Mr. Charles Yorke appreciated the value of money, and knew admirably well how to spend it; but the acuteness which can foresee and make bargains, and the unscrupulousness which is so often necessary to insure their success, he had not. Consequently,when in an evil hour he embarked his inherited wealth in speculation, it was nearly all swept away.
Creditors, knowing his probity, offered to wait.
"Why should I wait?" he asked. "Will my debts contract as the cold weather comes on? I prefer an immediate settlement."
Not displeased at his refusal to profit by their generosity, they hinted at a willingness to take a percentage on their claims.
"A percentage!" cried the debtor. "Am I a swindler? Am I a beggar? I shall pay a hundred per cent., and I recommend you in your future dealings with me to bear in mind that I am a gentleman and not an adventurer."
A very old-fashioned man was Mr. Charles Yorke, and a very hard man to pity.
Behold him, then, and his familyen routefor their new home.
We have said that the two principal streets of the town of Seaton crossed each other at right angles, one running north and south along the river, the other running east and west across the river. These roads carried themselves very straightly before folks, but once out of town, forgot their company manners, and meandered as they chose, splintered into side-tracks, and wandered off in vagabond ways. But the south road, that passed by the Rowans', was the only one that came to nothing. The other three persisted till they each found a village or a city, twenty-five miles or so away. Half a mile from the village centre, on North Street, a very respectable-looking road started off eastward, ran across a field, and plunged into the forest that swept down over a long smooth rise from far-away regions of wildness. Following this road half a mile, one saw at the left a tumble-down stone wall across an opening, with two gates, painted black in imitation of iron, about fifteen rods apart. A little further on, it became visible that an avenue went from gate to gate, enclosing a deep half-circle of lawn, on which grew several fair enough elms and a really fine maple. After such preliminaries you expect a house; and there it is at the head of the avenue, a widespread building, with a cupola in the centre, a portico in front, and a wing at either side. It is elevated on a deep terrace, and has a background of woods, and woods at either hand, only a little removed.
To be consistent, this house should be of stone, or, at least, of brick; but it is neither. Still, it would not be right to call it a "shingle palace;" for its frame is a massive network of solid oaken beams, and it is strong enough to bear unmoved a shock that would set nine out of every ten modern city structures rattling down into their cellars. When Mrs. Yorke's grandfather built this house, in the year 1800, English ideas and feelings still prevailed in that region; and in building a house, a gentleman thought of his grandchildren, who might live in it. Now nobody builds with any reference to his descendants.
But Mr. Arnold's plans had proved larger than his purse. The park he meant to have had still remained three hundred acres of wild, unfenced land, the gardens never got beyond a few flowers, now choked with weeds, and the kitchen-garden, kept alive by Patrick Chester, Mrs. Yorke's keeper. As for the orchard, it never saw the light. Mrs. Yorke's father had done the place one good turn, for he had planted vines everywhere. Their graceful banners, in summer-time, draped the portico, the corners of the house, the dead oak-tree by the western wing, and swepthere and there over rock, fence, or stump.
Back of the house, toward the right, was a huge barn and a granary; the eaves of both under-hung with a solid row of swallows' nests. On this bright April morning, the whole air was full of the twirl and twitter of these birds, and with the blue glancing of their wings some invisible crystalline ring seemed to have been let down from the heavens over and around the house, and they followed its outline in their flight. But the homely, bread-and-butter robins had no such mystical ways. They flew or hopped straight where they wanted to go, and what they wanted to get was plainly something to eat. One of them alighted on the threshold of the open front-door and looked curiously in. He saw a long hall, with a staircase on one side, and open doors to right and left and at the furthest end. All the wood-work, walls, and ceilings in sight were dingy, and rats and mice had assisted time in gnawing away; but the furniture was bright, and three fires visible through the three open doors were brighter still. Redbreast seemed to be much interested in these fires. Probably he was a bird from the city, and had never seen such large ones. Those in the front rooms were large enough, but that in the kitchen was something immense, and yet left room at one side of the fireplace for a person to sit and look up chimney, if so disposed.
"Bon!" says the bird, with a nod, hopping in, "the kitchen is the place to go to. As to those flowers and cherries on the floor, I am not to be cheated by them. They are not good to eat, but only to walk on. I am a bird of culture and society. I know how people live. I am not like that stupid chicken."
For a little yellow chicken, without a sign of tail, had followed the robin in, and was eagerly pecking at the spots in the carpet.
The bird of culture hopped along to the door at the back of the hail, and paused again to reconnoitre. Here a long, narrow corridor ran across, with doors opening into the front rooms, and one into the kitchen, and a second stairway at one end. Three more hops brought the bird to the threshold of the kitchen-door, where a third pause occurred, this one not without trepidation; for here in the great kitchen a woman stood at a table with a pan of potatoes before her. She had washed them, and was now engaged in partially paring them and cutting out any suspicious spots that might be visible on the surfaces. "It takes me to make new potatoes out of old ones!" she said to herself with an air of satisfaction, tossing the potato in in her hand into a pan of cold water.
This woman was large-framed and tall, and over forty years of age. She had a homely, sensible, pleasant, quick-tempered face, and the base of her nose was an hypothenuse. Her dark hair was drawn back and made into a smooth French twist, with a shell comb stuck in the top a little askew. It is hard to fasten one of those twists with the comb quite even, if it has much top to it. This comb had much top. The woman's face shone with washing; she wore a straightly-fitting calico gown and a white linen collar. The gown was newly done up and a little too stiff, and to keep it from soil she had doubled the skirt up in front and pinned it behind, and tied on a large apron. For further safeguard, the sleeves were turned up and pinned to the shoulder by the waistbands. At every movement she made these stiff clothes rattled.
This woman was Miss Betsey Bates. She had lived at Mr. Arnold's when Miss Amy was a young girl, had left when she left, and was now come back to live with her again.
