, as she thought, by taking
money than fell to her lot in the general management
of affairs out of the house; she came, therefore,
to make inquiries respecting terms, &c., hoping
that her husband would finally be persuaded to accept
them, if favourable—but when she saw the
dark stranger, she was not in a hurry to address
him. She afterwards declared that there was something
very frightful in his appearance, though she
did not exactly know what. But he felt no such
embarrassment at her presence. The female character
usually inspires confidence in a petitioner,
and in this instance it operated irresistibly on the
stranger. He was turning haughtily away, when
Mr. Redfield concluded his refusal, as though he
despised entreaty; but now he addressed the lady,
and his voice was milder, as he inquired if she had
any objection to the taking of a young girl and a
little child into her family, for whose accommodations
she should be richly paid.
“A child! Pray, how old is it?” she inquired.
“About three years. And to obviate the need
of all further questions, I will state my wishes. I
want you should furnish two apartments, a parlour
and sleeping-room—both on the second floor—for
the young lady and the child; you must serve their
meals in their own room; you must give them all
necessary attendance, such as you would bestow
them no questions; such as where they come from?
who they are? &c. &c., after the usual manner of
the Yankees;—you must promise, on your hopes of
salvation, to do all that I have stated, and I will pay
you five hundred dollars for the year's board.”
“Pay it!—when?” eagerly demanded Mr. Redfield.
“Now—to-night—as soon as you have agreed
to my proposal, and received the young lady into
your house.”
The husband and wife looked at each other.
There was wonder, perplexity, and a shade of distrust
on both their countenances; but it gradually
yielded to an expression of satisfaction, as the
thought of the money overpowered all other feelings.
They agreed to receive the boarders. The
stranger left them, saying he would return by
twelve, and that the apartments must then be
ready for the young lady.
Had I leisure and skill to be as minute in the
analization of motives, and the delineation of feelings,
as the author of “Cloudesly,” it would here
be an excellent opportunity to portray the workings
of those universal passions—curiosity and
the love of gain—which were agitating the bosoms
of the farmer and his wife, while preparing to receive
their lodgers. Mr. Redfield said but little;
doubtful subject—they must reason and reflect
awhile; but women (thanks to their intuitive genius)
find no such process of ratiocination necessary.
Mrs. Redfield understood the whole matter.
The gentleman (“gentleman” she called him,
though she felt in her heart that he looked like a
ruffian; but then he was rich, or how could he
afford to pay so much for the board?) had relinquished
house-keeping; probably he came from
New York or Boston, where board was expensive,
and probably he was himself going to Europe, and
these were his children, that he thought best to
leave in the country. “It cannot be his wife,”
said she, “for he called her a girl; but when I see
her I can judge better what she is.”
Twelve o'clock came, and punctual to the moment
came the stranger, in a close carriage, and
alighting, and taking the child from the arms of
the female, he very assiduously helped her from
the carriage, and led her into the entry;—pausing
there, he demanded, in no very pleasant tone, to
be shown up stairs.
“Had you not better walk into the parlour, and
let the young lady warm her—we have the best
fire here”—said Mrs. Redfield.
“She will be best in her own apartment,” he
drily answered.
Mr. Redfield lighted them up stairs, and as
they entered the chamber, began some excuses
about the room, naming other articles of furniture
which they calculated to procure.
The stranger did not appear to heed him; but,
taking the light, very deliberately inspected the
chambers, and then told Mr. Redfield that he
would soon descend and settle the whole business.
Mr. Redfield had no reasons to offer why he
should stay longer, and so he complied with the
hint, though he felt quite curious to catch a
glimpse of the lady's face before he went; but this
he could not do, as she kept her veil closely drawn
about it.
It was a full hour before the stranger descended,
and that interim seemed to the good people almost
beyond endurance. For once in their lives they
were in that excited state of curiosity which novel-readers
find so delightful; and, moreover, they
felt themselves actors in the scene. Never had
the god of sleep a more regular worshipper than
Mr. Redfield had always been; and to be wide
awake at one o'clock in the morning, was a phenomenon
which had never before occurred since
his marriage. What power the mind, when
roused to activity, has over the senses!—and what
a slothful life those live who are always fettered
by cares for the body!
When the stranger made his appearance, it was
only to pay the money, and present a list of such
articles as he deemed necessary to complete the
furnishing of the apartments. While Mr. Redfield
was looking over the money and the list, his
wife sought to scrutinize the stranger; but his glance
met hers with so haughty and almost contemptuous
an expression, that she, wishing to have an
excuse for leaving the room, inquired if the young
lady would want any thing. The answer was a
cold negative; and so she took up her knitting-work
to hide the confusion she could not but feel
at the strange manners of her guest.
When Mr. Redfield had completed his examination,
he inquired if he should not write a receipt
for the money, and also give a written promise
of the manner in which it was to be cancelled.
