University of Virginia Library

9. THE
CATHOLIC AND THE QUAKER.

J. G. Whittier.

It was one of Ireland's greenest lanes that wound
its way down to a rippling brook, in the rear of
Friend Goodman's house. And there, by a mound
of rocks that dipped their mossy feet in the rivulet,
Friend Goodman walked slowly, watching
for his little daughter, who had been spending the
day with some children in the neighbourhood.
Presently, the small maiden came jumping along,
with her bonnet thrown back, and the edges of
her soft brown ringlets luminous in the rays of the
setting sun. Those pretty curls were not Quakerly;
but Nature, who pays no more attention
to the regulations of Elders, than she does to the
edicts of Bishops, would have it so. At the
slightest breath of moisture, the silky hair rolled
itself into spirals, and clustered round her pure
white forehead, as if it loved the nestling-place.

Jumping, likewise, was not a Quakerly proceeding.
But little Alice, usually staid and demure,
in imitation of those around her, had met with a
new companion, whose temperament was more
mercurial than her own, and she was yielding to
its magnetic influence.

Camillo Campbell, a boy of six years, was the
grandson of an Italian lady, who had married an
Irish absentee, resident in Florence. Her descendants
had lately come to Ireland, and taken
possession of estates in the immediate neighbourhood
of Friend Goodman, where little Camillo's
foreign complexion, lively temperament, and graceful
broken language, rendered him an object of
very great interest, especially among the children.
He it was with whom little Alice was skipping
through the green lane, bright and free as the
wind and sunshine that played among her curls.
As the sober father watched their innocent gambols,
he felt his own pulses quicken, and his motions
involuntarily became more rapid and elastic
than usual. The little girl came nestling up to
his side, and rubbed her head upon his arm, like
a petted kitten. Camillo peeped roguishly from
behind the mossy rocks, kissed his hand to her,
and ran off, hopping first on one foot and then on
the other.

“Dost thou like that little boy?” inquired Friend
Goodman, as he stooped to kiss his darling.

“Yes, Camillo's a pretty boy, I like him,” she

replied. Then with a skip and a bound, which
showed that the electric fluid was still leaping in
her veins, she added, “He's a funny boy, too:
he swears you all the time.”

The simple child, being always accustomed to
hear thee and thou, verily thought you was a profane
word. Her father did what was very unusual
with him: he laughed outright, as he replied,
“What a strange boy is that!”

“He asked me to come down to the rock and
play, to-morrow. May I go, after school?” she
asked.

“We will see what mother says,” he replied.
“But where didst thou meet Camillo?”

“He came to play with us in the lane, and
Deborah and John and I went into his garden to
see the birds. Oh, he has got such pretty birds!
There's a nice little meeting-house in the garden;
and there's a woman standing there with a baby.
Camillo calls her my donny. He says we mustn't
play in there. Why not? Who is my donny?”

“The people of Italy, where Camillo used to
live, call the Mother of Christ Madonna,” replied
her father.

“And who is Christ,” she asked.

“He was a holy man, who lived a great many
years ago. I read to thee one day about his taking
little children in his arms and blessing them.”

“I guess he loved little children almost as well
as thou, dear father,” said Alice. “But what do

they put his mother in that little meeting-house
for?”

Not deeming it wise to puzzle her busy little
brain with theological explanations, Friend Goodman
called her attention to a small dog, whose
curly white hair soon displaced the Madonna, and
even Camillo, in her thoughts. But the new
neighbour, and the conservatory peopled with birds,
and the little chapel in the garden, made a strong
impression on her mind. She was always talking
of them, and in after years they remained by far
the most vivid picture in the gallery of childish
recollections. Nearly every day, she and Camillo
met at the mossy rock, where they planted flowers
in blossom, and buried flies in clover-leaves, and
launched little boats on the stream. When they
strolled toward the conservatory, the old gardener
was always glad to admit them. Flowering shrubs
and gaudy parrots, so bright in the warm sunshine,
formed such a cheerful contrast to her own unadorned
home, that little Alice was never weary
with gazing and wondering. But from all the
brilliant things, she chose two Java sparrows for
her especial favorites. The old gardener told her
they were Quaker birds, because their feathers
were all of such a soft, quiet color. Bright little
Camillo caught up the idea, and said, “I know
what for you so much do like them: Quaker lady-birds
they be.”