"Just let your water bile," Betsey began, addressing an imaginary audience—"let your water bile, and throw in a handful of salt; then wash your potatoes clean; peel 'em all but a strip or two to hold together; cut out the spots, and let 'em lay awhile in cold water; when it's time to cook 'em, throw 'em into your biling water, and clap on your lid; then—"
Betsey stopped suddenly and looked over her shoulder to listen, but, hearing no carriage-wheels nor human steps, resumed her occupation. She did not perceive the two little bipeds on the threshold of the door, where they were listening to her soliloquy with great interest, though it was the chicken's steps that had attracted her attention. That silly creature, dissatisfied with his worsted banquet, had hopped along to the robin's side, where he now stood with a hungry crop, round eyes, and two or three colored threads sticking to his bill.
Betsey's thoughts took a new turn. "I must go and see to the fires, and put a good beach chunk on each one. There's a little chill in the air, and everybody wants a fire after a journey. It looks cheerful. I've got six fires going in this house. What do you think of that? To my idea, an open fire in a strange house is equal to a first cousin, sometimes better."
Here a step sounded outside the open window behind the table, and Pat Chester appeared, a stout, fine-looking, red-faced man, with mischievous eyes and an honest mouth. Curiously enough, the base of his nose also was an hypothenuse. Otherwise there was no resemblance between the two. Betsey used to say to him, "Pat, the ends of our noses were sawed off the wrong way."
"Who are you talking to?" asked Pat, stopping to look in and laugh.
"Your betters," was the retort.
"I don't envy 'em," said Pat, and went on about his business.
"And I must see to them clocks again," pursued Betsey. "The idea of having a clock in every room in the house! It takes me half of my time to set 'em forward and back. As to touching the pendulums of such clocks as them, you don't catch me. But I do abominate to see one mantelpiece a quarter past and another quarter of at the same time."
Here a little peck on the floor arrested Betsey's attention, and, stretching her neck, she saw the chicken, and instantly flew at it with a loud "shoo!" With its two bits of wings extended and its head advanced as far as possible, the little wretch fled through the hall, peeping with terror. But the robin flew up and escaped over Betsey's head. "Laud sakes!" she cried, holding on to her comb and her eyes, "who ever saw a chicken fly up like that?"
Wondering over this phenomenon, Betsey went up-stairs and replenished the fires in three chambers, and set some of the clocks forward and others back, then hurried down to perform the same duties below stairs. Just as she set the last hour-hand carefully at nine o'clock, Pat put his head in at the dining-room window. "It's time for 'em to be here," he said, "and I'm going down to the gate to watch. I'll give a whistle the minute they come in sight."
Immersed in her own thoughts, Betsey had jumped violently at sound of his voice. "I do believe you're possessed to go round poking your head in at windows, and scaring people out of their wits!" she cried, witha frightened laugh. "Here I came within an ace of upsetting this clock or going into the fire."
Pat laughed back—he and Betsey were always scolding and always laughing at each other—muttered something about skittish women, and walked off down the avenue to watch for the family.
"I believe everything is ready," Betsey said, looking round. She took off her apron, took down her skirt and sleeves, and gave herself a general crackling smoothing over. Then suddenly she assumed an amiable smile, looked straight before her, dropped a short courtesy, and said, "How do you do, Mrs. Yorke? I hope I see you well. How do you do, sir? How do you do, miss? I wonder if I had better go out to the door when they come, or stand in the entry, or stay in the kitchen. I declare to man I don't know what to do! How do you do, ma'am?" beginning her practising again, this time before the glass. "I hope I see you well. To think of my not being married at all, and her having grown-up children!" she said, staring through the window. "The last time I saw her, she was a pretty creature, as pale as a snow-drop. Poor thing! she had a hard time of it with that Jezebel. She never said anything to me, nor I to her; but many a time she has come to me when that woman has been up to her tricks, and held on to me, and gasped for breath. 'O my heart! my heart!' she'd say. 'Don't speak to me, Betsey, but hold me a minute!' It was awful to see her white face, and to feel her heart jump as if it would tear itself out. That was the way trouble always took hold of her."
She mused a moment longer, then broke off suddenly, and began anew her practice. "How do you do, ma'am? I hope I see you well."
Presently a loud, shrill whistle interrupted her. Betsey rushed excitedly into the kitchen, dashed her potatoes into the kettle, tied on a clean apron that stood out like cast-iron with starch, and hovered in the rear of the hall, to be ready for advance or retreat, as occasion might demand.
The old yellow coach came through the gate, up the muddy avenue, and drew up at the steps. The two gentlemen got out first, then the young ladies, and all stood around while Mrs. Yorke slowly alighted. She was very pale, but smiled kindly on them, then took her son's arm, and went up the steps. Mr. Yorke stopped to offer his hand to a little girl who still remained in the coach. "My sakes!" muttered Betsey. "If it isn't that Rowan young one!"
"Mother dear," said the son, "it is possible to make a very beautiful place of this."
She looked at him with a brightening smile. "You think so, Carl?" She had been anxiously watching what impression the sight of her old home would make on her family, and exaggerating its defects in her own imagination, as she fancied they were doing in theirs. Their silence so far had given her a pang, since she interpreted it to mean disappointment, when in truth it had meant solicitude for her. They thought that she would be agitated on coming again to her childhood's home after so long an absence. So she was; but her own peculiar memories gave precedence to that which concerned those dearest to her.
"Besides, mother," Owen continued, "this spot has a charm for me which no other could have, however beautiful: it isyours."
That word conveyed the first intimation Mrs. Yorke had ever received that her son felt his dependence on a stepfather. But the pain the knowledgecaused her was instantly banished by the recollection that the cause of his uneasiness was now removed.
"My great-grandfather had ideas, though he did not carry them out," remarked Melicent. "If he had built his house of stone, it would have done very well. It is astonishing that he did not. But the earlier settlers in this country seemed to revel in wood, probably because it had been to them in the Old World a luxury. With heaps of stones at hand, they would persist in building their houses of logs."
At this point Betsey rushed out to welcome Mrs. Yorke. The sight of that pale face which seemed to be looking for her, and the slight, clinging form that used to cling to her, quite overcame her shyness.
"You dear creature, how glad I am to see you once more!" she cried out. And, seizing the lady by the shoulders, gave her a resounding kiss on the cheek.
"Please do not touch Mrs. Yorke's left arm. It gives her palpitation," said the son rather stiffly.