“No,” replied the stranger, “no. I have not
placed this confidence in your integrity without
closely inquiring your character. From all I can
gather, I believe you will be faithful to an engagement
which appeals to your conscience, to
your good faith; yet should I take a bond, you
might, in the way of trade, consider it fair to take
every advantage possible. But now, when I treat
you with the confidence of a Christian, you will
not fail in doing as you would be done by. Take
hear from me again. Should either of them be
dangerously ill, this paper may be opened, but not
till the physician gives them over. Of course you
will employ the best physician, and he shall be
paid.” He handed a sealed packet to Mr. Redfield,
and then turned to his wife, and spoke a
few words, earnestly commending the children to
her maternal protection; and she always declared
“his voice was tender then, and she was quite
sure she saw a tear in his eye, and she felt convinced
he might be a good man after all.” So
certainly does the genuine appearance of affectionate
feelings convince us that the heart which cherishes
them cannot be all evil.
The stranger was leaving the room. “One
question I must ask,” said Mrs. Redfield; “the
names”—
“Mary and George,” he hastily said, anticipating
her inquiry. “And now, madam, you
have all the knowledge necessary to this subject.
You have voluntarily and solemnly bound yourselves
to the fulfilment of certain duties—these I
shall require of you; and you are also bound to restrain
your curiosity; beware that you do not violate
your promise.—Farewell.”
That was an eventful night to Mr. and Mrs.
Redfield; they had many strange thoughts, and
money, the woman of the mystery; he anxious
about the trust he had undertaken, and she anxious
to see the children. It was a very long night
to them both, but morning came at last, and soon
found Mrs. Redfield in the apartments of her
charge. What she said to those young adventurers,
and how she examined every thing about
them, and how she endeavoured to find out whether
the tears of Mary (which, in spite of her
efforts to restrain, were filling her large dark eyes,
till their expression was so full of mournful grief
that Mrs. Redfield said it made her heart ache to
look on the poor thing) were caused by the sorrow
of parting from her friends, or by some deep
misfortunes, with many other particulars I cannot
stop to enumerate. She summed up her report to
her husband, which, it must be confessed, was as
rambling as any fashionable lecture need be that
comprises half the sciences and the whole of modern
improvements, by declaring that the girl was
the most beautiful creature she had ever set her
eyes on, and that the boy was a little darling,
almost as handsome as their own Jem.”
“How old is the girl?” inquired Mr. Redfield.
“She cannot be more than sixteen. I should
not think she was so old as that, only she looks so
sober, and behaves so lady-like.”
“And what is the age of the boy?”
“O, about three years, I should guess.”
“Then she is not the mother of the child?”
“Oh! bless you! no, Mr. Redfield. They must
be brother and sister—though they don't look
alike either, nor they don't look any like their
father.”
“Their father!—Do you think the man who left
them here was their father!”
“Indeed I do. I saw the father's look in his
eye, when he spoke of their being sick. I didn't
see his face very plainly, to be sure, but I believe,
for all that, I should know him again.”
“You say these children do not resemble him?”
“Not in the least—and yet there is something
in the face of the young lady that might make one
think she is his daughter. Her hair is black as
a raven, and you know how black his eyebrows
were. He didn't take off his hat, so I cannot tell
how his forehead looked; but she has a beautiful
forehead, full, and white as alabaster, and when
her eyelids droop, it seems as if she was at prayer,
and she looks so angel-like that it made me feel a
little afraid to gaze upon her—something as I felt
last night, when that strange man was talking to
us,—and on the whole, I have no doubt but he
is her father.”
“And the father of the boy, too?”
“Why, yes—they are relations, I know. He
kept his arm around her neck all the time I was
there, and she kissed him—and they seemed to
love each other just as our children do. He is a
dear pretty boy; his hair curls all over his head—
light brown hair; his eyes are blue as the sky, and
his face fair as an apple. I hope he can talk plain.”
This visit, I am sorry to say, was not strictly in
accordance with the principles of Christian integrity.
Mrs. Redfield did long to unravel the mystery,
and notwithstanding she had promised to ask
no questions, she considered herself at liberty to
listen to communications, and sincerely did she
hope that the prattle of the little boy would betray
the secrets of his family. Every lady who does
not read this story deliberately through, but turns
to the conclusion to learn the denouement, may
be pretty certain that she would, under like circumstances,
have indulged similar feelings with
this inquisitive lady.
However, Mrs. Redfield was grievously disappointed.
The boy could not speak a connected
sentence, and she often remarked on the disparity of
intellect between the sexes in childhood. “Girls,”
she would say, “know as much at three years of
age, as boys do at five; and my little Lucy, who is
only fourteen months old, can talk better than
George, who is twice her age; and I don't see, for
sex are ever superior in mind to us women. I
don't believe any such thing.”
But notwithstanding this heresy, she was an excellent
wife and mother, and most kindly did she
watch over the young strangers committed to her
care. It might be, that the indefatigable attention
she bestowed on them, was somewhat stimulated
by her ardent desire to find out their secret; certain
it is, that few of their movements, and none
of their peculiarities, escaped her notice.
Mr. Redfield had enjoined it on his wife to be
entirely silent respecting the manner in which
their boarders had been introduced. “Our neighbours
may envy us,” said he, “and contrive some
way to injure us, if they find we are making money.
Keeping these children is a good chance to
us; and to secure the blessings of God, we must do
our duty to ourselves as well as to others; we must
take good care of the children, and take good care
to keep our own counsel.”
Mrs. Redfield had thus a task to fulfil which
might have posed the patience of a Griselda,—she
had to stifle her curiosity and restrain her loquacity.