“And she's a Quaker lady-bird, too,” said the

old gardener, smiling, as he patted her on the
head; “she's a nice little lady-bird.” Poll Parrot
heard him, and repeated, “Lady-bird.” Always
after that, when Alice entered the conservatory,
the parrot laughed and screamed, “Lady-bird!”

Near the door were two niches partially concealed
by a net-work of vines; and in the niches
were statues of two winged children. Alice inquired
who they were; and Camillo replied, “My
little sister and brother. Children of the Madonna
now they is.” His mother had told him this, and
he did not understand what it meant; neither did
Alice. She looked up at the winged ones with
timid love, and said, “Why don't they come down
and play with us?”

“From heaven they cannot come down,” answered
Camillo.

Alice was about to inquire the reason why,
when the parrot interrupted her by calling out,
“Lady-bird! Lady-bird!” and Camillo began to
mock her. Then, laughing merrily, off they ran
to the mossy rock to plant some flowers the gardener
had given them.

That night, while Alice was eating her supper,
Friend Goodman chanced to read aloud something
in which the word heaven occurred. “I've been
to heaven,” said Alice.

“Hush, hush, my child,” replied her father.

“But I have been to heaven,” she insisted.
“Little children have wings there.”

Her parents exchanged glances of surprise, and
the mother asked, “How dost thou know that
little children have wings in heaven?”

“Because I saw them,” she replied. “They
wear white gowns, and they are the children of
my donny. My donny lives in the little meeting-house
in Camillo's garden. She's the mother of
Christ that loved little children so much; but she
never said any thing to me. The birds call me
lady-bird, in heaven.”

Her mother looked very sober. “She gets her
head full of strange things down there yonder,”
said she. “I tell thee, Joseph, I don't like to
have the children playing together so much.
There's no telling what may come of it.”

“Oh, they are mere babes,” replied Joseph.
“The my donny, as she calls it, and her doll, are
all the same to her. The children take a deal of
comfort together, and it seems to me it is not
worth while to put estrangement between them.
Divisions come fast enough in the human family.
When he is a lad, he will go away to school and
college, and will come back to live in a totally
different world from ours. Let the little ones enjoy
themselves while they can.”

Thus spake the large-hearted Friend Joseph;
but Rachel was not so easily satisfied. “I don't
like this talk about graven images,” said she. “If
the child's head gets full of such notions, it may
not prove so easy to put them out.”

Truly, there seemed some ground for Rachel's
fears; for whether Alice walked or slept, she
seemed to live in the neighbour's garden. Sitting
beside her mother in the silent Quaker meeting,
she forgot the row of plain bonnets before her,
and saw a vision of winged children through a
veil of vines. At school, she heard the old green
parrot scream, “Lady-bird!” and fan-tailed doves
and Java sparrows hopped into her dreams. She
had never heard a fairy story in her life; otherwise,
she would doubtless have imagined that
Camillo was a prince, who lived in an enchanted
palace, and had some powerful fairy for a friend.

It came to pass as Joseph had predicted. These
days of happy companionship soon passed away.
Camillo went to a distant school, then to college,
and then was absent awhile on the Continent. It
naturally happened that the wealthy Catholic family
had but little intercourse with the substantial
Quaker farmer. Years passed without a word
between Alice and her former playfellow. Once,
during his college life, she met him and his father
on horseback, as she was riding home from meeting,
on a small gray mare her father had given
her. He touched his hat and said, “How do you
do, Miss Goodman?” and she replied, “How art
thou, Camillo?” His father inquired, “Who is
that young woman?” and he answered, “She is
the daughter of Farmer Goodman, with whom I

used to play sometimes, when I was a little boy.”
Thus like shadows they passed on their separate
ways. He thought no more of the rustic Quaker
girl, and with her, the bright picture of their childhood
was like the remembrance of last year's rainbow.