Young Mr. Owen had an invincible repugnance to personal familiarities, especially from inferiors.
"Dear Betsey, this is my son," the mother said proudly, looking at her manly young escort, as if to see him anew with a stranger's admiring eyes. "Carl has heard me speak of you many a time, my old friend!"
Betsey immediately dropped a solemn courtesy. "I hope I see you well, sir!" she said, remembering her manners.
"This must be Betsey Bates!" cried Miss Melicent, coming forward with great cordiality. "Mamma has spoken of you so often I knew you at once."
Miss Yorke did not say that she recognized Betsey by her nose, though that was the fact. The impression left on the woman's mind was of something highly complimentary, that some air expressive of honesty, faithfulness, and affection, or some subtile personal grace not universally acknowledged, had led to the recognition.
On the threshold of the door, Mrs. Yorke turned to receive her husband. She could not utter a word; but her face expressed what she would have said. In her look could be read that she placed in his hands all that was hers, regretting only that the gift was so small.
One saw then, too, that Mr. Yorke's sarcastic face was capable of great tenderness. As he met that mute welcome, a look of indulgent kindness softened his keen eyes, gave his scornful mouth a new shape, and lighted up his whole countenance. But he knew better than allow his wife to yield to any excitement of feeling.
"Yes, Amy!" he said cheerfully, "I think we shall make a very pleasant home here. Now come in and rest."
They went into the sitting-room at the left of the hall, and Mrs. Yorke was seated in an arm-chair there between the fire and the sunshine, and they all waited on her. Hester, kneeling by her mother, removed her gloves and overshoes, Clara took off her bonnet and shawl, and Melicent, after whispering a word to Betsey, went out with that factotum, and presently returned bearing a tin cup of coffee on which a froth of cream still floated.
"I've taken a cup, mamma," she said, "and I can recommend it. And breakfast will be ready in two minutes."
Owen Yorke, missing one of the company, went out, and found Edith standing forlorn in the portico, bitingher quivering lips, and struggling to restrain the tears that threatened to overflow her eyes. For the first time in her life the child felt timid and disconcerted. She was among her own people, and they had forgotten her. At that moment she longed passionately for Dick Rowan, and would have flown to him had it been possible.
"Come, little Gypsy!" he said. "You're not going to run away, I hope? Did you think we had forgotten you? See! I have not."
Owen Yorke's face was very winning when he chose, and his voice could express a good deal of kindness. Edith looked at him steadily a moment, then took the hand he offered, and went into the house with him. As they entered, Mrs. Yorke rose to give the child an affectionate welcome to her new home, and the daughters gathered about her with those bright, profuse words which are so pleasant even when they mean so little.
A folding-door opened from the sitting-room into the dining-room, which occupied the front half of the west wing, and here a breakfast was set out that dismayed the eyes of those who were expected to partake of it. There was a fricassee which had cost the lives of three hens of family, and occasioned a serious squabble between Pat and Betsey; there was a vast platter of ham and eggs, and a pyramid of potatoes piled so high that the first time it was touched one rolled off on to the cloth. Poor Betsey had no conception of the Yorke ideal of a proper breakfast.
"The good creature has such a generous heart!" Mrs. Yorke said, checking with a glance the titter which her two younger daughters had not tried to restrain. "And I am sure that everything is delicious."
Taking a seat at the table, Edith recollected that a trial awaited her. It was Friday; and abstinence from meat on that day was the one point in her mother's religion which she knew and practised. Otherwise she was as ignorant of it as possible.
Owen Yorke, sitting opposite, watched her curiously, perceiving that something was the matter. He noticed the slight bracing of the muscles of her face and neck, and that she drew her breath in like one who is preparing for a plunge, and kept her eyes steadily fixed on Mr. Yorke. Edith's way was to look at what she feared.
"Some of the chicken, little niece?" her uncle asked pleasantly.
"No, sir, I do not eat meat on Friday. I am a Roman Catholic," the child answered with precision. And, having made the announcement thus fully, shut her mouth, and sat pale, with her eyes fixed on Mr. Yorke's face.
A smile flashed into Owen Yorke's eyes at this reply. "Little Spartan!" he thought.
Edith did not miss the slight contraction of the brows and the downward twitch of the corners of the mouth in the face she watched; but the signs of displeasure passed as quickly as they came. "Then I am afraid you will make a poor breakfast," Mr. Yorke said gently. "But I will do the best I can for you."
There was a momentary silence; then the talk went on as before. But the family were deeply annoyed. It seemed enough that they should have to take this little waif, with they knew not what low habits and associates, or what unruly fires of temper inherited from her mother, without having an alien religion brought into their midst. Catholicism as they had seen it abroad appealed to their æsthetic sense. It floated there in a higher atmosphere, adorned with allthat wealth and culture could do. But at home they preferred to keep it where, as a rule, they found it—in the kitchen and the stable.
After they had returned to the sitting-room, Mr. Yorke called Edith to him. She went trembling; for, in spite of himself, her uncle's face wore a judicial look. The girls, who were just going up-stairs, lingered to hear what would be said, and Owen took his stand behind Mr. Yorke's chair, and looked at the child with an encouraging smile.
"Were the family you lived with Catholics, my dear?" the judge began.
"No, sir. Only Mr. Rowan was when he was a little boy."
"And Mr. Rowan wished to make a Catholic of you?" Mr. Yorke said, his lip beginning to curl.
The child lifted her head. "Mr. Rowan had nothing to say about me," she replied. "It was my mother."
A slight smile went round the circle. They quite approved of her reply.
"But you cannot recollect your mother?" Mr. Yorke continued.
"Oh! yes," Edith said with animation. "I remember how she looked, and what she said. She made me hold up my hands, and promise that I would be a Roman Catholic if I had to die for it. And that was the last word she ever said."
Mr. Yorke gave a short nod. To his mind the matter was settled. "N'est ce pas?" he said to his wife.
She bowed gravely. "There is no other way. It is impossible to ask her to break a promise so given. When she is older, she can choose for herself."
"Well, you hear, girls?" Mr. Yorke said, looking at his daughters. "Now take her, and make her feel at home."