But she found, as every lady will, that advantages
always result from those trials which are met
and borne in the path of our duty:—she reflected
more during this time of her trials, than she ever
why and wherefore those children were placed
under her roof, cost her much study; and that she
failed at last, can no more be ascribed to her want
of ingenuity in framing her hypothesis, than it can
be said Archimedes failed in the construction of
his machinery, because he did not actually move
the world. The philosopher and the matron
both found the same difficulty, namely, in fixing
the whereabout to begin. But if Mrs. Redfield
was perplexed, she was not discouraged, and she
continued her observations till she had ascertained
one fact positively. Mary, the fair, innocent
Mary, was a papist!—These were the proofs:
She would never attend meetings; she would not
eat meat on Fridays; she had a rosary—and
And, moreover, though she had a choice collection of
books, sent her a few days after she came, probably
by her father, yet she spent most of her time reading
a few volumes which she kept in a small trunk,
and which Mrs. Redfield ascertained she had brought
with her. The good lady contrived to get a peep
at these, and found a breviary and “Legends of
the Saints,” comprising the miracles of the most
eminent Catholic devotees of both sexes. There
were also sermons and homilies, and a volume of
faith; besides a number of volumes in French
and Italian, which, as Mrs. Redfield could not understand
a single word, she thought must be full
of all manner of evil things.
“She is certainly a papist, poor thing!” said the
matron, in a tone of deep commiseration, as she
recounted all these matters to her husband. “She
is a papist. What can we do to convince her of
the dangers and falsehood of that religion?”
“You must persuade her to come down in the
evening and attend our family prayers; I will select
such chapters in the Bible as explain the true
faith, and I need not say that I shall pray earnestly
that she may understand them aright. I suppose
she does not know any thing about the Bible, and
so her's is wholly the sin of ignorance.”
Mrs. Redfield had full confidence in the judgment
of her husband; but while she kept the end
in view which he recommended, she liked to follow
her own fancy in the means of accomplishing
it. He had expressed his wish that Mary should
be persuaded to attend family duties. Mrs. Redfield
did not think it politic to hint such a wish to
the lovely sinner; she only strove to coax little
George to play with her children, and soon succeeded
in making him completely at home in every
part of the house; and then he became so found of
requested as a favour, that Mrs. Redfield would
permit Jem to join George in the picture lessons
which she daily gave him. This request was eagerly
complied with, and in a short time all the young
Redfields (there were five) became familiar visitants
in Mary's apartment, and she instructed them
all, showing, to use a favourite expression of their
mother's, “that the young lady knew every thing.”
This teaching, with which Mary began to amuse
the children, and keep them from noisy plays while
in her apartment, soon appeared to interest her;
and Mrs. Redfield found she grew more cheerful,
and became sufficiently engrossed in the progress
of her pupils to speak of them and their improvement.
George she evidently doted on with an
elder sister's fondness; and when she found it
made him unhappy to be confined to her room,
she would frequently accompany him to the parlour,
if no one was there but Mrs. Redfield; and
the worthy woman contrived to be alone as much
as possible. She found a secret that she was
obliged to keep, detracted very much from the
pleasures of gossipping, and so she made the pretext
of her boarders, the care they required, an
excuse for neglecting to visit her neighbours.
Thus living secluded, and treating the timid Mary
with all the tenderness that policy dictated as the
as the duty of a Christian, the young
strangers finally became like children, and Mr.
Redfield had the satisfaction of knowing that
Mary listened while he read the 13th and 14th
chapters of the “Book of Revelation,” and poured
forth a most animated anathema against the “scarlet-coloured
beast,” and the “great red dragon!”
From that time he confidently predicted her
conversion. Mrs. Redfield was not quite so sanguine—she
did not think a girl so young as Mary
would be much influenced by the reasonableness
of a proposition; she must be led by gentle persuasions,
and by those tender appeals that would
move her feelings, and thus induce her to examine
the grounds of her faith. Mrs. Redfield was conscious
of her own incompetence for such a delicate
task; and though she acknowledged the superiority
of her husband's talents, she could not but
see that he was better qualified to make property
than proselytes. So to remedy all deficiencies, she
concluded to call in an ally—and the tact of the
woman was manifest in her choice. This was no
other than a young gentleman, Alexander Watson
by name, a student of divinity with the clergyman
of Brattleborough. Mr. Watson had boarded
with Mrs. Redfield, and she thought him, what in
truth he was, one of the excellent of the earth.
winter, but was expected to spend the summer
there, and complete his studies. Mrs. Redfield
determined to receive him again as a boarder, and
by making him a confidant of her fears for the
faith of Mary, engage him to use his oratorical
powers, which the good woman thought would
convince or confound the Pope himself.
There might have been objections to this
scheme, had Mrs. Redfield thought proper to have
investigated them. But in her great anxiety for
the soul of Mary, she forgot there would be any
danger from placing her heart, or that of the student,
in jeopardy. Yet, as our extremest caution
cannot obviate all evil, nor secure all good, it is
undoubtedly the best policy, even in a worldly
point of view, to have faith that our pure and
righteous intentions will be crowned with success.
Mrs. Redfield had the consciousness of meaning to
do good, and so went forward and onward with
the enthusiasm of a reformer and a woman. The
result was, that Mr. Alexander Watson became
one of the family of the Redfields, and so well cooperated
in the plan, that Mary, in a few weeks,
seemed to consider him as a brother; and if not
her spiritual director, he was the director of her
studies, and shared the rambles which she was at
first persuaded to take on the account of little
much as any of the children.
