University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

“Mary, where is your cousin? I have not seen her since
breakfast,” inquired Mrs. Carlton, as the two friends
sat conversing in the chamber of the latter.

“She laid aside her book just now, declaring it was so
dark she could scarcely read. This gloomy day has infected
her spirits; she is probably in the dining-room. I will
seek her.” And rising, Mary left the apartment.

For two days the rain had fallen in torrents, and now
on the third morning, the heavens were still overcast, and
at intervals of every few moments the heavy clouds discharged
themselves in copious showers. The despondency
induced by the unsettled times was enhanced by the
gloomy weather, and many an earnest wish was expressed
that sunshine would soon smile again upon the town.

Weary with pacing up and down the dining-room,
Florence had stationed herself at the window, and stood
with her cheek pressed against the panes, gazing dreamily

out upon the deluged streets. She was roused from
her reverie by Mary's entrance.

“Florry, I have come in quest of you. Pray, how are
you amusing yourself here, all alone?”

“Communing with my own thoughts, as usual. Here,
Mary, stand beside me. As you came in I was puzzling
myself to discover how those Mexican women across the
street are employing themselves. They seem distressed,
yet every now and then chatter with most perfect unconcern.
There, they are both on their knees, with
something like a picture hanging on the fence before
them. They dart in and out of the house in a strange, exexcited
manner. Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

Mary looked earnestly in the direction indicated by her
cousin, and at length replied:

“You will scarcely credit my explanation: yet I assure
you I perfectly understand the pantomime. Florry, look
more particularly at the picture suspended in the rain.
What does it most resemble, think you?”

“Ah, I see now—it is an image of the Virgin! But I
should suppose they considered it sacrilegious to expose it to
the inclemencies of the weather.”

“Look closely, Florry, they are praying to the Virgin,
and imploring a cessation of the rain. I once happened at
Señor Gonzale's during a thunder-storm, and, to my astonishment,
the family immediately hung out all the paintings
of saints they possessed. I inquired the meaning, and was
told in answer, that the shower would soon pass over,
as they had petitioned the images to that effect. Those
women have repeated a certain number of aves, and

withdrawn into the house, but ere long you will see them
return, and go through the same formula.”

“It is almost incredible that they should ascribe such
miraculous power to these little bits of painted canvas,”
replied Florence, gazing curiously upon the picture which
was suspended with the face toward her.

“No, not incredible, when you remember the quantity
of relics annually exported from Rome, such as `chips of
the Cross,' `bones of the Apostles,' and `fragments of the
Virgin's apparel,' which Papists conscientiously believe are
endowed with magical powers sufficient to relieve various
infirmities. I doubt not that those women confidently expect
a favorable response to their petition; and if such intercession
could avail, it was certainly never more needed.
Absurd as the practice appears to us, a doubt of the efficacy
of their prayers never crossed their minds. They are
both devout and conscientious.”

“But, Mary, such superstitious ignorance is entirely confined
to the degraded and uneducated classes. No really
intelligent mind could rely on yonder picture to dispel these
clouds, and win a ray of sunshine. I think you are too
hasty in supposing that the enlightened portion of the
Catholic Church place such implicit confidence in images
and relics.”

“What do you term the enlightened portion of the
church? Would not its prelates be considered as belonging
to that class?”

“Most certainly they would, Mary: for doubtless many
of the greatest minds Europe has produced, were and
are still to be found among the Roman Catholic clergy.

Yet you would not insinuate that these rely on the efficacy
of such mummery as that we have just witnessed?” replied
Florence, fixing her eyes inquiringly upon her cousin's
face.

“Allow me to ask one question ere I reply. Florry, do
you believe the days of miracles have passed away, or do
you suppose that the laws of nature are still constantly infringed,
the harmony of cause and effect destroyed, and
wonderful phenomena still vouchsafed to favored Europeans?”

“Of course I do not advocate the theory that miracles
occur at the present day. It is too preposterous to advance
in this enlightened age. There are perhaps natural
phenomena, only to be explained by scientific research;
yet in the common acceptation of the term miracle, I
unhesitatingly declare that I believe none have occurred
since the days of Christ and the Apostles.”