Miss Yorke was dignified and inscrutable, Hester unmistakably cold, but Clara took her cousin's hand with the utmost cordiality, and was leading her from the room, when Edith stopped short, her eyes attracted by a cabinet portrait in oils that stood on a shelf near the door. This portrait represented a young man, with one of those ugly, beautiful faces which fascinate us, we know not why. Careless, profuse locks of golden brown clustered around his head, steady, agate-colored eyes followed the beholder wherever he went, and seemed at once defying him to escape and entreating him not to go, and the sunshine of a hidden smile softened the curves of the mouth and chin.
Edith's eyes sparkled, her face grew crimson, and she clasped her hands tightly on her breast.
"That is your father's portrait, my dear," Mrs. Yorke said, going to her. "Do you recognize it?"
The child restrained herself one moment, then she ran to the picture, clasped her arms around it, and kissed it over and over, weeping passionately. "It is mine! It is mine!" she cried out, when her aunt tried to soothe her.
"You are right, dear!" Mrs. Yorke said, much affected. "I am sure no one will object to your having the portrait. You may take it to your own chamber, if you wish."
Edith controlled herself, wiped her eyes, and put the picture down. "Dear Aunt Amy," she said, "you know I want it; but I won't take it unless you and Uncle Charles are quite willing."
It was touching, her first acknowledgment of kinship, and expression of trust and submission. They cordially assured her of their willingness, kissed her again in token of a closer adoption, and smiled after her as shewent off with her father's portrait clasped to her heart.
Melicent and Hester still lingered. Melicent remembered faintly her Uncle Robert's marriage, and the disagreeable feeling in the family at that time. It had left on her mind a prejudice against "that Polish girl," and a shade of disfavor toward her daughter. But she said nothing.
"It will be so disagreeable having a Catholic in the family!" Hester complained.
"Hester, listen to me!" her father said severely. "I want no bigotry nor petty persecutions in my family. Your Cousin Edith has as good a right to her religion as you have to yours; and if either should find herself disagreeably situated, it is she, for she is alone. Don't forget this; and don't let there be anything offensive said, or hinted, or looked. I mean to be consistent, and allow others the same freedom which I claim myself. Now, let me hear no more of this."
Hester took refuge in tears. It was her sole argument. She was one of those soft creatures who require to be petted, and have a talent for being abused. Possibly, too, she was a little jealous of this new member of the family.
"Melicent, will you lead away this weeping nymph, and dry her tears?" the father said impatiently. "Common sense is too robust for her constitution."
The sisters went up-stairs, and Owen followed them presently, and climbed to the cupola. Leaning on the window-sill there, he looked off over the country. The horizon was a ring of low blue hills, with a grand amethyst glittering to tell where the sea lay. Through the centre of this vast circle glimmered the river, silver, and gold, and steel-blue, and the white houses of the town lay like a heap of lilies scattered on its banks. Everywhere else was forest.
Shadows of varying thought swept over the young man's face as he looked off, and drew freer breath from the distance. "Henceforth my shield must bear a martlet," he muttered. "But whither shall I fly?"
That was the problem he was studying. He had come to this place only to see his family settled, and collect his own thoughts after their sudden fall from prosperity; then he would go out into the world, and work his own way. It was not pleasant, the change from that life of noble leisure and lofty work which he had planned, to one where compulsory labor for mere bread must occupy the greater part of his time; but it was inevitable. And as he looked abroad now, and breathed the fresh air that came frolicking out of the northwest, and remembered how wide the world is and how many veins in it are unwrought, his young courage rose, and the plans he had been building up for that year crumbled and ceased to excite his regret.
Only a few months before their change of circumstances, his mother had been won to consent that he might visit Asia. He had meant to go north, south, east, and west, in that shabby, glorious old land, make himself for the nonce Tartar, Chinese, Indian, Persian, what not, and get a look at creation through the eyes of each. This young man's sympathies were by no means narrow. He had never been able to believe that God smiles with peculiar fondness on any particular continent, island, peninsula, or part of either, and is but a stepfather to the rest of the world. He was born with a hatred of barriers. He sympathized with Swift, who "hated all nations, professions, and communities, and gave all his love to individuals." Or,better than Swift, he had at least a theoretical love for mankind unfenced. He did not have to learn to love, that came naturally to him; he had to learn to hate. But he was a good hater. Take him all in all, Carl Owen Yorke was at twenty-one a noble, generous youth, of good mind and unstained reputation; and it was no proof of excessive vanity in him that he believed himself capable of taking any position he might strive for.
"My dear Minerva tells me that I have in me some of the elements of failure," he said. "I wonder what they are?"
This "dear Minerva" was Miss Alice Mills, Mr. Robert Yorke's desertedfiancée. She and Owen were very close friends. It was one of those friendships which sometimes grow up between a woman whose youth is past and a youth whose manhood has scarcely arrived. Such a friendship may effect incalculable good or incalculable harm, as the woman shall choose.
"Well," he concluded, not caring to puzzle over the riddle, "she will explain, I suppose, when she writes. And if anybody can get at the cube-root of the difficulty, she can."
Meantime, while the son was musing, and the daughters were selecting their chambers, and making up a toilet for Edith, Mr. Yorke had sent for Patrick Chester in the sitting-room, and was questioning him concerning Catholic affairs in Seaton. They did not seem to be in a flourishing condition.
There was no priest settled there, Patrick said; but one came over from B—— once in two months, and said Mass for them. They had no church yet, but a little chapel, what there was left of it.
"What do you mean by that?" his master asked.
"Why, sir, some of the Seaton rowdies got into the chapel, one night, not long ago, and smashed the windows, and broke up the tabernacle, and destroyed the pictures entirely. And they twisted off the crucifix, though it was of iron, two inches wide and half an inch thick. The devil must have helped the man that did it, savin' your presence, ma'am."
"Are they vandals here?" demanded Mr. Yorke.
"There are some fine folks in Seaton," said Pat, who did not know what vandals are. "But the rowdies have everything pretty much their own way."
"And is there no law in the town?" asked Mr. Yorke wrathfully.