It was wonderful, Mrs. Redfield said, to see
how Mary improved. When she first came, she
was beautiful to be sure—
Half hidden from the eye!”
but it was the pale unanimated beauty of a statue,
rather than the loveliness of youth, health, and
innocent happiness. For several weeks after her
arrival, she was never seen to smile; and throughout
the winter, she would evidently have preferred
the deepest solitude; even the care she had
bestowed on George had seemed often more an
effort of duty than the impulse of inclination.
But now she was changed. Spring had come, the
scenery was delightful, the children were eager to
go abroad, and Mr. Watson was familiar with the
pleasant walks, and moreover, was always at leisure,
as it seemed to Mary, and ready, and happy
to accompany her and the children; and never
were the “banks and braes” around Brattleborough
more thoroughly examined than during that
season. Who could be moping or miserable while
thus conversing, as it were, with Nature in her
most lovely forms! It was no wonder, though
Mrs. Redfield considered it so, that the rose deepened
with the humid light of joy, and her whole countenance
seemed radiant with happiness. She was
living in a new world.
“How beautiful are the works of nature!” said
Mary, as she sat on a green bank, arranging the
wild flowers which the children had gathered.
“How lovely! how perfect! All the skill of man
could not avail to tint this little flower—and then
to think these plants spring from dry seeds, from
dead roots. Oh! it fills my heart with love and
gratitude to the good Creator, to look on these
lovely flowers!”
“Yes, God is good,” replied Mr. Watson, his
mild eyes lighting up with a glow of rapture, as
he glanced alternately at Mary and her flowers
(“herself the fairest flower”). “God is good, and
how great are the blessings he bestows on us, in
not only giving us this lovely work of his creation
in which to study his goodness and mercy, but this
dearer, this more precious gift of his Holy Word!”
and he drew from his bosom a small and beautifully
bound edition of the Scriptures, which he
had intended as a gift for Mary. He had carried
it several days, watching for a favourable moment
to present it, fearing it would be rejected, both as
being prohibited to her by her faith, and as offered
he put the sacred volume into her hand. She held
it a few moments, mechanically, as it were—then
turning it to examine the binding, it opened at the
first page, and she saw her own name written, and
underneath it, “The gift of a true friend—A. W.”
She was evidently touched, and Mr. Watson
thought, as she bent her head over the page, that
he saw a tear fall—but in a moment she overcame
her emotion, and looking up with a half smile,
said—
“I have not so many friends as to be indifferent
to the mementos offered by any one—especially
by you, Mr. Watson. Yet you must excuse me—
I cannot take this”—and she held the book towards
him.
“Mary, it is not on my own account that I beseech
your acceptance of this gift—it is for its own
precious truths, which your heart is so formed to
appreciate and love. Keep it, Mary. O! do not
distress me by rejecting it. The same God who
decks the lily of the field for our instruction, has
given us this holy book, that we may learn our
own nature and destiny, and His character, and the
duties we owe to Him.”
“But God has appointed us teachers,” said
Mary, timidly—“and should we not be encroaching
on their province, if we presumed to read this
dark minds?”
“Not if the words of our Saviour be true, Mary.
He commands all his followers to `Search the
Scriptures;' see John v. (and he turned to the
chapter and pointed to the verse). And then here,
in this fourteenth chapter, he says, `If ye love me,
keep my commandments.' Then how can it be
wrong for any one who loves and honours the Saviour,
to read his words?”
“But—but we may not understand his words
rightly,” said Mary, in a low, troubled voice.
“Then we will pray to the Saviour to enlighten
us, my dear friend; and surely He who died that
we might live, who has promised that whatsoever
we ask in faith shall be granted, will enlighten us.
Mary, I will pray that the Saviour may bless your
studies of His word—and if there be a sin, let it
rest on my head.”
“O, no! no!” said Mary, quickly. “If it is sin,
the Saviour will surely forgive it—and I have so
longed to read the Bible”—She paused, and
blushed—and after a few more entreaties from
Watson, consented to keep the volume.
How rejoiced was this young Christian hero at
the victory he had obtained! He might truly be
called a hero, for he had conquered the selfishness
of his nature, and thought of his talents and acquirements
in doing good to others. A fine-looking, frank-hearted
young man he was, just entering the world,
with ardent dreams of making the world better—
and noble blood never elevates the mind like benevolent
feelings.
Such is my hero—then for the heroine, there is
the fair, gentle Mary, as artless as a child, and as
pure minded as a seraph, with the romantic advantage
of being surrounded by a mystery. And these
young people are daily together, in scenes as beautiful
as ever the pen of St. Pierre portrayed. And
who would not weave for them the destiny to
“live and love.” Yet over such a vale of sunny
felicity there must arise the cloud of disappointment;
for the summer soon passes, and Mary is
expecting a letter that may summon her far away.
It was not till this time that the student comprehended
the full danger he had incurred in yielding
to Mrs. Redfield's wishes, and becoming an inmate
in her family. He found himself too deeply
interested in the fate of Mary for his own peace.