But events now approached, which put all rainbows
and flowers to flight. A Rebellion broke
out in Ireland, and a terrible civil war began to
rage between Catholics under the name of Pikemen,
and Protestants under the name of Orangemen.
The Quakers being conscientiously opposed
to war, could not adopt the emblems of either
party, and were of course exposed to the hostility
of both. Joseph Goodman, in common with others
of his religious persuasion, had always professed to
believe, that returning good for evil was a heavenly
principle, and therefore safe policy. Alice had
received this belief as a traditionary inheritance,
without disputing it, or reflecting upon it. But
now came times that tested faith severely. Every
night, they retired to rest with the consciousness
that their worldly possessions might be destroyed
by fire and pillage before morning, and perhaps
their lives sacrificed by infuriated soldiers. At the
meeting-house, and by the way-side, earnest were
the exhortations of the brethren to stand by their
principles, and not flinch in this hour of trial.
Joseph Goodman's sermon was brief and impressive.
“The Gospel of Love has power to regenerate the

world,” said he; “and the humblest individual,
who lives according to it, has done something for
the salvation of man.”

His strength was soon tried; for the very next
day a party of Pikemen came into the neighbourhood
and set fire to all the houses of the Orangemen.
Groans, and shrieks, and the sharp sound of
shots, were heard in every direction. Fierce men
rushed into their peaceful dwelling, demanding
food, and ordering them to give up their arms.

“Food I will give, but arms I have none,” replied
Joseph.

“More shame for you!” roared the commander
of the troop. “If you can't do any thing more for
your country than that, you may as well be killed
at once, for a coward, as you are.”

He drew his sword, but Joseph did not wink at
the flash of the glittering blade. He looked him
calmly in the eye, and said, “If thou art willing
to take the crime of murder on thy conscience, I
cannot help it. I would not willingly do harm to
thee, or to any man.”

The soldier turned away abashed, and putting his
sword into the scabbard, he muttered, “Well, give
us something to eat, will you?”

The hours that followed were frightful with the
light of blazing houses, the crash of musketry, and
the screams of women and children flying across
the fields. Many took refuge in Joseph's house,

and he did all he could to soothe and strengthen
them.

At sunset, he went forth with his serving-men to
seek the wounded and the dead. Along the road
and among the bushes, mangled bodies were lying
in every direction. Those in whom life remained,
they brought with all tenderness and consigned
to the care of Rachel and Alice; and, as long as
they could see, they gathered the dead for burial.
In the evening, the captain of the Pikemen returned
in great wrath. “This is rather too much,” he exclaimed.
“We didn't spare your house this morning
to have it converted into a hospital for the
damned Orangemen. Turn out every dog of 'em,
or we will burn it down over your heads.”

“I cannot stay thy hand, if thou hast the heart
to do it,” mildly replied Joseph. “But I will not
desert my fellow-creatures in their great distress.
If the time should come when thy party is routed,
we will bury thy dead, and nurse thy wounded, as
we have done for the Orangemen. I will do good
to all parties, and harm to none. Here I take my
stand, and thou mayest kill me if thou wilt.”

Again the soldier was arrested by a power he
knew not how to resist. Joseph seeing his embarrassment,
added: “I put the question to thee as a
man of war: Is it manly to persecute women and
children? Is it brave to torture the wounded and
the dying? Wouldst thou feel easy to think of it

in thy dying hour? Let us part in peace, and
when thou hast need of a friend, come to me.”

After a brief hesitation, the soldier said, “It
would be a happier world if all thought as you do.”
Then, calling to his men, he said, “Let us be off,
boys. There's nothing to be done here.”

A fortnight after, triumphant Orangemen came
with loud uproar to destroy the houses of the Catholics.
It was scarcely day-break, when Alice
was roused from uneasy slumbers by the discharge
of musketry, and a lurid light on the walls of her
room. Starting up, she beheld Colonel Campbell's
house in a blaze. The beautiful statues of the Madonna
and the winged children were knocked to
pieces, and crushed under the feet of an angry mob.
Vines and flowers crisped under the crackling
flames, and the beautiful birds from foreign climes
fell suffocated in the smoke, or flew forth, frightened,
into woods and fields, and perished by cruel hands.
In the green lane, once so peaceful and pleasant,
ferocious men were scuffling and trampling, shooting
and stabbing. Everywhere the grass and the
moss were dabbled with blood. Above all the din,
were heard the shrill screams of women and children;
and the mother of Camillo came flying into
Joseph's house, exclaiming, “Hide me, oh, hide
me!” Alice received her in her arms, laid the
throbbing head tenderly on her bosom, put back
the hair that was falling in wild disorder over her
face, and tried to calm her terror with gentle words.