"There's a good many lawyers," said Pat, scratching his head.
"You mean to say that there was no effort made to discover and punish the perpetrators of such an outrage?" exclaimed his master.
"Indeed there was not, sir!" Pat answered. "People knew pretty well who did the mischief, and that the fellow that broke off the crucifix was taken bleeding at the lungs just after; but nobody molested 'em. It wouldn't be well for the one who would lift his voice against the Seaton rowdies. Why, some of 'em belong to as wealthy families as there are in town. They began with a cast-iron band years ago, and everybody laughed at 'em. All the harm they did was to wake people out of sleep. Then they broke up a lecture. It was a Mr. Fowle from Boston, who was preaching about education. And then they did a little mischief here and there to people they didn't like, and now they are too strong to put down. And, indeed, sir, when it's against the Catholics they are, nobody wants to put 'em down."
Mr. Yorke glanced at his wife. She did not look up nor deny Patrick'scharges. She was a little ashamed of the character of her native town in this respect; for at that time Seaton was notorious for its lawlessness, and was even proud of its reputation. No great harm had been done, they said. It was only the boys' fun. They were sorry, it is true, that a respectable lecturer should have been insulted; but that a Catholic chapel should be desecrated, that was nothing. They did not give it a second thought.
"Well, Patrick," Mr. Yorke resumed, "my niece, Miss Edith Yorke, is a Catholic, and I wish her to have proper instruction, and to attend to the services of her church when there is opportunity. Let me know the next time your priest comes here, and I will call to see him. Now you may go."
TO BE CONTINUED.
The story and celebration of Our Lady of Guadalupe are not so familiar to Catholics, or so well appreciated by others, as to render useless or uninteresting, especially in this month of Mary, an account of her veneration in Mexico. What this actually, veritably is, no writer, so far as we are aware, has yet undertaken to show—at least, from such literary evidences of popular conviction as best illustrate the subject. How anything supernatural could shine or blossom in a land of wars, robbers, Indians, is an old doubt, notwithstanding that revelations have taken place in countries which needed them less than did the once idolatrous Aztecs. Let us now endeavor to make clear what the true nature of the miracle of Guadalupe is; to exhibit its real veneration by means of testimonies borrowed from the worthiest Mexicans; and to prove that the faith of Guadalupe is not shallow, but long and well-established, widespread, and sincere.
Here follows a brief history of the renowned miracle of Tepeyac. In 1531, ten years after the conquest, the pious and simple Indian, Juan Diego, was on his way to the village of Guadalupe, near the city of Mexico, there to receive the instructions of some reverend fathers. Suddenly, at the hill of Tepeyac appeared to him the Blessed Virgin, who commanded her amazed client to go forthwith to the bishop, and make known that she wished a church to be built in her honor upon that spot. Next day the Blessed Virgin returned to hear the regret of Juan Diego that he could not obtain the ear of the bishop. "Go back," said the Holy Lady, "and announce that I, Mary, Mother of God, send thee." The Indian again sought his bishop, who this time required that he should bring some token of the presence and command of his patroness. On the 12th of December, Juan Diego again saw Our Lady, who ordered him to climb to the top of the barren rock of Tepeyac and there gather roses for her. To his great astonishment,he found the roses flourishing on the rock, and brought them to his patroness, who threw them into his tilma or apron, and said: "Go back to the bishop and show him these credentials." Again came the Indian before the bishop, and, opening his tilma to show the roses, lo! there appeared impressed upon it a marvellous image of the Blessed Virgin. The bishop was awestruck and overcome. The miraculous occurrence was made known and proved. Processions and Masses celebrated it, and its fame spread far and wide. A large new cathedral was erected on the hill of Guadalupe, and multitudes from all parts flocked thither. Specially noteworthy is the fact that the new shrine to Our Lady was erected in the place where once the Indians worshipped their goddess Totantzin, mother of other deities, and protectress of fruits and fields. The marvellous picture was found impressed upon the rudest cloth, that of a poor Indian's apron, the last upon which to attempt a painter's artifice—and hence the greater wonder, the artistic testimony regarding which is something formidable and wonderful in itself.
What is known in Mexico as the Day of Guadalupe is extraordinary as a popular manifestation. On the 12th of December every year, fifteen or twenty thousand Indians congregate in the village of that name to celebrate the anniversary of the Marvellous Apparition. The whole way to the famous suburb is crowded with cabs, riders, and pedestrians of the poorest sort, a great number of them bare-footed. All day there is an ever-moving multitude to and from the village, and, indeed, the majority of the inhabitants of the city of Mexico seem to be included in the parties, families, and caravans of strangely contrasted people that wend their way to the shrines on the hill. The most numerous class of pilgrims are the saddest and the most wretched—we mean the ill-clad, ill-featured, simple, devoted Indians. On them the luxuries of the rich, the passions of the fighters, the intrigues of politicians, have borne with ruinous effect. Drudging men and women; hewers of wood and drawers of water; bare-breasted peasants, with faces dusky and dusty, the same who any day may be seen on Mexican roads carrying burdens of all sorts strapped to their backs; children in plenty, bare, unkempt, untidy, and sometimes swaddled about their mothers' shoulders; numerous babes at the breast, half-nude—these are some of the features in a not overdrawn picture of the primitive poverty which assembles at Guadalupe, and, in fact, in every Mexican multitude whatsoever. Perhaps nowhere outside of Mexico and the race of Indians can such a problem of multitudinous poverty be seen. Its victims are those over whom the desert-storms of wars and feuds innumerable have passed, and, spite of all their wanderings as a race, they yet wear the guise and character of tribes who are still trying to find their way out of a wilderness or a barren waste. Let enthusiasts for self-willed liberty say what they will, wars of fifty years are anything but conservative of happiness, cleanliness, good morals, and that true liberty which should always accompany them. However fondly we cherish our ideals of freedom, we must yet bear in mind the wholesome, wholesale truth of history, that no actual liberty is reached by the dagger and guillotine, or by massacre, or is founded on bad blood or bad faith. Those who lately celebrated the execution of Louis XVI. and the intellectual system of murder established by Robespierre, and not totally disapprovedby Mr. Carlyle, have good reason to be cautious as to how they offend this menacing truth.