He felt that she had been happier for their intercourse;
that he had enlightened her judgment and
improved her taste, and, he hoped, awakened her
conscience to the perception of the important truths
of the Christian doctrines; at least, he felt assured
which they had so often read together; and that her
spirit had emerged from the moral darkness in
which the superstitions and the mummeries of the
Catholic faith had enveloped it. He believed, too,
that she felt a sincere gratitude for his attentions;
nor did he doubt that she would regret to part with
him. But he had never talked of love to her—he
had not ventured to give, in any manner, expression
to his own feelings—and he did not dare to
hope she loved him. From all that he had observed,
he concluded her family was rich; he was
poor—he had appeared to her in the character of
an instructor, and he thought it probable she considered
him in the same light she would her father
confessor.
After such thoughts had once been admitted, it
was impossible for Watson to shake them off; but
the more he reflected, the more hopeless appeared
his love, and he determined to obtain the mastery
over his own feelings, that he might not betray
them when obliged to part with Mary. For this
purpose he concluded to take a journey, and fixed
on the White Hills as the object of his tour. He
was an enthusiastic admirer of mountain scenery,
and he hoped the grandeur of the mighty hills
would lift his heart and thoughts to a nearer and
all things in wisdom. He did not communicate
his intended journey, for he felt as though
Mrs. Redfield hardly deserved his confidence, she
had been so much the cause of his present wretchedness—and
to tell Mary he must leave her was
impossible.
The evening before his intended departure, the
family were all gathered in the parlour, admiring
the brightness of the full harvest moon; and seldom
does it reveal a richer landscape of ripening
corn and delicious fruits, than it now shone on
around them, when a letter was handed to Mr.
Redfield; it contained one for Mary—and she
must be prepared to leave Brattleborough in three
weeks. Had the announcement been her banishment
to Siberia, she could hardly have appeared
more terrified and distressed. She looked at Watson;
then turned hastily to Mrs. Redfield, and endeavoured
to say something of regret at being so
hastily called away—but she could not end the
sentence, and bursting into tears, she rose to leave
the room. The student rose, too, and as he opened
the door for her to pass, he almost unconsciously
ejaculated, “Dear Mary!” She raised her tearful
eyes to his!—and that was all the scene.
Who but true lovers could have interpreted the
meaning of that word and glance? It was only to
thought again of his journey to the White Hills.
In due time the stranger came again. His appearance
was wholly different from his former one.
He now travelled in an elegant carriage, attended
by two black servants, and his dress and deportment
left Mrs. Redfield no longer in doubt as to
his honesty or gentility.
“What a ready passport wealth gives its possessor
to the good opinions of this world! And
what a mercy that it is not as essential for the
world that is to come!” These reflections were
made by the poor student, as he lay on his sleepless
bed, the night after the arrival of the stranger.
Watson had not seen him; he had passed the evening
in his daughter's apartment, and in a private
conference with Mr. Redfield and his wife.
The next morning Watson entered the breakfast-room
with a beating heart, hoping, yet almost fearing,
to meet Mary. She was not there, but the
stranger was; he still preserved his incognito, and
so no introduction could take place; but he bowed
to Watson as he took his seat opposite. Few
words were spoken during the meal; Mrs. Redfield
never once attempting to draw a compliment from
the stranger, by apologizing for the “poor breakfast;”
among the variety of good things she had served
up—she was evidently in awe of her guest. As
they rose from the table, the stranger requested
that Mr. Watson would accompany him in a walk
to the Connecticut, which river he professed to admire
extremely. Watson complied, but not with
very pleasant feelings, as he thought the stranger
had regarded him with a cold and yet scrutinizing
survey, during the whole time they had been together.
But he went. In about two hours Mrs.
Redfield saw them returning, and such a change in
Watson's countenance!—“He looked,” she said,
“as if he had been made a governor!” She was a
true republican, and would never use a kingly comparison.
“Well, my good friends,” said the stranger, as
he seated himself in the parlour, “I am happy to
say that it is now in my power to deal frankly with
you, and I suppose you would like to know the
reasons for what you must have thought my very
singular proceedings.”
“Yes, indeed we should!” hastily replied Mrs.
Redfield, before her husband could speak—“and
we should like to know your name, too.”
“And the place where you live,” said Mr. Redfield.
“And whether these children are yours?” said
his wife.
The stranger smiled. “You shall know all, if
you will permit me to tell my story.”
This was the moment Mrs. Redfield had often
anticipated, with the yearning of unappeased curiosity.
She had never been able to penetrate the
mystery which surrounded her charge; and it is
not strange that, in the contracted circle of her
thoughts and wishes, she considered the development
about to take place, as important as any event
which had occurred in the annals of the human
race, since the Declaration of American Independence.
How limited is the world in which an individual
moves! and what a magnifying power self
possesses! A solar microscope, that can make a
beetle's wing appear as large as the mainsail of a
ship, is poor and small, compared with the importance
objects assume by coming home to one's own
“business and bosom.” If you wish to make a
man your friend, praise what belongs to him, or
only speak of yourself as it were for his gratification,
as the stranger told his story.
“I will begin,” continued he, “with my name;
which is Marshall.”
“What is your given name, if I may be so
bold?” inquired Mrs. Redfield.
“George, madam.”
“Ah! then the boy is yours.”
“Certainly—they are both my children.”
The impatience of Mrs. Redfield's curiosity was
now gratified, and she listened with decent composure
while Mr. Marshall continued—
“These children are both mine; but they had
different mothers. The mother of Mary died when
the infant was but three days old, conjuring me,
with her last breath, to place the babe under the
care of a particular female friend of her own. I
was not myself acquainted with the lady to whom
my daughter was to be consigned, but believing
my wife was the best judge of the manner in which
the child should be reared, and anxious to gratify
the last wishes of my beloved Mary, I promised.
The arrangement was a wrong one, and I have
since bitterly regretted that I did not beseech my
dying wife not to deprive me of the dear pledge of
our love. I would have taken every care—I would
have devoted myself to her education—and then—
but no matter—let me tell what did occur, not
what might have been accomplished.”
“O, never mind how long the story is, we shall
be so happy to hear it all,” cried Mrs. Redfield.
“But we should want another day, which I cannot
now well spare,” returned the gentleman.
“So allow me to abridge what is not material. I
lady was a bigotted Catholic, and
completely did she succeed in instilling her tenets
into the heart and soul of my child. In the meantime,
to divert that painful sense of deep loneliness
which weighed down my spirits, I went to Europe,
and travelled on the continent for several years.
Soon after my return I married again, and with
shame and sorrow I confess that, till my second
wife was taken from me, I never paid much attention
to the manner in which my daughter had been
educated.”
“That is the way with you men,” said Mrs.
Redfield, with a little severity in her countenance,
which did not at all improve the expression;
“now, a mother never forgets her children.”
“True; your affections are more disinterested
than ours,” said Mr. Marshall; “but you will not
censure me harshly when you learn how my
thoughtlessness was punished. The lady who had
the care of my daughter belonged to a very respectable
family; she was herself highly educated,
and I felt satisfied that all womanly duties and
lady-like accomplishments would be taught my
little Mary. Nor, though I knew them to be
Catholics, had I felt any fears for her moral training;
the lady always appeared so amiable, and in
deeds of charity and good works she excelled; and
On the decease of my second wife, I
resolved to take Mary home. I had suffered too
severely in the loss of beloved ones, to wish for
another of those ties which, in my case, seemed
only formed to be broken. Mary was fifteen, and
I took her home to be mistress of my house.”
“Was the lady who brought her up willing to
part with her?” inquired Mrs. Redfield.
“She was not, madam, entirely willing; yet she
seemed to pity my sorrows; and, on the whole, to
think the plan I had formed a judicious one; and
she persuaded Mary to accompany me home. I
now believe it was done, by the advice of a Catholic
priest, to undermine my faith. They probably
calculated that the pious example of my child
would influence me; and the priest would have
easy access to my house, and might exercise his
ghostly care over the education of my infant son.
O, these Jesuits! did they employ half the zeal to
gain heaven that they do to gain proselytes, what
saints they would be! I soon found my daughter
was a Catholic—a devotee—for she was by nature
all artlessness; and though she had lessons enough
in the science of religious convenance, and had
been taught that all means by which the true faith
(the Catholic) could be advanced, were justifiable,
yet her pure heart could not be contaminated by
human nature—hypocrisy. I learned from her
own lips and her manner, enough to alarm, almost
overwhelm me. Would you believe it possible—
my own child had been taught to regard me with
horror, as a heretic? and she thought, that to love
me was a sin which required absolution; and even
trembled and wept with horror and grief, whenever
any parental tenderness, on my part, had called
forth a return of affectionate confidence on her's.
Believe me, my friends, there is nothing which so
checks and chills the purest, warmest, holiest emotions
of our nature, as religious bigotry and fanaticism;
it binds the soul in chains, which rust and
canker, till a moral paralysis ensues, and all the
natural and innocent feelings of the heart are turned
to vile and cruel purposes. If I am severe
against bigotry and fanaticism, remember, I speak
from experience, from suffering.”
“Oh! you need make no apologies here; we
know all you say is truth,” solemnly responded
Mr. Redfield.
“And yet we ought to be very forbearing towards
those who are educated in this faith,” said
Mr. Marshall. “At least we should not blame
the Catholic laity. The people are held in delusions—the
priests are the deceivers; towards them,
I own, I can feel little charity. Had my daughter,
from the influence of these priests, I think she
would soon have been won to love and trust me
as her father and friend; and then her mode of
worship might not have been attended with any
dangerous consequences; but, notwithstanding all
my vigilance, I could not prevent her confessor
from seeing and advising her; and he used his
power over her to frighten and intimidate, till she
resolved to enter a convent, and even endeavoured
to escape clandestinely from home for that purpose.
I did every thing in my power to divert
her from this purpose. I persuaded, reasoned, entreated—all
was vain. I could not convince her
the sacrifice was not her duty. At last I adopted
a new expedient. I told her if she would take
care of her little brother one year, in the manner I
should direct, (as I had business in France, and
must be absent all that time,) she should then be
at liberty to enter a convent, if she still continued
to wish it. After consulting with her spiritual
guide, she consented to do what I had proposed.
The priest no doubt calculated on being able to
keep up his communication with her—but I had
determined it should be otherwise.”
“Pray, how came you to think of bringing her
here?” asked Mrs. Redfield.
“I must answer that question in your own way:
Burroughs, who was nearly killed by the overturning
of the stage in this village, about eighteen
months since?”
“Do we remember it?” said Mr. Redfield—“I
guess we do, sir. Why, Mr. Burroughs was
brought into this very room, and never went out
of the house”—
“For three months and three days,” eagerly
chimed in Mrs. Redfield.
“I know all the circumstances,” said Mr. Marshall.
“This Burroughs was my most intimate
friend, and he did justice to your kindness and
hospitality; and the kindness, too, of Mr. Watson.”
“I could do but little to alleviate his sufferings,”
observed Watson, while his cheek crimsoned
with evident delight at the praise of Mr. Marshall.
“Oh, but you did a great deal,” said Mrs. Redfield,
nodding, and smiling significantly. She had
already penetrated the secret, and felt she could
not do a more politic thing than bear testimony in
favour of Watson; and, for once, inclination and
interest, truth and tact, alike prompted the eulogy
to living merit; and praise, that apparently simple,
and yet most difficult and delicate affair on earth
to manage discreetly, not excepting advice, was
the judgment of the good lady, who continued,
with an increasing elevation of voice, as she observed
the satisfaction of Mr. Marshall—“Yes,
Mr. Watson did every thing for the poor wounded
gentleman, staying night and day by his bed-side;
and I often thought it was more owing to Mr.
Watson's care than the doctor's skill, that he recovered
at last.”
“Mr. Burroughs is fully aware of these obligations,
madam; and to convince you how highly he
appreciates the kindness he received, and the
goodness of heart and mind that prompted such
ready and judicious benevolence, I need only
say, that it was entirely from his report I was
induced to place my children here. I could tell a
long story—but it is of no consequence to unveil
all my motives. Suffice it to say, that I wished
Mary to reside where there was not one breath of
popery, and also to be in an entirely new scene,
where she would have to reason for herself, and
where she might see the world under a different
aspect from what it had been presented to her
mind. She was bound by a solemn promise not
to write to the priest, or her friends, or to communicate
in any manner to any person, aught respecting
herself or family. You were likewise bound
not to ask any questions.”
“I do not wonder you made her promise not to
write to the priest; but why was there any need of
being so secret with us? You did not think we
would encourage her in the Catholic faith?” said
Mr. Redfield.
“Quite the reverse, sir,” said Mr. Marshall,
smiling. “I feared you would be too zealous a
reformer. You would probably have thought it
your duty to argue with Mary on the subject of
religion, and I did not think it best to have her
young, sensitive mind, filled with the bitterness of
controversial theology. Her creed was that of feeling;
she had been educated a Catholic; and it requires
something more powerful than arguments
or advice to overcome the prepossessions of our
childhood. I knew, in short, that her feelings
must, by some means, become interested for Protestants;
that she must become attached to individuals
of this religion, and see that they were true
worshippers of her God and Saviour, before she
would ever allow it possible that they might be
Christians. I made it for your interest to treat
her kindly; and I trusted, from the representations
of Mr. Burroughs, (and, indeed, I know it to be
the character of New Englanders,) that when no
pecuniary temptation operated to check your good
feelings, or warp your principles from the straight
line of duty, that there would be no lack of those
particularly needed.”
“But why did you appear so mysterious, if I
may be so bold?” inquired Mrs. Redfield.
“Because I could more forcibly appeal to your
consciences. Pardon me, madam, when I say I
would rather trust to your sense of religious duty,
or to your charity, than to your—honesty in
fulfilling a bargain. Our maxims of trade are dangerous
clogs on morality. I once heard it gravely
asserted, by a professor of your faith, that men
should have a business conscience and a religious
conscience; and I know that good men are very
prone to do and say that, in the way of trade,
which, were they not accustomed to think all is
fair which is not discovered to be a cheat, they
would revolt from as a heinous sin. Instead of
doing as they would be done by, Christians, even
high-toned Christians, adhere to the maxim, that,
in the way of trade, every man must take care of
himself. So you see,” he continued, with a smile,
“that in the way of trade, or by bargain only, I
should not have felt easy to have intrusted my
children so entirely in your power; but, connected
with the solemn associations of a promise which
appealed to your conscience, as well as a mystery
to your imagination, I felt satisfied you would be
faithful. I had no pretext for endeavouring to
have found you as kind-hearted and generous as
my friend Burroughs described.”
The last compliment effectually soothed the
mortification which the worthy couple could not
help feeling, while they listened to the observations
on trade. Mr. Redfield, long afterwards,
confessed to Mr. Watson, that he never attempted
to make a good bargain without thinking of
Mr. Marshall's remarks; “and the thought does
me good, too,” said he, “for it makes me more
solicitous to do right, to do as I would be done
by, lest I should bring a reproach on my religion.”
“I have seen much of the world,” continued Mr.
Marshall, “and I am convinced that, to make men
wiser, happier and better, we must cultivate the
benevolent and social affections. This can only
be done by kindness and persuasion. You might
as easily melt wax by the contact of ice, as harmonize
the heart by severity. It has, hitherto,
been the grand object of civilization to awaken the
sagacity of men to their pecuniary interests, and
their physical comforts; and they have, in consequence,
grown selfish and sinful, generally in proportion
to their boasted refinement of character.
Knowledge has been power, and has been used for
oppression as much as physical force; and the Catholic
godliness, which has used its influence to
disseminate error, and gained its ends by fostering
the evil passions of the multitude.”
“You speak of Catholics,” said Mrs. Redfield.
“Have you no fears that the priest will again obtain
an influence over your daughter's mind, and
persuade her to enter a convent?”
Mrs. Redfield laughed outright, as she turned
her eyes on Watson, who coloured like a girl of
fifteen, though he did not look very miserable
under her suspicious glance. Mr. Redfield, for
the first time, was a little enlightened, and the reply
of Mr. Marshall did not utterly astound him,
as his wife expected it would do. Indeed, the
farmer always maintained, that the idea had come
into his head a good many times, only he had not
thought it prudent to mention the thing. It is
very seldom that a Yankee will own he was
wholly unprepared for any occurrence.
“My daugther,” said the stranger, smiling,
“will, I hope, be, for the future, under clerical influence,
but not Catholic. My friend, Mr. Watson,
has asked and obtained my consent to watch over
her faith in the spirit of love, which is the only
human means that can really and permanently
change the heart and the opinions.”
The congratulations that followed this announcement
may be easier imagined than repeated. Mrs.
Redfield was clamorous in her approbation of the
plan. She thought the only way to prevent all
fears for the faith of Mary, was to have the wedding
take place before she left Brattleborough.
“Let her only be married,” said the good wife,
“and she will hate the name of a convent. I am
sure I do. It may be a fit place for ugly, cross old
maids; but to make a beautiful young lady go into
one, and take a vow to stay there all her days, is
an awful sin.”
Mr. Redfield agreed to all this; but still he could
not help expressing a wish that he had known the
exact state of Mary's mind when she first came to
his house; as he “really believed he would have
convinced her, from the Bible, that the Catholic
religion was very wrong, as well as dangerous and
wicked.”
“I do not doubt your ability to argue these
points, my good friend,” said Mr. Marshall; “and
I know that arguments may silence, perhaps sometimes
convince; but it is only love which can lead
us in the way we should go, especially when we
are young. Mary's heart was in favour of the Catholics;
it was her affections, not her reason and
judgment, that were perverted. We Protestants
her love. She is convinced of your goodness, for
she has experienced your kindness and Christian
care; and all the proofs you could have brought
from Holy Writ in favour of your tenets, would
have weighed as nothing in her mind, compared
with the proofs of your pious benevolence, which
she has felt was daily watching over and doing
good to her and her little brother. She now feels
that there are Christians out of the Catholic communion.
This was what I hoped when placing her
here. I was certain that she would not mingle in
the gaieties of the world; and had I boarded her in
a gay family, where amusements were the chief
pursuit, her melancholy would have been increased
by the contrast, and she would, probably, have
made her seclusion as perfect as though she had
been in a convent. But in this quiet place, and
with such sober people, Mary naturally thought
she had no temptations to guard against. It could
not be wrong to contemplate and admire the beautiful
works of her Creator; and thus she was drawn
abroad, and has imbibed a taste and love for natural
scenery, and that feeling of healthy, innocent
enjoyment, while gratifying her curiosity, which
the monastic ritual would find it difficult to overcome.
The best weapon to combat superstition is,
(not the spirit of controversy), and this may most
effectually be done by leading the mind to contemplate
the goodness of God, while experiencing kindness
from man. The soul seems then prepared to
adore God and love its neighbour; and the serene
happiness which such hallowed emotions sheds
around us, cannot be forgotten. Never yet was a
human heart won to worship, acceptably, the true
God through fear. I do not say the threatenings
of the law are not necessary, and sometimes effectual,
to deter from crime, and keep the bad from
open villanies; but it is only the Gospel of the Saviour,
breathing `peace on earth, and good will to
the children of men,' that can make Christians.”
I do not know whether Mr. Redfield ever exactly
coincided with these sentiments of his guest;
but the compliments paid to the conduct of himself
and spouse, effectually reconciled him to the practice
of charity in this case. He acknowledged the
scheme had been good, because it had succeeded.
How few have any other criterion of merit when
judging the conduct, opinions or plans of others,
than their success!
Mrs. Redfield was perfectly satisfied after she
found Mr. Marshall intended the wedding should
be solemnized at her house. Such a glorious bustle
mortal lot; for, though the wedding was private,
she had the satisfaction of telling the strange story,
as original news, to every body in the village.
And moreover, she received several valuable presents
from Mr. Marshall and Mary; and she became,
from that time forth, quite a lady in her
dress and deportment—that is, she displayed taste
as well as neatness in her apparel; and her manners
were gentle (for she tried in all things to
imitate Mary), her voice soft and low, and the spirit
of kindness and contentment seemed to have
made its home in her heart, and keep its sweet
smile always ready for her lip. And her influence
(for she became a very fashionable woman, having
been so connected with a mystery and a love match),
has doubtless had an effect on the ladies of Brattleborough,
as every person who visits there will find
that they all partake of the spirit and display the
characteristics I have described as distinguishing
Mrs. Redfield.
Mary, the sweet nun, returned to the south, the
happy wife of the Rev. Alexander Watson. The
Catholic priest excommunicated her from his heaven;
but she had learned to go to God as her Father,
and ask forgiveness of her sins for the sake of
Christ, her Saviour; and her dependence on priests
truly the Book of books; perhaps she prized it
more from having been so many years deprived of
the privilege of reading it. And she never forgot
that it was first presented to her by her beloved
husband.
| Traits of American life | |