Others came pouring in, and no one was refused
shelter. To the women of Colonel Campbell's
household Alice relinquished her own little bedroom,
the only corner of the house that was not
already filled to overflowing. She drew the curtain,
that the afflicted ones need not witness the
bloody skirmishing in the fields and lane below.
But a loud shriek soon recalled her to their side.
Mary Campbell had withdrawn the curtain, and
seen her husband fall, thrust at by a dozen swords.
Fainting-fits and hysterics succeeded each other in
quick succession, while Alice and her mother laid
her on the bed, and rubbed her hands and bathed
her temples. Gradually the sounds of war died
away in the distance. Then Joseph and his helpers
went forth to gather up the wounded and the dead.
Colonel Campbell was found utterly lifeless, and
the brook where Camillo used to launch his little
boats, was red with his father's blood. They
brought him in tenderly, washed the ghastly
wounds, closed the glaring eyes, and left the widow
and the household to mourn over him. Late in the
night they persuaded her to go to rest; and, when
all was still, the weary family fell asleep on the
floor; for not a bed was unoccupied.

This time, they hoped to escape the conquerors'
rage. But early in the morning, a party of them
came back, and demanded that all the Catholics
should be given up to them. Joseph replied, as he
had done before: “I cannot give up my helpless

and dying neighbours, whether they be Pikemen or
Orangemen. I will do good to all, and harm to
none, come to me what may.”

“That's impartial, anyhow,” said the captain. He
took some Orange cockades from his pocket, and
added, “Wear these, and my men will do you no
harm.”

“I cannot conscientiously wear one,” replied
Joseph, “because they are emblems of war.”

The captain laughed half scornfully, and handing
one to Alice, said, “Well, my good girl, you
can wear one, and then you need not be afraid of
our soldiers.”

She looked very pleasantly in his face and answered,
“I should be afraid if I did not trust in
something better than a cockade.”

The leader of the Orangemen was arrested by
the same spell that stopped the leader of the Pikemen.
But some of his followers, who had been
lingering about the door, called out, “What's the
use of parleying? Isn't the old traitor nursing
Catholics, to fight us again when they get well? If
he won't serve the government by fighting for us,
he will at least do to stop a bullet as well as a
braver man. Bring him out, and put him in the
front ranks to be shot at!” One of them seized
Joseph to drag him away; but Alice laid a trembling
hand on his arm, and said, beseechingly,
“Before you take him, come and see the wounded
Orangemen, with their wives and children, whom

my father and mother have fed and tended night
and day.” A pale figure, with bandaged head and
one arm in a sling, came forth from an adjoining
room and said, “Comrades, you surely will not
harm these worthy people. They have fed our
children, and buried our dead, as if we were their
own brothers.” The soldiers listened, and, suddenly
changing then mood, went off shouting,
“Hurrah for the Quakers!”

Some days of comparative quiet followed. Colonel
Campbell was buried in his own garden, with
as much deference to the wishes of his widow
as circumstances would permit. She returned
from the funeral calmer than she had been, and
quietly assisted in taking care of the wounded.
But when she retired to her little room, and saw
a crucifix fastened on the wall at the foot of her
bed, she burst into tears and said, “Who has done
this?”

Alice gently replied, “I did it. I found it in the
mud, where the little chapel used to stand. I know
it is a sacred emblem to thee, and I thought it
would pain thee to have it there; so I have washed
it carefully and placed it in thy room.”

The bereaved Catholic kissed the friendly hand
that had done so kind a deed; and tears fell on it,
as she murmured, “Good child! may the Holy
Virgin bless thee!”

Balmy is a blessing from any human heart, whether
it be given in the name of Jesus or Mary, God

or Allah. Alice slept well, and guardian angels
rejoiced over her in heaven.

Success alternated between the contending parties,
and kept the country in a state of perpetual
alarm. One week, the widow of Colonel Campbell
was surrounded by victorious friends, and the
next week, she was in terror for her life. At last,
Camillo himself came with a band of successful
insurgents. During a brief and agitated interview
with his mother, he learned how kindly she had
been sheltered in their neighbour's house, and how
tenderly the remains of his father had been treated.
When she pointed to the crucifix on the wall, and
told its history, his eyes filled with tears. “Oh,
why cannot we of different faith always treat each
other thus?” was his inward thought; but he
bowed his head in silence. Hearing loud voices,
he started up suddenly, exclaiming, “There may
be danger below!” Following the noise, he found
soldiers threatening Friend Goodman, who stood
with his back firmly placed against the door of an
inner room. Seeing Camillo enter, and being
aware of the great influence his family had with
the Catholics, he said, “These men insist upon carrying
out the dying Orangemen who are sheltered
here, and compelling me to see them shot. Is it
thy will that these murders should be committed?”

The young man took his hand, and in tones of
deep respect answered, “Could you believe that I

would suffer violence to be done to any under your
roof, if I had power to prevent it?” Then turning
to his soldiers, he said, “These excellent people
have injured no one. Through all these troubled
times, they have been kind alike to Pikemen and
Orangemen; they have buried our dead, and sheltered
our widows. If you have any respect for the
memory of my father, treat with respect all who
wear the peaceful garb of the Quakers.” The men
spoke apart for awhile, and soon after left the
house.

As Camillo passed by the kitchen door, he saw
Alice distributing boiled potatoes to a crowd of
hungry children. A soldier stood by her, insisting
that she should wear a cross, which was the emblem
of the Pikemen. She mildly replied, “I cannot
consent to wear the cross, but I hope God will
enable me to bear it.” The rude fellow, who was
somewhat intoxicated, touched her under the chin,
and said, “Come, mavourneen, do be a little more
obliging.” Camillo instantly seized his arm, and,
exclaiming, “Behave decently, my lad! behave
decently!” he led him to the door. As he went,
he turned towards Alice with an expression she
never forgot, and said, in a low deep tone, “Words
are poor to thank you for what you have done for
my mother.”

The next day, when he met Alice walking to
meeting, he touched his hat respectfully and said,
“I scarcely deem it prudent for you to be in the

roads at this time, Miss Alice. Armed insurgents
are everywhere abroad; and though there is a prevailing
disposition not to injure the Quakers, still
many of our men are too desperate to be always
controlled.”

She smiled and answered, “I thank thee for thy
friendly caution; but I trust in the Power that has
hitherto protected me.”

After a short pause, he said, “Your place of meeting
is two miles from here. Where is the horse
you used to ride?”

“A soldier took it from me, as I rode from meeting
several weeks ago,” she replied.

“You see then it is, as I have said, unsafe for
you to go,” he rejoined. “Had you not better turn
back?”

With great earnestness she answered, “Friend
Camillo, I cannot otherwise than go. Our people
are afflicted and bowed down. The soldiers have
nearly consumed our provisions. Our women are
almost worn out with the fatigue of constant nursing
and perpetual alarms. All are not unwavering
in their faith. It is the duty of the strong to sustain
the weak; and therefore it is needful that we
meet together for counsel and consolation.”

The young man looked at her with affectionate
reverence. The fair complexion and shining ringlets
of childhood were gone, but a serene and deep
expression of soul imparted a more elevated beauty
to her countenance. He parted from her with a

blessing, simply and fervently uttered; but he entered
the adjoining fields, and as he walked along
he kept her within sight until she arrived safely at
the place of meeting. While he thus watched her
unseen, he recollected how often his taste had been
offended by the quaint awkwardness of the Quaker
garb; and uttering aloud the sequel to his thoughts,
he said, “But beautiful and graceful will her garments
be in heaven.”

Soon after this interview, he departed with a
strong escort to convey his mother and other Catholic
women into a less turbulent district. Alice
bade them farewell with undisguised sadness; for
we learn to love those whom we serve, and there
seemed little probability that they would ever return
to reside in that troubled neighborhood.

The next time she saw Camillo, he was brought
into her father's house on a litter, senseless, and
wounded, as it was supposed, unto death. All the
restoratives they could think of were applied, and
at last, as Alice bent over him, bathing his temples,
he opened his eyes with a dull unconscious stare,
which gradually relaxed into a feeble smile, as he
whispered, “My Quaker lady-bird.” Some hours
afterward, when she brought him drink, he gently
pressed her hand, and said, “Thank you, dear
Alice.” The words were simple, but the expression
of his eyes and the pressure of his hand sent
a thrill through the maiden, which she had never
before experienced. That night, she dreamed of

winged children seen through flowering vines, and
Camillo laughed when the parrot called her “Lady-bird.”

Sorrow, like love, levels all distinctions, and melts
all forms in its fiery furnace. In the midst of sickness
and suffering, and every-day familiarity with
death, there was small attention paid to customary
proprieties. No one heeded whether Camillo were
tended by Alice or her mother; but if Alice were
long absent, he complained that she came so seldom.
As his health improved, they talked together
of the flowers they used to plant on the mossy
rock, and the little boats they launched on the
rippling brook. Sometimes, in their merriest
moods, they mocked the laughing of the old green
parrot, and the cooing of the fan-tailed doves.
Thus walking through the green lanes of their
childhood, they came unconsciously into the fairy-land
of love! All was bright and golden there,
and but one shadow rested on the sunshine. When
Camillo spoke of the “little meeting-house in the
garden,” and the image of “My donny,” she grew
very thoughtful; and he said with a sigh, “I wish,
dear Alice, that we were of one religion.” She
smiled sweetly as she answered, “Are we not both
of the religion of Jesus?”

He kissed her hand, and said, “Your soul is always
large and liberal, and noble and kind; but
others are not like you, dear Alice.”

And truly, when the war had ceased, and Camillo

Campbell began to rebuild his demolished dwelling,
and the young couple spoke of marriage, great
was the consternation in both families. Even the
liberal-minded Joseph was deeply-pained to have
his daughter “marry out of Society,” as their
phrase is; but he strove to console Rachel, who
was far more afflicted than himself. “The young
people love each other,” he said, “and it does not
seem to be right to put any constraint on their affection.
Camillo is a goodly youth; and I think
the dreadful scenes he has lately witnessed have
exercised his mind powerfully on the subject of
war. I have observed that he is thoughtful and
candid; and if he does but act up to his own light,
it is all I ask of him. He promises never to interfere
with the freedom of Alice; and as she has
adopted most of our principles from her own conviction,
I do not fear she will ever depart from
them.”

“Don't comfort thyself with any such idea,” replied
Rachel. “She will have pictures of the
Virgin Mary in her house, and priests will come
there to say over their mummery; and small beginnings
make great endings. At all events, one
thing is certain. Alice will lose her membership
in our Society; and that it is which mainly grieves
me. She is such a serious, sensible girl, that I always
hoped to see her an esteemed minister among
us.”

“It is a disappointment to me also,” replied

Joseph; “but we must bear it cheerfully. It certainly
is better to have our child go out of the Society
and keep her principles, than it would be to
have her stay in Society and depart from her principles,
as many do.”

Mary Campbell was more disturbed than Rachel
Goodman. In the first paroxysm of her distress,
she said she wished she had been killed in the war,
rather than live to see her only son married to a
black Protestant.

“Not a black Protestant, dear mother, only a
dove-colored one,” rejoined Camillo, playfully,
Then he kissed her, and reminded her of the story
of the crucifix, and told her how noble and gentle,
and good and sensible, his Alice was. As he
talked, a vision rose before her of the little bedroom
in the Quaker's farm-house; she saw Rachel
and Alice supporting the drooping-heads of poor
homeless Catholics, while they offered drink to
their feverish lips; and memory melted bigotry.
She threw herself weeping into Camillo's arms and
said, “Truly they did treat us like disciples of Jesus.
I once said to Alice, `May the Holy Virgin bless
thee;' and I now say, from my heart, May the Holy
Virgin bless you both, my son.”

And so Catholic and Quaker were married, according
to the forms of both their churches.

The Society of Friends mostly withdrew from
companionship with Alice, though they greeted her
kindly at their meetings. The Catholics shook their

heads and complained that Camillo Campbell was
already half a Quaker. Both prognosticated evil
consequences from such a union. But the worst
that happened was, Alice learned that there might
be superstition in the cut of a garment, as well as
in veneration for an image; and Camillo became
convinced that hatred and violence were much
greater sins than eating meat on Fridays.

Note.—The course here described as generally pursued by
Quakers during the Irish Rebellion, and the effect stated to be
produced on the soldiers of both parties, are strictly true.