A cathedral and four chapels are the principal structures of the picturesque hillside village of Guadalupe. By a winding ascent among steep, herbless rocks, tufted here and there with the thorny green slabs of the cactus, is reached at some distance from the cathedral the highest of the chapels, which contains the original imprint of the figure of Our Lady. Looking up to the chapel from the crowd at the cathedral may be seen a striking picture, not unlike what Northern travellers have been taught to fancy of the middle ages, but the elements of which are still abundant in the civilization of Europe. It is simply the curious crowd of pilgrims going up and down the hill, to and from the quaint old chapel, built perhaps centuries ago. The scene from the height itself is charming and impressive. The widespread valley of Mexico—including lakes, woods, villages, and a rich and substantial city, with towers and domes that take enchantment from distance—is all before the eye in one serene view of landscape. In the village there is a multitude like another Israel, sitting in the dust or standing near the pulquerias, or moving about near the church door. As Guadalupe is for the most part composed of adobe houses, and as its mass of humble visitors have little finery to distinguish their brown personages from the dust out of which man was originally created, the complexion of the general scene which they constitute can only be described as earth-like and earth-worn. Elsewhere than in a superficial glance at the poverty of Guadalupe we must seek for the meaning of its spectacle. Is this swarming, dull-colored scene but an animated fiction? No—it is the natural seeking the supernatural. And the supernatural—what is it? It is redemption and immortality, our Lord and Our Lady, the angels and saints.
The cathedral is a building of picturesque angles, but, except that it is spacious, as so many of the Mexican churches are, makes no particular boast of architecture. A copy of the marvellous tilma, over the altar, poetically represents Our Lady in a blue cloak covered with stars, and a robe said to be of crimson and gold, her hands clasped, and her foot on a crescent supported by a cherub. This is the substance of a description of it given by a traveller who had better opportunities for seeing it closely than had the present writer during the fiesta of Guadalupe in 1867. Whether the original picture is rude or not, from being impressed upon a blanket, he has not personal knowledge, though aware that it has been described as rude. Nevertheless, its idea and design are beautiful and tender. Everywhere in Mexico it is the favorite and, indeed, the most lovely presentment of Our Lady. Like a compassionate angel of the twilight, it looks out of many a shrine, and, among all the images for which the Mexican Church is noted, none is perhaps more essentially ideal, and, in that point of view,real. Where it appears wrought in a sculpture of 1686, by Francisco Alberto, on the side of San Agustin's at the capital, it is, though quaint, very admirable for its purity and gentleness. Time respects it, and the birds have built their nests near it. The various chapels in and about the city dedicated to Our Lady of Guadalupe are recognized by the star-mantled figure. The Baths of the Peñon, the cathedral at the Plaza, the suburb of Tacubaya, have each their pictorial witnesses of the faith of Guadalupe; and to say that its manifestationabounds in Mexico is but to state a fact of commonplace. Rich and poor venerate the tradition of the Marvellous Appearance, now for three centuries celebrated, and always, it seems, by multitudes.
What else is to be seen at Guadalupe besides its crowd and its altar is not worthy of extended remark. The organs of the cathedral are high and admirably carved; over the altar's porphyry columns are cherubim and seraphim, all too dazzling with paint and gold. Here, as in other places of Spanish worship, the figures of the crucifixion have been designed with a painful realism. Outside of the church a party of Indians, displaying gay feathers, danced in honor of the feast, as their sires must have done hundreds of years ago. Inside it was densely crowded with visitors or pilgrims, and far too uncomfortable at times to make possible the most accurate observation of its ornaments. But it may be well to repeat that the church is divided into three naves by eight columns, and is about two hundred feet long, one hundred and twenty feet broad, and one hundred high. The total cost of the building, and, we presume, its altars, is reckoned as high as $800,000, most of it, if not all, contributed by alms. The altar at which is placed the image of Our Lady is said to have cost $381,000, its tabernacle containing 3,257 marks of silver, and the gold frame of the sacred picture 4,050 castellanos. The church's ornaments are calculated to be worth more than $123,000. Two of its candlesticks alone weighed 2,213 castellanos in gold, and one lamp 750 marks of silver. To Cristobal de Aguirre, who, in 1660, built a hermitage on the summit of Tepeyac, we owe the foundation of the chapel there. It was not, however, until 1747 that Our Lady of Guadalupe was formally declared the patroness of the whole of Mexico.
Of the many celebrations of Mexico, none are altogether as significant as that of Guadalupe. It has become national, and, in a certain sense, religiously patriotic. Maximilian and Carlota, the writer was informed, washed the feet of the poor near the altar of Our Lady, according to a well-known religious custom. The best men and women of Mexico have venerated the Marvellous Appearance—which, however amusing it may be to those who are scarcely as radical in their belief in nature as conservative in their views of the supernatural, is but a circumstance to the older traditions which have entered into the mind of poetry and filled the heart of worship. What of the wonderful happenings to the great fathers of the church and the mediæval saints, all worshippers of unquestionable sublimation? Say what you please, doubt as you may, saints, angels, miracles, abide, and form the very testament of belief. There is not a Catholic in the world who does not believe in miracle, whose faith is not to unbelievers a standing miracle of belief in a miracle the most prodigious, the most portentous; and yet to him it has only become natural to believe in the supernatural. The Mexicans venerate what three centuries and uncounted millions have affirmed, whence it appears that their veneration is not a conceit or humbug, but at root a faith. How can this be more clearly illustrated than by quoting the following very interesting poem of Manuel Carpio, Mexico's favorite, if not best modern poet:
THE VIRGIN OF GUADALUPE.