“Then, Florry, your position is untenable, for Romish
prelates of the present day do most unquestionably defend
the theory of the annual occurrence of miracles. Bishop
—, whose intellectual endowments are the constant
theme of encomiums, has recently visited Italy. On his
return to America, he brought with him a valuable collection
of relics, which he distributed among the members of
his church. Florry, I can vouch for the truth of what I
now say. He declared himself extremely fortunate in
having happened at Naples during the anniversary of the
death of St. Janarius. Said he, `I repaired to the place
of his martyrdom, and took into my own hand the vial containing
the blood of the blessed saint, now decomposed.

As the hour rolled around I watched the holy dust in
breathless anxiety; at the appointed moment I perceived a
change in its appearance, and while I held the vial in my
hand the ashes liquefied and became veritable blood!
while the dark spots on a neighboring stone turned of
a deep crimson.' Now the bishop related this miracle far
and wide, and priests ministering at the altar repeated his
words to their listening flocks. Sanctioned by the example
of their prelates, do you wonder that the ignorant masses
of the Romish church should implicitly rely upon the intercession
of saints, and place unbounded confidence in the
miraculous powers imputed to relics? Again, the Manuals
placed in the hands of the laity, are compiled under the
special supervision of these ecclesiastical professors, who
necessarily indorse all we see there advanced. In the
Ursuline Manual I find this assertion: `The Hail Mary
was composed in Heaven, dictated by the Holy Ghost, and
delivered to the faithful by the Angel Gabriel!' Now,
Florry, does not this seem blasphemy, bordering on the absurd?
What conscientious, honest, enlightened Christian
would unblushingly defend such a declaration?”

“But, Mary, admitting as you do, that you believe there
exist many truly conscientious members of this sect, why
indulge your apprehension at the promulgation of its tenets?”
replied Florence.

“I might answer you, Florry, in the words of Henry IV.,
who inquired of a celebrated Protestant divine, `if a man
might be saved by the Roman Catholic religion?' `Undoubtedly,'
replied the clergyman, `if his life and heart be
holy.' `Then,' said the king, `according to both Catholics

and Protestants, I may be saved by the Catholic religion;
but if I embrace your religion, I shall not be saved according
to the Catholics.' Thus Henry most unquestionably
adjudged Protestants the more tolerant of the two sects.
Here, Florry, you have the clew to my anti-Romanism. I
fear the extension of papal doctrines, because liberty of
conscience was never yet allowed where sufficient power
was vested in the Roman Catholic clergy to compel submission.
To preserve the balance of power in ecclesiastical
affairs is the only aim of Protestants. We but contend for
the privilege of placing the Bible in the hands of the masses
—of flashing the glorious flambeau of truth into the dark
recesses of ignorance and superstition—into the abysmal
depths of papal iniquity. Unscrupulously employing every
method conducive to the grand end of disseminating Romish
dogmas, the fagot, the wheel, and all the secret horrors
of the Inquisition, were speedily brought to bear upon all
who dared to assume the privilege of worshiping God according
to the dictates of an unfettered conscience. If the
bloody tragedies of the middle ages are no longer enacted
upon the theatre of a more enlightened world, it is because
the power so awfully abused has been wrested from the
scarlet-robed tenants of the Vatican. The same fierce, intolerable
tyranny is still exercised where their jurisdiction
is unquestioned. From the administration of the pontifical
states of Italy to the regulation of convent discipline, we
trace the workings of the same iron rule. No barriers are
too mighty to be overborne, no distinctions too delicate to
to be thrust rudely aside. Even the sweet sacredness of
the home circle is not exempt from the crushing, withering
influence. Ah! how many fair young members of the
household band have been decoyed from the hearthstone
and immured in gloomy cells. Ah! how many a widowed
parent has mourned over the wreck of all that was beautiful
in a cherished daughter, snatched by the hand of
bigotry from her warm embrace, and forever incarcerated
in monastic gloom. Oh! tell me, Florry, if compulsory
service is acceptable to all-seeing God? If the warm
young heart, beating behind many a convent grate, yearns
to burst asunder the iron bands which enthrall her, and,
mingling again upon the stage of life to perform the duties
for which she was created, oh! where in holy writ is
sanction found for the tyrannical decree which binds her
there forever—a living sacrifice?”