The good Jehovah, dread, magnificent,Once chose a people whom he called his own.And out of Egypt in a wondrous wayHe brought them in a dark and troublous night,And Moses touched the Red Sea with a rod,And the waves parted, offering them a path.His people passed, but in the abyss remainedEgyptian horse and rider who pursued.Marched on the flock of Jacob, and the LordSpread over them his all-protecting wings,As the lone eagle shields her unfledged young.He gave them lands, and victories, and spoils—Glad nation! which the Master of the heavensLoved as the very apple of his eye.But now this people, seeing themselves blessedBy him whose slightest glance they not deserved,Erected perishable imagesIn homage unto strange and pagan gods.The Lord in indignation said: "They wishedTo make their Maker jealous with vain gods.Bowing in dust the sacrilegious kneeBefore the dumb creation of their hands.Well, I will sting their hearts with jealousy,Showing myself to all unhappy landsWithout employing vail or mystery."He said it, and his solemn word fulfilled,Convoking from the farthest ends of earthNations barbarian and civilized—The Gaul, the Scandinavian, Roman, Greek,And the neglected race of Mexico,Whom the Almighty Sovereign loved so wellThe holy truth he would reveal to them—So that the hard hearts of his people shouldBe softened. Yet his mercy was not full:Down from the diamond heavens he bade descendThe Virgin, who with mother's sorrowing careNursed him in Bethlehem when he was a child.Near to the tremulous Tezcoco lakeRises a bare and solitary hill.Where never cypress tall nor cedar grows,Nor whispering oak; nor cooling fountain lavesThe waste of herbless rocks and sterile sand—A barren country 'tis, dry, dusty, sad,Where the vile worm scarce drags its length along.Here is the place where Holy Mary comesDown from her home above the azure heavensTo show herself to Juan, who, comfortless,Petitioned for relief from troubles sore.Sometimes it chances that a fragrant plantIn the dense forest blooms unseen, unknown,Though bright its virginal buds and rare its flowers;So doth the modest daughter of the LordObscure the moon, the planets, and the starsWhich all adorn her forehead and her feet,When lends she the poor Indian her graceIn bounty wonderful to all his kind.She tenders him the waters and the dew,Prosperity of fruits and animals,A heart of sensible humility,And help unfailing in his future need.The Angel of America resumesHer radiant flight. With grateful ear he heard,Twice did he wondering kneel, and twice againHe kissed the white feet of the holy maid.But did not end God's providence benign:The Almighty wished to leave to MexicansHis Mother's likeness by his own great hand,In token of the love he had for us.He took the pencil, saying: "We will makeIn heaven's own image, as we moulded man.But what was Adam to my beauteous one?"So saying, drew he with serenest faceThe gentle likeness of the Mother-maid.He saw the image, and pronounced it good.Since then, with the encircling love of heaven,A son she sees in every Mexican.Mildly the wandering incense she receives,Attending to his vow with human face;For her the teeming vapors yield their rainTo the green valley and the mountain side,Where bend and wave the abundant harvest fields,And the green herbs that feed the lazy kine.She makes the purifying breezes pass,And on the restless and unsounded seasShe stills the rigor of the hurricane.The frighted people see the approach of deathWhen the broad earth upon its axis shakes,But the wild elements are put to sleepWith but a smile from her mild countenance.And she has moved the adamantine heartOf avarice, who saw decrepit ageCreep like an insect on the dusty earth,To ope his close-shut hand, and bless the poor.She maketh humbly kneel and kiss the groundNo less the wise than simple. She the great,Dazzled by their own glory, doth adviseThat soon their gaudy pageant shall be o'er,And heaven's oblivion shall dissolve their fame.How often has the timid, trembling maidUpon the verge of ruin sought thy help,Shutting her eyes to pleasure and to goldAt thought of thee, O Maiden pure and meek!Centuries and ages will have vanished by,Within their currents bearing kings and men;Great monuments shall fall; the pyramidsOf lonely Egypt moulder in decay;But time shall never place its fatal handUpon the image of the Holy Maid,Nor on the pious love of Mexico.
The good Jehovah, dread, magnificent,Once chose a people whom he called his own.And out of Egypt in a wondrous wayHe brought them in a dark and troublous night,And Moses touched the Red Sea with a rod,And the waves parted, offering them a path.His people passed, but in the abyss remainedEgyptian horse and rider who pursued.Marched on the flock of Jacob, and the LordSpread over them his all-protecting wings,As the lone eagle shields her unfledged young.He gave them lands, and victories, and spoils—Glad nation! which the Master of the heavensLoved as the very apple of his eye.But now this people, seeing themselves blessedBy him whose slightest glance they not deserved,Erected perishable imagesIn homage unto strange and pagan gods.The Lord in indignation said: "They wishedTo make their Maker jealous with vain gods.Bowing in dust the sacrilegious kneeBefore the dumb creation of their hands.Well, I will sting their hearts with jealousy,Showing myself to all unhappy landsWithout employing vail or mystery."He said it, and his solemn word fulfilled,Convoking from the farthest ends of earthNations barbarian and civilized—The Gaul, the Scandinavian, Roman, Greek,And the neglected race of Mexico,Whom the Almighty Sovereign loved so wellThe holy truth he would reveal to them—So that the hard hearts of his people shouldBe softened. Yet his mercy was not full:Down from the diamond heavens he bade descendThe Virgin, who with mother's sorrowing careNursed him in Bethlehem when he was a child.Near to the tremulous Tezcoco lakeRises a bare and solitary hill.Where never cypress tall nor cedar grows,Nor whispering oak; nor cooling fountain lavesThe waste of herbless rocks and sterile sand—A barren country 'tis, dry, dusty, sad,Where the vile worm scarce drags its length along.Here is the place where Holy Mary comesDown from her home above the azure heavensTo show herself to Juan, who, comfortless,Petitioned for relief from troubles sore.Sometimes it chances that a fragrant plantIn the dense forest blooms unseen, unknown,Though bright its virginal buds and rare its flowers;So doth the modest daughter of the LordObscure the moon, the planets, and the starsWhich all adorn her forehead and her feet,When lends she the poor Indian her graceIn bounty wonderful to all his kind.She tenders him the waters and the dew,Prosperity of fruits and animals,A heart of sensible humility,And help unfailing in his future need.The Angel of America resumesHer radiant flight. With grateful ear he heard,Twice did he wondering kneel, and twice againHe kissed the white feet of the holy maid.But did not end God's providence benign:The Almighty wished to leave to MexicansHis Mother's likeness by his own great hand,In token of the love he had for us.He took the pencil, saying: "We will makeIn heaven's own image, as we moulded man.But what was Adam to my beauteous one?"So saying, drew he with serenest faceThe gentle likeness of the Mother-maid.He saw the image, and pronounced it good.Since then, with the encircling love of heaven,A son she sees in every Mexican.Mildly the wandering incense she receives,Attending to his vow with human face;For her the teeming vapors yield their rainTo the green valley and the mountain side,Where bend and wave the abundant harvest fields,And the green herbs that feed the lazy kine.She makes the purifying breezes pass,And on the restless and unsounded seasShe stills the rigor of the hurricane.The frighted people see the approach of deathWhen the broad earth upon its axis shakes,But the wild elements are put to sleepWith but a smile from her mild countenance.And she has moved the adamantine heartOf avarice, who saw decrepit ageCreep like an insect on the dusty earth,To ope his close-shut hand, and bless the poor.She maketh humbly kneel and kiss the groundNo less the wise than simple. She the great,Dazzled by their own glory, doth adviseThat soon their gaudy pageant shall be o'er,And heaven's oblivion shall dissolve their fame.How often has the timid, trembling maidUpon the verge of ruin sought thy help,Shutting her eyes to pleasure and to goldAt thought of thee, O Maiden pure and meek!Centuries and ages will have vanished by,Within their currents bearing kings and men;Great monuments shall fall; the pyramidsOf lonely Egypt moulder in decay;But time shall never place its fatal handUpon the image of the Holy Maid,Nor on the pious love of Mexico.
The good Jehovah, dread, magnificent,Once chose a people whom he called his own.And out of Egypt in a wondrous wayHe brought them in a dark and troublous night,And Moses touched the Red Sea with a rod,And the waves parted, offering them a path.His people passed, but in the abyss remainedEgyptian horse and rider who pursued.Marched on the flock of Jacob, and the LordSpread over them his all-protecting wings,As the lone eagle shields her unfledged young.He gave them lands, and victories, and spoils—Glad nation! which the Master of the heavensLoved as the very apple of his eye.But now this people, seeing themselves blessedBy him whose slightest glance they not deserved,Erected perishable imagesIn homage unto strange and pagan gods.The Lord in indignation said: "They wishedTo make their Maker jealous with vain gods.Bowing in dust the sacrilegious kneeBefore the dumb creation of their hands.Well, I will sting their hearts with jealousy,Showing myself to all unhappy landsWithout employing vail or mystery."He said it, and his solemn word fulfilled,Convoking from the farthest ends of earthNations barbarian and civilized—The Gaul, the Scandinavian, Roman, Greek,And the neglected race of Mexico,Whom the Almighty Sovereign loved so wellThe holy truth he would reveal to them—So that the hard hearts of his people shouldBe softened. Yet his mercy was not full:Down from the diamond heavens he bade descendThe Virgin, who with mother's sorrowing careNursed him in Bethlehem when he was a child.
Near to the tremulous Tezcoco lakeRises a bare and solitary hill.Where never cypress tall nor cedar grows,Nor whispering oak; nor cooling fountain lavesThe waste of herbless rocks and sterile sand—A barren country 'tis, dry, dusty, sad,Where the vile worm scarce drags its length along.
Here is the place where Holy Mary comesDown from her home above the azure heavensTo show herself to Juan, who, comfortless,Petitioned for relief from troubles sore.Sometimes it chances that a fragrant plantIn the dense forest blooms unseen, unknown,Though bright its virginal buds and rare its flowers;So doth the modest daughter of the LordObscure the moon, the planets, and the starsWhich all adorn her forehead and her feet,When lends she the poor Indian her graceIn bounty wonderful to all his kind.She tenders him the waters and the dew,Prosperity of fruits and animals,A heart of sensible humility,And help unfailing in his future need.The Angel of America resumesHer radiant flight. With grateful ear he heard,Twice did he wondering kneel, and twice againHe kissed the white feet of the holy maid.
But did not end God's providence benign:The Almighty wished to leave to MexicansHis Mother's likeness by his own great hand,In token of the love he had for us.He took the pencil, saying: "We will makeIn heaven's own image, as we moulded man.But what was Adam to my beauteous one?"So saying, drew he with serenest faceThe gentle likeness of the Mother-maid.He saw the image, and pronounced it good.
Since then, with the encircling love of heaven,A son she sees in every Mexican.Mildly the wandering incense she receives,Attending to his vow with human face;For her the teeming vapors yield their rainTo the green valley and the mountain side,Where bend and wave the abundant harvest fields,And the green herbs that feed the lazy kine.She makes the purifying breezes pass,And on the restless and unsounded seasShe stills the rigor of the hurricane.The frighted people see the approach of deathWhen the broad earth upon its axis shakes,But the wild elements are put to sleepWith but a smile from her mild countenance.And she has moved the adamantine heartOf avarice, who saw decrepit ageCreep like an insect on the dusty earth,To ope his close-shut hand, and bless the poor.She maketh humbly kneel and kiss the groundNo less the wise than simple. She the great,Dazzled by their own glory, doth adviseThat soon their gaudy pageant shall be o'er,And heaven's oblivion shall dissolve their fame.
How often has the timid, trembling maidUpon the verge of ruin sought thy help,Shutting her eyes to pleasure and to goldAt thought of thee, O Maiden pure and meek!Centuries and ages will have vanished by,Within their currents bearing kings and men;Great monuments shall fall; the pyramidsOf lonely Egypt moulder in decay;But time shall never place its fatal handUpon the image of the Holy Maid,Nor on the pious love of Mexico.
Manuel Carpio, who wrote this, his first poetic composition, in 1831, when forty years of age, was a scholar and professor, and in 1824 a congressman. He made the Bible, we are told, his favorite study; and certainly it supplied him with the themes for his best poems. But he was not the only poet of Mexico who bore earnest witness to the faith of which we speak. Padre Manuel Sartorio, who wrote about the time of Iturbide, deprecates the idea of preferring a capricious doubt respecting "la Virgen de Guadalupe" to a constant belief founded in tradition. In the following lines thenature of his own belief is fully attested: