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The reputation of the venerable author is so wide-spread that it is needless to present any eulogy of his
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gaining infonnation. The medical student and the young practitioner will receive great beneftt from
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THE EARNEST MAN. A Sketch of the Character and Labors of Adonlrim Jud-
son. First Missionary to Burmah. By Mrs. H.r.roxAKT ^ ..--.. ^^

i 1

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THE NEW PRIEST

CONCEPTION BAY.

Property of the UbrarV
university of Waterloo

Religious Novels there are many : this is not one of them.

These Figures, of gentle, simple, sad, and merry, were
drawn, (not in a Day,) upon the Walls of a House of Exile.
—Will the great World care for them ?

. y

THE NEW PRIEST

CONCEPTION BAY.

' t

AlXivov, atXivov, Inre, rb 6'ei vikHto-

iEsCa. AOAMEM.

(R.^^i^^n^l,

VOLUME I.

BOSTON:

PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY

M DCCC LVIII.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by

Phillips, Sampson and Company,

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

RIVERSIDE, CAMDRIDGE:

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY

II. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.

usetts.

One, to whom I owe all wttt u»

wvvB ALL, WILL KE take THIS
AT MY HAND, THE BEST I HAVE?

August f 1857.

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

PAQI
A STRANGE COUNTRY IN THE WATERS . . 9

A RARE INTRUDER 13

MRS. BARRE AND MISS DARE . . . .24

A PRETTY SCENE AND ITS BREAKING-UP . 83

A WALK AND THE END OP IT . . .46

A FEW MOMENTS OF TWO YOUNG PEOPLE'S

LIVES 52

A WRITTEN ROCK AND SOMETHING MORE . 56
TRUE WORDS ARE SOMETIMES VERY HEAVY 66
SKIPPER GEORGE'S STORY .... 74

A MEETING 93

SOME GOSSIP AND SOME REAL LIFE . . 102

TWO MEET AGAIN 108

A SAD YOUNG HEART 117

A GREAT LOSS 122

A NEW MAN 135

TRACES OF THE LOST 142

SEARCHING STILL 158

WHICH WAY SUSPICION LEADS . . .167

THE DAY FOR REST 174

SUSPECTED PERSONS . . * . . 182

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION, FROM WHICH

SOMETHING APPEARS . . . .192

AN OLD SMUGGLER ...... 206

viii CONTENTS.

CHAP- PAQI ^

XXIII. AN INTERVIEW OF TWO WHO HAVE MET BE-

FORE 217

XXIV. THE NEW PRIEST AT BAT-HARBOR . . . 230
XXV. A CALL Al A NUNNERY .... 244

XXVL THE MAGISTRATE DEALS WITH OTHER SUS-
PICIOUS PERSONS 259

XXVII. MR. BANGS HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE

HEAD OF THE MISSION . . . .270

XXVIII. ANOTHER RELIC POUND 282

XXIX. MR. BANGS A NEOPHYTE . . . .287

XXX. MRS. BARRE'S SAD WALK .... 303

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THE NEW PRIEST

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CONCEPTION BAY.

4.x

CHAPTER I.

A STRANGE COUNTRY IN THE WATERS.

\F go the surges on the coast of Newfoundland,
and down, again, into the sea. The huge island,
in which the scene of our story lies, stands, with
its sheer, beetling cliffs, out of the ocean, a monstrous
mass of rock and gravel, almost without soil, like a strange
thing from the bottom of the great deep, lifted up, sud-
denly, into sunshine and storm, but belonging to the watery
darkness out of which it has been reared. The eye,
accustomed to richer and softer scenes, finds something of
a strange and almost startling beauty in its bold, hard
outlines, cut out on every side, against the sky.

There came up with, or after it, but never yet got to
open air, those mountain-sisters, that, holding their huge
heads not far below the surface, make the ohoals or Banks
of Newfoundland.

There are great bays in the island's sides, and harbors
in the shores of the great bays ; and in and out of thest
washes the water that used, perhaps, 'to float all over;
and on the banks and in these bays and harbors, the fish

?H? 17

THE NEW PRIEST.

<r-i-

have found new homes, for their old haunts that have
been lifted up into the air out of their reach.

Towards the eastern end of Newfoundland, two of
these great bays, called Trinity and Placentia, come in,
from opposite sides, north and south, and almost cut the
island through ; an isthmus only three or four miles wide,
in one part, keeping them still asunder. Up one of these
bays, and down the other, crossing the neck between, the
telegraph-cable has been drawn.

Inland, surrounded by a fringe of small forests on the
coast, is a vast wilderness of moss, and rock, and lake,
and dwarf firs about breast-high. These little trees are
so close and stiff, and fiat-topped, that one can almost
walk them ; of course they are very hard things to make
way through and among.

Around the bays, in coves and harbors, (chiefly on
Avalon, the piece almost cut off,) the people live : there
are no fertile fields to tempt them inland, and they get
their harvests from the sea.

In March or April almost all the men go out in fleets
to meet the ice that floats down from the northern re-
gions, and to kill the seals that come down on it. In
early summer a third part or a half of all the people go,
by families, in their schooners, to the coast of Labrador,
and spend the summer, fishing there ; and in the winter,
half of them are living in the woods, in " tilts," to have
their fuel near them. At home or abroad, during the
season, the men are on the water for seals or cod. The
women sow, and plant, and tend the little gardens, and dry
the fish: in short they do the land-work; and are the
better for it.

Every town in the country is a fishing town. St.
John's, the capital, has grown into a city of twenty thou-

A STRANGE COUNTRY IN THE WATERS.

sand or more people ; but it is still a fishing town. Sta-
ges,* and flakesjt and store-houses, for fish, are met
wherever a fit place oflfers itself, near the water, in every
settlement. i •• * / i

The little town of Peterport, along one of the slits in
the shore of Conception Bay, was a pretty place, thirty
or forty years ago, with its cliffs and ridges and coves. "

Its people (four fifths of whom were church-people J)
lived by clans — Yarls, Franks, Marchants, and Ressles, —
in different settlements, on its main strip of land and
Indian Point, wherever a beach or jutting cliff made a
good place for fiakes or stages, or offered shelter for their
boats. They had one minister (" pareson," they called him,
in their kindly tongue,) five merchants, one schoolmaster,
two smiths, three coopers ; every man, woman, and child,
beside, wrought in the fishery. In summer, most of the
heads of families, with their sons and daughters, of all
ages, were gone, for the season, to the coast of Labrador.
Almost all the harbor-schooners, at the time in which our
story opens, were there. The only square-rigged vessel
(of six or eight belonging here) was the brig Spring-
Bird, Captain (not Skipper) John Nolesworth, a foreign
trader, of Womer, Grose & Co.

The church stood midway on the harbor road ; having
a flag-staff upon one of the most conspicuous cliffs ; on
which staff a fair large flag, bearing a white cross, called
the people to prayers, — at half-mast to funerals. A
schoolhouse stood near the church ; dwelling-houses, larger
and less, better and worse, stood in and about the different
coves; storehouses upon the merchants*

"rooms," each

>t.

* Houses for "heading," and " splitting," and salting fish,
t Platform of poles and boughs, for drying fish.
X Of the Anglican Church.

11 THE NEW PRIEST.

with its "house-flag" staff; and everywhere along the
water, flakes and stages. One road went down the har-
bor, winding with the winding shore, but going straight
across when its companion, as at Beachy Cove, made
a wide sweep into the sea. Along this pretty thorough-
fare there dwelt much innocence and peace ; as over it
there went the feet of many sturdy toilers, and thronging
churchward-goers.

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A BABE INTRUDER.

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CHAPTER IL

A RARE INTRUDER.

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JHIRTT years ago, or longer, one bright day in
August, the church missionary, the Reverend Ar-
thur Wellon, was walking down the harbor, with
strong step, and swinging his cane ; a stoutly-built Eng-
lishman, of good height, not very handsome, but open,
kindly, intelligent, and reverend-looking ; in dress just
grave enough and just enough unlike other gentlemen to
mark his office to those who would not know it from his
face. He is the central person, though not the chief
actor, in our story.

He was a frank and kindly man ; straightforward,
honest, and, in a rather homely way, a little humorous.
He had seen something of the world, in living thirty
years, and U) good purpose ; had a mind large enough
(because it opened into his heart) to take in more things
than the mere habits of his order or his social rank ; and
while hejored, heartily, the faith and services of his
church, he had that common sense without which the
Reformers would never have got and kept our Common
Prayer. He was a good scholar, too, as well as a good
parish priest.

This was the man then that had just left his house,
(a comely white one, with two little wings,) and was walk

THE NEW PRIEST.

ing down the harbor-road, breaking forth, now and then,
when tlie way was clear, into a cheery snatch of sacred
(or not profane) song.

The first turn in the road brought him in sight of two
persons walking in company in advance of him, — a gentle-
man of about his own age, and looking like a clergyman,
and a tall, large, strongly-moulded fisherman of some
sixty years. The former seemed to be listening, rather
than talking, while his companion spoke earnestly, as
appeared from his homely gestures.

On the hill-top, near Beachy Cove, (named from its
strip of sand and shingle edging the shore,) they stood
still; and the Minister, who was not far behind them,
could scarcely help hearing what was said. The fisher-
man still spoke ; his voice and manner having the gentle-
ness and modesty almost of a child. One arm passed
through a coil of small rope ; and in his hand he held,
with a carefulness that never forsook him, a bright-col-
ored seaweed. The gentleman listened to him as if he
had the honeyed speech of Nestor. It was some story of
the sea, apparently, that he was telling, or commenting
upon.

The Minister looked curiously toward the group, as
they stood, not noticing him ; and then, after a momentary
hesitation, went across a little open green, entered the
enclosure of a plain, modest-looking house, about which
creepers and shrubs and flowers, here and there, showed
taste and will more than common. His dog, a noble
great black fellow, " Epictetus," who had loitered some-
where upon the road, came to his master, here, and waited
at his side, as he stood before the door, after knocking.

The parting words of the stranger, thanking his com-
panion for his society in their walk, and of the stout fisher-

A RARE INTRUDER.

man turning meekly back the thanks, came through the
still air, across from where they stood. ,- f,

" It was very good of 'ee, sir," said the latter, " to come
along wi' me," and hear my poor talk. — I wish 'ee a very
good mornin, sir, an' I '11 carry this bit of a thing to my
maid,* please God. One o' the nighbors sen'd it. She
makes a many bright things o* such."

"When he had done speaking, his strong steps were
heard as he went on his way, alone ; for the whole scene
was as it had been for hours, still and quiet, as if, in going
to their fishing, the people had left no life behind them.
Tliere had been scarce a moving thing, (if the eye sought
one,) save a light reek from a chimney, (a fairer thing, as
it floated over the poor man's dwelling, than ducal or
royal banner,) and a lone white summer-cloud, low over
the earth ; where the wind, taking holiday elsewhere, left
it to itself.

Finding that Mrs. Barre, for whom he asked, had
walked down the harbor, the Minister went forth again,
toward the road.

At the top of the hill, where he had stood with the
fisherman, the stranger was still standing ; now gazing
over the water, toward the hills in the far southwest ; a
very striking and interesting looking person he was. It
was impossible for the Minister to pass him without salu-
tation, and the dog loitered, as if he was confident of some
intercourse between them. The stranger returned Mr.
Wellon's silent greeting, gracefully, and came forward to
meet him.

" This atmosphere becomes the scene extremely," said
he, beginning a conversation.

* Maid is pronounced myde; bay, bye; play, plye ; neighbor,
wycftor, &c.

THE NEW PRIEST.

The MiiiLstor turned and cast liis eyes over the land-
senpe.

The summer weather, na, at its best it is there, was
beautiful. Tlie eye did not seek shade, as in other coun-
tries ; and it seemed, ahnost, as if the air were so bright
that shadows did not tali. Tlie waves came slowly break-
ing on the beach, or in great cool dashes against the rocks.
One little clump of trees, spruces and firs, tame captives
from the woods, stood on the rising ground, not far otf.
Rocks showed themselves on every side, breaking out
through the soil, sometimes as ridges, sometimes in single
masses ; and beyond the low woods which could be seen a
mile or two inland, great, bald, rounded, strange-looking
heads of mountain-rocks.

" Yes, our rough country has its beauties," said Mr.
Wellon. — " We've as good an ocean as anybody, and I
think we could make a pretty good show of rocks."

" There are some very handsome ones, certainly," said
the stranger, going on with the conversation, when begun :
" those over on the other side of the bay, for example,
with their strong red, and green, and white, as if all the
colors of grass, and foliage, and flowers, had been laid on
a huge stone pallet before paintmg the earth with them."

"Not many of them have ever been laid upon the
land," said the parson smiling, " they seem all to have
staid upon the pallet. You know an Indian tradition was,
that this island was the heap of rubbish which the great
Maker threw into the sea, when He had finished the
neighboring continent."

The stranger spoke like one familiar with these things,
and fond of them : —

" With sea and rock alone," said he, " especially such
rocks, there is plenty of beauty ; but with woods beside,

^'kio

A RARK INTRUDER.

and sunshine nn'l shndow, and passing clouds, and twilight

and niglit, it's inexhaustible : and (you remember) as you

look along those cUlis on iIjo other shore, how many u

httle bay turns in and is lost beliiud the great wall, like

Virgil's

' £8t in secossu longo locus :

omnia, nb ftlto,
Frangitur, inque sinus scindit sese, tiiida, reductos.'

They make the very heart yearn after them, as if it might
And sweet peace in those far little retreats."

There was a tone of reality, without the least affecta-
tion, in what he said. The glow that came with a part
of this speech, and the slight melancholy which touched
the last part of the sentence, made it far more interesting
to the hearer than it may have been to the reader. The
speaker's manner was very taking, and the near view con-
firmed the impression of him made at a little distance.
His complexion was a clear and fresh one ; his eyes were
blue and of full proportions, deeply-lighted, and having
that quick, broad glance which is the outward faculty of
genius. His features, indeed, were all handsome and ex-
pressive, even his auburn hair.

The Minister did not immediately speak. Afler a little
pause, he said : —

" You've a better eye than mine. I go about here, up
hill and down, into the coves, and across the water,
without thinking much more of the sea and the rocks,
than as places for catching or drying cod."

"I can't think that," the stranger answered. "Who
can look at those great mountains yonder, without being
startled, if he knows that one can float over their coun-
terparts, off Wadham Islands, standing up thousands of
feet in sea, as these do in air, and can look down their

VOL. I. 2

THE NEW PRIEST.

great rugged sides, just as he can look up these ? — I don't
think you're quite insensible," he added, smiling ; " and
some of thedc days people will be coming long distances
to see the scenery of Newfoundland."

" You're no stranger to the country, sir, I see," said
the Parson. " Do you know, at the first glance, I took
you for a stray church-clergyman; only I couldn't ac-
count for your having got beyond my house ? "

The stranger, who was certainly both a very English
and a very clerical-looking man, appeared slightly embar-
rassed.

" No, I am not," said he ; " but I ought to know some-
thing of the country, for a good deal of my life was
passed in it."

The Parson, as if involuntarily, cast a more searching
glance at the stranger. He hastened to apologize.

"Pray, excuse me," said he; "I've been here long
enough to know that black cassocks are not so plenty as
* white-coats,' * or capehn, or cod ; and I jump at what
looks like a parson. If you'll pardon my saying so, it's
hard to take you for any thing else."

The other colored again shghtly, but answered with
the same readiness as before,

"/ought rather to apologize for looking so much like
one of you ; I am a parson, after my own sort. — I was
walking, a few minutes ago," he added, changing the
subject, " with a man that interested me strongly. Per-
haps if I describe him, sir, you could tell me who he

IS.

" I saw him," said Mr. Wellon, — " George Barbury, or
Skipper George, as we call him."
" I thought so I " said the other, with more emphasis

* Young seals.

A RARE INTRUDER.

than seemed to belong to an interest created by a few
minutes' conversation.

" You know soraetliing of our people, too ? " said the
English clergyman. The other explained : —

" I had heiird of him and his family before I came. —
It was only in connection with another family that Tve
reason to be interested in."

If some suspicion of this intrusive (and very engag-
ing) clergyman had made its way into the heart of the
retired pastor, it would not have been strange ; but Mr.
"Wellon's manner showed no jealousy or apprehension ;
and, whether from heartiness of disposition, or owing to
his isolation from the society of educated men, he seemed
more socially inclined than some of his countrymen, and
of his reverend brethren.

" If you intend making any stay among us," he said,
" I shall hope for the pleasure of seeing you in my house
another time. You must give me a chance to make a
churchman of you, you know, if you come to ' molest my
ancient, solitary reign.* — At any rate," said he, correcting
this abrupt and summary reference to conversion, "to
make a friend of you, whatever else you may be."

" Thank you," said the stranger clergyman, bowing ;
" neighbors we are likely to be, I believe ; and if you
feel as kindly when you know more of me," (this was
emphasized slightly,) " it will give me great pleasure to
cultivate the acquaintance ; — but I've been detaining you
too long. You were going down : may I walk with you
as far as our ways lie together? I am going to *the
Backside,' wherever that is."

" I know every sheep and goat track," answered thd
Peterport Parson; "and I won't scruple to make you
free of the place for the pleasure of your company."

THE NEW PRIEST.

This hospitable speech the stranger accepted cordially.

" That fisherman," he continued as they went, " has a
very touching way of telling a story, and draws a moral
wonderfully."

" Yes," said the fisherman's pastor, " and he's a true
man."

" He was giving me an account of the wreck of one
James Emerson, which you, very likely, know all about :
(I can't tell it as he told it me, but) ' the man was going
to run his boat into a passage between a reef and the
shore, where nothing could save him scarcely from de-
struction ; all his worldly wealth was in her, and his son ;
the people on land shouted and shrieked to him through
the gale, that he'd be lost (and he knew the danger as
well as they did) ; suddenly he changed his mind and
went about, just grazing upon the very edge of ruin, and
got safe off; — then, when all was plain sailing, ran his
boat upon a rock, made a total wreck of her and all that
was in her, and he and his son were barely rescued and
brought to life.' After telUng that, with the simplest
touches of language, this was his moral, in his own
words : * 'Ee see, sir, 'e tempted God, agoun out o' the
plain, right w'y; an* so, when 'e'd agpt back to the
w'y, agen, an' thowt 'twas all easy, then God let un go
down, and brought un up again, athout e'er a thing
belonging to un but 'e's life and *e's son's.' — That moral
was wonderfully drawn ! "

"While he was speaking and Mr. Wellon listening, they
had stopped in their walk. As they moved on again,
the latter said : —

" Skipper George puts things together that belong
together, as principle and practice, like one that knows
we must lay out our best wisdom on our life."

A RARE INTRUDER.

in go

thing

loral

they
[tgain,

jlong
lows

His companion spoke again, earnestly : —

" Few men would have drawn that moral, though all
its wisdom is only seeing simply; indeed, most men
would never have drawn any ; but undoubtedly. Skipper
George's interpretation is the true one, ' God let him go
dowHf and not for coming back, but for having gone
astray. — He saved his life. It was not easy to draw that
moral : it would have been easy to say that the man had
better have kept on, while he was about it."

"Yes," said Mr. Wellon, "that repentance, coming
across, would throw common minds off the scent ; George
Barbury isn't so easily turned aside."

Tlie stranger continued, with the same earnestness as
before.

" It was the Fate of the old Drama ; and he followed
it as unerringly as the Greek tragedist. It needs a clear
eye to see how it comes continually into our lives."

" tSkipper George would never think of any Fate but
the Will of God," said his pastor, a little drily, on his
behalf.

" I mean no other," said his companion. The Fate of
the Tragedists — seen and interpreted by a Christian — is
Skipper George's moral. There might have been a more
tragical illustration ; but the rule of interpretation is the
same. Emerson's wreck was a special providence ; but
who will try to wrench apart the link of iron that this
downright reasoner has welded between it and the wilful-
ness that went before ? The experience of paganism
and the Revelation of God speak to the same purpose.
Horace's

' Raro antecedentem scelestum, Deseruit — Poena,'
and the Psalmist's words (in the English translation),
£^vil shall hunt the wicked person, to overthrow him,*

^^■

THE NEW PBIEST.

come very near together. To see the illustration clearly,
in a special case ; to assign the consequence, as in this
case, to its true antecedent — ^not the near, but the remote
— is rare wisdom I "

" Oh ! yes," said Mr. Wellon, " only I keep to the old
terms : * providences,* * special providence,* ' visitation,*
and so on. It's good that Skipper George isn't a man to
be jealous of, or your admiration might move me."

The stranger smiled. As there was often to be noticed
in his voice something like an habitual sadness, and as
there lay sadness, or something very like it, in his eye, so
his smile was not quite without it.

Not answering, unless by the smile, he asked,

" Is his daughter like him ? "

" She's a marvel ; only, one who knows her does not
marvel : every thing seems natural and easy to her. I
ought to inquire whether you've any designs upon the
family?"

" Not of proselyting. Oh ! no : none of any sort what-
ever. I had heard of them from one who did not like
them, and now I'm correcting the impression."

As they passed the church, in their walk, the stranger-
clergyman bestowed upon it a sufficient degree of polite
attention to satisfy all reasonable requirements (for a
parson with his church is like a sailor with his ship) ;
and they went on, talking together.

Often, as the conversation grew animated, they stood
still, and sometimes were interrupted by a passing col-
loquy between the minister and members of his flock.
They talked of many things and lands ; and the stranger's
language made the readiest and most fitting dress for his
thoughts. If he spoke of woods, — such as bristle this
land, or overhang the sultry tropics, — his words seemed

A RARE INTRUDER.

9ft

to rustle with leaves, or to smell of the freshness of the
forest, or to flicker in light, and fleck the earth with glow-
ing shade. The waves swelled and sparkled in his
speech, and there was such a wealth of illustration, that
the figures with wliich he set off what was thought and
spoken of seemed to light down in bright plumage to his
hand continually, as he wanted them. Imagination, which
is the power of embodying things of spirit, and spiritual-
izing and giving life to material things, he was full of.
The slight sadness, and a slight now-and-then withdrawal
of manner, implied that he was not altogether taken up
in what he spoke or heard.

They passed, without remembering, the first and chief
path leading to the Backside, and then, lower down, the
second ; and, when they recalled the oversight, the Miilis-
ter turned back with his companion and put him in the
best way, and they parted with mutual pleasant words.
Epictetus put himself forward for a share in this demon-
stration, and was caressed in turn.

" This old fellow is friendly," said his new acquaint-
ance ; " perhaps we shall know one another better, some
day."

THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER III.

MRS. BAKRi: AND MISS FANNY DARE.

)RS. BAREE, though she had heen here for a
few weeks only, all the harbor knew and many-
loved; partly from pity, for she was of liigh
breeding and young and stricken, as all eyes saw ; partly
fr<Jm admiration, for to the finer eye, she was one that
had the best instincts and a rare mind and conscience, so
quick and true and thorough were her thoughts and feel-
ings, when they came forth of her sadness and seclusion.

She had lost, men said, the husband o^ her fresh youth
and days of hope ; and, since her coming, of two sweet
children, one, the boy, had gone from her arms and from
her sight, as all men knew, and his body lay with other
cold earth in the churchyard of Peterport.

The single English servant whom she had brought with
her was proof at least against the unartful curiosity of
planters' wives and daughters. Wliat was generally be-
lieved or surmised, was that she was rich ; that she had
brought a letter of credit to the house of Messrs. Worner,
Grose & Co., and a pastoral letter from England to IVIr.
WeUon.

Such, then, as she was, and so living, some understood
her ; and many who could not well hj^e appreciated
delicacy and refinement, or greatness of mind and soul,

MRS. BARRfe AND MSB FANNY DARE.

loved her because so patiently and lovingly she opened
the door of her own life, and came forth and laid her
heart to theirs ; and she had found here one friend whom
she might have chosen, had she had the world to choose
from. This was Miss Frances Dare, a niece of Mr.
Worner, the senior of the Liverpool firm, living here.
Miss Dare was a fine, spirited, clever English girl of
twenty, who staid here just as quietly as if she were not
fitted to shine in a larger and fairer part of the world
than this, and as if she had not money enough (as she
was reputed to have) to indulge her tastes and wishes.
She it was who had planted and trained and arranged
the growing things about the house which Mrs. Barre
occupied, and which belonged to Mr. Worner.

The two ladies had, this day, when Mr. Wellon called,
walked out together down the harbor.

The Minister, after leaving his companion, walked fast ;
but he had walked for half a mile down the winding road
before the fluttering garmeitts of the ladies were in sight,
as they lingered for the loiterings of a little girl. He
overtook them at a place where the hill is high, at one
side of the way, and goes down, on the other, steep and
broken, to the water ; and where, at every turn, there is
a new and pretty outlook upon the harbor, or the bay, or
the picturesque coves along the road.

Mrs. Barre first heard his footsteps, and turned round
with a nervous haste. Sadness, and thought, and strength,
and womanly gentleness, mingled in her great dark eyes,
and pale face, and made her very striking and interesting
in appearance — an effect which was increased by her
more than common height. No one, almost, could look
once upon her, and be satisfied with looking once.

Miss Fanny Dare was both handsome and elegant —

THE NEW PRIEST.

■<:..!.',

rather paler than the standard of English beauty, but a
fit subject for one of those Frencli " Etudes a deux cray-
onsj* if it could only have done justice to the life of her
fine features and glancing eye, and wavy chestnut hair.

Little Mary Barre, a sweet child, threw her arm, like
a yoke, around the great dog's neck, where it was almost
hidden in the long black locks.

" I'm glad not to miss you, Mrs. Barre," said the Min-
ister, after the salutations, " for I'm expecting to be away
to St. John's to-morrow ; I can only try to show my sym-
pathy — any other benefit I can scarcely hope to render."

Miss Dare led her two livelier companions on, leaving
the Minister and Mrs. Barre to waik more slowly ; and
the gentle wind on shore, and ihe silent little waves in
the water, going the same way, seemed bearing them
company. The child's voice was the only sound that
went forth freely into the wide air.

" Oh yes, indeed ! " said Mrs. Barr^." I feel the pres-
ence of God with His ministers. I hope I may always
have faith enough to draw the benefit from it."

" It's a blessed thing for us and for those to whom we
are sent," answered Mr. Wellon, " that we can use the
Lord's divine words, that have a living power in them-
selves to find the soul and comfort it. I shouldn't dare
to bring any others to one who bears sorrow as you do ;
for I feel that, as a man, I must learn, instead of teach-
mg."

" My thought and feeling," said Mrs. Barre, answering
to one thing in the Minister's sentence, " are so occupied,
that I can only take sorrow in ; I cannot be taken up by
it. My child is happy ; " (tears came at thought of him,
however.)

" May I ask, in the way of my office, whether your

MRS. BARRE AND MISS FANNY DARE.

occupation is with a former grief? Don't answer me, if
I ask too bluntly."

" No ; with a work which is the chief part of my life
— almost my very life. I haven't told you, and I cannot
tell you yet, Mr. W^dlon, what one thing occupies me
always, and brought me to this place. I should be very
glad to open my whole heart to my pastor, if I could ;
but I cannot yet, for others are concerned, or, at least,
another, and I have no right to communicate his affairs
to a third person, even a clergyman."

" Only let me sympathize and be of what service to
you I can," said the Minister ; " and don't think that I
shall complain of the measure of confidence you may
give me."

Miss Dare and her two companions had drawn aside
from the road to a shoulder of rocky ground, ending in
cliif ; and stood beneath a flake, one of whose posts went
up beside them. As the Minister came near with Mi's.
Barre, Miss Dare invited them, by a silent gesture, to
look from the spot where she had been standing.

The place was like a balcony ; in front one could see
down the shore of the harbor along the sea-face of Whit-
monday Hill, and over more than one little settlement ;
and out in the bay to Belle-Isle and the South Shore, and
down towards Cape St. Francis. It was to a nearer
prospect that she pointed.

"Isn't she a dear thing?" she asked, after allowing
them a moment to see the sight, which, as it has to do
with our story, our reader shall see, by-and-by.

" Lucy Barbury and little Janie ! " said the Minister,
looking genially down. " Yes ; if any thing can make
good Skipper George's loss, his daughter may." Mrs.
Barre moved a little further on, after looking down, and
stood apart.

\y^

THE NEW PRIEST.

"Don't let her see us," said the pretty exhibitress
eagerly," or it will break up my scene ; but musn't we
get the school for her, and have her teaching, as she de-
serves? I want her off my hands, before she knows
more than I do. As for the schoolmaster and mistress,
poor things, I fancy they look upon her performances
in learning much as the hen did upon the duck's taking to
the water, when she was showing him how to walk."

" I should be very glad of it," said Mr. Wellon, " when
she's old enough."

" Ah ! Mr. Wellon ; her head's old enough inside, if
not outside ; and what are you to do with her in two or
three years' waiting? Besides, I want to see it, and I
probably shan't be here by that time." (A graver ex-
pression came near occupying her face at these words.
She kept it out, and went on speaking.) " You must put
the Smallgroves into the Newfoundland Society's school
at Indian Point, and we'll support our own herfe, and she
shall teach it." The Minister smiled.

" How would she take on the, gravity and authority of
it ? " said he.

" Admirably ; I've seen her at it. I caught her, one
day, with her singing class, out behind the school-house,
on that stony ground ; about twenty children, of all
sizes, so big, and so big, and so big," (graduating, with
her hand, in the air,) " practising just like so many little
regimental drummer-boys, but all with their hands behind
them. Lucy's back was towards me, and of course the
scholars' faces ; and so forty eyes swung right round
towards me, and one little body wriggled, and an older
girl simpered, and Lucy knew that there must be a
looker-on ; but, like a little disciplinarian, she brought
them all straight with a motion or two of her hand, and

MRS. barrk: and >nss fanny D iE.

inside, if
in two or

it, and I
;raver ex-
jse words.

must put
y's school
^, and she

thority of

t her, one
ool-house,
n, of all
ting, with
^any little

Is behind
[ourse the
fht round

an older

ist be a
brought

land, and

»},

"PS

■s

■..w
:#

then turned round and bluslu^d all over at my formidable
presence, a:^ if it had be(m his Reverence, the Pai-son, or
h«jr Majesty, the Queen."

" Well, we must see what we can do about it," said the
Parson, looking down again over the cliff. " And what's
this about young Urston ? "

"And what makes you think of young Urston, just
now, Mr. Wellon ? " asked Miss Dare, reflecting, archly,
the smile with which the Minister had uttered his ques-
tion. Then, without waiting for an answer, she con-
tinued : —

" I believe the Romish priests, at Bay-Harbor, have a
fancy that Lucy is an emissary of the Church, assailing
Popery in one of its weak points, — the heart of the young
candidate for the priesthood. — I don't speak by authority,"
she added, " I don't think it ever came into her head."

"Assailing Popery, in his person ? — Nor I ! " answered
the Parson sententiously, and with his cane unsettling a
small stone, which rattled down the precipice and took
a new place on a patch of green earth below. Little
Mary was cautioning her four-footed friend not to fall over
the chffs and kill himself, because he pricked up his ears
and watched the falling stone to the bottom.

" No ; nor assailing James Urston ; " said Miss Dare,
smiling again ; taking, at the same time, the child's hand
into her own. The parson also smiled, as he answered : —

" Well, if it hasn't come into her head, it's one thing,
certainly ; — though the head is not the only womanly or-
gan that plots, I believe. — But seriously, I hope that girl's
happiness will never be involved with any of them ; very
seldom any good comes of it."

" You put him quite out of the case, as if it were not
possible that his happiness could be involved, or as if it

THE NEW PRIEST.

were not worth considering. He's said to be a fine young
fellow," said the young lady.

" But, as you said, he's not only a Roman Catholic, but
a candidate for the priesthood."

" No ! I'm told the complaint is, that he's given up all
thoughts of the priesthood."

" That leaves him a Roman Catholic," then said the
Minister, like a mathematician.

"And a Roman Catholic can be converted," rejoined
Miss Dare.

" In a case of that sort it must be made sure, before-
hand ; — if there is any such case," — he answered.

A sigh or motion of Mrs. Barre, drew their attention
to her. She was still standing apart, as if to give free-
dom to the conversation, in which she took no share ; but
she looked much agitated. — Miss Dare proposed to her
that they should go home ; but she declined. Her friend
turned to a new subject.

" Have you heard of the American that intends setting
himself up in Peterport ? " she asked of the Minister.

" No, I haven't ; " answered Mr. Wellon, again looking
down from his height, and busy with his cane : " in what
capacity ? "

" Oh ! in a multifarious character, — chiefly as a trader,
I think, but with a magic lantern, or some such thing, in
reserve, to turn lecturer with, on occasion."

" No ; I hadn't heard of him ; but I'm not sure that I
haven't escorted in another new-comer that bodes less
good. You know we're to have a Romish priest here ;
I've just walked down with a clergyman of some sort,
and very likely, the very man. He isn't altogether like
it ; but I can't think what else he is. He reminded me,
too, of some one ; I can't think whom."

MRS. BARRfe AND MISS FANNY DARE.

" Wluit i»ort of person is he, Mr. Wclloii ? I never saw
one of his kind," said Miss Dare.

" Very handsome ; very elegant ; very interesting : with
one of the most wonderful tongues I ever heard. — I shall
have to look to my flock : — especially those members of it
that feel a friendly interest in Human Catholics : Eli,
Miss Fnnny?"

"Yes, it is fie I'* said Mrs. Barre; — "then he has
come ! "

She was apparently endeavouring to keep down a very
strong excitement

Her two companions turned in surprise ; Fanny Dare's
lips being just on the point of speaking.

" Why ! Do you know him ?" asked the Minister.

" Yes ;" she said. — She was very-much agitated. Be-
fore either of her companions spoke, she added, " We're
nearly related ; but religion has separated us."

The minister and Miss Dare may, in their minds, have
connected her own recent coming with that of the Romish
priest. — There was an embarrassed pause. Mrs. Barre
spoke again : —

" I knew that he was coming, and expected him ; '* she
said. " You won't wonder, Mr. Wellon, when you know
more about us, as you will, one day ; but don't be afraid
of me. Your English letters are from those who know me
and my history ; and whatever may pass between me and
this gentleman. Father Debree, — if any thing," — (she
paused, almost as if she should not be able to go on,)
" there cannot be any danger to my profession. It has
been tried before. — You won't suspect me ? " and she gave
him her hand.

" Certainly not ; " said the straightforward Parson.
" Only let me know whatever I can do for you."

: THE NEW PRIEST.

{JT'l

'liank you ! I will. I've got a work to do ; — or to
work at, if I never do it ; — for it may wear out my life. —
There's always heart-work with a woman, you know."

Some great, strong stream of life seemed to be flowing
in her, of which one might catch a glimpse through her
eyes, and of which one might hear the sound in her
words.

" We must be sure that it zc our work," said the minis-
ter gently, " before we undertake what may wear out our
life."

Mrs. Barrfe answered thoughtfully, though without a
pause,

" In my case it cannot be mistaken. You will say so,
by-and-by, I'm sure. — I have told you that I am nearly
related to Father Debree," she said, hesitating a little at
the name, — as she had also hesitated before, " I'm deeply
interested, too. Does he look well and happy ? "

" He has rather a sad look," said the Minister.

" Has he ? " she asked. " He hadn't, always ; but I
can't say that I am sorry if he's not altogether happy.'*
Her own eyes were full of tears.

"I must go home, I believe," she said, "I haven't
learned not to yield to my feelings, in spite of all my
schooling." She called her child to her, and hurriedly
took leave. Miss Dare did not stay.

The two ladies walked up the road, with little Mary ;
the child persuading her shaggy friend to go a few steps
in her company. Mr. "Wellon continued his walk ; and
the dog, slipping his head out from under Mary's arm,
turned and trotted dignifiedly after his master.

A PRETTY SCENE AND ITS BBEAKING-UP.

CHArXER IV.

i: I

▲ PRETTY SCKNK AND ITS BUEAKING-UP.

I HIS Whitmonday Hill, in Peterport, of which
mention was made in the last chapter, is, on its
travelled face, steep enough for a practised beast
(if there were such in Peterport) to slide down, and on the
water side, stands up three hundred feet and more of al-
most sheer precipice — gravel, and rock, and patches of
dry grass. On that side, at the bottom, it has an edging
of rounded detached rocks, with here and there among
them a bit of gravel tliat has fallen down and lodged.
This edging stretches along as debatable ground between
the hill and the sea, to Daughter's Dock, (the little cove
where a " Seventh Daughter " lives,) and, when the water
is high, is plashed and played with by the waves, as on this
summer's afternoon on which wo bring the reader to it.

With a fine breeze in from the eastward, and the bright
sun shining from half way down the sky, the waters came
in glad crowds, up the harbor, and ran races along the
cliffs. Here and there a little in-coming sail was rising
and falling smoothly and silently, as the loaded punt
floated before the wind.

The scene, to a sympathetic eye, was a pretty one of
home life ; but the prettiest i)art of it was on the water-
edge of Whitmonday Hill. At the upper end of it

VOL. I.

THE NEW PRIEST.

(speaking harbor-wise, and meaning towards the inner part
of the harbor) stood a little stage — a rude house lor head-
ing and splitting and salting fish — whose open doorway
showed an inviting shade, of which the moral effect
was heightened by the sylvan nature of the house itself,
made up as it was of boughs of fir, though withered and
red. A fisherman and his wife had just taken in the
catch of fish from a punt at the stage's ladder, and a
pretty girl, of some seventeen years, was towing the un-
loaded boat along beside the hill, by a rope laid over her
shoulder, while a little thing of four or five years old, on
board, was tugging with an oar at the stern, to keep the
boat's head off shore.

The older girl was one whose beauty is not of any
classic kind, and yet is beauty, being of a young life,
healthy and strong, but quiet and deep, to which features
and form give thorough expression and obedience. She
had a swelling, springy shape, dark, glancing eyes,
cheeks glowing with quick blood, (the figure and glance
and glowing cheek all at their best with exercise,) while
masses of jetty hair were lifted and let fall by the wind
from below the cap, which she wore like all girls in her
country. Her dress was different from the common only
in the tastefulness that belongs to such a person, and had
now a grace more than ever, as it waved and fluttered in
the wind and partook of the life of the wearer. She
wore a frock of dark blue, caught up a little in front, and
showing a white woollen petticoat; a kerchief of pretty
colors was tied very becomingly over her bosom, and a
bright red ribbon along the front of her cap lay among
her black hair. Her shoes and stockings were rolled up
in her apron, while her blue-veined feet — not large nor
small, but smooth and well-shaped — clung to the uneven

A rRKTTY SCENE AND ITS BREAKING-UP.

surfjieoH of tlie rocks, and strained upon them, as she
walked against tlie wind and sprang li'om one rock to
another; and they dipped now and then in the water, as
the httle waves splaslied up. Over all, both face and
figure, was a grace of innocent, modest maidenhood.

Nothing could be prettier or more picturesque than
this little group. The elder girl, who dragged the boat,
skirted the edge of the water with the flghtness of one
of those little beach birds, that, with a shadow and a re-
flection in the moist sand running along beside it, alter-
nately follows and retreats from the retreating and
advancing waves ; and the little navigator, towards whom
her sister continually turned, had her plump little legs, in
their wrinkled yarn stockings, and her well-shod feet set
apart to keep her balance, while her head was tightly
covered in a white cap, and a kerchief with a silk fringe
went round her neck and down the back of her serge
gown, so that one could not but smile at her and her
work. At intervals she prattled, and for longer intervals
she worked with all earnest gravity in silence.

There was another beauty about these girls to those
who knew them, as will appear in its time.

Splash ! went the water against the bow, spattering
every thing, and among other things, the little white-
capped head and silk kerchief and serge gown of the
sculler at the stern. Anon a wave came up from be-
neath the keel, and, thrusting a sudden shoulder under
the blade of her oar, would lift it up out of the scull-hole
in spite- of her, and be off. Then she would grasp her
weajjon womnnfully, and get it under her arm, and lay it
laboriously into its place again. In England one may
see the father's horse going to stable with a young child
on its back and another walking beside. Here they were

ii'

H.y-:^ZUA.i THE NEW PRIEST.

taking the punt to a snug place, where she was to be
hauled up for the night.

"PuU! Pull!
For a good cap-full
Out of the great deep sea, Oh!" :

cried the maiden in a mellow, musical voice, (evidently
for the little ont, for she herself had her own thoughts,
no doubt ;) and as the great deep sea illustrated the song,
practically, the latter repeated, laughing, (with a some-
what staid and moderate merriment,) and in the broken
speech of a child, working very hard,

"Oh! what a good cap-full
Out of 'a g'eat deep seeo ! "

and she was very near losing her oar again.

As they came on in this way, the elder sister helping
and sharing the child's laborious frolic, and at the moment
looking back, a dark, winged thing flew across the path.

" Oh ! my s'awl, Lucy ! " exclaimed the little one in a
hopeless voice, but tugging, nevertheless, at her oar,
while she looked up sadly to where the black kerchief
with the silk fringe which she claimed as a shawl had
been whirled by the wind, and had caught and fastened
upon the prickly leaves of a juniper bush, that alone of
all trees occupied the steep.

" My pooty s'awl you gave me ! " she cried again,
working harder than ever at the oar.

" I'm sorry, Janie," said her sister ; " we'll get it again,
I think ; " but as they looked up, the hill was a sheer steep,
and the gravel very loose.

Poor little Janie, with her distracted thoughts, and
without the draught of the rope, which Lucy held slack-

A PRETTY SCENE AND ITS BREAKING-UP.

ened as she lingered over the mishap, could not keep the
boat off, and it came ashore. The elder sister came up
to comfort her.

" Janie, shall I shove you out again ? " she asked, " or
shall I jump in and scull you round ? '*

Before the little girl could answer, the scene which
they had had so much to themselves was broken in upon.

" Look out, man 1 " was shouted in a sharp, quick tone
from above. '

" Why, James ! " exclaimed Lucy, looking up the
loose-gravelled precipice. There stood, at the moment,
far up, a young man poised upon it, while an older one
leaned over the upper edge. The loose gravel came rat-
tling down to the pathway of rocks over which the maiden
had been walking.

" Jump wide, if you must ! " the man at the top called
out again, in the clear, quick way of men accustomed to
shipboard work.

In an instant the elder sister shoved the boat forth
toward the clear water, and sprang into it, leaving Janie's
oar, which had floated away; got the other into the scull-
hole, and worked the punt out from the shore.

The waves came playing, up to the rocks that edged
the precipice's foot, waiting for the young man who had
no way to go but downward ; and who, though we have
been long, had not been able to stand still an instant.

Down he came, like an avalanche ; the cheaty gravel
giving way from his feet ; all the on-lookers breathless,
above and below ; the cold waves frolicking on the sur-
face of the deep sea ; — but the young man did not give
himself up to the usual fortune of heroines or heroes.

With a strong will he conquered what could almost be
called a fall, (so steep was the precipice down which he

«i>^

THE NEW PRIEST.

came,) and controlled it as if he had been winged. He
went down aslant, the gravel rattling down at every
slight touch of his foot on the face of the steep, and ere
one could tell how, he was three hundred yards away, at
the edge of the water on the little beach beyond the great
hill. Before he reached the rocks at the further end he
had checked himself, and not even the shallow waters on
the sand had so much as touched his feet.

" Well done ! " said the man — a fisherman very shab-
bily dressed — who was still standing at the top against the
sky. He saw the danger at an end, and then, turning,
went away. Now, therefore, the scene without the dan-
ger had only beauty in it. The waves ran away from
the wind, sparkling in the sunlight ; a little sail was flit-
ting over the farther water; and the maiden, whose
glancing eye had followed the young man's giddy run,
had a new color in her cheek. She had waited among
the crowd of mischievous waves at a few fathoms' length
from the shore, and now that it was clear that he needed
no help, she turned again her little vessel toward the
land. Midway to the rocks floated a straw hat, half-sunk,
which the wind had snatched from the young man's head
as he came down, and thrown there.

" Min'ter's dog ! " cried little Janie, attracted now by the
approach of the great black fellow panting over the wave-
tops, his long black hair floating wide. The young man
who had just taken the wondrous flight had now seated
himself, flushed and panting, on one of the rocks. As
the dog neared the hat, Lucy Wfis too quick for him, and
drew it, dripping, into the boat.

" I'll leave the oar for him," she said ; and the brave
brute, having turned up a kindly face to her, made for the
floating oar, and, seizing it by the hand-part, bore up

A PRETTY SCENE AND ITS BREAKTNG-UP. 89

with it against both wind and tide' toward the little beach.
That was the place, also, of the punt's destination, toward
which it was now urged gracefully by the maiden who
stood sideways in it, as men stand at sculling, and looked
forward with bright eye and lips apart and flowing hair. •
A company of neighbors had gathered hastily at tho
beach, four or five in number, and near them stood the
Minister ; and in all faces were excitement and curiosity.
Before her boat touched the sand, Lucy seated herself
upon a thwart and modestly put on her shoes. The per-
former of the late feat still sat apart, getting his breath

agam.

" I don't see the man that staid at the top of the hill,"
said the Minister.

"'Twas Willum Ladford, sir; 'e Ve gone away, see-
munly. 'Ee know *e's very quite, and keeps to 'isself,
mostly," answered one of the women who were eagerly
waiting for the explanation of the strange things that
they had just seen.

" Did 'e push un off, do 'ee think. Prude ? " inquired
one of the most eager.

" Oh, no I what would 'e push un for ? Will Ladford'a
too sober for pl'y, an 'e's too paceable for mischief."

The short colloquy was deserted hurriedly, as the boat
came sliding up the beach, and its fair sailor leaped
blushing from its gunwale to the sand. Lucy, first curt-
seying to the Minister, was bearing the trophy rescued
from the water, to its owner, when little Janie was in-
stantly beset by two or three of the most enthusiastic
inquirers after truth, who questioned her, half aside, and
half with a view to being overheard.

" Where did Mr. Urston come from, Janie ?"—« What
was 'e doun there, fust goun off? " — ^" What made un go

THE NEW PRIEST.

down ? " were the assaults of three several female minds
at the subject. Little Janie was bewildered.

"He couldn't keep his footing," said Lucy, hearing
and answering, although she had no more information
than the questioners might have had; — a circumstance
that perhaps did not occur to her.

" The road's wide enough to walk on, athout atumblin
over, is n' 'e ? " said one of the questioners, in a kind of
side-speculation, with a good-natured laugh and pleasant
voice.

" But I don't think he tumbled over the top," ventured
Lucy, again, who saw the absurdity of his not being able
to keep his footing on a highway whose width reached
the stately dimension of ten (at least, eight) feet, statute
measure, and kindly wished to protect his reputation from
a charge of such preposterous clumsiness.

The questioner had been longer in the world than our
young maiden ; and she advanced with her next question,
in this way : —

" Oh ! 'e was n' walkin on the road, was *e ? but pleas-
urin' down the side ; " and she looked up the great outline
of the hill, as loose and gravelly as a freshly-made glacis,
but steeper than a Dutch roof. The allusion threw the
company of women (who followed, at the same time, the
direction of her eyes) into a sudden laugh ; Lucy, also,
laughed innocently, and looked abashed ; and the Minis-
ter, who had not yet resumed his walk, smiled with them.

This last effect of her wit was not unobserved by the
speaker, who turned again to her charge, with new spirit,
addressing the neighbor-women : —

" What do 'ee think 'e sid,* to make un be in such a
tarrible hurry to git down i Do 'ee think, mubbe, it was

* saw.

A PRETTY SCENE AND ITS BREAKING-UP.

a fish 'e sid ? ConW n' 'ave abin he know'd e'er a body
was a walkun down on the rocks ? " '' .t

But like the mouse who gnawed the toils in whieh the
lion was inclosed, an unexpected deliverer came to Lucy's
aid, just as, in pretty confusion, and blushing, she had
turned to busy herself about her little sister, away from
the embarrassment of this unexpected and hitherto unde-
tected attack. Urston was just coming toward her from
his resting-place upon the rock; but it was little Janie
that brought the rescue.

"I think," said she, very gravely and sen. ^ntiously,
" 'e wanted to get my s'awl." - '^

" You funny little maid ! " cried her elder sister, laughing.

" And 'e failed down ; " continued the little explorer of
causes, to make her statement of the case complete.

" Janie's handkerchief blew up against the little tree
on the hillside, and held fast," explained Lucy tdlthe
women, who had interrupted their raillery, and with their
eyes sought further explanation ; — " and so she thinks he
was trying to get it," she continued, turning on him, as
he came up, a look the brighter and prettier for her con-
fusion, and with a tone as if she were near thinking that
Janie's was the true explanation.

Urston did not look like a fisherman, though he wore
the blue jacket and trowsers ; and his eye had evidently
been familiar with other things besides the way of the
wind on the water, and the " lay " of the rocky land. At
the moment, he still showed in his face the excitement of
his late adventure, and breathed hard from the struggle
by which he had conquered.

"Thank you," said he, looking as well as speaking,
while he took his hat from the fair hand that bore it.
" It wasn't my fault if I didn't get a good ducking, myself."

.'.h

THE NEW PRIEST.

" Why, you carau down with a swoop, like a sea-gull I "
said the Minister, who was not far off; " how you ever
managed to give yourself that turn in to the beach, I don't
know. — Your crown ought to be made of something better
than straw, for a feat like that."

" I suppose it's something, when you've made a blunder,
to get the better of it," said the young man, modestly.

"That's the way the best part of us is brought out,
often," answered the Parson, drawing a moral, as men of
his cloth will; "but if you always manage to tumble
down as strongly and safely as you did just now, you can
take good care of yourself in the world."

The maiden's bashful eye and cheek and mouth bright-
ened and quickened, with a sweet unconsciousness, at
this compliment ; but there were other interested persons,
who did not forget themselves.

*fDid 'ee get my s'awl ? " inquired little Janie, as the
Minister walked away, to the road.

The young man smiled, and, putting his hand into his
jacket-pocket, drew forth and spread before their eyes
the missing treasure, and then returned it to its owner.
She took it with joy (and, no doubt, thankfulness) ;
but her countenance fell, as she remarked that " it was all
full of prickles ! "•

Some one of the women made (in an undertone,
which could be heard at some distance) her comment,
thus : —

" It's my thought ef Janie had n' 'ad a sister, 'e wouldn'
ha' doned it."

At or aboi>t the utterance of this speech, Lucy with-
drew, with Janie, along the path which she had been
traversing a short time before. ^

At the same instant, the dog, having brought his charge

A PRETTY SCENE AND ITS BREAKING-UP.

all

with-
been

harge

safe to land and carried it up high and dry upon the
beach, and left it there, came back to perform hia toilet
where he could have the society and receive the con-
gratulations of his friends. He took his position near the
last speaker, and, with special precision, spattered her all
over, from head to foot. Those in her neighborhood did
not quite escape ; and the gathering dispersed, with good-
natured and rather noisy precipitation.

Epictetus, for his part, went off, also, in search of the
Minister, his master. - • *

While Urston busied himself with the boat, two women,
walking away more deliberately than the rest, said, one
to another: i

** Ef 'e wants to go a-courtun e'er a maid in Petei*port,
*e might jes so well look a* to'ther side o' the house, to my
thinkin'."

"Ay, as come after Skipper Georgie's da'ghter," said
her neighbor.

Young Urston's case was this : his father, born and
bred a gentleman, (as was said, and as seemed entirely
likely,) had, as others like him have done, come, young,
to Newfoundland, and become a planter. He had mar-
ried a pretty woman, half-sister of Skipper George's wife,
but owing to difference of religion, (the Urstons being
Roman Catholics,) the two families had had little inter-
course. ■

The boy grew with finer instincts and quicker faculties
thn' common ; taking, it seemed, from both parents ; for
t i<^. mother, also, was not only a fair Irishwoman, but one
oi feeling and spirit. She died early ; and, while she was
dying, commended the fostering of her cliild to an attached
servant ; and the two parents devoted him, if he lived, to
the priesthood.

THE NEW PRIEST.

So, at the age of twelve or thirteen years, Father
O'Toole had taken him into his own house, made him at
first an altar-boy, taught him as well as he could, and
loved him abundantly. lie had no difficulty in keeping
the boy's mind up to hia demands ; but after some time,
(it must be owned,) it would have required an effort
which Father Terence would not make, to keep it down
to his limits; for the boy was a very active fellow, in
mind and body ; and when he had gone through all his
spiritual and religious exercises, and when he had wrought
out all the work that his director could put before him> must,
of course, do something. By way of vent, the good father
connived at his reading any solid-looking books which he
could borrow from friendly gentlemen in Bay-Harbor
(and the youth did not fancy any thing lighter than his-
tory) ; Father Terence, also, did not trouble himself
about his pupil's slipping off, in a blue jacket, to go out
upon the water : — an indulgence understood to be an occa-
sional relaxation for the mind.

His own father refreshed the learning of other years,
for his son's sake, and taught him as he had opportunity.
At seventeen years of age, the young candidate was to
have gone to France and Rome, to finish his preparation ;
but he was now a year and a half beyond that age ; for,
just as he came to it, a new priest, whose learning and
abilities were very highly spoken of, replaced the assist-
ant in the Mission at Bay-Harbor, and, getting a good
many things into his hands, got this young man away
from Father Terence, gave some weeks to weaning the
pupil from his old master, some months to attaching him
to himself, got a direction from the Bishop that James
should stay with him as long as he staid in Bay-Harbor,
(which was expected to be in all two years,) and gave

A PRETTY SCENE AND ITS BREAKING-UP.

the young pupil quite new notions of study and learning.
Young Urston was a generous scholar, who took his
heart with him into his work. But by and by there
came a change.

The priest's severity of discipline increased ; the youth's
attachment to his director wasted. There was to be no
slipping off the long coat for the short, no escaping to
the water, no visiting at home, no putting off or hurrying
of duties, religious or scholastic ; the confessional, which
Father Terence had at first negligently used with his
pupil, and disused, soon, was insisted on, and penances
exacted strictly.

Suddenly, Father Nicholas went up to St. John's ; his
absence was prolonged, from month to month, for many
months (the old assistant coming back) ; Father Ter-
ence, who had felt hurt, did not attempt to resume any
oversight over the stolen youth, though the kind-hearted
man restored the old relations of love; — and, at last,
young Urston withdrew altogether, took to fishing, (read-
ing when he could,) and declared his purpose of staying
where he was.

This resolution most bitterly grieved his nurse, who
had shown her disappointment in word and deed, until
the father reduced her, gradually, to an unwilling self-
restraint. She expected Father Nicholas to bring all
right, again ; and, as Father Nicholas was understood to
master every thing and person that he had to do with,
her confidence seemed well-founded ; but the time fixed
for the candidate's going abroad was just at hand : the
priest had been in Bay-Harbor, again, for three months,
had had several interviews with the recusant, but no
change appeared.

THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER V.

A WALK AND THE END OP IT.

I HE acquaintance between the young and inter-
esting widow and Miss Dare had immediately,
from the outset, become an intimacy; and the
latter was almost as much at home in Mrs. Barre's house
as at her aunt's. Sometimes she brought her needle-work,
sometimes a book, and sometimes she came empty-handed.

Mrs. Barre's favorite seat was at her chamber-window,
that faced the west, and looked up the harbor along the
road.

The chamber was a very plain one, but it had a few
pretty pieces of furniture, and some smaller things, that
were quite elegant.

A Bible lay — generally open — on a little table, with
her Common Prayer-Book and a few other books.

Here she was sitting, as usual, a day or two later than
the date of the last chapter, when her friend came in.

" Can I persuade you out, this morning ? " asked Miss
Dare ; " it's a lovely day."

Mrs. Barre seemed to be considering or absent-minded
for a moment ; she then hastily accepted the invitation.

" You need the fresh air ; your hands tremble," said
her friend, taking one of them and kissing it.

" Do they ? My heart trembles, too, Fanny."

A WALK AND. THE END OF IT.

Mrs. Barre exerted herself to smile as she spoke. She
then put on her sluiwl and bonnet, and they went forth to
their walk.

It was, as Miss Dare htul said, a delightful day, without
wind, and with an atmosphere into which the spicy fra-
grance of the little grove of firs, near Mrs. Barre's house,
and the coolness of the salt water, spread themselves
gently around, and in which far-off things had about them
a dreamy haze. The walking seemed to give new life to
Mrs. Barre ; and instead of shortly proposing to turn
back, she only asked, at Marchant's Cove, (a half mile's
distance from home,) whether her companion felt tired ;
and being answered with a hearty " No," kept on, without
turning or flagging, beyond sweep of road, hill, cove, pass
m the rocks, the whole length of the harbor to Mad
Cove.

The two ladies did not talk much as they went, but
they talked pleasantly, and what they said was chiefly of
the beauty of the different views, which Fanny pointed
out, on land and water, — and there are very many to be
seen by an open eye, in walking down that harbor road.

The nearest house to the top of the slope in Mad Cove,
was that of Widow Freney, a Roman Catholic, and one
of Mrs. Barre's pensioners ; the next — a hovel at a httle
distance — was that of a man with the aristocratic name
of Somerset, who was, in American phrase, the most
" shiftless " fellow in the harbor.

The ladies knocked at Mrs. Freney's door, and the door
swung open at the first touch.

The widow, however, seemed surprised at seeing them,
and confused. The place had been tidied up ; the chil-
dren washed and brushed ; and Mrs. Freney wore the
best dress that had been given her, and a ceremonious

THE NEW PEIEST.

face. She asked the ladies to be seated, less urgently
and profusely than her wont was, and answered with some
embarrassment. One of her children was sick. — The
ladies did not stay.

"Oh, mother!" exclaimed a child, who had opened
the door to let them pass, " he's here ! the Praest's here ! "

Miss Dare was passing out, when, as the boy had just
announced, a gentleman was on the point of entering.
Seeing her, he silently lifted his hat and drew back.

When Mrs. Barre came, he started in extreme astonish-
ment, and was greatly — even violently — agitated. In a few
moments, he so far recollected himself as to withdraw his
astonished and agitated gaze from her, and turned away.
. Mrs. Barre's look was full of the intensest feeling.
Miss Dare watched the sudden and most unlooked-for
scene in surprised and agitated silence ; Mrs. Freney and
her family in wondering bewilderment.

Mrs. Barre spoke to the priest ; her voice was broken,
and tender, and moving.

" Shall I not have a word or look of recognition ? '* she
said.

He turned about, and with a look of sad doubt, asked,
gently, but very earnestly, " Are you a Catholic ? "

She answered instantly, " Yes ! as I always was, and
never really ceased to be for a moment."

Perhaps Miss Dare started, but a glance at him would
have assured her that he was not satisfied. The doubt
in his look had not grown less ; the sadness kept its place.

" No more ? " he asked again ; " not what I believed
when we took leave of one another? Not what you
were in Lisbon .'' "

Mrs. Ban*e, with a woman's confidence and directness,
turned to what must have been a common memory be-
tween them : —

A WALK AND THE END OF IT.

" No mote than what I was when I was a happy wife
in Jamaica, and had a true and noble husband and two
blessed children I No more, and the same I "

She did not weep, though she spoke with intense feel-
ing. He seemed to feel almost more strongly. He put
his hand upon his forehead, pressing both brows. Neither
seemed to regard the presence of ^vitnesses ; yet when
Miss Dare moved, as if to withdraw, the priest hastily
begged her not to go away ; and then to Mrs. Barre,
who stood looking fixedly upon him, he said sadly :—

" How can I, then, but sslj farewell ? "

" How can you notf when I come asking ? "

" No," he answered, " I follow plain duty ; and not un-
feelingly, but most feelingly, must s&j fareweU ! " and he
turned and walked away from the house, toward one of the
knolls of rock and earth.

" Then I must wait ! " she said, turning her look up
toward the sky, which did not hide or change its face.
Then Mrs. Barre's strength seemed giving way.

" Come back into the house and sit a moment," said
Miss Dare, who had her arm about her; "and Mrs.
Freney, will you get a little water, please ? "

Mrs. Barr^, though unable u> speak, mutely resisted the
invitation to go back into the house, but persisted in go-
ing, with tottering steps, up the hill toward the path, and
still kept on, though almost sinking, for some rods farther,
— until she had got within the pass through the rocks,—
there she sank upon a stone.

"Thank you. Don't be afraid for me," she gasped;
" I never faint." Then resting her elbows on her knees,
she covered her face with her hands, and so sat. " Oh !
Fanny," she said, " you saw that he was one very near to
me, though so utterly separated ! "

VOL. I. 4

' 60

THE NEW PRIEST.

At the sound of a hasty step approaching she started
and looked forth. It was Mrs. Freney with a mug of
water.

" Here's some drink he bid me bring *ee ma'am," she
said, courtesying ; " an' sure I'm very proud to bring it to
such a kind lady as y* are." '' -

Mrs. Barrfe thanked her, but declined the water ; and
the woman, expressing a hope " that she wouldn't be the
worse of her walk," offered to procure a punt that
she might be rowed back, "if she'd plase to let her
get it." This offer, like the other, was declined, with
thanks.

The ladies walked back more silently than they had
come, and more slowly, Mrs. Barre resting more than
once by the way, and looking hurriedly backward, often.
At home she threw herself down, and lay long with her
face buried. At length she rose, and wiping away her
tears, daid : —

" Ah Fanny, it isn't right that a bright, young spirit
like yours should have so much to do with sorrow. Your
day is not come yet." .

" You don't know that," said her friend, smiling, and
then turning away. " Perhaps that was the very thing
that brought me to you."

Mrs. Barre drew her to herself and kissed her. The
tears were falling down Fanny's cheeks this time.

A sweet breath of summer air came through the open
window.

" You brave, dear girl ! " said the widowed lady, kiss-
ing her again.

"Never mind," said Fanny, shaking the tears away;
"but will you let me be wise — though I haven't had
much to do with Roman Catholics — and ask you not to ex-

) ■'

A WALK AND THE END OF IT.

.«!

pose yourself to this Romish priest, even if he's your own
brother I Let him go, won't you? You can't do him
any good, and he won't do you any."

" Nothing can make me a Roman Catholic ! " said
Mrs. Barre, "and I can't help having to do with him.
I wouldn't for all this world lose my chance ! "

" Ah ! but we think our own case different from
others," said Miss Dare.

" If you knew what was past, Fanny, you'd trust me
for what's to come, under God. If I come to too deep
water, be sure rU ask Mr. Wellon."

»
Id

% ' '

52 THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER VI.

▲ FEW MOMENTS OP TWO YOUNG PEOPLE'S LIVES.

I "WO or three days passed before our young people,
who separated at Whitmonday Hill, met again.
The night had been rainy; but the morning
was delightful. An occasional cloud floated, like a hulk
from last night's battle, across the sky ; but the blue, where
it appeared, was of the very bluest ; and the air fittest for
breathing and being glad in. The high, rocky walls of
coast, the ridges and the far-oflP woods, were as fresh and
clear as could be ; the earth was cool and strong under
foot, and one might feel the wish-wash of the water where
he could not hear it.

Skipper George had part of his old father's garden, on
the slope below the ridgy boundary of the little plain
on which his own house stood, and Skipper George's
daughter, like other maidens of the land, was early busy
in it, full of the morning freshness and beauty of the day.
A step drew near, and James Urston, coming to the fence,
wished her " good morning," and lifted his hat, gracefully,
as if he had had his schooling somewhere abroad.

" Oh, James ! " said she, looking up, with her face all
glowing, " you hurt yourself the other day I "

" No. I've got over it before this ; it was nothing."
His face, too, had its fresh touch of brightness and spirit
from the morning.

A FEW MOMENTS OF TWO LIVES.

" It might have been something, though. You shouldn't
have run the risk for such a trifle."

" There was no risk ; and if there had been, it wasn't
for httle Janie only that I got the ' shawl.' "

Lucy's bright eyes perhaps looked brighter. "Are you
going out on the water to-day ? " she asked, changing the
(subject.

" Yes, To-day, and To-morrow, and To-mo. . ow, I sup-
pose ; but I hope, not always 1 "

" Would you go to Bay- Harbor again ? "

" Never on the old errand, Lucy ; I can have a place
in Worner, Grose & Co.'s house; I think Miss Dare
must have spoken about it."

"Did you know," said Lucy, drawing nearer to the
fence, and bashfully hesitating, " that she had spoken to
the Minister about making me distress in a school?"
The maiden blushed, as she spoke, and very prettily.

"And he will; won't he?" said Urston, interestedly,
but rather gravely.

" Oh ! I don't know ; he told me that he might be able
to soon ; but I don't think there's any place for me,"
she answered, busying herself with the garden.

" Yes ; and more than that, by and by ! " said he, decid-
edly. — A nice ear could have detected a little sadness
in the tone with which he said these words of happy
augury.

She looked hastily up.

"And some of these days you^U be a merchant ! " she
said.

" Something, please God ; something, Lucy, that wants
mind in it, I hope, and that one can put some heart in,
too ; something that will give one chances to think, and
learn, after having once begun as I have."

THE NEW PRIEST.

" Oh, you'll go on learning, Pm sure," she said ; " you
know so much, and yor're so fond of it."

The mornmg was fr^. .h and clear, the water bright and
living.

" You think a good deal of my knowing a little Latin ;
but only think of what other people know I — this very
Father Nicholas at Bay-Harbor. Tou know ten times
as much that's worth knowing as I do I "

<' Oh ! no," said the maiden, " it wasn't the Latin,
only—"

" I know the * Hours,' as they call them," he said,
smiling, " and some of the * Lives of Saints.' "

" Oh, no ! all those books that the lawyer lent you."

" If it hadn't been for those, I should have been worse
yet; — Father Terence hadn't many; — ^yes, I've read
enough to want to know more; — but the pleasantest
reading I ev^r had was reading your English Bible with
you those two times."

" Was it, really ? " the maiden asked, with a glad look,
in her simplicity, and then she blushed a little.

" Yes ; I've got every word of what we read, as if it
were written in my mind deeper than ever those North-
men cut their words in the rock."

She was silent a moment, looking beautifully thought-
ful out into the air ; but then suddenly recalled herself,
and said, —

" But they cut their words deeply, to stand till now,
ages after, with the sun shining on them, and the storm
beating against them, and the ice freezing over them,
year after year, — if they are there, as people say."

" There are writings in the rock ; but I don't know if
there are any of the Northmen's. It doesn't matter
much ; no one sees or cares for them."

A FEW MOMENTS OF TWO LIVES.

" Men oughtn't to forget them ! " she said, with glisten-
ing eyes.

" Poor men ! " said Urston, in his turn, " they hoped
for something better I But hopes are happy things while
we have them, and disappointed hope doesn't hurt dead
men. It's the living that feel."

The young man said this as if he had begun a man's
life, such as it is, most often. Perhaps he thought only
of one disappointment, that at Bay-Harbor.

Lucy was busy again with the garden.

By and by she asked, "What do you think they
wrote ? "

" Perhaps only their names ; perhaps the names of
some other people that they cared for at home ; and the
time when they came."

" There may be grave-stones as old," Lucy said, " but
this seems stranger, cut by strange men on a great cliff
over the sea ; — I should like to look for it."

"You know they say it'i somewhere on the face of
Mad-Head," * said Urston ; then looking towards the
ridge, he said, " Here comes my father ! " and wished her
hastily " Good-bye ! "

* So it is believed, in Peterport, of a certain cliff; and, very likely,
in other places, of other rocks.

)W,
trm
sm.

if
ter

THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER VII.

A WRITTEN BOCK, AND SOMETHING MORE.

|R. SMALLGROVE, not jealous, had invited
Skipper George's daughter to come in, as often
as she pleased, to the school ; and generally con-
trived to make this something more than a compliment,
by getting her occupied, when she came, with teacliing the
more advanced scholars, while Mrs. Smallgrove taught
the younger, and he, with calm authority, presided.

This day Lucy Barbury had sought the scholastic hall,
and there Miss Dai*e called for her, just as school hours
were over.

The haunts of childhood have an attractiveness of their
own about them, for those that were children once, and Miss
Dare, as Lucy came bashfully out, pointed, with a silent
smile, to the stain made upon the door-post by litfle hands
holding against it while little feet were lifted to the height
of the threshold ; and read, with a smile, a legend traced
with tar upon a bit of board which leaned against the
school-house. It was a timely moral for the young vota-
ries of science, mdicted by one of themselv as, inspired : —

" Yo that wool larn,
Don faU Estarn."

" I'm going down to make some drawings," she said,
** would you like to go. Miss Lucy Barbury ? "

)

I«

t,
le

A WRITTEN ROCK, AND SOMETHING MORE. 57

" Yci*, if you please, Mi.<s Dare ; if you'd like me to.
Are you goinj; to Mad Cove ? **

" No ; I wasn't going to Mad Cove, but I will go, if
you'd like it."

"I think that writing must be so strange, that they
say the Northmen left on the Head ages ago."

'* But why, out of all the ages, is it so mteresting to-
day?"

. " I only heard to-day where it was. Do you think it
is their writing, Miss Dare ? "

" So it's thought ; but it isn't always easy to make sure
of such things. I saw an account of a stone dug up, the
other day, in the United States somewhere ; and an In-
dian scholar said that the letters were hieroglyphics, and
meant that * seven sons of the Black Cloud made three
hundred of the Wolfs cubs to fall like leaves of the
forest ; ' and a great Oriental scholar read it, ' Here the
Brothers of the Pilgrim rested by the graves of the
dead ; * and he said it was a trace of the lost tribes of
Israel ; but a scholar in the Scandinavian languages, of
Sweden and Denmark, said it was a relic of the North-
men, who went from those countries and discovered
North America; and that it meant, *In the rolling
fields we make our home that used to have a home
on the rolling waves.' And there it is, you see. This
writing on our rock is also said to be by those North-
men."

"And it may be by Captain Cook, who set up the
stones at Sandy-Harbor," said Lucy, smiling.

" Yes ; it may be," said Miss Dare, assenting to the
possibility suggested.

" But it may be by those men," said Lucy again, return-
ing to the other possibility.

THE NEW PRIEST.

" Certainly," answered Miss Dare, assenting a^in ;
*' ant! it may be by the Lost Tribes."

Lucy kindled as if a spirit of the old time came over
her. Her eyes swelled and brightened, and she grew
pale.

"If it were, they ought not to leave it hanging out
there over the sea; but I suppose they'd be afraid to
move it," said she. "And if it were those Northern men
had written there, I should almost be afraid to look at it
so long af\er they were gone ; it would be almost as if
they had come back again to do it ; but they did some-
times write simple little things like a man's name, didn't
they, Miss Dare?"

" That's been a trick of the whole race of men in all
ages ; writing their own names and other people's," said
Miss Dare, " on walls, and trees, and rocks."

It took them a good half-hour — though they walked
well — to get to the mysterious rock, over Whitmonday
Hill and by Frank's Cove and lesser neighborhoods; but
pleasant talking about many a pleasant thing, and frequent
greetings to the neighbors, as they passed, perhaps made
the time short.

By and by they stood on Mad-Head ; the fresh wind
blowing in from the bay; the great waves rushing up
and falling back far down below them ; the boundless
ocean opening forth, beyond Bacaloue Island ; this cruel
sea close at hand being of the same nature as that with-
out, only a little tamed. They both stood, at first, without
speaking. At length Miss Dare recalled the object of
their visit, and said, —

" Now, Lucy, use your eyes, please ; and see which is
this famous stone. I am rather impatient now we're so
near it.'*

A WRITTEN ROCK, AND SOMETIIINO MORE. 59

Lucy, too, was quite excited.

" This is the wry rock, I think," said she ; and she
threw herself upon the ground, and holding by an up-
standing point of the rock, and by its edge, leaned over,
bodily, and looked down the hollowing face of the huge
clitt'. Steady as a girl of her life was, in eye and hand,
she did this with the same composure with which she
would have leaned over her father's fence. Miss Dare
threw back lu^r bonnet and let the wind do wbat it would
with her hair, while she got oawn upon her knees and
looked over also.

These two pairs of bright eyes hrA locked some time
before they could make out any thing l".e lettc ; on the
great grained and wrinkled, and riven surface.

" There ! there ! " suddenly cried Lucy ; " there is
something like an H. I see it! Thai ioig streak down
and the other, this side, and the cioss-raark between
them." She pointed with her finger to the spot, and
presently her companion saw it.

" Doesn't it seem terrible," said Lur»y Barbury, again,
" that that should stay, and the rock never change ; and
yet the living hand that could cut that into the rock is
gone, and nothing left of it I "

" Ay, indeed ! " said Miss Dare, " there's something
put into us, and while it's tltt re we're greater than any

thing ; and when it's taken awiiy, : but Lucy there's

nothing more there that I can see."

" And that long mark, ' said Lucy, " looks like a crack
in the rock ; but then a man might save himself trouble
if he found one already made."

Miss Dare helped the criticism by saying, —

" But the other one is only a great wrinkle. "We
didn't think enough of one thing ; we thought it might be

THE NEW PRIEST.

cut by Northmen, or Jews, or Englishmen, but we didn't
think enough, that there might be no writing at all."

Lucy drew herself up from the great empty air, as
she felt the force of this chilling suggestion, and looked
disappointed. Her companion still stretched over and
searched.

" Ah ! but I see it, after all ! I'm the discoverer ! "

" Where, please, Miss Dare ? " said Lucy, easily re-
covering her animation.

" Beyond you, there ; just beginning at that turn in the
rock. I suppose it goes on, on the other face of it.
That's part of a letter that I see." Here they began
again their search ; and here it seemed rewarded.

There were, plainly, letters traced in the stone, about
an arm's length down, and yet so hidden by the over-
browing of the rock, as not to be seen without stretching
far over. Fearlessly, and full of interest, they leaned
over in turn ; each, also, in turn, holding the other.

" If it should be Greek or Hebrew, it will be too much
for me : Roman, or old English, or German Text, I fancy
we may make out. — It's wonderfully fresh ! Two words !
Some sayings of two words, have lasted thousands of
years without being cut in rock. These are not deep, and
there's black in them."

" They might have been a good deal deeper and full of
that black, and worn down to this," answered Lucy Bar-
bury: "I've heard of windows in England where the
glass was worn down by the weather, till it was so thin
you could put a pin through it anywhere.'*

" Those are not Roman letters," said Miss Dare, who
was intent upon them; "but they do look wonderfully
like German Text or Black Letter, and the old North-
men were of the same stock that we are, and the Germans,

A WRITTEN ROCK, AND SOMETHING MOIE. 61

you know. It may be Hebrew. — I'll draw them at any
rate ; " and she took out paper and pencil.

" Both words seem to begin with the same letter," con-
tinued she, " and there other letters alike. I can carry
one in my head, pretty well, till I can copy it — ^if my head
will stand this looking over."

" They couldn't have reached over that outstanding
part to cuL it," said Lucy, who, having abandoned the de-
ciphering to Miss Dare, with her paper and pencil, had
her thoughts free for speculation.

" That's true j and it never could have been any easier,
for that part hasn't gi*own on," said Miss Dare; "but,
then, no man co' Id stand on that ledge and use both
hands to cut with, unless it was a good deal broader once
than it is now, and so it may have been."

" But, at any rate," said the fishe^toan's daughter, " if
they were used to the sea, they wouldn't mind swmging
over with a rope, if they had nothing but air to put their
feet on."

" That's true again ; and most likely they would stand
their writing upright, with the rock ; — I was reading it up-
side down, like those inscriptions in the Desert. — I'll
begin at my end ; " — and she began drawing. " That looks
as if it would come out like the old Black Letter, or
German Text."

" James Urston might have read it if he'd only looked ;
he writes German Text beautifully, and knows all kinds
of writing I suppose," said Lucy.

" Perhaps James Urston never heard of it," suggested
Miss Dare.

" Oh ! I forgot ! he told me where they said it was, but
I don't think he had seen it," said Lucy.

"Ah? — Well," Miss Dare continued, keeping to her

THE NEW PRIEST.

work, " if we turn that upside down it looks like * ft,*
certainly ; doesn't it ? "We must allow a little for the
difficulty of cutting, and a little for difference of writing,
and a little for age. Why, if it all goes as well as this,
we shall make a noise with it in the world. Now you get
the next, please ; — very likely a date ! " added Miss Dare,
in fine spirits. " There must have been a letter before it,
but there's no trace of one now."

" Here are two out here by themselves. Miss Dare ! "
said Lucy, who had been looking over at another place,
while the drawing was made, and who was excited with
her discovery. " They're very plain : * I-V.* "

« What can that be ? " said Miss Dare. « Four ? Four
what ? * I-V.' it certainly is," she said, after taking her
turn in looking over. " Well, we can't make any thing
more of it just now. There are no other letters anywhere
along. Let us go back to our first work."

The next letter they pronounced " It," after getting its
likeness on the paper.

« That's no date," said Miss Dare again : « < n ? ' "—
" ' 0,' " suggested Lucy Barbury ; " it may be a prayer."
" Well thought again ! So it may be ! Let's see, —
what's the next ? — * t ! ' Good ! But stay : this'll take
down the age of our inscription, mightily, if we make that
English. That other letter 's * U/ depend upon it. ' fJLs
U=t=' — some sort of Scandinavian name — and — ^ JJ ! '

* ILtttfi.' That looks pretty well and sounds pretty well.
Why, that'^ a grand old Norse name ! * Lury ! ' It sounds
like Rurie, the Russia i conqueror, and 'fury,' and

* LURID.' That's an old Viking."

" How strange ! " said the pretty fisher's daughter,
thoughtfully, " that one name, of all, should be there ; and
just the name makes us tliink of a particular man, and

A WRITTEN ROCK, AND SOMETmNG MORE. 63

lat

Is
id

id
id

bo'T he looked, and care something about him — doesn't it ?
He was the commander, I suppose."

Miss Dare, full of eager discovery, was bending over,
in her turn. It was slow work, stretching over, looking
carefully, and copying a little at a time.

" We shall have more trouble about the next word,"
said she, " for that won't be a name ; they only had one
name in those days. It may be * somebody's son,* though ;
yes, it may be a name."

" And, perhaps," said Lucy, smiling, (for they really
had but a mere thread of conjecture to walk upon, across
a boundless depth,) " perhaps this is no man's name. It
may mean something."

" We haven't got that third letter exactly, after all,"
said Miss Dare, comparing and correcting. " It's ' C,' not
* t»' It doesrCt make a man's name now, certainly."

" There's a Saint Lucy, among the Roman Catholics,"
said her namesake. " I suppose they landed on her day,
just as they did at St. John's, and St. George's, and St.
Mary's, and the rest."

" This is a Lucy that hasn't been canonized yet, for
there's nothing before her name ; and I've got a key to
the other, so that it doesn't give me as much trouble as I
expected. I believe it does ' mean something.* "

Lucy Barbury leaned over the rock again in silence,
but presently drew herself up as silently ; and as Miss
Dare looked at her with a smile, she said, (and no pencil
could have given the prettiness of the blushing cheek, and
drooping lid, and head half held up,) —

'* I'm sure I don't know what it is."

" But I do," said Miss Dare : " ' M^a^t^fi^Xt^t^S*'
That's more familiar than one of tliose hard old Norse
names, isn't it ? It seems to be a woman's name ; but it

THE NEW PRIEST.

makes you * think of a particular man/ perhaps, as you
said, *aud how he looked, and care something about
him?"'

"Oh! Miss Dare," said Lucy, quite overcome with
confusion, " I didn't know it was there."

" Nor I ; but since it's there, somebody put it there ;
and somebody that understands German Text. But I
was only in fun, Lucy. Don't mind it. You didn't cut
it."

Lucy would not have minded it, perhaps, if she had cut
it herself.

" I'm afraid somebody '11 see it," she said.

There was, indeed, more than one body (female— and,
indeed, an old man too, — ) hastily getting up along the
cliff's edge, looking over, all the way along. Few people
were in the Cove at the time, and the greater part of
the few had been busy; but still the long sitting, and
above all, the strange doings up at Mad-Head, had not
been unobserved, and at length it was impossible for the
beholders to keep away.

" I don't believe they'll see it," said Miss Dare, as they
came near, " and if they were to they wouldn't make much
out of it ; not many of the women understand German
Text. There are those Roman letters, beyond, that could
be made out more easily; but there again, unless they
were pretty familiar with such things, they wouldn't be
the wiser."

" I wonder what they mean," said Lucy, who, after the
revelation of the Black Letter, might be glad of a safe
subject for speculation.

" I fancy that they might be interpreted by one who
* understands all kinds of writing,' " said Miss Dare, with
a smile, — but speaking so that the approaching neighbors

A WRITTEN ROCK, AND SOMETHING MORE. 65

Lfe

should not hear, — ^but I and J used to be the same letter,
and so did V and U."

Lucy blushed more deeply than ever at the intelligence
that lurked in this sentence.

" Oh ! don't tell them, Miss Dare, please," said she.

" Did 'ee loss any thmg, Miss ? " said the foremost of the
advancing inquirers.

"Yes; I'm afraid we've lost our time; haven't we,
Lucy ? ' "

"1 thought, mubb'e 'ee may have alossed something
down the rocks."

" No ; we were looking for the old writing, you know,
that they say is cut. in. Lucy here, had read about such
things and she was very anxious to see one."

As Miss Dare said this, she looked gravely at her com-
panion, but that pretty maiden was, or seemed, altogether
taken up, with the tie of one of her shoes.

" Did 'ee find *un," inquired another of the curious, as
all their eyes wandered from one explorer to the other.

" No ; we found some marks, but they don't look like
old letters. — How do the fish go to-day ? "

" They'm ruther sca'ce Miss, but the bait's plenty."

As Miss Dare and her scholar went home, they said
nothing more to each other of their discovery. The
neighbors, dispersing slowly, wondered " what made young
Lucy Barbury look so frustrated hke," and concluded
that it was because of her not being " so sharp about
they things as Miss Dare, and how could she ? "

VOL. I.

•§

THE NEW PBIEST.

CHAPTER Vin.

TRUE WORDS ARE SOMETIMES VERT HEAVY.

I ARLY next morning, whoever passed along that
part of the harbor, might have seen young Urs-
ton standing under the Cross-way-Flake, which
covers with thick shade a part of the road beyond Mar-
chants' Cove, and the approach to the old unpainted house,
in which, with his youngest son and family, hved the pa-
triarch of his name, old Isaac Barbury, and his old wife.

From where the young man stood, the fair blue heavens
without, seemed like smooth walls rising about the earth,
over the top of which inclosure had now begun to pour,
and by and by would come in a flood, sweeping away the
airy walls, — the fresh and glorious day.

A step drew near, on the top of the flake, and the
young man left his standing-place and went forth. It was
a handsome woman, of middle age, who stood above, with
some fish which she was preparing to spread, and whom
he saluted respectfully, giving her the title of " Aunt."

She returned his salutation kindly, but distantly ; and,
as he lingered still in silence, addressed him again, while
Bhe continued her work.

She asked, " Have you given up being a priest, Mr.
Urston?"

" Yes ! " he answered, in a single word, looking before
Lim, as it were along his coming life, like a quoit-caster,

[ ■■■ WU-l-JJi -' " ' "* ''

ate-

TRUE WORDS ARE SOMETIMES VERY HEAVY. C7

md,
lile

[r.

)re
ter,

to see how far the uttered word would strike ; then, turn-
ing to her, and in a lower voice, added, " I've left that,
once and forever. — But why must I be so strange, that
you call me ' Mr. Urston ? ' "

She looked at him searchingly, without speaking. IIo
kept his eyes fixed upon her, as if expecting her to say
more ; but as she turned to her work again in silence, ho
said — " I'm a fisherman, just now ; I may be something
else, but it won't be a priest."

" James Urston ! " she said, abruptly as before. " Do
you know you're trifling with the very life ? "

The young man started. " I don't understand," said
he ; " do you blame me for not being a priest ? "

No; I'm glad of it: but what is there between you
and my daughter Lucy?"

The young heart, as if it had been touched in its pri-
vacy, threw a quick rush of blood up into James Urston's
face. " Nothing," he answered, much like a lover ; being
confused by her suddenness.

" There ought to be nothing, and nothing there must
be ! — I've told her, and I tell you, Mr. James Urston,
you must not meet any more."

" But why ? " he asked, not recovered from his confu-
sion.

" You can see, easily," said Mrs. Barbury. " I needn't
tell you why."

Is there any thing so hard, or that goes in so deep, as
air made into words ?

" No, I don't see," he said. " I see how different she
is from any one else."

How could he let himself see that wall, so suddenly
built up, but so surely ? — It was not, yesterday.

" I know she is," said the mother, " and I thank God

'' i-.

THE NEW PRIEST.

for it ; He made her so : but her feelings are like other
people's, only they may go deeper. — They can't be trifled
with."

"How could I trifle with her?" he asked, warmly.
" Trifling is not my character, — with man or woman I "
There was a strength in this self-assertion, in which every
feature took part with the voice, that must have impressed
Mrs. Barbuiy.

"I believe you don't mean wrong," she said; "and
that makes it easier to speak plain to you. I haven't
language like yours, but I can say the truth. I'm her
mother, and must answer to God for what care I take of
her. It would be wrong for me to let you go on, and for
you to go on, against my forbidding."

The young man's face was flushed. Happily, no one
but Mrs. Barbury was near; and happily, and rather
strangely, no one else was drawing near.

" If you forbid it, it's wrong ; I don't know what else
should make it wrong," he said.

" Difference of religion^ James Urston," she said, slowly
and gravely, — ^" as you must know yourself. I wouldn't
be unkind; but it can't be helped." — It was plain that
she was thoroughly resolved.

He answered bitterly : —

" If you donH blame me for not being a priest, you'll
take good care that I never come any further. There
mightn't always be a difference of religion."

Mrs. Barbury looked steadily at him, and severely;
she said : —

" I didn't think you'd given up being a priest for any
woman — ^"

Urston did not restrain himself, but broke in upon her
speech : —

rtz:

~;y& I ■■■«-■ " I . '■ — ^ — :-.T

TRUE WORDS ARE SOMETIMES VERY HEAVY. 69

!♦»

I'll
bre

" I never gave up the priesthood for any thmg but con-
science I because I must be a hypocrite, if I kept on. I
can't believe every thing, like good old Father Terence ;

and I can't be a villain, like " (he did not give the

name.)

She answered : —

" You speak quite another way, when you say that I
ought to risk my daughter for the chance of making you
a Protestant ! I've no right to sell my daughter's soul ! "

Again the young man took fire. " We needn't speak
of trafiicking in souls," he said, " I'm sure nothing would
buy her's, and I wouldn't sell mine, — even for Lucy Bar-
bury."

" Then do right I " said the simple reasoner who was
talking with him. "You can't be any thing to each
other!"

Gentle as her face and voice were, the sentence was
not to be changed. It is not only in drowning, that the
whole life past, — ay, and the future's hope, — meet in an
instant's consciousness, as a drop reflects the firmament ;
for, in any crisis which has power to quicken every fac-
ulty to its utmost, all that is past comes with a sudden
sadness, and all that might have been ; while, at the same
pulse, comes the feeling, that, between past and future,
we are losing hold and slipping down, forever ; quitting
the results of what is gone, and the opportunity of what
was to come. Whoever has had the experience of love
discovered in his heart, only that it may be chased and
killed, may know what Urston felt.

" You can't help what she has been to me," he said,
sadly. " You can't take away the memory, at least. You
can't take away noble thoughts she's given me. You can
take away what might have been, yet," — he added, bit-

THE NEW PRIEST.

terly, as well as sadly, "it's hard for a young man to
have to look back for his happiness, instead of forward 1
I didn't think it was to be my ca.se I "

No man living, and certainly no woman, could help
feeling with him. Mrs. Barbury and he were still alone
together. She spoke (and gently) : —

" Happiness isn't what we're to seek for ; but it comes
after doing what's right. — It isn't always easy to do right,"
she said.

" Not so easy as to tell others to do it," he answered,
bitterly, still.

" And yet, it is to be done ; and many have done aa
hard things," said Mrs. Barbury, "and even were the
better for it, afterwards."

"When it takes away the very best of life, at the
beginning " . The young man gave way to his feel-
ings for a moment, and his voice broke.

" We may live through it, and be the better for it," she
said.

" Take away the best of life, and what is left ? " he
asked, with his broken voice, which had been so strong
and manly only a little while before. "Or break the
heart, and what's the man, afterwards ? "

Mrs. Barbury's answer was ready, as if the question
had come to her years ago.

"A 'broken heart' is the very thing that God asks
for ; and if it will do for Him, it may do for this world,"
she said. " I know what a woman can do, James, when
she must, and I think a man should do as much."

" How do you know ? " he asked. " Not by your own
feeling ! "

" Yes, by my own feeling ! "

The young man looked up at the fair, kindly face,

TRUE WORDS ARK SOMETIMES VERY HEAVY. 71

which, in familiarity with the free air, had given away
some of its softness, but had it's wide, clear eye un-
changed, and gentle mouth.

"We, young, are often bewildered by a glimpse of the
unpublished history of some one of our elders : (for the
best of these are unwritten, and we sometimes catch a
glance at them.) — Ah ! covetousness, or low ambition, or
earnest drudgery, as well as hatred of mankind, or mad-
ness, or too early death, has taken many a one that IlJ
another life, up to a ccr^'lia L^me ; and then it was broken
oflf!

So, too, a happy peacefulness and quiet strength have
taken place, like sunshine, and a new, green growth, in
many a heart where the fierce tempest had laid waste.
It may have been so with Skipper George's wife.

"You'd never know from the water, when it lays
smooth in the sun," she said, presently, " what storins it
had been in, outside. — I was as young as you or Lucy,
once."

She smiled, and it seemed almost as if her young self,
fair and happy, came, at a call, up within her, and looked
out at her eyes and glowed behind her cheek. Urston
could not help listening.

" I was brought up in England, you know, from a
child, in Mrs. Grose's family. I was a play-fellow with
the children, and then maid. — One time, I found I was
going to be wretched, if I didn't take care, for the sake
of one that wasn't for me ; and so I went into my room,
and didn't come the first time I was called ; but when I
did, I was as strong as I am now."

" You weren't in love ! " said Urston.

" I wasn't, afterwards : but I was much like you,
before— only, I wasn't a man."

THE NEW PRIEST.

She was as calm and strong in telling ' ■ • I'ttie dloiy,
as if it had not once touched her very life. So the boat
swims, full-sailed and fearless, over the rock, on whicli,
one day, at half-tide, it had struck.

" Not every one can go through, so easily," said the
young man, moodily.

" James Urston I " said she, looking steadily in his lace,
** you're a man, and women's feelings are not the easiest
to get over."

" Well, I can't stay here," said he, looking out sea-
ward, as so many young lovers have done, before and
since ; some of whom have gone forth wanderers, accord-
ing to their word, and helped to fill the breath of the
Northeast Wind with this long wailing that we hear, and
some of whom have overcome or been overcome by hard
things at home.

" Take it manfully," said the woman, " and you'll con-
quer it,"

He pressed his lips together, shook his head once, with
a gesture of anguish, and then, straightening himself and
throwing back his head, walked up the harbor.

*' 3SiS tst efne alte d&tstWiiitf
Wlnli ge])t nfcl)ts QtosBes tiabef ;
iBocl) toent tn eben passftet
Mem bcfctt tiun ?Qet? ent?toef." *

It's only an old, old story, •

That there goes but little to make :
Yet to whomso it happens,
His heart in two must break.

So sings, most touchingly, the German poet, of love

* »efue»

TKUE WORDS ARE SOMETIMES VERY HEAVY. 73

with cruel scorn tossed back. He sang out of a heart
that knew what was the dreadful crush, and dizzying, de-
stroying backset of the life's flood, when its so many chan-
nels, torn from their fastenings in another's being, lie
huddled upon themselves.

A little further up the road, there is on the left hand,
where the hill goes down — rocky, and soddy, and stony —
to the beach, a little stream, that loiters (as it leaves the
bosom of the earth and comes out into the air,) just long
enough to fill up a hollow with its clear, cool water,
and then goes gurgling on its short way to the salt sea-
There is no superstition in the regard the neighbors have
for this spring ; but everybody knows the place, and some
liave tender memories connected with it, from gatherings
of lads and maids about it in the clear summer evenings.
Har-pool, (or Ilare-pool,) they call it.

If James had thought of this association, (perhaps he
did,) it would have given another touch, still, to his sad-
ness, to remind himself of it at the spot ; but he crossed
over, and went down to it, and, where the streamlet fell
out of its basin, caught the cool water in his hand, and
bathed his brow, and drank.

His side was toward the sun, that came along, as he
does, in his strong way, not hindered by our unreadiness.
The young man's shadow, long and large, was thrown
upon the hill-side. Another shadow joined it. He
turned hastily, and saw the old pai'ish-clerk, Mr. William
son coming. He went out into the road ; met him, ex-
changing salutations ; passed under the Crossway-Flake,
and down the harbor.

love

■«■

THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER IX.

SKIPPER George's story.

I N the evening of that clay, which had been beautiful
to the end, Skipper George's daughter seemed more
full of life than ever. In the last hour of daylight
she had given her lesson to her httle sister, who was no
great proficient at learning, and who was, by degi'ees,
(like some other children, with other words,) getting broken
of making " c-o-d " spell " fish." She tripped across the
even ground in front of the house, to meet her father, with
a lighter step than usual, and was busier than ever within
doors. When supper was over, and after the three-
wicked lamp in the chimney was lighted, she read, out
of a book that Miss Dare had lent her, a story of an
ancient mariner, and his strange voyage ; while the mother
knitted a pair of woollen leggings for her husband, and the
stout fisher sat upright, with Janie on his knee, sometimes
looking at his daughter as she read, and sometimes looking,
musingly, into the fire, where the round bake-pot stood,
covered with its blazing " splits," and tinkled quietly to
itself.

George Barbury was a large, strong-bodied man, more
than six feet in height, with a broad chest, and every way
a pattern of a stout, healthy fisherman. His rusty clothes,
— -jacket, and vest, and trowsers, — patched evenly and
cleanly at the knees and elbows, had a manly look ; so

SKI ITER Gf:ORGE.

Ling,

lore

lhe.s,
laud
so

had his shoes, with their twine-ties, and his strong, thick-
ribbed stockings, and thick woollen shirt, and plain black
'kerchief round his neck ; but, above all, that weather-
beaten face of his, with grizzled whiskers half-way down,
and the kind, simple eyes, that looked out over all at one,
and the bald head, with grizzled, curling locks, of those that
always look as if they never grew beyond a certain length
and never needed cutting. All this great, massive head
and kindly face were open now, for, in deference to the
reading,* he sat uncovered. The little girl had listened,
at first, with great interest, to the wondrous rhyme, but
was soon asleep, with one arm stretched at length over
her father's, with the little, busy hand at rest, having
dropped the chip which, at first, had illustrated the story ;
one wing of her cap was pushed up from her chubby face,
and one stout little leg was thrust forth, so as to show a
shoe studded with nail-heads all around the sole.

The daughter, by natural girt of God and happy growth,
was, in some ways, a dilFerent being from her parents.
Much beauty of outwarcl things, much beauty of inward
thoughts, and an ideal world, — with its sky above, and
earth and boundless sea below, — which Ues in the mind
of every speaking or mute poet, as the old Platonists sup-
posed it to lie in the divine mind; — these things this girl
saw, and her parents saw not; even her mother, only
partly. In the vision of those, the daughter was beyond
the one; apart from the other. But in how much more
had she deep sympathy with them and kindred to them,
because she had lost nothing while she had gained so
much! All human hoartvS and minds that have not
quenched that light of Christ " that lighteth every man
that Cometh into the world," can know and feel truth,
* Their readings are gonondly from the Bible and Prayer-booic.

; I'i!

UT-

THE NEW PRIEST.

heartiness, manliness, womanliness, childlikeness, at sight,
much or a little ; and the conscience which Lucy brought
to judge of higher thiiigs and things farther, was the self-
same that the rest of them applied to lower and near
things. Some sentences of false religion she quietly
changed in reading, and only spoke of them when all was
done.

The fisherman approved the painting of the icebergs,
and the bending over, and pitching and swaying of the
ship, and the shaking of the sails, and the dropping down

" Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the light-house top,"

and the mother approved the moral that bade us love all
things, both great and small, after that more than once
the tears had come to her eyes as she sat knitting ; and
Lucy's voic'i, as gentle and musical, and clear as the gur-
gle of a brook that the rain has filled, would sometimes
run fuller, and sometimes break, and sometimes cease to
be heard for a while, and she would sit and gaze at the
burning lamp or the fire, or up through the wide chimney
at the starry sky ; and they all thought that the words
about the silent sea, and the wondrous harmonies made
by the blessed spirits through the sailors' bodies, were ex-
ceeding beautiful. And after it was done, the father and
mother, and the bright girl, — who had so many more, and
so much fairer, fancies than they, — all agreed in this judg-
ment : that no man had a right to bring false religion, or
a lie against the honor of God, into poetry, any m-'.^re
than into the catechism.

" 'Tis n' right to put in about ' Mary, Queen,' and the
* Mother of Heaven,' — for I suppose 'e was a larn'd man
that could write what 'e woul', Lucy ? " said the father, in
a tone of regret; "'e should n' help the wrong, when

SKIPPER GEOEGE.

there's so many taken by it, and mubbe lost forever!
Wo got no right to ' make mention o' they names within
our lips,' as the psalm says."

The mother spoke, perhaps not less sadly, but more
severely :

"Yes, child, it's just that part will do mischief;" — the
motlicr had been a Roman Catholic, it will be remem-
bered. " Th<;y can't go such a voyage, or see such sights,
but they can call her queen, and pray to hor."

" Yes, indeed," said the bright-eyed daughter. " It's
all a wild thing, and one part no more true than another ;
but I think it might do mischief."

" And it's not well having much to do with Roman
Catholics," continued the mother, more pointedly, while
hor daughter looked with a fixed gaze into her face, drop-
ping her eyes when her mother raised hers from her
work.

" They'm not all bad," said Skipper George, " though
they're all wrong in religion surely. Tliou wasn't very
bad, Mother," he continued, with a tender smile at his
wife, " when thou was one o' them ; though 'ee 're better
sunce, that's a sure case. I walked a jjood piece wi' a
j)l(^;isan'-lookin' gentleman, (much like a reverend gentle-
man *e seemed,) an' so 'e said we musn' think they'm all
bad."

At liim, again, the daughter looked with a long, fixed
gaze, holding her book upon her knees. Presently, the
fisherman got up, and, laying down his little load at length
upon the bench, went forth into the evening.

A full, round moon was shining in a sky so clear that
it seemed, really, as if space were empty. Half day it
was, and yet full niglit ; and as the fisher, crossing the
green before his house, mounted the ridge and leaned

m
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THE NEW PRIEST.

■■i

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\

against a lone tree or mast that stood up from the earth
of a cleft in the rocks, the harbor- road below him was
shown plainly, and the houses at its side, and in the cove
not far off, stood plainly outlined, — larger and smaller,
dark and white, — some ir? their own inclosures, some as
if there were no land in any way belonging to them but
the public thoroughfare ; yet was there no sight or sound
of living thing, except the frequent bark of dogs, and the
innumerable waves, rising and falling everywhere, in their
most glorious cloth of silver, which they wear only at
such times.

As he stood silently, a step drew near.

" A good evenun, sir ! " said Skipper George, in a voice
of kindly courtesy, turning and recognizing the gentlemau
of whom he had spoken a few moments before, who was
not immediately aware of his being addressed, but collected
himself, almost instantly, and turning aside from the path
that he was following, cordially returned the stout fisher's
salutation.

" I beg pardon for makun so free to hail 'ee, sir," said
the latter, leaving his place, and coming forward to meet
the stranger-gentleman ; " mubbe 'ee was in a hurry, or
thinkin' o' somethun particular."

" I was thinking ; but am willing to be interrupted. I
haven't forgotten our walk together, nor your story, nor
the lesson you drew from it."

" It's very good of 'ee, sir, to mind me. There's
amany things happen that we may take warnun from, ef
we woul' ; an' the Lard make men knowledgeable to take
notice an' larn from things, I suppose. We wants teachun
— amany of us, sir."

" All of us" said the gentleman, whom the reader
knows as Father Debree. I was thinking as I came

SKIPPER GEORGE.

nor

across here, with the moon before me, how we mistake
about ourselves ! That moon belongs to this earth ; that
we count ourselves masters of; it keeps going round it,
and can't get away ; and yet in six thousand years we've
never been able to go, or send, or do any thing to it."

While he spoke, and the fisherman turned his open face
broad to the fair, bright planet, the width of silent empti-
ness between the earth and it might have seemed a real
thing, sho%vn to the eye. Before Mr. Debree had fin-
ished speaking his companion was looking, with the ex-
pression of thought suggested by the words, into his face.

" There's one Master" said he, after the words were
spoken ; " we're servants, but w^e may be children , " and
his great, manly build, and the graying hue of his hair,
and the deep lines of his face, as the moon showed them,
gave a peculiar character to what he said.

" You had the best lookout in the neighborhood," said
JMr. Debree, walking to the spot on which Skipper George
had been before standing and looking abroad from it.
"This tree didn't grow here," said he, looking up at
the gray trunk glistening in the moonlight.

" No, sir ; 'twas sei there," said the fisherman.

* Is it a landmark ?"

" 'Is, sir, it may be, in a manner ; but not for s'ilun on
those waters. 'Twas set there when riches was taken
aw'y. Riches came agen, but 'twas laved, for 'e'd larned
partly how to value riches."

The gentleman looked, as the moonlight showed, inter-
estedly at the speaker : " Another story with a lesson in
it ? " he said. " If it were not for keeping you out so late,
I would af^k you to do me the favor of telling it."

" Ay, sir," said Skipper George. " I said there were
amany lessons sent us. This one corned nearer to me

.•

' If

THE NEW PRIEST.

again than the tother. I hope I've lamed somethun by
that story ! Fishermen don't heed night hours much :
but it's late for you as well, sir. Mubbe 'ee'd plase to
walk inside a bit?" he asked, with modest urgency.
" It's a short story, only a heavy one ! "

" Another time, perhaps," said the strange gentleman ;
" not now, if you'll excuse me ; but if it wouldn't be too
much trouble I would thank you for it where we are.
One hour or another is much the same to me."

At the first words of this answer Skipper George
turned a look of surprise at the stranger, and when the
latter had finished speaking asked,

" Be 'ee stayun hereabouts, then, sir ? "

Perhaps he may have thought it strange that one who
looked so like a clergyman should be staying for any
length of time in the neighborhood without being better
known.

"I am a clergyman," said the gentleman, frankly;
" but not of your churoh ; and I don't feel free until I'm
better known. "

Skipper George apparently weighed the answer. He
did not urge his invitation ; but his open face became
clear and kindly as ever.

" Then, sir," said he, " ef 'ee'd plase to be seated here,
Z'd tell the story. I know it well."

Before beginning it the fisherman cast a look at his
house, and then gazed awhile upon the restless waves
which here glanced with the gleam of treacherous eyes,
and there were dark as death.

" Do 'ee mind about ten years ago, in Newfoundland,
sir ? " began Skipper George, turning his steady eyes to
his hearer, and speaking as if the date or the years
since the date had been painful to him j " the hard

SKIPPER GEORGE.

year that was when they had the 'rails/ th y culled
'cm?"

" Yes ; though I was in England at the time, I know
pretty well what happened in Newfoundland. It was a
sad time."

" Ay, sir, 'twas a sad time. Many people suffered :
some wanted food, and more agen got broken in spirit,
(and that's bad for a man,) and some got lawless like.
'Twas a sad time, indeed!" Skipper George, having
lingered thus before his tale, began it abruptly : " Well,
sir, 'twas on the sixteen day of January, — a Thur><day
'twas, — I was acomun down Backside from the Cosh,
hau'ling a slide-load o' timber, an' my youngest son wi*
me. It had abeen a fine day, first goun off, (for a win-
ter's day,) wi' just a flurry o' snow now and agen, and a
deal o' snow on the ground, tull about afternoon it begun
to blow from about west and by nothe, or thereaway,
heavy and thick, an' growun heavier an' heavier, an'
bitter cold. Oh ! 'twas bitter cold ! We did n' say nuieh
together, George an' I, but we got along so fast as ever
we could. 'Twas about an hour or two before niglit,
iiiubbe ; and George says to me, ' Let's lave the slide,
Father ! ' 'Twas n' but we could ha' kep' on wi' it,
though 'twas tarrible cold, hard work ; but 'twas some-
thun else!

" So we turned the slide out o' the way and laved iier,
and comed on. 'Twas blowun gales up over Backside ;
we could sca'ce keep our feet ; an' I hard somethun like a
voice — I suppose I was thinkun o' voices — an* I brought
right up into the wind. 'Twas just like beun at sea, in a
manner, and a craft drivin* right across our wake, an'
would ha' been out o' sight an' hearun in a minute. Then
I knowed by the sound 'twas the Minister — (we did n*

VOL.. I. 6

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THE NEW PRIEST.

have e'er a roverentl gentleman of our own in th(;y days ;
but 'e lived over in Sandj Harbor and *e'd oose to go all
round the Bay.) We could sca'ce bide together, but I
was proper glad to meet un, (for a minister's a comfort,
'ee know, sir ;) an* *e said, * Is any body out ? * ' There's
two o' brother Izik's orphans, sir, I'm afeared, an* others
along wi' 'em,* I said. So *e said, ' God help them ! '
' Where are your two other boys, James and Maunsell ? '
* Along wi* brother Izik's two,* I said. *Twas blowun
tarrible hard, and cold, and thick ; an* the Minister
turned wi* us, and we comed up, ploddun through the
driftun snow, and over the rudge. When we opened the
door, first the mother thought there was four of us ; and
so she said, ' James ! * for we was all snowed over ; but
she sid there was only three, and 'twas the Minister wi'
us two. So she begged his pardon, an' told un our poor
boys were out agunnun, an* she was an ole punt they had.
We Avere all standun (for we didn* think o* nawthin but
the boys) when two comed into the door all white wi'
snow. 'Twas n' they two, sir, but 'twas my nevy Jesse
an' another. ' Haven't they comed ? ' 'e said. ' Dear,
what*s keepun they ? '

" Jesse had abin out, too, wi* Izik MafFen and Zippity
Marchant, an* they were all over to back-side o' Sandy
Harbor together ; on'y our poor young men were about
three parts of a mile further down, mubbe. So, when it
comed on to blow, Jesse an* his crew made straight for
Back-Cove an* got in, though they were weak-handed,
for one had hurted his hand-wrist, — and so, in about
three hours, they got round by land, an* thought the
tother poor fellows would do so well. ' What can us do.
Uncle Georgie ? ' 'e said ; for he's a proper true-hearted
man, sir, an' 'e was a'mos' cryun. ' First, we can pray,*

SKIPPER GEORGE.

said the Minister ; an' so he said a prayer. I make no
doubt I was thinkun too much over the poor young fel-
lows ; and the wind made a tarrible great bellowing down
the ehimley and all round the house, an' so I was ruther
aw'y from it more 'an I ought. Then the Minister an*
Jesse an' I started out. My mistress didn' want me to
go ; but I couldn' bide ; an* so, afore we'd made much
w'y up harbor agen the wind, an' growun dark, (though
twasn' snowun,) we met a man comun from tother side,
Abrara Frank, an' 'e said last that was seen of our four
wa^<, they were pullun in for llobbis's Hole, an' then
somethun seemed to give way like, wi' one of 'em rowun,
an' then they gave over and put her aw'y before the
wind, an' so as long as they could see any thing of *em,
one was standun up sculling astarn. (That was my
James, sir ! ")

A very long, gently-breathed sigh here made itself
heard in the deep hush, and as Mr. Debree turned he
saw the sweet face of Skipper George's daughter turned
up to her father, with tears swimming in both eyes and
glistening on her cheek. She had come up behind, and
now possessed herself quietly of her father's hand.

" So we turned back, an' the Minister wi' us, ('twas a
cruel night to be out in,) an' the wind a'mos' took an*
lifted us, an' sot us down by the foot o' the path over the
rudge ; but when we got atop here, and it corned athwart,
it brought us all down kneelun, an' we could sca'ce get
over to the door. The poor mother got up from the
chimley-corner and came for'ard, but she needn' ask any
thin ; an' there was a pretty young thing by the fire
{this girl was a little thing, asleep, but there was a pretty
young thing there) that never got up nor looked round ;
'twas Milly Ressle, that was troth-plight to James. They

If I
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I**

TIIK NKW rniicsT.

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was to lmv(» boon iimrncd in a week, of tlui Lor<l willod ;
nihi 'iwus tor 'c's house we won; drawmi out tho tiiubor.
Slio just rockod liorsrlt* on tlio boiich. — Sh''\s gcmo, lonj;
enough Mj«;o, now, sir!

** So tiio IMinistor look the IJook, anil read <i hit. I
heard un, an' 1 di<ln' hoar un ; tor I was aw'y out upon
the stormy waters wi' tho poor yoinj<:f nion. Oh, wlu\t
a nijj;ht it was ! it's no use ! hlowun an' bellowun an*
fVeezun, an' ice all alonj; shore to leeward 1

" Well, then, sir, about two hours o' nijjjht, there eoine<l
a lull, an' then there was a push or shako at tiie, d(»or, an'
another, — an' another, — an' another, — (so it was, we all
thoujiht,) a«ul tlien the door banj];ed open. There wasn'
a one of ns but was standun upon 'is feet, an' starun out
fi\)ni the kitehun, when it opened. 'Twas nawthiufj; but
eold blasts conied in, an' then a lull agen for a seeond or
two. So 1 shut to the door ; an' the poor mother brnke
out aeryun, an' poor Milly fell over, an' slip[)ed rijjjht
down u})on ihe hearthstone. Wo had a heavy time of it
that uiuljt. sir ; but when the door ban«^ed open that time,
this ehild that was a little thing then, lyun upon the
bt>neh sleepun, made a soart of a gurgle, like, when tho
first sound eomed to the door, and then when the flaws
o' wind eomed in she smiled, and smiled agen, and
laughed, a^ ef a body m'y be sayun pooty things to her
in d'y-time. Jesse sid it, an* plucked me by the coat-
sleeve, and I sid it, too.

** Well, sir, night pa^-^sed : *ee may be sure we didn*
sleep much, on'y eat-naps ; and once or twice I failed
into a kind of a dwall,* an* started, thinkun the^ was
speakun to me. Monum eomed slow and cold — colder
than night. So the nighbors eomed in at mornun, and

=* Doze.

SKirPKR aKOUGK.

sat by ; ami now an* aj^cn otm 'oiiM say tlicy wwt' finn
y(»mi<; inni ; an' al'lrr n bit another M say .larncH was a
brav«' heart, ami liow ha sav«'«l u boat's cpijw thrco years
u;?o, .senlhin them into H'y-IIarbor; an' ho they said how
]w- be;^uii to teach in Snn«lay-Mehooi Siniday belbn; ; an*
how brav(5 '<? was, when they si«l tho hist of un, H(;ulhjn
aw'y round th(! point and ov<'r th(! b'y, for t'other side,
or for li(*ll-lsl(^, or some \Aiiro- to ieewanl. So they said
Jamos 'ould take, 'em safe, plase God, an* w<!'d hear of
'em some place ovr-r tb S'y in a d*y or two. 'Vlian
they said th<'y won<b;n ai' th(i youn*; men coidd iceep
from fn^^zun ihv'ir handes, an' said mnbbe they wouhhi*
git touclie<l, for they was all well-elotiied, an' .James 'onld
k<!ep up th(Mr spii'its, an' brother I/ii^*H little Geor;^*; was
a nuTry boy, an' gi-eat [)lay-game for the rest ; an' my
Maunsell an* 'e's toth(;r cousin, John, were steady youfi*^
ni<»n, an' wouldn* j^ive up very easy; but they w(!re both
quii^t, and looked up to James, though John was a go(jd
bit older.

" Wall, sir, the day went on, cold, cold, an' blowun
heavy, an' the water black an' white, wi' white shores, an'
slob-ice all along ; — an' more, agen, an' heavier, to lee-
ward, sartenly. We coidd n' stir hand or foot that day,
nor next ; but the Lord's day came in softer, an* we got
a good crew an' a stout punt to sarch for the four
poor boys that had been three days a missun, and old Mr.
Williamson, the clerk that is now, sir,* made a j)rayer
over us before we laved. When we come to put off, they
lefl me standun ; I make no doubt but Jesse maned to
spare me ; but I called un back, for I said, why should I
be settun wi* my hands folded, or walking about, lookun
out over the water, and I may just so well be doun some-

* Parish-clerk.

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Sciences

Coiporaition

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. US80

(716) 872-4503

THE NEW PRIEST.

I'll

thun like a father for my sons an' for my brother's or-
phans ?

" We made for Broad Cove ; for so we thought the
wind would ha* driven the poor young fellows a-Thursday ;
but we couldn' get into Broad Cove, for the slob an' cakes
of ice. The shore looked tarrible cruel ! "

Skipper George sate thoughtful a moment, and then
began again.

"At Port'gal Cove," he continued, looking over the
water, " they did n' know about e'er a punt, an' no more
they did n' at Broad Cove, nor Holly-Rood ; for we staid
three days, an' walked an' sarched all over. An' so a
Thursday morn agen we corned back home ; — 'twas cold,
but still. So when we comed round Peterport-Point,
(that's it over at the outside o' Blazun Head, yonder,)
every man, a'most, looked over his shoulder, thinkun
mubbe they'd got in ; but 'twas n' so. They had n' come,
nor they hadn' been hard from. So my mistress, an'
Milly, an' George, an' I, an' this maid kneeled down after
I'd told 'em how 'twas, an* prayed to the good Lord.

"An' so we waited, an' did n' hear from the four poor
boys, not for a good many days ! " -

Skipper George stopped here again for a while.

"Awell, sir, then there comed word over, that some
men had abin found at Broad Cove ! — It was n' known
who they were ; but we knowed. So they got Mr. Wer-
ner's boat, an' a crew of 'em went round, an' Skipper
'Enery Ressle, an* Skipper Izik Ressle (that was Milly's
father,) an' Skipper Izik Marchant, ('e was n' Skipper
then, however,) but a many friends goed in her, — I could
n' go that time, sir.

" 'Twas about sun-goun-down, she comed in. Never a
word nor a sound ! She looked black, seemunly ; an' no

SKIPPER GEORGE.

colors nor flag. — ^'Twas they! Sure enough, 'twas
they !

"A man had sid a punt all covered \vi' ice, an' hauled
her up ; an' when he corned to clear away the ice, there
was a man, seemunly, in the for'ard part! He called
the nighbors ; an', sure enough, there 'e was, an' another
one, along wi' un ; an* both seemunly a-kneelun an' leanun
over the for'ard th'art. They were the two brothers,
John an' little George, frozen stiff, an' two arms locked to-
gether ! They died pr'yun, sir, most likely ; so it seemed.
They was good lads, sir, an' they knowed their God !

" So, then, they thought there was n' no more "

The fisherman here made a longer pause, and getting
up from his seat, said " I'll be back, after a bit sir ; " and
walking away from Mr. Debree and his daughter, stood
for a little while with his back toward them and his head
bare.

The maiden bent her gentle face upon her knee within
her two hands. The moonlight glossed her rich black
hair, glanced from her white cap, and gave a grace to
her bended ni'ck. At the first motion of her father to
turn about, she rose to her feet and awaited him. Upon
him too, — on his head, bared of its hair, above, on his
broad, manly front, and on his steady eye, — the moonlight
fell beautifully. Mr. Debree rose, also, to wait for him.

Skipper George came back and took up his broken
story.

" Bumbye, sir, when they comed to the after-part of
the boat, there they found a young man lyun in the starn-
sheets, wi' no coat, an* his — an' his — his poor, lovun arm
under 'is brother's neck ; — an' the tother had th«^ jacket
rolled up for a pillow under his head, an' I suppose 'e
died there, sleepun upon the jacket, that 'is brother rolled
up for un."

N't

THE NEW PRIEST.

Ji 4

The voice of the father was very tender and touching ;
but he did not give way to tears.

" So, sir, that young man had done 'is part, and sculled
'em safe right along wi' the tarrible cruel gale, aw'y over
a twenty miles or more, to a safe cove, an' his hand-
wristes were all worn aw'y wi' workun at the oar ; but 'e
never thought of a cruel gate of ice right afore the cove ;
an' so we made no doubt when 'e found that, in dark
night, and found 'e could n' get through, nor 'e could n*
walk over, then 'e gave hisself up to his God, an' laid
down, an' put his tired arm round his brother ; an' so
there they were, sir, in short after that, (it couldn' ha'
been long,) there was four dead men in their boat,
awaitun, outside o' Broad Cove, tuU some one 'ould come
an' take their poor bodies, an' strip aw'y the ice from 'em
an' put 'em in the ground, that comes more nat'ral, in

a manner, su*

u .

-They did n' find e'er an oar, — whatever becoraed
of 'em ; but they found their poor guns, an' the two or-
phans had their names cut ' John Barbury,' an' * George
Btirbury,' an' one of 'em had * Pet — ' for Peterport, an'
couldn' cut no more, for cold — an' death.

"There was three guns cut; an' one had 'James
Barb — ,' that poor Maunsell must ha' cut, poor fellow,
afore the deadly cold killed un. So the kind people that
found the poor boys, they thought James was a respectable
young man, an' when they corned to lay 'em out, in the
scliool-house, (they were proper kind, sir,) they put a
ruffle-shirt on him, o' linen.

" So, sir, the Minister comed over an' buried the dead.
Four coffins were laid along the aisle, wi' a white sheet
over every one, because we had n' palls: James, an*
Maunsell, of George, an' John, an' little George, of Izik ;

SKIPPER GEORGE.

; a

an' we put two brothei*s in one grave, an' two brothers in
another, side by side, an' covered them !

" There was two thousand at the funeral ; an' when the
Minister couldn' help cryun, so I think a'most every one
cried, as ef 'twas their own ; an' so we hard that people
that lived on Kelley's Island hard singun goun by in the
dark, like chantun we haves in church. They said 'twas
beautiful, comun up an' dyun aw'y, an' so, goun aw'y
wi' the wind. It's very like, sir, as Paul an' Silas sang
in prison, so they sang in storm !

" Then Milly, poor thing, that never goed back to 'er
father's house, took a cold at the funeral, seemunly, an*
she died in James's bed a three weeks after ! She was
out of her mind, too, poor thing ! "

After another silence, in which Skipper George gazed
upon the restless deep, he said,

" I brought home wi' me the best stick from the timber,
and laved the rest, an' no one ever touched it, an' there
it staid. So next winter, sir, my tother poor young man
died in the woods, o' masles ; ( — thank God ! we never
had to move in * till I lost my fine boys,) an' the next
sixteen day of January I set up my pillar, as Jacob set
his pillar, an' this is my pillar, sir. I said the Lord gived,
an' the Lord have tookt away ; blessed be the name of
the Lord. — All the riches I had I thought 'twas gone."

" You said riches came again," said Mr. Debree, deeply
interested and aflfected.

"Ay, sir. My maid is gone back to the house. I can*
tell 'ee what she is, sir. There's a plenty in the harbor
will speak o' Lucy Barbury, sir. I hope 'ee'll excuse me
for keepin 'ee so late."

"I thank you, with all my heart, for that beautiful
* Into the woods to be near fuel.

THE NEW PRIEST.

Btoiy," said Mr. Debree, shaking the fisherman's hand.
" Good night, Skipper George I You have learned a
lesson, indeed, and, with God's grace, it shall do me good.
It's a noble lesson I "

" The Lord showed me where to find it in my Bible
an' my Pr'yer-book, sir. I wish 'ee a good evenun, sir."

So there was a historic beauty (to those who

knew them) about the girls in that house.

They were the only remaining children of George
Barbury. Skipper George, as he was called, though he
neither owned nor *' sailed" a schooner, had lost his
greatest wealth (as things go here) — three fine sons, — all
three in early manhood ; two at one time, and afterward
his last. This was a great loss. It made the father
stronger in himself, standing alone and stretching upward ;
but it desolated this world very much for him. Those
eons would have enlarged his family; with them and
theirs he would one day have manned his schooner for
** the Larbadore." * He would have been another man at
the head of such a race.

They were all gone now ; and the father was, perhaps,
the better man for it ; (a brave, good, kindly man he
was ;) and the people respected him, and they called him
" Skipper " as a token of respect.

One of these girls remained, and one was given to him
after his loss ; and Lucy had grown into a young woman ;
and in her case, most certainly, it was a good thing that
her father had made up his mind never to set his heart
on any human thing. He had her with him often on the
water, and he was glad to watch her at her work at home
and hear her read ; yet steadily he threw her on herself,
(in his homely wisdom,) to make a woman of her ; and

> * Labrador.

SKIPPER GEORGE.

himself looked out of his more lonely life, with great
fatherly eyes upon her ; rejoicing in her beauty and
goodness, and thoughtfulness, and hoping much from her ;
but counting her as not altogether belonging to himself.

She had her own end before her from her childhood,
which seemed to be do her utmost work in the world ;
and, first, to fill her brothers' place. She did not ask or
talk ; but she took heed, and heard, and saw, and felt
and thus grew and learned. At ten years of age she first
made up her mind that she would never grow into a man,
and so fill up her father's loss. When some chance con-
versation first brought her to this point, (which, very
likely, she had feared before,) there was seen a flow and
ebb of blood ; and tears got as high as the level of her
lids ; and* then, without asking or saying, she knew that it
was a woman's place she was to have. So in all girls*
ways she did her utmost, and into whatever she did or
learned, she threw herself with all her might.

Her mother was a most sensible woman, with much the
same spirit as her husband's ; and being younger, by ten
years or so, than he, was, for that reason, more a com-
panion of her daughter. For other teaching than she got
at home and on the water, there was the school which
Mr. Wellon had succeeded in establishing, where Lucy
Barbury outleamed every thing ; and Mr. Wellon, finding
this quiet, pretty little girl so bright, taught her himself, in
some things, and lent her books. Miss Dare made much
of her, too ; talked with her, and listened to her, and en-
couraged her, and read with her ; and Lucy grew aston-
ishingly in wisdom and even in what is learned from
books.

This night, within the house again, for a while, Lucy
Barbury sate looking, with absent eyes, at her father, who

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THE NEW PRIEST.

himself sate late ; then she trimmed the lamp, and busied
herself with paper and pencil.

It was all silent till their evening prayer-time ; then,
late as it was, Lucy read the New Testament lesson for
the day ; and the father used the evening collects of the
Common-prayer-book, holding little Janie again in his
arms ; and then the little gathering was broken up.

It was the parents' way to leave their daughter to her
own times, and she trimmed her lamp and sate in the
chimney after they were gone to bed.

The next morning they found her lying, in her clothes,
upon her bed, burning with fever.

Dr. Aylwin was sent for, from Brigus, and said that
" it was severe, and would not be over in a day — or two."

A MEETING.

CHAPTER X.

A MEETING.

I AYS, fair and foul, went by ; the fever kept about
its slow work in Marchants' Cove, and Skipper
George's daughter was sick. There came a very
beautiful afternoon, on the twelfth of that August All
was fair, as if there were no provision in either sea or
sky for rain.

The wind from the sea was sweeping steadily over the
" gould " bushes on the Backside ; the sky overhead was
clear, and if a cloud floated, it was above the wind ; and
there it sailed slowly, as if it were a barge from which
some lovely spirits gazed upon the happy earth. The
little breakers played quietly, (at this distance no sound
comes up from them,) rejoicing, apparently, among them-
selves, as if they were, what they are often called, liv'n^i;
" white horses."

The wind took little notice of the childish trees that
lifted up their heads among the bushes, but scarcely yet
above them, and swept on toward the farther woods and
inner barrens, there to lay by what it was bringing of
health and freshness from the main.

Th3 day was such as often draws one's longings for-
wards, forwards, as the sweet wind goes, and brings into
the mind a gentle sorrow, because it cannot go along
farther or faster than the heavy body.

THE NEW PRIEST.

This neighborliood has seldom any stir of human life,
and birds and insects are not frequent here. The paths
are travelled most in winter ; for they lead over to the
woods, crossing some swamps and ponds, perhaps, in the
way ; and these are frozen at that season. They can be
traversed, however, (some of them,) at other times, by
those who are familiar with them, with no worse risk than
that of getting a wet foot at a careless moment, and they
are shorter ways of communication between the houses
on the harbor-road in Peterport and the next settlement,
towards Bay-Harbor, than is the main highway.

Some simple flowers grow here among the stones and
shrubs, and berries in their season. The linncea borealis
puts up its pretty pinkness, (confounded with the blossom
of the cranberry by the people ;) spiked willow-weed ;
golden-rod ; the sweet flower of the bake-apple, and other
pretty things grow quietly upon this ground, which is
scarce habitable for man. The graceful maidenhair, with
its pretty, spicy fruit ; plumboys, bake-apples, crackers,
partridge-berries, horts, and others enrich the barrenness,
and make it worth the while for women and children to
come and gather them.

On this particular day, at this particular time, the
single figure of a gentleman in black dress was crossing
the surface of the shrubbery, just about midway between
the harbor's head and the outer point. He was walking
moderately, and any one, who saw him nearly, would
have seen his hands clasped before him, and a thoughtful,
serious look upon his face. Whoever knew him would
have known afar that it was the new Romish priest.

Just as he turned a short corner, where the gi'owth of
little firs was rather thicker than elsewhere, there started
up at his step a pretty thing ; no bird, but a sweet little

A MEETING.

girl, with the flushed face of one who had been stooping
long, and the loose lock»?, that were a fairer covering for
the lovely head than the straw-hat which hung adown
her shoulders. The little thing, before collecting her-
self, — before seeing fairly the person who had come so
suddenly upon her, — said in a startled way, " Who are
you?"

After looking at him for a moment, however, she came
straight up to him, with her eyes fixed on his face, and said,
" I've got a great many berries."

At the same time she held up, in a sweet way, still
looking straight upon his face, her apron, heavy with tho
load that she had been gathering.

" Thank you, my little child ; I don't want any of
them," answered Mr. Debree, scarcely heeding the child,
who was looking up so steadily upon him. Then, i\s the
little creature was about to turn away, rebuffed and dis-
tanced by his manner, he recalled himself from his ab-
stractedness, and, condescending to her, asked,

" Do you wish me to take one of your berries ? "

" Yes, if you please, a great many. Were you looking
for me when you came here ? "

" No, my child," answered he again kindly, " I didn't
know that you were here."

" Oh ! yes. I've been here a great while ; I've been
here a great many hours ; I don't know how long I've
been here. Do you know my mamma ? "

" No. I don't know your mamma," said he, patiently
keeping up the conversation with the talkative little thing,
whose voice was as pleasant as her look, and who evi-
dently wished to become better acquainted.

" Does your mamma let you come and stay here so
long all alone ? " inquired he on his part.

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THE NEW PRIEST.

" Why, no I I'm not alone. Don't you see ? " said the
young thing, with that directness and satisfaction of hav-
ing the advantage of a " great man," which also grown-up
children show in the same way when they find themselves
better informed in some particular than some others
are.

As she said these words, there rose from the near
bushes a merry laugh of little ones, who had been hearing
all, unseen, and had been, very likely, on the point cf
breaking out before.

" Don't you hear those children ? They are with me ;
and there's a woman over there, with a pink ribbon round
her neck, sitting by that rock ; don't you see her ? She'll
see that we don't get into any mischief."

Mr. Debree smiled as she reported so glibly these last
words, words which sounded as if they had made a part
or the whole of the request or injunction given when
the children set forth from home. In the direction to
which his eye turned, as she spoke, the woman " with the
pink ribbon," was plainly to be seen at no great dis-
tance.

These are tenacious little things these children ; and a
kindhearted man, though he be a childless Romish priest,
cannot rudely break away from one of them that wishes
to detain him. Father Ignatius, though a little reserved,
was very gentle in his manner, and his voice had no
repulsive tone in it ; the child seemed, as children do, to
draw towards him. She took his hand, although he had
several times turned to go on his way, and prepared to
lead him back again over his steps. He gently resisted.

" Where do you mean to lead me ? " he asked.

She hesitated for a moment, as if abashed, and then,
loosing her hold of his hand, and turning one little foot

A MEETING.

round upon it's toe, swaying her body, at the same time
a little away from him, asked timidly,

" Don't you want to go and see my mamma ? "

"But I don't know your mamma, my child," he an-
swered, taking this opportunity to effect his purpose of
keeping on his path ; so saying " Good bye ! " he walked
away. He turned his head ere long, and saw the child
unsatisfied standing still upon the same spot ; her hands
holding up her loaded apron, her head bent forwards, and
her eyes fixed upon him. He stooped hastily, and has-
tily came back, saying: "There's a pretty little flower
for you that I found under the fir-tree yonder."

" Mamma said I was a little flower that grew in the
shade," said the child, and then, as if trying again to
establish an intercourse between herself and her chance-
companion, asked him suddenly,

"Are you a minister ? "

" Yes. What made you think so ? "

" Do you know Mr. Wellon ? " continued she in her
course of interrogation.

" Yes, I know him," he answered, once more turning
to be gone.

" Do you love Mr. Wellon ? " she went on, following
out her own little train of thought. " I know him, and
I love him veiy much ; do you ? " She put the second
interrogative at the end of the sentence, to compensate
for the diversion, in the middle clause, from the opening
question, as one brings up, to its first level, a rope that
has sagged in its length midway.

""* ./* said he, as kindly and quietly as before, and
not perL.isting now in going on.

" Mr. Wellon hasn't any little children ; have you got
any little children ? " she asked.

VOL. I. 7

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THE NEW PRIEST.

" No/' answered he, turning away. '

"Are you a Romis' pries'?" was her next inquiry,
using the words (except for childishness of pronunciation)
as familiarly as if she had been reading and spelling out
of a book of controversy, the little thing !
' Seeing the gentleman change color slightly, or noticing,
perhaps, some other slight change which a child's eye so
readily detects and a child's mind interprets as well as it
knows how, she hastened to ask him, looking abashed, ''

"Is that bad?"

" Oh, no. But what made you think of it ? "Where
did you hear about Romish priests?"

" I don't know where I heard it. I heard it some-
where," answered the little one, in her simplicity. "I
heard mamma say it, and Mr. Wellon."

" Did they say that I was one ? " said he, in a lower
voice than before.

" No ; they didn't say you ; they said some men were
that."

" And what sort of man do you think it is ? "

" I think it's a man like you."

" And why do you think it's a man like me ? " he asked
again, smiling.

I don't know ; I think it is," the little thing said, giv-
ing a child's reason.

"And is it somebody like Mr. Wellon, do you
think?"

" Oh ! no. It isn't a man like Mr. Wellon," said she,
decidedly. "

" What is Mr. Wellon, then ? Do you know ? "

" Oh, yes ! I know Mr. Wellon is a minister of God,"
she answered, looking up to him.

" Who is your mamma ? "

'■ ' » '" ' i-

A MEETING.

"Her name is Mrs. Baire, and my name is Mary
Barre. I'm her little daughter." ,. \. /-

" And how old are you, child ? " he inquired, looking
away, over the water. ... . , . .: . > ;

" I shall be a big girl pretty soon. I'm going on six.
That's pretty big, isn't it? Mamma says I shall be a
woman pretty soon, if I live, because my papa's gone." ,

Mr. Debree, at these words, looked back at the child,
and said, " Where is he gone ? " , ., .(

She answered as if she were sure of having made a
friend of him, " I think he's gone up in the sky ; for my
mamma wears black clothes, and cries sometimes ; and
that's what people do when some one goes up in the sky.
I think he's been gone about thirty years." This last she
said with the same innocent confidence as the rest ; lavish-
ing the time like any other treasure of unknown worth.

Her companion did not smile, but stood and looked at
her, and then turned again and walked away ; and the
little thing, as if satisfied with having established so much
of an acquaintance as to have let him know who she was,
and how old, turned up the path, without looking back.

Presently she was singing at the top of her voice, as
she sat upon a stone : —

^ The iceberg f 'oats, all still and st'ong,
From the land of ice and snow:
Full fifty fallora above the sea,
Two hundred fallom below."

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Then aa if her little rhyme had been a sacred hymn, from
Holy Writ or the Church Service, she added, " Glory be
to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, — in
the beginning, — ever shall be, world avout end, Amen."

The children, who had been playing or picking berries,

11-^

' 100 THE NEW PRIEST.

^ dose at liand, started up like a covey of birds, and joined

little Mary, and the " woman with the red ribbon," who
was not far off, came at almost the same moment.
, " What was *e saying to *ee, lovey ? " and " what did 'e
come back for ? " and " what did he tell 'ee about a
praste ? " " Do you know him ? " and other like, were the
^/y' cloud of questions that swarmed about little Mary from

the woman and the children ; the woman not forgetting at
the same time, to put the straw hat which had been hang-
ing, as we said, from our little acquaintance's neck, into
its proper place upon her head.

From amidst this swarm of sharp interrogatories, Mary
started off to flee. She fell and scattered a good many of
her berries before she got far, gathered up as many as
she could, before the company, which followed slowly,
overtook her, and then managed to keep in front of them,
and then of such as were left of them, (for they dropped
off by degrees,) until she reached her home.

Mrs. Barre, in receiving her, thanked the woman who
had kept her in sight, and bought, at the same time, some
quarts of berries, by way of returning a favor ; then took
Mary up in her arms, and hurried to hear her account of
her doings.

" Please ma'am," called the worthy neighbor after her,
" there was a gentleman stopped and talked wi'.she some
while. He said no harm, I don't think, for I kept anighst
'em, but 'e was this 'am' handsome-looking praste that's
corned, as they says, to live in the harbor; 'is name's
somethin, I don* rightly mind ; and he gave her bit of a
posey, ef she's a-got 'n now."

The mother thanked her again, and for informing her
of the child's talking with that gentleman, saying she
would ask about her afternoon's adventures.

'BT

A MEETING.

101

To this the little adventurer herself, fresh from the ex-
citement, assented very cordially.

"I talked very kindly to him, mamma," said Mary,
when they were alone together, inside. "I told him I
was your little girl, and he wanted to know what a Ro-
mis* pries' was, and I told him I thought he was a Bomis'
pries' ; and he asked me whether my papa was gone up in
the sky."

" Are you sorry that your papa is gone ? " aaked Mrs.
Barre.

" Yes, I always am sorry ; why do you ask me that a
great many times, mamma ? " ./ ^...

" Sometimes I forget ; and I want you to love Heav-
enly Father very much, and pmy to Him. Where is the
flower he gave you, darling ? "

" There it is, mamma, and I'll give it to you," said the
little one, dragging it forth from among her berries. •

" Thank you, love," said her mother, kissing her, and
taking the flower, which she did not return.

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THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER XL

SOME GOSSIP AND SOME REAL LIFE.

I F an outlandish frigate had come in and furled her
broad sails, and dropped her heavy anchors, and
swung round to them, with her strange colors flying,
and lowered away a half dozen black boats, and held them
in tow at her side and astern, and lay there, with foreign-
looking marines pacing in her main chains, and a crowd
of foreigners swarming on her decks, there would have
been some stir in the quiet little town of Peterport, and
its quiet neighborhood. The people would, probably,
have managed to go out to the ledge to fish, and the
women would, probably, have contrived to spread and
turn their fish on the flakes, and hoe their gardens, — all
besides gratifying their curiosity ; and those who might
come from afar to gaze upon, and ask, and talk about, the
outlanders, would, probably, get through their usual day's
work besides ; but, far and near, and for a long time, the
thing would be in their thoughts and in their talk, on
land and on water, at flake and at fireside.

So it was with the coming of the Romish priest to
Peterport. The people talked, and wondered, and feared ;
and some one or two of the warmer-spirited wives pro-
posed to have him driven off.

Mr. O'Rourke, the Roman Catholic merchant, was

SOME GOSSIP AND SOME REAL LIFE.

103

either seen more, or more observed, and the remaining
people of his persuasion, planters and others, were thought
to have (very naturally) an air of more than common
confidence and satisfaction. Still more was this supposed
to be the case in Castle Bay, where, though the place
itself was less considerable, the number of Roman Cath-
olics was twice as large.

Young Urston's case, and the epidemic that had settled
itself in Marchants' Cove, and seemed, now, to have laid
hold on Lucy Barbury, divided, with the other topic, the
public mind of Peterport. There was a general wish
that the Minister were in the harbor, as well for the sake
of the sick, (of whom, though none died, yet several were
affected with a lasting delirium,) as for the safeguard of
the place against the invasion of the adverse Priest.

The upper circle was a small one : — The Minister, the
widowed Mrs. Barre, the Warners, and Miss Dare ; the
merchant, stipendiary-magistrate, and churchwarden, Mr.
Naughton; Mr. Skipland, a merchant; Mr. McLauren,
the other churchwarden, living near Frank's Cove, — a
worthy Irishman,— (the three latter being unmarried
men,) and, lastly, the O'Rourkes, Roman Catholics, made
the whole round. The members of it had some subjects
of interest beside, but they had chiefly the same as those
that occupied the planters.

Of course the harbor heard, from open mouth to open
ear, the story of the widowed lady's strange interview
with the Romish priest ; nor was there little speculation
about the unknown tie that bound, or had bound, them to
each other. They had not met again, and he was seldom
seen by day ; sometimes, at night. Some said, of course,
that "he walked in darkness." She, too, was not seen
often.

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!(/.)*•?

Miss Dare came and went as ever. Only what follows
of what was said and done between her and Mrs. Barre,
concerns our story.

As she came in, late on the ailemoon of little Mary*s
walk, her friend answered her first question, which was
rather anxious, —

" I'm well enough, Fanny, thank you : but youWe look-
ing pale." 1

" Well enough ? " asked Miss Dare, again ; for the
covering over the blood in Mrs. Barre's cheeks was very
thin, and her eyes were hasty and anxious ; her two
hands, which Fanny held, were hot.

" Yes ; well enough for my need, Fanny."

" Yet your life is wearing out," said the girl, earnestly,
"as you said." ,

" I have to use a good deal of it. It goes into the work
I have to do."

Mrs. Barre tried to smile as she said this, but made no
great effort for it. , ..

Again her friend asked, anxiously, " Does it go on ? "

" I don't know how it goes ; — ^perhaps like piling up
water; and my chances are as rare as spring-tides. But,
pray tell me, how is Skipper George's daughter?"

" There's not much change yet, I think. Dr Aylwin
was there last evening, while I was with her, and told
me he thought the fever like that in Marchants' Cove,
but with many symptoms of inflammation of the brain.
He says they vary very much, in different cases, accord-
ing to constitution and other things ; scarcely any two are
alike. I fancy the poor child may have suffered some
severe disappointment ! she wouldn't tell of it, if she had.
He doesn't say what he thinks of her, except that she's a
very sick girl. She's perfectly crazy."

SOME GOSSIP AND SOME REAL LIFE.

105

« "Poor thing!" said Mrs. Barre. "I do hope she'll
get over it ! "

Fanny Dare went on, without sitting down, —

" Her father keeps up his stout heart, and speaks
cheerily ; but he must have hard work to do it. As soon
as he comes in, he goes straight to her bed, and stands
and looks at her ; and he does the same before he goes
out ; and always finds something or other to do about her.
I think his wife gives him a chance, on purpose; you
know what a delicate sense she has."

" Is she crazy all the time ? " asked Mrs. Barre.

" I believe so : she was, all night. When she was-
awake, she raved the whole time ; and in her sleep, kept
talking incoherently. Her raving was very sad, but
it was beautiful. She talked of twenty things that I
shouldn't have thought she knew. Sometimes, she fancied
herself out at sea, and called to the winds and sea-birds,
and clouds, and waves, and stars — if I could only remem-
ber some things she said ; and sometimes, she fancied
herself inland, among mountains and caves, or meadows,
or streams. Then she'd answer some person, perhaps,
and argue. It was very different from hei*self ; but all
was so good and innocent, even when it wasn't at all like
her. — I want to sit up again, to-night ; for the doctor
means to come over again; and he expects the crisis.
She needs close and intelligent care."

Mrs. Barre looked up, with a faint smile : —

" I'm afraid that's not the only reason why you want
to go, Fanny," said she. " To-night, you're to stay here,
as you promised, with Mary; and I'm to watch with
her ; — and do sit down. I'm sure you ought to be tired."

**I'll tell you the very truth," answered Miss Dare,
complying ; " it is not only because I want to see the

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THE NEW PRIEST.

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doctor, but I really think I'm fitter to watch at night than
you are."

" And you were up last night I — Oh ! no : I shall keep
you to the first arrangement. It isn't much for me to
lose a night's sleep ; but you're not used to it."

"You think you're getting used to it?" said Fanny.
" Do you know, my dear Mrs. Barre, how you've changed
within a few days ? You must try to rest ; certainly not
undertake new labor."

" I don't know," answered Mrs. Barre, " that I'm not
as well as usual ; " but there was an anxiousness in her
.eyes, and a careworn look about her face, as well as a
nervous agitation in her manner.

"You won't insist, now, upon watching with Lucy
Barbury ? "

" Yes ; I would really rather. It would be a relief, as
well as a satisfaction to me," said Mrs. Barre.

" Well ; then, I'll go back to my aunt's, and come down
after tea."

So saying. Miss Dare took her leave.

Late in the moonlight evening, she walked with her
friend (there is no danger here) towards Skipper George's.
There were no people in the road ; but as Miss Dare felt
a quiver in the hand that lay on her arm, she noticed, a
good way off, a man whose gait and figure were remark-
able, and, as they drew nearer, recognized him as the
Romish Priest. No greeting or sign of any sort passed
between them.

As the lady came, pale and thoughtful-looking, out of
the night into the house where Lucy Barbury lay sick,
the father, with his manly and dignified respect, welcomed
her from his heart. The mother, overwatched and over-
wearied, was persuaded to go to bed ; but Skipper George
kept his place, quietly.

SOME GOSSIP AND SOME REAL UFE. 107

There was scarce any sound, except from the sick
maiden, who very constantly spoke or strove to sing. '

As once a light was carried in and used about her, it
was a touching sight to see the girl who lately was so glad.

A wet cloth commonly lay on her forehead, shading
her eyes and hiding a good deal of her face. When it
was taken off, it could be seen what work the fever had
been doing. To be sure, her rich black hair poured out
from under her white cap like a stream, and the soft, long
fringes of the lids spread over her half-closed eyes like a
soft fern-spray over the little pool at the tree's foot ; and
the bending neck and sloping shoulders, over which her
white night-dress was drawn and held by a button, were
still beautiful ; but the eyes were deeply sunk, and the
face was thin, and the lips chapped and parched.

Her kerchief and other things, that had looked so
prettily upon her, lay with her prayer-book on a chair at
hand. •*>

During the night she dozed, sometimes, and generally
her voice was heard in the low raving of half-sleep. It
poured forth as steadily as water in a stream, and as
changing and as formless ; bright thoughts and strange
fancies, and sweet words ; being and hope, and beauty
and happiness, and home and sadness; prayer, song,
chant ; things far off and things near, things high and low.

So the slow hours of night passed ; and the pale, sad
lady, the body of whose child had been so lately laid
deep in the earth, ministered.

In the earliest morning, about four o'clock, a neighbor-
woman came, and the fisherman gently insisted on seeing
Mrs. Barre home.

She slept late into the day.

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THE NEW PRIEST.

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CHAPTER XIL

TWO MEET AGAIN.

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^KS. BARRE had rested, after her watch, and
early in the afternoon she walked out, down
the harbor ; this time alone. She passed Mar-
chants' Cove, and turn, and hill, and narrow way, to
Franks' Cove; and crossing the stile, and going along
the meadow-path, and through the gorge of the mountain
of rock, she stood in Mad Cove. The stony slope went
steeply hollowing down to the little shelf of land at the
water-side ; the ridge of rock went along to the left, and
ended in the tall clifis at the sea; near her was the
widow Freney's house ; a Uttle farther down, to the left,
the hovel of Tom Somerset ; and down at the bottom of
the slope were the eight or ten houses of the other people,
and the flakes of the whole colony.

What difference there is between yesterday and to-day !
The great earth has turned over its twenty-four thousand
miles of land and sea, cities and woods and deserts, be-
tween ; twilight, darkness, day, have come between ;
where a breath would have reached yesterday, there may
be, now, wide waves and storms between.

Mrs. Barre stood thinking or remembering at the verge
of the cove.

By and by she drew near to Mrs. Freney's house, and
knocked.

TWO MEET AGAIN.

109

The priests of the Roman Catholic denomination do
not visit generally among their people, unless to adminis-
ter sacraments ; but as the door opened, Father Debrce
was standing facing it, as pale and sad as the pale sad
lady who unexpectedly confronted him. She started at
the suddenness of the sight, closed her eyes for an instant,
but stood where she was.

There was a likeness of face and expression, beyond
that of the sadness and paleness, and of figure and bear-
ing, also. There was the same high forehead, and (except
that hers were darker) the same full, thoughtful, feeling
eyes.

" Must this be ? " said the Priest.

" It IS ; beyond all hope ! " she answered.

" How can you hope it ? "

" How can I any thing else ? " she said ; " I have but
one chief object in life."

"But what should bring us together, if there be no
longer a common faith ? "

" That there may be ! "

" I did not know that I must meet this, in coming
to this far-off place ! " the Priest said. " I cannot feel
the drawing of old ties ! — I cannot see you ! "

There was nothing like sternness or hardness in his
way of saying this, but of gentle, fixed resolve.

" I must ! I must, while I have life ! " she said, not
loudly but most earnestly.

Mrs. Freney stood, a silent and amazed listener ; and
the children looked up, wondering.

" I beg pardon, Mrs. Freney," said the lady ; " I came
to ask about your child."

Mrs. Freney was so bewildered, that she scarce knew
what to answer : —

110

THE NEW PRIEST.

n| " She'a doing well, thank'ce, Ma'am ; — I mean, he's
much the same."

Father Debree said, turning to her (not without agita-
tion) : —

" If you can send your eldest child with me, I will send
back by her two or three little things for her brother!"

Again Mrs. Barre spoke : —

" And I shall not follow you farther than just outside
the door ; but I must say something more, now God has
given me opportunity."

" Certainly," he answered ; I cannot be harsh or rude
to you. I will hear, this once, and bring all to an end.
Come, child ! go on I "

The girl opened the door and passed out; the lady
gravely bowed to Mrs. Freney and followed, and Father
Debree, leaving a blessing in the house, went last.

He bade the girl sit down upon a stone, and walking a
few paces onward, stopped to talk with Mrs. Barre.

" Why should we meet ? " he asked.

" Why should we meet I How can we help meeting,
if there be heaven and hell hereafter, and if our Life and
Death depend upon our duty done or undone ? I have
not changed ; what I was, I am."

" All human ties are loosed from me," he said. " To
do a priest's work is my only duty, and my only wish. I
cannot, even in memory, recall any other tie."

"What! is all common life and happiness and hope
and duty — ^is every thing that bound us together, perished
forever ? Can you strike it away, because you will not
have it? — ^It all lives, here," she continued, laying her
two hands on her bosom, " and will not die ! "

" But it is dead with me ! " he answered.

A pang, as from a

winged

arrow, seemed to shoot

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TWO MEET AGAIN.

Ill

through her; but when she fi|>oko, her voice was little
broken.

" It may bo so!" she said. "O WfiUer! I daim no
love. I do not ask for it. I only ask that there shall
not be a wall harder than iron between us ! I only ask
that I may have leave, from time to time — only from
time to time — to speak to you, or write to you, and that
you will hear and answer me 1 That is not much ! — not
much from you to me I If you are as you say, it cannot
hurt you !— Walter ! Walter ! "

Her eyes were only full of tears.

His face quivert d ; his frame was shaken.

" No, I cannot ! " he said ; " it must not be 1 It is im-
possible ! "

" But I beseech you, for God's sake ! " she said, clasp-
ing her two hands to him.

" No ! " he answered. " For God's sake, I must not ! "

Tears stood in his eyes ; how could he hinder them !

" Oh ! " she cried, closing her eyes, and casting down
her face.

" Even as a priest, you might grant me this ! '*

" As a priest, I cannot do it ! Oh ! do not think it
cruelty or hardness of heart ; my very heart is being
eaten out ; — but I cannot ! "

• She left him, instantly, and walked very hurriedly
away.

On, on, on she went ; up the harbor, as she had come ;
into her own pretty little yard, into her house, up to her
chamber.

Little Mary came running into her mother's room, but
stopped ; for her mother was kneeling at a chair, holding
a letter.
. The child went down upon her little knees at another

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THE NEW PBIEST.

chair, laying her cheek down upon her arm, with her face
toward her mother, and pretty soon beginning to play
gently with the coral beads about her neck.

As Mrs. Barre rose, she came across and set her lips
upon the forehead of her pretty little daughter, and
smoothed her hair.

" Now, darling," said she, " do you think you can do
an errand for me exactly as I tell you ? " As she spoke
she folded the letter in white paper.

" Oh yes, mamma ! " said Mary, eagerly, " I'm sure I
can."

" There's a gentleman coming along, and you're to run
after him and give him this, and tell him it belongs to
him ; and then you're to run back as fast as you can ;
and don't stop for any thing. Can you ? "

The little ambassadress was sure that she could do just
as she was bid, and Mrs. Barre reiterated her instruc-
tions : —

"Mind; you're not to stop for any thing. If he
speaks to you, or calls you, you're to run back to me as
fast as you can."

The child assented, and repeated her mother's words.

" It's a costly thing ! " said Mrs. Barre, looking forth,
as if from the quay her eyes were following towards the
far off, fateful ocean, the full-sailed ship that bore her all
in one venture.

" Now, dear ! Quick ! There he's going — don't for-
get ! " she exclaimed, breathless. " Run ! and come
straight back ! " The priest whom she had met iii Mad
Cove was just passing.

Little Mary ran down stairs, and then out upon the
road, with her golden curls shaking and shining in the
sunlight. The gentleman turned and took the parcel

TWO MEET AGAIN.

113

from lier hand ; then, having opened it, looked after her,
as if he would call ; but presently he turned again and
walked on.

Little Mary only varied a little from her orders. Hav-
ing run away from him as fast as she could run, she
stopped, as a bird might stop, and looked back ; but he
did not turn again, so she came in.

This time, too, as before, her mother was upon her
knees, and the child stood looking out of the window.
As her mother rose, she said : —

" That's the same one I saw the other day, mamma ! "
Her mother was thinking her own thoughts.

Mary had a child's way.

" Why do you cry so much, when my papa's gone up
in sky, and brother Willie ? " she asked.

Mrs. Barre wept silently. The Uttle prattler went on
prattling.

" If I could go up there, I'd ask Heavenly Father
where ray papa was. He'd know, wouldn't He, mamma ?
Heavenly Father would know, because He knows every
thing. He'd show me my papa ; and I'd go up to him
and say, ' I'm your little girl Mary, that you left at
mamma's house when you came up here,' and then he'd
know me."

The little thing was not satisfied with the silent acqui-
escence that she got.

" Mamma ! Mamma ! " she exclaimed, " I saw little
brother Willie ! "

"When, dearie?" asked her mother, now heeding
her.

" Just now, — a little while ago, — and he leaded me by
my hand near to where Heavenly Father was sitting

Then Heavenly Father got up and

on liis great chair.

VOL. I.

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THE NEW PRIEST.

Opened his closet and took down one of our little boy*^
playthings, and gave it to our little Willie ; — (He didn't
give any to me ;) but He looked at Willie's little sister
as if He was glad to see me. Little Willie knew who I
was, mamma, because he saw my paper."

" What paper, darling ? " asked her mother, entirely
occ> pied with the child's story.

" My paper — don't you know ? That you writed
* Mary Barre ' on, for your little girl. I throwed it away
up in sky, and M'ind blew it away up, so Willie could see
it ; and Willie knew what little girl it was."

" Come with me, you dear little dreamer ! " said Miss
Dare, who suddenly appeared at the door ; and, snatching
up Mary, she carried her off.

She set the child under the bowery branches of a
seringa, and stood among the shrubs and floating sprays
of creepers, which she had a year before gathered about
the house, a fairer thing than the sunshine that was play-
ing among them ; and she sang for the child's pleasure a
song broken into pauses now and then, much as the sun-
shine was, here and there, broken into shade. Perhaps
our readers have seen or will see how the song may have
been suggested.

" Woe for the brave ship Orient!
Woe for the old ship Orient!
For in broad, broad light,
With the land in sight, —
Where the waters bubbled white, —
One great, sharp shriek. ! — One shudder of affright !
And—

down went the brave old ship, the Orient ! "

Her voice was a fine, full alto, never needing any
effort, but now apparently kept low, for Mary's ear. The
air which she very likely adapted to the words, was

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TWO MEET AGAIN.

115

much the same in general as that of the * Bonny house o*
Airlie ; ' and her voice flew upward and flitted from part
to part among the words, as a bird fi-om bough to bough ;
but the song all lived in the singing.

The shriek seemed to split the air, and the shudder to
be shaking strong hearts, and a wail to wander sadly
over the sea, where the good ship had foundered. She
paused here for a while, and then began again in a sweet,
tripping measure : —

" It was the fairest day in the merry month of May,
And sleepiness had settled on the seas ;
And we had onr white sail set, — high up and higher yet, —
And our flag flashed and fluttered, at its ease ;
The Cross of St. George, that in mountain and in gorge, —
On the hot and dusty plain, — on the tiresome, tmckless, main-
Conquering out, — conquering home again, —
Had flamed, the world over, on the breeze."

However it was that she fitted the music to the words,
it seemed much as if every line took its own form in
leaving the singer's lips, in the fittest melody.

•' Ours was the far-famed Albion,
And she had her best look of might and beauty on,
As she swept across the seas that day.
The wind was fair and soft, both alow and aloft,
And we wore the idle hours away."

A straying lock of her own hair was tossed by the
playful wind between her lips, and she stood silent again ;
— the little girl clambered to the top of the fence and
seated herself there.

" Please sing, cousin Fanny ! " she said, when she was
seated. Miss Dare sang again : —

" The steadying sun heaved up, as day drew on,
And there grew along swell of the sea;

(which seemed to grow tn her singing^ too,)

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THE NEW PRIEST.

And, first in upper air, then under, everywhere.

From the topmost, towering sail, down, down to quarter-rail,

The wind began to breathe more free.
' Ho ! Hilloa ! A sail ! ' was the topman's hail —
* A sail, hull down, upon our lee I '

Then, with sea-glass to his eye,

And his gray locks blowing by.

The Admiral guessed what she might be ;

And from top and from deck, Was it ship ? Was it wreck ?

A far off, far off speck,

Of a sudden we found upon our lee."

" Here comes Mr. Naughton ! " said the child from her
perch, like the topman from his lookout ; " and somebody's
with him, — it's James Urston ! "

Miss Dare hastened to take the little one down ; and
as she was retreating into the house, the voice of the mer-
chant-churchwarden-and-magistrate was heard, urging
upon the young lover, who had abandoned his preparation
for the Romish priesthood, the excellence of, a life of celi-
bacy; and regretting that Mr. Wellon (though he was
unmarried, certainly) was not under the obligations of a
vow.

Miss Dare's song was broken off.

A SAD YOUNG HEART.

117

CHAPTER XIII.

A SAD YOUNG HEART.

)HAT quiet day was passing down to quiet night ;
the sun was near his setting, as young Urston
came alone along the road and took one of the
paths that led up over the hill to the Backside.

He started at his name, called in a cracked voice, like
that of a parrot, at his very shoulder ; and, turning his
head, saw that he was passing unaware a group of two
old women, who were standing against a fence, probably
chaffing about the gossip of the harbor, or croning over
memories of the time when they (old withered bodies !)
were the young. There are more of these old people
here than anywhere, almost, so many overlive the three-
score years and ten. One of these elders was the Granny
Pilchard, a woman whose quickness and activity were
not exhausted yet, by a long use of eighty-one years of
changing seasons, and as changeful scenes of life. The
other gossip was "Old" Granny Frank, as she was
called, though younger than her comrade by full seven
years. The title " Granny," common to them both, is as
well a medical and professional distinction, in Newfound-
land, as one implying age. Granny Pilchard held at
this moment a pitcher in her hand, which the young man
knew out of a hundred, — a little white one, with just a

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THE NEW PRIEST.

slender line of blue along the brim. At least he might
have known it, and what fair hand had often borne it.

" Good morning, Granny, and you. Granny Frank,"
he said, rather impatiently, as if he did not wish to stop.
"When we have met with such a thing as had lately hap-
pened to young Urston, and wish to be alone, we have at
the same time (at all events the young have, if not all
of us) an apprehension that it is all written in English
on our faces, or has been overheard, or carried by the
wind or winged birds ; perhaps James Urston thought
so.

" Thou'rt goun up over. Mister Jemmie Urston, I
think," continued Granny Palasher, (this was her vernac-
ular name,) in pursuance of her object in addressing him,
" and 'ee'll most likely want to stop and hear for 'eeself ;
and so Missis Frank says I'm wantun up at Riverhead,
she thinks, and 'ee'll plase take this pitcher up to she. It's
a marsel o' water out o' Har-pool she wanted," (it will be
remembered, as James, no doubt, remembered, how he
drank out of that spring that morning,) " and I've abin
and got un. 'Ee see he's so fresh and clear as the blue
sky, in a manner, I wouldn' lave her, only the mother
'Ji be up, in short. I s'pose 'ee baint afeared to see her
lovie ? an' nobody wi' her but the tother little one ? Lads
didn't oose to be fear'd o' maaids, when 1 was one."

Old Granny Frank, at this allusion to young days and
their doings, gurgled in her throat with a cracked laugh,
and, when she could recover the poor little wheezy re-
mainder of her voice from its employment in laughing,
uttered a few shrill and grating, though not loud, words
with it, in confirmation of the last remark of her com-
panion. These came, one after another, as if they were
stamped and thrown out.

A SAD YOUNG HEART.

119

" They'd— oose — to be — tar-ri-ble — ^boy-ish — when — I
<— know'd — *em."

One of the laughy gurgles came after the words, like
one that had been separated from its companions.

The more vigorous Granny Palasher proceeded.

" Now, will *ee be so well plased as "

" I'm in a great hurry, Granny," interrupted the young
man, not changing color, or seeming disconcerted, but
with a look of grave determination, " and I can't very
well call there this evening."

" Oh ! 'Ee haven' agot time ; have 'ee ? " said the
old woman ; then explained to Granny Frank : " That's
that pretty Lucy Barbury, Granny ! " Upon which the
latter urged another laugh up her dry throat, and a few
more words.

« 'Mm ! So— I've— ahard ! "

" I do'no what soart thes'am' young folks are, now-a-
days," said Granny Palasher. " Go thy w'ys, then,
Mister James Urston. I feeled for 'ee, but mubbe I'll
get another young man I knows of, in a minit."

The young man did not stay for parley.

" You may get whom you like. Granny Palasher,"
said he. " I thank you for your goodwill ; but I'm in a
hurry just now. Good-day ! " And, leaving the pitcher
in the bearer's hand, he mounted the hill as fast as before.

The granny made this comment on his speech : —

" This'am' young chap thinks a body that's abin through
wi' everything, don' know the manin' o' things ! "

The thin, cracked voice of old Granny Frank went up
after him as he mounted, jerking its words : —

« Isn'— 'e— a— Ro-man ? "

He was not yet beyond hearing, when Granny Palasher
answered : —

t '

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THE NEW PRIEST.

) .

" 'l8 ; but there's no danger o' she."

He hurried on, and left the old gossips to themselves.
Up the path he hastened toward the ridge bounding the
meadow, at the farther si'le of which stood Skipper
George's house.

Mounting, as the sun mounts up, seems fit work for the
morning. There is a spring in the strong, young body,
that almost throws it up into the air; and airy wings
seem to lift one at either side. But it was evening, and
this young Urston had been, and was now going, through
a terrible trial, and there was a heaviness about his mo-
tions, and a sad paleness about his face, that did not
belong to him.

As he got up to the edge of the little meadow, and it
lay before him, with its several less-distinguished tracks,
— looking not so much like different ways, as the same
one unstranded, — and the house, backing against the little
cliff, he paused ; and it is no wonder. They say that on
some table-land, among the mountains of Quito, lies a
gorgeous city, in which the old Indian race still holds its
own. The roofs and battlements glitter with gold j for
the people have kept, from father to son, the secret of
richer mines than any that the whites have found in Cali-
fornia. Now, fifty yards across the meadow, at the edge
of which James Urston stood, glittered with many sheets
of glowing gold, the house in which Skipper George's
daughter was lying sick. It was a plain, unpainted
house, and, at any time when the gold, which the morning
or evening sun laid on it, had been taken off, was but the
dwelling of an honest, poor man. Yet he looked long ;
and it seemed as if he dared not set foot upon that mea-
dow, any more than if it and the house were an enchanted
scene. There was not a hundred yards of space between

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A SAD YOUNG HEART.

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121

him and the house ; but what a world of separation lay
between him and Skipper George's daughter I The very
golden glare of the sunlight from it in his face — now
fading — increased the separation. The reflected glow
faded from his person, and he hastily crossed the ridge,
and passed on.

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T^E NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER XIV.

A GREAT LOSS.

^) N the night of the day of which we have been
writing, (that fifteenth day of August,) Mr. Wellon,
who had come across, in his way home, from Por-
tugal Cove to Sandy Harbor, in a boat belonging to the
latter place, was sitting late in conversation with Mr.
Kewers, the clergyman of Sandy Harbor, when suddenly
the * Society * * schoolmaster, a man of an inquiring and
excitable turn of mind, came knocking at the door, and
announced, eagerly, that some strange work seemed to be
going on in Peterport. He said the lights were mn ,ing
about, and there was an unusual noise ; something must
be the matter there.

At this intelligence the two clergymen hastily started
forth, in company with the schoolmaster, for Blazing
Head, — the lower and back part of Sandy Harbor, — from
which a view of Peterport (when it was to be seen) could
be had. They reached, after a few minutes' walk, a high
point, and saw the lights, like running sparks in chimney
soot, and heard plainly, over the water, in lulls of the wind,
the sound of human voices. At this hour of night, and
with the wind bringing in the great murmur of the sea,

* Of the Newfoundland School Society.

A GREAT LOSS.

123

lust

ked

luld

id,
Lnd
lea,

the far-off sound of human voices was more than com-
monly impressive.

The schoohnastcr, who had been in the island for a
good many years, said that the scene " reminded him of
the * Ralls ' * they had years ago." " There may be a
child lost," the Minister said, but none of the three pre-
tended to exi)lain or understand the singular circumstance.
Mr. Wellon determined to go home as fast as possible.

The distance by the road through Wantful, (a little
hamlet adjoining Sandy Harbor, on the same tongue of
land,) and round the Riverhead of Peterport, is about six
miles or seven, and the way is a picturesque and quaint
one ; down steep descents, along a narrow beach ; round
sharp turns, under wide flakes, blocked up by a storehouse
standing square across it ; passing by the little, humble,
holy-looking church of Wantful, on the hill. In the day-
time, and for one who has an eye for scenery of that kind,
and is not hurried, a ride or walk over that road might
not be tiresome ; but in a case like this — at such an hour,
and with the rain bejrinning to fall from clouds which had
been gathering for hours, and with the prospect of a wet,
dark night and morning, the thought of walking round, for
Mr. Kewers kept no horse, (and it was too late to borrow
one,) was not inviting.

Across from Back Cove, where two coopers, John Bis-
sell and his son, are in the habit of ferrying chance pas-
sengers, the distance is but a mile or so, and the school-
master — whose curiosity was rather eager, undertook to
make arrangements, for he himself meant to go, (if Mr.
"Wellon had no objection,) in case he could be of service.

Nearly another hour passed, and then he came again

* The " Ralls " (rallies) were riotous gatherings, during the distress
occasioned by the American and French Wars.

Its

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124

THE NEW PRIEST.

with the intelligence that he had made arrangements with
Mr. Bissell and liis son, promising them a double fee —
four shillings each ; (an amount which Mr. Wellon imme-
diately claimed to pay, with all charges.) This news was
a great relief, after the long, tiresome hours of waiting ;
a lantern was borrowed of Mr. Kewers, and in a quarter
of an hour Mr. Wellon and his companion were in Back
Cove ; and very soon, under the steady rain, were cross-
ing the water, in charge of Bissell and his son. It was
so dark that a great, round, peely hill of rock which forms
one side of Back Cove — close to which they were — could
not be seen. They set their lantern in the bow of the
punt, and with a strong, and steady, slow stroke, the boat-
men cautiously felt their way along. The Minister steered,
the schoolmaster, by way of making himself useful, as he
had proposed, armed himself with a spare oar, and under-
took to row, a way of being useful, which, after several
times " catching crabs," as sailors call it, and once nearly
demolishing the lantern in falling over backwards, he ex-
changed for that of holding the light and looking out.

The rain poured straight down, drenchingly ; and
(though a good, thick overcoat is almost water-proof,) its
steady falling brought the whole company to silence, as it
had already deadened the wind, and smoothed the waves
down to the ground-swell. In about three quarters of an
hour they made the shore of Peterport, below their point
of destination, and worked up to it.

Marchants' Cove was all still and dark, except a light
in Mr. O'Rourke's house ; the lights and sounds were
further down the harbor. The Minister left his compan-
ions here, (the schoolmaster keeping the boatmen's com-
pany, to be sure of his passage back,) and alone went
down the road, and took the first considerable path over

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A GREAT LOSS.

125

to the Backside, the place to which they had some hours
before been straining their eyes so eagerly, from Blazing-
Head.

On the road he met no one as he had met no one in
Marcliants' Cov • ; but as he drew near the meadow in
which Skipper George's house stood, ho heard women's
voices, and by-and-by came upon a company, whom by
the ear, not by the eye, he could distinguish as Old Granny
Jiank and others of the neighbors. They recognized
him, and announced among themselves, as he drew near,
« the Pareson I "

People in this country take no heed of weather, (when
they have good reason to be out,) except to dress accord-
ingly.

" Well, Mrs. Frank ! " cried he, addressing the eldest,
(as Qidipus addressed the old man of the chorus,) but
turning for answer to the others, " what has happened ? "

The old woman was doubtless making up her mouth
to speak, but, happily, her grandson's wife spoke for
her.

" Haven'ee hard about Skipper George's darter, sir, —
that's Lucy Barbury, — how she's been atookt out of her
father's house, ever sunce last evenun, and never a word
corned about her, sunce, whatever ? "

" Taken away ! " exclaimed the Minister, turning from
one to another in amazement, " How do you mean ? "

" 'Is — sir, — an' — her — bed — wi' — her ; " gurgled the
Granny, gaining her speech.

" They'm bin sarchun all over, sir," added Patience
Frank, " an* Skipper George 's inside now, w'itun for
'ee."

" Let me see ! " said the Minister, staying for no further
talk, but hurrying towards the house.

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126

THE NEW PRIEST.

The old and young women, and others, loitered for a
little gossip, and to hear the end.

" Did 'ee see the Pareson, Grannie, when I told un ?
Did'ee see un shake his head ? "

"To — be — sure — 'e — would," answered Old Granny
Frank oracularly.

" 'E did then ; shookt it just this w'y," continued
Patience. " What do 'ee think. Granny ? "

" It — '11 — ^be — sid," answered the granny, in her jerky

way.

«»

E — doned — I — two — shillun — worth — o' — good

— wi' — a — pr'y'r — e* — made — t*oth-er — d'y."

" Did um, then ? I shouldn' wonder ! "

" WuU ! — some — says — an-gels — an' — some — says —
faa-ir-ies ; — ^but — I — knows — what — I — thinks, — " said
the possessor of threescore years of observation and ex-
perience.

"All so, Granny!" assented Patience, who, if she
should I/ve so long, was in a fair way to be as wise, "I
thinks gezac'ly the same."

" Ay, — child, — it — '11 — be — sid — a-fore — ma-ny —
d'ys — be — up ; " and the old body hurried away, while
she had her mystery entire.

As the two speakers separated, the little gathering drew
nearer to the cottage-door, with new food for speculation
in the granny's utterance, which had, somehow, invested
the subject in a more ominous perplexity than before.

The clergyman passed straight to the chimney, where
the afflicted father sat, among many others, indeed, but
the one of them all. There he was ; not even smoking
the accustomed pipe, but with his hands upon his knees
and his chin buried in his breast, looking upon the kitchen
fire. He did not sit despondently and slouchingly, but
upright like a man ; and like a man who, having done

nywft*

A GREAT LOSS.

127

wliatever could be done as yet, was waiting to set forth
again and do whatever might be left for man to do. A
crowd of neighbors made their way in after Mr. Wellon.
All rose, except the father, at the sudden entrance of the
Minister; the father did not notice it.

At the sound, however, he immediately turned round ;
and a more honest, manly, kind, true face than his, has
seldom met the open air, and the broad sunlight, or fronted
tearing wind, or drenching rain, or driving snow ; had
seldom met warm welcome from the wife, as it was seen
through the half-opened door, or beamed complacently
upon the frohc of the children at the hearth ; — but it was
clouded now. He took off his weather-worn straw hat, iu
rising to receive the Pastor.

" Sarvant, sir ; you're very welcome home again," said
he.

" Why, Skipper George ! " said the Minister, " what is
it my good friend ? Do tell me ! " Then pressing him
silently to a seat, the Minister sat down to listen.

" Ah, sir,'' the father said, " I've a-sid heavy misfort'n
sunce the last sun as ever rose. It's my Lucy, sir ; you
know'd her sir," — his voice breaking, — " so well as I
a'most, and oh ! how she did love the Minister to be sure !
well, sir, she was sick from short after you laved the
harbor tull this evenun : that's 'isterday evenun, I should
say." — He sighed as he thus reminded himself of the
time already gone, by which the separation had been so
much widened. — " She was goun through the worse of it,
and we thowt, naterally, that as she didn' get no worse
she would get better, if it was His will, and so the doctor
said, (tliat's Dr. Aylwin, sir, of Brigus.) So when I turns
out in the marnin 'isterday, — which I doned nearly about
wi' the first sun, — after I'd said my bit of a pr'yer, I says

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128

THE NEW PRIEST.

to myself, as a body will, you know, sir, I says, now I
think I'll jes go down to B'y Harbor, mubbe, after I got
through fishing, and get a marsel o' figs,* or sech-like, for
my poor, dear maid ; hopin, mayhap, the faver m'y take
a turn, and then they'd help her to goody a bit ; and any-
how I had a two and sixpence that I'd a-kep this many's
the d'y against I may want it, and a body likes to do
summat cheery for a sick darter when he can ; so I goes
and I looks upon her, and, to my seemin', she looked jest
as ef it wus an angel a layin' there, that had put on my
gal's look, and her face, and her hair. She looked so
bright somehow, — so oncommon bright, I was a'most
afeared to kiss her ; but I did, sir, thank God ; I did, sir,
and it seemed in a manner, to bring my darter back ; for
she says, very low like, * Father ! ' she says, ' What lovey ? *
says I ; ' Dear father ! ' says she, and nothin' more ; and
I couldn' help it, but I cried much as I'm doin' now, sir ;
but I do'no why I'm so long a tellin' it, on'y I'm afeared
to get upon the rest of it. However, I went out and
comed home wi' my few fish, and hurried and got off and
went over to Backside, and got myself put over to Bread
an' Cheese Cove, and so travelled afoot the rest part o*
the w'y, and got. the trifle o' things, and came round by
Castle B'y river-head. I s'pose I might be gone a matter
of six hours, most likely ; when I got to the top 'o the
hill by the church and sid the house, I s'pose I might 'a
felt it was empty; but I didn't, sir. It seemed, in a
manner, as ef strength blowed out of it, somehow, to me,
I growed so much livelier ; and I stowed aw'y my little
parcels in my pockets, thinkin', perhaps, she'd feel in 'em,
pl'ying like, as she'd oose to do, when she feeled herself
better. So I walks up to the door, and lo and behold it
* In common parlance this word means raisins.

WmiiB ! ww»winiii)n i n il ll

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A GREAT LOSS.

129

was open ; but I thought nothln' strange and I went in,
and right into the phice where I'd aletl her, sir, and she
wasn't there. ' Mother ! ' — says I ; but my missis wasn't
there : * Granny ! ' says I, but she wasn't there ; then my
t'other httle gal that was sittin* down by the door, tryin'
to tie her shoe, and cryun', said, ' Daddy, she's gone aw'y,
Daddy,' she said, * Daddy, she's gone aw'y. Daddy ; ' and
my heart went once jest as a fish would go, and I never
asked her who she maned, but I sid there was somethun
tarrible strange ; and so I sat down on the binch and gave
one great sigh like, that seemed to ase me ; and then I
got up and tookt my poor little papers and put them on
the bed, and follyed right out to see ef I could find what
had becomed of her. So we sarched all evenun, and we've
asarched all night; and so — I'm sittun here, as I be
now, sir, — 'Twas a bad night for she i — Ah, well ! God
knows."

As he said this the bereaved man sat and wept, openly
and steadily, in silence. Not a motion was made nor
a word said until he wiped his eyes with the back of his
hand, and turned his honest, manly face again, and said : —

" I found my mistress ; an' I found Granny Palasher ;
an' I sid Miss Dare that was just comun up ; I could find
every body ; but we never, found my dear young maid !
It isn' like we woul', sir. Gx)d's will be done, however.
'E'll do what 'E sis best."

The simple story ended, he turned quietly away from
his hearer, as if there were nothing more for him to say,
and he would listen now.

The Minister came up and took his hand in both his,
and said " Amen ! " There was a general motion among
the company, and many repeated the word. The Minis-
ter's voice trembled as he said —

VOL. I. 9

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130

THE NEW PRIEST.

" God bless you ! Skipper George ; we must find her,
or find " * He paused.

The fisherman made that most expressive gesture of
head and hand which is read in all languages, and touches
any class of men, meaning —

" Ah ! you needn't say it, sir ! I know."

" Let's see where we are," said the Minister, and he
turned toward the company, among whom was the con-
stable. " Mr. Gilpin, you know all about it ? " he asked
of this worthy man, who was, also, one of the two smiths
of the place. Charles Gilpin—" Mr. Galpin," " Mr. Gul-
pin," " Skipper Charlie," as he was variously called, was
an Englishman, middle sized, with a face dark by nature,
and always wearing a shade of grime from his ," forge,"
and slightly pitted by the varioloid. His right eye was
wanting, having been destroyed by an accident in firing a
salute on the king's birthday, in one of his own younger
hours. The remaining orb in that firmament seemed as
much brighter as if the other had been absorbed into it,
and had joined its fires. He was an intelligent, pleasant
looking fellow, with that quick motion of the muscles
about the eye that marks the possession of humor.

" I've done my best at it, sir," answered the constable,
with modest brevity.

" Who saw Lucy last ? "

" I can tell 'ee, sir, ef 'cell plase to let me," said the
brave old fisherman. " I've got it all by heart, in a
manner. 'Twas Granny Palasher happened to be bidin
wi' her, (for we didn' oose to have reg'lar watchers d'y-
times, sir, only we never laved her long,) an' so Lucy
waked up and called for a drink, granny says ; an' she
didn' want tay, an' she did'n want spruce,* an' she wanted

* Spruce beer ; a common beverage.

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A GREAT LOSS.

131

a drink from the Ilarpool — that's it in the hollow under
the bank, t'other side o' the church, you know, sir; an' so
the granny went aw'y to fetch it, never thinkun o' naw-
thun, of course, an' nobody's sid a sign of her sunce, only
poor little Janie said she goed round the comer." ,

" How long was the granny gone ? "

" I can' be exac'ly accountable, sir, how long she was
aw'y ; she ra'y ha' stopped to pass a word wi' a nighbor,
sartainly, but 'twouldn' be long, it isn' likely."

" Who lives nearest on the Backside ? The Urstons, I
think."

" Is, sir ; Mr. Urston that married my missis's niece."

" The father of the young man that was going to be a
Romish priest ? " asked the Minister.

" 'Is, sir ; but 'e've knocked off beun' a good while sunce,
and 'e's a good lad," said the father, shutting off all sus-
picion in that quarter.

" How do things stand between your family and their's,
now?" asked the Minister.

" Mr. Urston's wife was my missis's sister, 'ee know,
sir, — that is, half-sister, — and then my missis is a good
bit younger, and was abrought up in England, mostly,
tull she was a woman. 'Twas Mr. Urston an' his son put
me over from Backside to Bread-and-Cheese Cove. I
maned to ax Tummas Turtas, — lives a bit beyond they, —
T\hen they were goun down to waterside, and offers me a
passage, an' I could n' deny 'em. Ah ! " he said, coming
back to his great grief, " she's alossed now, that I would n'
loss for all the fish in the sea, and swiles on the ice, and
fruits o' the land ! Thank 'ee, kindly, sir ; I ax pardon
for bein' so troublesome. 'Ee'll plase to excuse me,
nighbors." So saying, Skipper George prepared to go
forth again.

132

THE NEW PRIEST.

I' ''I

" It isn' d'ylight, yet ; is it ? " he asked, putting great
restraint upon himself.

" Light's beginnun to come up over, Uncle George,"
said Prudence Barbury.

Here the memory of the pleasant times and pleasant
words that were gone, or the thought of saduess present
or to come, again overcame him, as also his words and his
condition were more than some of his sturdy neighbors
could bear.

" She was too good for this world," said one ; " an'
that's where she's gone, most like."

" No, Nahthan, it won't do for 'ee to say that," said the
father ; and then explained. " They manes that God
have tookt her, sir, (blessed be 'E's name !) as 'E tookt
Enoch, in a manner, because o' what Jesse sid ; (that's
my nevy, Jesse of Abram, — lives under the brow o' the
hill, — Jesse Hill, we calls un ;) I didn' tell 'ee, sir. 'E
was over on the water against Backside, wi' another,
jiggin' for squids,* an' *e sid somethin' like a maid or a
'oman, all dressed in white, like an angel, goun over
Backside-w'y ; and, all of a suddent, she was gone right
aw'y like. 'E couldn' tell ef the groun' was stove, or
parted under her, or how, 'e said ; but it seemed to be
gone right aw'y, an' they never sid her come, no more ;
and so 'e corned right aw'y home, and told the people 'e
thoft 'e'd asid a spirit ; but sure, there's nawthin' in that,
sir; is thcie? On'y, mubbe, it might be a kind of a
visage,t like, that my poor child would never come
back."

" There may be a good deal in it," answered the Min-
ister.

* Catching a fish that serves for bait,
t Vision.

! ,1

A GREAT LOSS.

133

The eyes of all were intently fixed on him, and the
father, even, lifted his from the fire.

" I don't think it was any spirit," continued their Pastor.
" What clothes had Lucy on, most likely ? "

" Oh ! nawthin', sir, but just as she was in bed. It 'ud
make a strange body cry, a'most, to see 'er poor frock
hangin' up there, and 'er two shoes standin' by the side o*
the bed, an' she aw'y, an' never coraun back, most
likely. Many's the time I've alooked at they, sunce, an*
cried ; it looks so heartless, like."

The people about Skipper George were no " strange
bodies ; " and some of them could not help doing as he had
done, and as he did.

" Now, sir," said he, rising to depart, and holding his
weather-worn straw hat in his two honest hands, " I think
'ee knows all."

" I wouldn't have you go out again, just yet," said the
Minister. " I'll take my turn, now, and any fresh hands
that I can find."

" Here's one, then, sir," exclaimed the constable, start-
ing to his feet.

" Haven't you been out all night ? " asked the Min-
ister.

" Yes, sir, but not all day yet ; we've got the day be-
fore us. I can sleep when we've got done."

" Then I'll be back, God willing, in little more than
half an hour ; and, if you please, we'll go as far as we've
any thing to guide us. I want to go over the ground, at
least, if nothing corner of it."

"I'm sure 'ee woul', sir," said the father, in a very
kindly way. " It's no use ; I can't lay out plans now.
I've got my handes, and something to make 'em work ; "
(one might almost see a great, grieving heart heave, as

.Mil

*1 i

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I III

134

THE NEW PRIEST.

he said this.) " I'll bide 'E's will ; an' ef I never sis her
walking on this land, I may in a better, ef it's 'E's will."

As he spoke of not again seeing her, in the body, he
brought up, with the palm outward, his honest, hard hand
whose fingers were bent with long years' toil, and thrust
away some too attractive vision, and, as he said the last
words, brought it down again to its former occupation of
holding the lim of his hat.

He stood still with his grief; and, as Mr. Wellon
pressed his honest, hard hand, he lifted to his Pastor one
of those childlike looks that only come out on the face of
the true man, that has grown, as oaks grow, ring around
ring, adding each after-age to the childhood that has
never been lost, but has been kept innermost. This fish-
erman seemed like one of those that plied their trade,
and were the Lord's disciples, at the Sea of Galilee,
eighteen hundred years ago. The very flesh and blood
inclosing such a nature keep a long youth through life.
Witness the genius, (who is only the more thorough man,)
poet, painter, sculptor, finder-out, or whatever ; how fresh
and fair such an one looks out from under his old age.
Let him be Christian, too, and he shall look as if — shed-
ding this outward — the inward being would walk forth a
glorified one.

" Sit here, among your neighbors. Skipper George,"
the Minister said ; " I mean to be back shortly. — Another
great grief and mystery in our little harbor ! " he added,
as he turned away.

With these words, he left his sorrowing parishioner's
house, and went forth.

A NEW MAN.

135

CHAPTER XV.

A NEW MAN.

S Mr. Wellon left the room, the attention of t. .
company was drawn to a new voice, that seemed
almost to have been started mechanically by the
general rising, so suddenly, and without warning, it began,

" Why, she's cleared out 'n one 'f her hot sp(»lls, an*
when she'd got light-headed ; 's no kind o' doubt o' that
'n my mind," said the strange voice.

The speaker was an under-sized man, of tliirty-cight
or forty years, with well-looking features, and bright, in-
telligent eyes. His scanty hair went curling downwards
from a bald spot on the top of his head, for which, also, a
part of the neighboring locks were compelled to furnish a
thin covering. The baldness had been worn rather by
the weight of the months' feet that had gone over it, than
by their, number, or had been dried by inward heat of
busy thought; his dress was such as would become a
higher sort of mechanic, or a trader on a modest scale.

The sentence seemed to be delivered forthright into the
middle of a world all full of opinions, and questions, and
determinations, to find itself a place. He looked before
him, but with eyes that seemed to look at the same time
to either side, and his tone had a character of continu-
ance, as if — having begun — it rested with circumstances
when his ending would be.

' I ^

'' ]■

136

THE NEW PRIEST.

The company having compo.' id itself, after the Minis-
ter's departure, the new spealcer was seated, tiUing back
in his chair, with his right ancle resting on his left knee,
and his hat in his lap.

" Wall then," he continued, " question is, which way d'd
she go ? 'F course every body's got to judge f 'r 'imself
'n that point, but I guess w' might come p'ty nigh it, 'f w*
were jest t' talk it over a little."

While saying this the speaker took an opportunity to
glance at each of the remaining speakers of the former
dialogue, and at the rest of the company generally, and
meeting with no let or hindrance, seemed to think that he
had found a place for his opinion, and went on more con-
fidently than before. He did not look at Skipper George,
at whom he chiefly talked, but looked to the left hand of
him.

The father regarded him with grave earnestness. The
constable, after flashing his eye at Skipper George,
watched, curiously, the new interlocutor ; and the other
neighbor's listened with different degrees of eagerness.

"'SI understand f'm what's ben said t'-night, 'n 'f'm
what I've heard before I come — ('m pooty much t' home
*n Peterport, ben here twelve hours o' daylight, an' 'taint
a large place) — 't's pooty gen'lly und'stood, I .guess, 't
this young lady, 'r gal — whatevei ye may call her — 'Ster
Barbury's daughter, here," (turning to the fisherman, who
said, " Is, sir, thank'ee, my darter, an' \ore than darter
for the like of I ; ") *s be'n sick 'f a sort 'f a — typhoid
they call 'em 'th us, — same 't they've had down 'n Mar-
chants' Cove, there, 's ye call if Wall ! I never saw s'
many folks out o' their head 'th that fever 's they is here,
not reg'lar hoppin mad, but out o' kilter 'n the upper
regions, 's th' sayin' is. Wall, now, 'n the hot fit come

A NEW MAN.

137

on, 't 'd make her stronger, nn* when her mind 's out o*
the way, ye see, 'twould, likely, make her want t' try an*
do somethin'."

The interest with which his hearers had been listening
was evidently not flagging.

" It's Mister Bunks, the American marchant," said Pa-
tience Frank, (for she was there,) to a neighbor-woman.

" Wall, then, question comes : what would she do ?
Why, 'cordin' to. She wanted a drink o' water, f ' one thing ;
wall, s'pose she 'as very dry, sh' might go off to git some,
likely. 'F all she wanted was water t' cool her, sh' might
take 't into her head to git into the water ; but, then, bein*
crazy don't make a fool 'f a gal, 'f sh' wa'n't one b'fore ;
and they wa'n't any thin' lik' that 'bout this young lady.
Then, don't ye see, the' was lots o' folks, by all 'counts, on
the flakes, (ye call 'em,) an' round, an' one of 'em 's her
mother ; so she didn't go down that way, whether or no.
Wall, then, again, 'tain't likely she was all thust ; she had
some notions b'sides that : (we ain't all flesh and blood, I
guess.) Le's see."

It was strange to see the unflagging attention of the au-
dience to this lengthened argument, given, as it was, with
no attractions of oratory, or enforcement of gesture, except
an invariable sticking of the thumb and forefinger of the
right hand into the palm of the left, (much as we have
known a good old Greek professor to practise with his
pencil and a hole in his inkstand.) There was a persist-
ency and puf . in the arguer's voice, and an adhesiveness
in his exprcf^sions, that carried his reasonings in, and
made them stick. So there was a general assenting in
words, besides silent affirmations and negations of the
head, as he affirmed and denied.

"That's a clear case!" "Surely!" « All so, sir !" and

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138

THE NEW PRIEST.

the like, refreshed the speaker much as the parenthetic
*' hear " and cheers of the House of Commons, or iis the
plaudits of the Athenians gratitied Demosthenes.

The constable, as if his cue were only to keep official
eye and car upon the speaker, let him go on, without
meddling with him, and kept silence. The father heard
Mr. Bangs with steady attention.

"Wall!" continued the reasoner, "then comes ques-
tion again ; which way ? Sis* says right, no doubt. Sh*
went right round the corner o' the house, an' down to —
back part o' the place, here — "

" 'Is ; Backside, sir, we calls it," says a neighbor.

" Wall, 't's a good name, no doubt. The's two roads
goin' 'long, up an' down, I believe — "

" 'Is, sir," said one of the neighbors ; " there's the
summer w'y and the winter w'y, by Cub's Cove, and
the Cosh, and so into the woods."

" Fact, I' ben on both of 'era myself," continued the
speaker. " Then the's a path goin from Skipper George's
(s'pose I ought to call him) — "

" It's a compliment tliey pays un," said the constable.

" Don't heed it, sir," said the stout fisherman ; " George
is plenty good enough for I, alw'ys ; and, most of all,
now."

If the kindness that lies in such compliments embellishes
common times, there is no danger of times of sorrow
wanting them. The reasoner resumed, keeping the title
now that he had got it.

" The's a path from Skipper George's right acrost these
two roads, (that is, ye call 'em roads 'n this country) wall,
I guess she kep' the path t'U she got to these two roads,
('f ye call 'em so,) f 'r 't's plaguey hard makin tracks out-
side of a road, here — (fact, 'tain't al'a's the easiest trav-

A NEW MAN.

139

elliii' in 'em, b*t that's 'notlicr question,) — she kep' the
path t'l she got t* tliese two roads, an' then question is,
which way ? She'd take some way certin. I guess ye'll
think we might 's well try t' hear 'era 'lectioneerin' 'r
talkin' polities *n the moon, 's try t' guess what was in her
mind ; but look a' here, now ; s'posin' slie'd heard o' the
old gentleman's goin down t' Bay Harbor ; she might
want to go after him ; but then, here's this story o' Jesse
Hill — 'f that's his name. He saw her, accordin' to hia
story, (f r, I take it, th'r' ain't 'ny reas'nable doubt b't
'twas the gal he saw,) where she must ha' ben on t'other
path. Now I understand gals sometimes take a notion t*
care f 'r other folks b'sides their fathers ; 't seems to ha*
ben the way with *em, by all accounts — f 'm Grandm'ther
Eve, 's fur *s I know. I don't say how 'twas in this case,
but she must ha' ben a takin' piece herself, b* all accounts
— an' then, if the' was a k'nd *f a runnin' idea 'f someb'dy
*n her mind, why, somehow 'r other, she'd be very apt to
folia that idea. She didn't show any sensitive feelins,
did she?"

" I don' rightly understand 'ee, sir," said the father, " I
ben't a larn'd man 'ee know."

" Sh' didn't feel *ny tender 'motions, Y s'pose ? That
is, she hadn't taken a notion to one niore'n another ? —
young man I mean, livin' somew'e's round ? "

The father answered gravely, but with the same hearty
readiness as before —

" I know a father can't, mubbe, feel proper sure, al-
"w'ys — to say sure— of his darter's heart ; but so fur as a
man can be sartain, I'm sarten sure my Lucy would
never have agrowed to e'er a body, knowunly, atliout my
knowun it, as well. There was a neighbor's son, surely
— that's young Mr. Urston we spoke about — mubbe there

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140

THE NEW PRIEST.

might have somethun' come out o' that ; but they'm Ro-
mans, and my poor, dear maid loved her Savior too much
to hear to e'er a Roman. She'll folly her own church,
thank God, while she's livin', or ef she's dead, as is most
like, she'll never change now, to ought else, only better
an' more."

" No more she woul'. Skipper George ; that's a clear
case," said Zebedee Marchant.

" Wall, on'y jest started proposition ; 'hope 's no harm
done. Ye think the' wa'n't forbid to keep company ; do
ye ? Wall ; on'y 'f 'twas my gall, (but the' ain't 'ny Miss
Bangs, yet, I guess, — but if 'twas, — ) should be willin' t'
bet a fourp'ns hap'ny — ('t's a coin ye hain't got 't's equal
to, — wall, 't's a small sum o' money, b't if bettin's t' settle
it, should be willin' to bet) — they know som'th'n 'bout her
'u that family. Ruther think the folks 'n that house, —
(called in there, a minit, an' as'd f'r a drink o' water,
seein' the' was a hght bumin ; didn't see anythin out o'
th' way, p'tic'lar, hut^ — ruther guess, 'f they were put to't,
they've seen or heard of her, one o' th' two. Ye see,
there's that punt, 's ye call it, 't the cap'n the brig, there,
saw 'th th' nuns, or what not, in't ; (fact, I saw 'em m'self,
— ^that is, I saw one great black one, 'n' a couple 'f other
women," — ^here there was great sensation among the
hearers, — " w'n I's peekin' round the house, to see what's
goin on ;) should like, pleggily, to know what the nuns
were up to, 'th their punt, an' what 'twas they kerried

down Wall, 'f those folks do know, it's pleggy strange

though ! Wh', anybody 't had got the feelin's 'f a man, 'd
go on his hands 'n knees round all outdoors — wall, he'd go
a pooty long chalk, any way — fr a neighb'r 'n distress."

"Young Mr. Urston 's a good lad," said the father;
" an' the family ain't a bad family, ef they he Romans,"

A NEW MAN.

141

" Wall, I've said 'bout all I've got t' say, p'ty much.
Ye're welcome to it f ' what 't's worth. 'Find th' ain't
goin' to be much to do, 'n the way o' business, t'll they
come back f 'm Labrador, 'thout I take to lecturin' a spell,
— (got 'n exhibition o' dissolvin' views ; used to charge
one an' six, Yankee money ; m't make it a shillin', cur-
rency, here ; but) — 'f the's any thin' goin' on, while I've
got spare time, here's one man ready."

" Thank'ee, kindly, sir," said Skipper George. " I'm
sure, it's very good of 'ee to take so much consarn wi*
strangers."

" Wall, 'don't feel's though folks ware strangers, when
they're in trouble. B't 't's 'bout time f ' me to be trav'llin',
I guess," concluded Mr. Bangs, who had taken up his
hat, and made a start out of the way of thanks. " Do'uq
'xac'ly customs here, ye know ; — ^I'k a jfish out o' water,
ye may say. Make my compliments t' th' Parson, 's ye
call him, 'f 't's ruleable, 'n' tell him 'promised t' put up
'th s'm folks 'long down the harbor. Wish ye good-night,
all!"

So saying, — the gathering of neighbors in the room
opening and letting him through, — he went out into the
open air and the morning twilight, and walked away with
short, quick steps, swinging one arm.

" Well ! " said the constable, rel^sing his long attention
in a deep breath, " there's a fellow that'll git under way
without waituii for tide to float un off, any how ; " and,
with this remark, the constable, also, went hastily forth.

ii ii

142

THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER XVI.

TRACES OF THE LOST.

vITHIN the half hour that he had mentioned,
the Minister had got back from his own house,
and the constable joined him near Skipper
George's door. It was a dull, dreary-looking hour of
day, so thick that the Minister and his companion soon
hid themselves " multo nebulae circum amictu." *

" Jesse Barbury will join us presently," said the Minis-
ter, as they crossed the ridge. " I want to follow out his
story, if nothing comes of it, even. We'll keep down the
path, and he can't miss lis, though the light is long com-
ing, this cloudy morning. We can wait a little for him at
the rock, there. I should like to hear something more
about her sickness."

The earth and its growth were wet, and hung with
drops, but it was not raining now. The early morning
air was chilly and thick, and nothing at a little distance
could be seen. While Gilpin was telling the story of the
maiden's fever, of which the reader knows more than the
constable told, the light of day gradually spread itself; at
first exposing the mist, and afterwards driving it away.

* ^n. I.

TRACES OF THE LOST.

143

f
in

is
e
I-

In the little time that they were standing, a short, sharp
fall of rain came down upon them, and then the clouds
began to break. The light fast opened the whole land-
scape of the neighborhood in which the sad and mysteri-
ous event had taken place.

" It's clearing off finely," said the Minister, with a hope-
ful tone of augury.

" Yes, sir," said the constable, with little sound of the
same feeling in his answer.

"That's a queer chap, that Yankee that was in the
kitchen, sir," he resumed, after a pause ; " and he's got
some pretty 'cute notions, too. He says she's gone off to
the Urstons' house in a fit o* craziness. You know it's
said, sir, there was something between the young people ;
hower^ he found it out."

"M. ' :ely she has gone out in one of those fits,"
said ]Vi *. Vellon; "but Jesse Hill's the point that we're
to begin at, I think ; I've sent for Jesse ."

" And there he's coming now, sir, over the gool'-bushes
yonder. I see his great fur cap, and his gi'eat red whis-
kers under it, like a forge-fire."

" We'll find out about this sight of his first, if we can,"
said the Minister. " By the way, we forg,^i, to take the
dog! " added he, suddenly.

"No, sir, he came along. There he is, sir, nosing
about yonder. We've had a dozen of 'em out, and he
too ; — Susan brought un."

" We'll give him another chance to-day," said his mas-
ter; "but this rain isn't much in his favor, or ours
either."

"Jesse Barbury, or Jesse Hill, came up, conspicuous
for red whiskers and freckles, but looking honestly sad.
" Sarvant, sir ! " he said to the Minister, lifting his hat ;

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144

THE NEW PRIEST.

and in a lower and more familiar voice to the constable,
" Hope 'ee're hearty, Mister Gulpin."

" We're going down the Backside, Jesse. Will you
go along and see if we can make out whereabouts that
white thing was when you saw it ? " ■--

" Sartin, sir," said Jesse Hill, falling into the rear while
they took the path through the bushes, as a boat in tow
might faU astern.

As they were far enough over to have the land going
right down between them and the shore, the Minister,
keeping his eyes toward the water, inquired of Jesse
whereabouts his punt had been the evening before at the
time of the vision.

" Sir ! " said Jesse, emphatically, by way of exclama-
tion, not question, and evidently glad to be opened, " ef
*ee plase to bring yon var (fir) on wi' the road at tother
side, sir, up over, we was about a fourth part o' the w'y
acrost, sir ; and Xzik MafFen, that was along "

" And where was the figure when you first saw it ? "
asked the Minister, cutting gently off the tail of Jesse
Hill's discourse.

" It comed right out of a big bush, seemunly, sir, — to
my seemun, sir, and Izik Maffen ."

"Would you know the bush if you could see it?"

" Mubbe I mought, sir. I can' be rightly sure, sir —
to say sure, sir."

" What color was it, Jesse ? Was it yellow, or red ? "
asked the constable.

" Wull, IVIr. Gulpin, it was dark lookun ; I couldn' say
gezacly, but 'twas dark-lookun ; and Iz ."

" That's pretty well, Jesse ; you kept all the wits you
had about you, if you did get frightened. Can you see
it from here ? "

TEACES OF THE LOST.

145

The fisherman surveyed the whole surrounding scenery
with an eye that from infancy, almost, had learned to note
landmarks ; and here were plenty of bushes to choose
from, — a wilderness of them, — but he recognized none.
Here and there, at a distance, were still scattered a few
persons who seemed to be searching.

" Ef I was down at tother side o* they bushes," he
began.

" Surely, Jesse, that's only reasonable ; you're a better
sailor than I be."

" Ay, Jesse," said the Minister, who had been looking
with eager but sad eyes over the waste ; " get down
somewhere where you can see it as you saw it before.
That's Mister Urston's house over there ?"

" Is, sure, sir ; that's *e*s house, sir,"- answered Jesse.

" There's that new Popish priest, talking with Skipper
George ! " said Gilpin ; and as the Minister turned, he
saw the companion of his walk of a few days before,
standing uncovered, (perhaps out of respect to the bare
head of the sorrowing father,) and so engaged as not to
see Mr. Wellon and his party.

" Yes, that was he ! " exclaimed Mr. Wellon.

" Yes, sir, and that's just their way of going on," said
the constable.

" He won't lead George Barbury astray," said the
Minister, giving a long look, however, in that direction.

"'Deed, 'e wou'n't, then," said Jesse HiU; and the
party again set forward, Mr. Wellon last.

" Thisam's the path from Uncle Georgie's w'y," said
Jesse, as they struck it. Having gone down some dis-
tance upon it, Jesse said : —

" Woul' 'ee be so well plased as bide here a spurt, sir.' ?
an' I'll come back to 'ee, in short."

VOL. I. 10

7 '

(

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146

THE NEW PRIEST.

./ ;

Behind them, just at a turn of the way, was a large
bush. Jesse walked down the path, noting the bearings
on each side, and turning round once, he soon came to
a stand.

" Plase to fall astam a bit, Mr. Gulpin," he called out ;
and the oonstable-smith did as directed.

Suddenly they were all startled by the running of one
of the distant parties towards them. The dog gave a
short bark. " There's Tzik, now, sir ! " said Jessie, loud
enough to be heard from where he stood.

" Have you found any signs of her ? " asked Mr. Wel-
lon, as the new party drew near. Their answer destroyed
all hope from that source ; they had only come to offer to
help the Parson, " seeing he seemed to be sarchin', like."

" Well, Jesse ! " said the constable.

" Avast, a bit ! " was Jesse's answer. " So ! " and he
came back again.

" Thisam's the bush, sir," said he. Ef 'ee'll plase to
look, just as Mr. Gulpin's a comun out from behind un,
sir, jesso what I sid comed out, an* goed right down here,
didn't 'em, Izik?"

The substance, who had come to represent the name
that had hitherto been so frequent on Jessie's tongue, was
a gaunt, hard-featured fellow, and why Jesse should have
been his leader and principal, (unless because he was not
quite as ugly, or was, perhaps, better off,) was hard to say.

The bush stood in such a way at the turning of the
path, that a short man or a woman might, on the other
side, have been hidden for a little distance ; the ground
being for a few rods hollow, and then ascending again.

Izik Maffen, appealed to, looked dutifully at Jesse
Hill from under his woollen cap,* and made his answer : —

* or Paisley bonnet.

ind

bsse

TRACES OF THE LOST.

147

" I*s sure 'e did, then, Jesse."

"We can come back this way; let us go down to
where she disappeared, if we can find it," said the Min-
ister.

" Do 'ee think has the Pareson got track o' she ? " said
one of the new followers, aside, — ^a silent, quiet man, who
generally kept liimself back.

The sun, rising, as he was, had found a place between
the clouds to look out through upon the earth, and upon
the sad search that these few men were making, without
a trace to guide them, and where all had been already
searched. The sea shone before him, and myriads of
rain-drops g^' '^'^""d on all sides ; the green was fairer
and brighter everywhere than usual ; but if there could
have been any possibility of tracing, at any time, foot-
prints on the rough and gravelly path that they were fol-
lowing, this rain had washed all slight prints, of whatever
kind, away, had made its own marks, heaped up its little
black gatherings of mould from the bushes on the white
earth, and filled all lesser hollows with water.

" Did it go all the way down here, Jesse ? " asked Mr.
WeUon.

" Ts, sir," answered Jesse Hill ; " sometimes we sid it,
an' more times agin we didn' see it ; but it goed like a
white sail, in a manner, sir, passin' by the green bushes ;
it didn' walk, seemunly, to my seemun ; and Izik Maffen,
that was along wi' I, ."

" Where did you see the last of it ? "

" Down a bit, sir, by the house."

Mr. Urston's house stood along by the bank or cliiF,
and for some little distance round it the bushes were
cleared off. The garden, inclosed with its " pickets,"
stretched before it, towards the land, (or behind it, if the

) ?

; ■

III:

148

THE NEW PRIEST.

i^f

'w 1

other side towards the water were counted front,) a
dozen rods, perhaps; the houpe itself was uninclosed,
and, in our country style, a com .rtable looking dwelling,
and in good keeping-up. Some firs and other growth,
which had got far enough up the precipice to stand a
little above its edge, would have prevented any person
very near the house from being seen from the place in
which Jesse Hill and his comrade had been on the
water.

The dogs of Newfoundland are not unlike the dogs of
other countries in their dealings with one another ; and
the intrusion or near approach of a stranger is a thing
about which the dog at home gets to his feet, and puts up
his tail, and bristles his mane, and shows his teeth.

As the Minister and his * following ' drew towards the
house, great care was taken to prevent a fight between
his dog and a large brindled fellow that lay growling on
the flat stone before Mr. Urston's door ; and the fight
was prevented ; the proper occupant of the place being
left undisturbed to his occupation, a«d the other being
marched off", with the tramp of many shod feet, and ex-
hortations from several voices mingled with his own,
toward the cliff or steep bank (for the shore was in one
place one, and in another pia^e the other) at the water-
side.

A wild and picturesque chasm, called the " "Worrell,"
was broken out of the rock near the house, approached
on the eastern side by a slope of the land which was con-
tinued in a ledge down the face of the landward wall, to
some broken masses of rock at the bottom. A bit of
gray beach lay among and beside these rocks ; and while
the water came freely in, and was sheltered entirely on
three sides, there was also a jutting out of one of the

TRACES OF THE LOST.

149

rocky walls in such a way as to throw a barrier half
across the opening, and to form a little safe cove with a
sand bottom, entirely defended by cliffs. Here Mr. Urs-
ton kept several punts, and others resorted to the spot
for a convenient landing-place. Small trees had got a
foothold here and there on the broken walls of this hole
in the shore; and near the top, where soil had been
washed over, bushes were growing.

The fishermen looked to the Minister as he scanned
carefully all sides, and the rocks and beach at the bot-
tom ; and they also examined with their eyes the neigh-
boring ground, and in a low voice carried on their spec-
ulations with each other.

" How long did you stay where you were after the
white thing had disappeared ? " he asked, turning round
to Jesse, who, with Isaac close at hand, was waiting to be
called upon again.

"Well now, I couldn' rightly say, Pareson Wellon,
how long it was, sir ; not to say gezac'ly, sii ; but it were
a short spurt ; for Izik says to I, ses he, ."

The actual Isaac seemed not to have supplanted the
historical one, whom Jesse had so frequently introduced ;
but Jesse had no touch of any thing but solenm serious-
ness in his way of telling what he knew.

" Did you keep on looking," asked the Minister.

" 'Is sir, 'deed we did, sir ; we kep* lookin' so straight
as a needle pointin', in a manner, sir ; — but we never sid
nothin' after that, — no more, sir."

" No more we didn*, sure enough," affirmed his faithful
Isaac, solemnly.

" I can tell 'ee now, sir," said Jesse, who had recol-
lected himself; "we'd jest asid a punt comin' round
Castle-Bay Point, when we first cotch sight o' thisam*

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150

THE NEW PRIEST.

white thing. Quick as ever I sid the punt, I ses to
Izik, I says "

"And when you came away, where was the punt,
Jesse ? "

'' When we corned aw'y, sir, they was about a half
w'ys up to we sir, wi' oars an' wind, doin* their best ; an'
I sid it was Naathan "

" How long would that take them ? "

" Could n' *ave abin less than five minutes, sir ; that's
a sure case."

Isaac was appealed to by a look of the speaker, and
affirmed the statement.

" That's a sure case, Jesse," said he.

" And you watched, all that time ? "

" 'Is, sir, we did, sir ; an' a long time arter that ; so
long as ever we could see the place, while we was rowing
aw'y."

" Was it getting dark ? "

" No, Pareson, it wasn' gettun dark ; the sun had jest
aknocked off. It mought be a' twilight, sir. We was
jes comun home, however, sir, an' I ses "

A sudden noisy altercation of the dogs diverted for the
moment all attention toward the house. Mr. Urston's
" Ducker " had come out to the path, and it had needed
but a moment to embroil him with the stranger.

" Mr. Gilpin ! " exclaimed the Minister, at this alarm.

" 'E isn' 'ere, sir," answered one of the company ; but at
the moment the constable appeared at the comer of the
house, and set himself, understandingly, to the work of
keeping the noisy debaters asunder.

Immediately behind appeared a woman of about sixty
years, announced among Mr. Wellon's company as "' Granny
Calloran * ! whom we have called young Urston's nurse.

half

TRACES OF THE LOST.

151

She was one of those women in whom the process of dry-
ing away with age seems to leave the essence of will and
energy, concentrated, after the manner of a chemical
evaporation. Her features, too, had that expression of
standing out, that befits such a character.

Without noticing Gilpin, who had the Minister's dog by
the collar, she set herself directly in front of the other,
putting her apron over his face. At the same time, with
a brisk blow of the foot, she sent what had, very likely,
been the object of contention into the open hole of the
dog's kennel, under the comer of the house, near which
Gilpin stood. The constable, as suddenly snatched it
out.

" It's a bad ould book, that's afther bein' burnt," said
Mrs. Calloran, who saw the motion, holding out her hand
for the blackened and shrivelled mass, which had been,
moreover, disfigured by the teeth of the dog.

" Jesse, lay hold o' the dog, a bit, will *ee ? " said Gil-
pin, as the men drew up; and four hands were imme-
diately laid upon Eppy, and a fur cap and a woollen bonnet
met together in the operation.

" It's got pretty good stuff in it, for a bad book," pro-
ceeded the constable, as he carefully disengaged some of
the leaves from their sticking together. " Here's prayers,
for one thing."

"Ah! thin, it's me darter's prayer-book she was
lookin' for, this while back, an* niver got a sight of it,
good or bad," said Mrs. Calloran ; " an' I'm thankful to
ye for findin' it this day."

She again held out her hand for it ; but the finder
seemed in no hurry to part with it.

" You may thank the dogs for that," said he, continu-
ing his examination ; " it's an EngUsh Prayer-Book, any

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152

THE NEW PRIEST.

1 1

how. The one it belonged to isn't very near to you, I
don't think."

" An', sure, isn't all our prayer-books English ? D'ye
think, do we pray in Hebrew- Greek ? ** retorted Mrs.
Calloran, getting warm ; " ar what ? "

She attempted to recover the book by a sudden snatch,
and set the dog free by the same movement. The one-
eyed constable was too quick for her ; but the dog mut-
tered, misehie ♦'ously.

At this moment, the sound of horse-hoofs upon the
stony ground made itself heard, even among men whose
attention was occupied as was that of Gilpin and his com-
panions.

"There's another of 'em!" muttered the constable,
aside. — " That's Father Nicholas, they calls un. — There's
rather too many of those gents for my likin'," he con-
tinued, in his aside, " 'tisn't eight o'clock, yet ; two of 'em,
in two or three hours, don't mean any good, I'll go bail."

The horseman was coming, at a good quick trot, along
the path near the edge of the chff, from the direction of
Castle-Bay.

Mrs. Calloran, as if aware, by sight or hearing, of
this powerful reinforcement close at hand, (informed, per-
haps, by Gilpin's remarks,) renewed her strength ; and
her face gleamed with satisfaction, even in the midst of
its looks of vexation. She secured the dog, however.

While this animal was working himself up to a rage,
and the other, also, who was in charge of the fishermen,
answered growl for growl, young Mr. Urston appeared,
and changed the state of things. With his voice and his
foot, he speedily persuaded Ducker to go inside of the
house, and leave the field to other arbitrators.

"I'll talk with Mr. Gilpin, Granny," said he.

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TRACES OP THE LOST.

153

"An' can't I do that, meaelf?" asked she. "Well,
thin, Mr. Galpin, (an' Mr. Galpin I believe it is, indeed,)
let's have no words upon it (an' yerself a man that's set
over the peace) ; but will ye give me the book, quite an'
paceable, that ye tuk from this house? an' meself *11
lave ye to yer company : an' there's enough o' thim that
ye wouldn't feel lonely, walkin' away from this, I'm
thinkin'."

" If Mr. Urston will look here a minute, (I suppose he
won't be afraid of a Protestant book,) I'll sb >w him, in a
jiffey," answered the constable. " There ! " said he, a*?
the young man followed his invitation. " I'm sure if that
isn't Church, the Archbishop of Canterbury isn't Chu"''h.

* Articles agreed upon by the Archbishops and Bishops of
both Provinces, and the whole Clergy : * — and there's

* Articles of the Church of England.' Does that U<i.k
belong here ? "

" No, indeed," said James Urston, " it's not your book,
Granny, and it does not belong to any one here."

"There seems to be some little misunderstanding
between you and your excellent neighbors," said a new
voice, very blandly ; and the priest, whom Gilpin had
called Father Nicholas, appeared, on foot, near the house.
He was a man in the prime of life, and of an appearance
that would strike even a rude man, at fit glance. His
eyes were deep-set and dark, with a higu ;«jrehead, firm,
sharp lips, and a complexion like slightly-yellowed ivory,
contrasting strongly with his black Luir. There was a
settled look of authority about Lim ; and he had the
reputation of being one whose influence was not less that
of a man of superior mind, than one who bore a sacred
oflfice. Almost less was popularly known or reported
about this gentleman's history, than about that of the

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154

THE NEW PRIEST.

'\t'

new priest who had come to Peterport ; although Father
Nicholas had been two years and more in the neighbor-
hood, — and the other, two weeks.

His appearance disconcerted and drove into temporary
retreat behind the picket-fence one of the Peterport Pro-
testants, (the silent and withdrawing man,) rather abashed
Jesse and Isaac, who were holding the dog, and even
slightly startled Mister Charles Gilpin, smith and consta-
ble ; but men's minds were serious and saddened, and not
likely to yield to passing emotions ; — Gilpin's blood was
warmed, and that of his followers was ready to back
him ; and so, with the second breath, religious antipathy
gave them a very determined manner, and the eye of
their leader took a new brightness. The Minister, before
the altercation began, had gone down into the WorreU,
(the chasm before-described,) and had not come up.

The priest having given the different parties time to
compose themselves, spoke again : —

" Perhaps your neighbors will excuse you for coming
in with me, now, as my business is important, and my time
valuable. James, will you do me the favor to come in ? "

" We're about pretty solemn business, too, sir," said the
constable. " Before I go, I've got a word to say : I'm
not going off as if I'd been robbing a hen-roost. I beg
you to look, sir, — Jesse, and the rest of you, you see : this
bit of a burnt book, I mean to carry with me."

" It'll be rather dainty reading," said the priest, with a
smile, as he turned to go into the house.

" I can make something out of it, plain enough," said
the constable.

Mrs. Calloran here said something, aside, to Father
Nicholas, who again addressed Gilpin : —

"If you'll let me speak, as a disinterested party, I

TRACES OF THE LOST.

155

would only say, that I understand that book belonged to
a near relation of Mrs. Calloran's, for whose sake she
values it."

The constable, in a low voice, commented upon this
suggestion as follows : —

" She's took good care over it ; and she's tried it, like
pure gold, seven times in the fire. She forgot one com-
mandment, about giving holy things to dogs. When I
came here, the dog was gnawing at it."

" 'M ! " said Jesse Hill and Isaac MafFen, emphati-
cally.

"Very well," said the priest, as blandly as before.
" I'm told this is the constab^ :; : he knows the law, no
doubt ; and he knows the difference between * robbing a
hen-roost,' as he says, and taking a book that doesn't
belong to him."

" I think, sir," answered Gilpin, I'm rather nearer to
this book, or what's left of it, than Mrs. Calloran is.
It's what you call a heretical book, to begin with ; and
that don't look like her caring much about un ; and,
what's more, he belonged to a friend o' mine, and if Mrs.
Calloran wants to claim un, she knows where to come,
and if she'll prove her property, she shall have un. It's
worth more now than ever it cost.'*

"There must be some mistake, Mrs. Calloran," said
Father Nicholas. " You'd best drop the thing where
it is."

" Lave Skipper Charlie alone for talk," said one to an-
other of the constable's followers, naturally feeling not a
little proud at his force of tongue. The constable him-
self suddenly took another subject.

" Mrs. Calloran," said he, " did you see Mr. Barbury'a
daughter since yesterday morning ? "

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it win

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156

THE NEW rmEST.

"Misther Barbury's darter! an' did I see her? Do
ye tliink is it visitin' her I was, that wasn't in it or nigh it,
those many years ! How would I be seeun Misther Bar-
bury's darter ? There's other ould women in Peterport,
I'm thinkin'."

"Ay ! but did you see her ? " repeated the constable,
holding on like a mastiff.

"An' sure," answered the woman, " wouldn't wan an-
swer do ye ? An' what for must ye be afther comun,
that has no call to it, an' the father himself beun here
last evenun ? "

" But you might answer a plain question, and a short
one, with a plain, short answer, I think," persisted the
constable.

" Sure is this the place to come askun for Lucy Bar-
bury ? An' isn't her father's house the fit place to look
for her, besides axun meself, when it's sorrow a sight I
seen of her in years, I suppose ? What would I do wid
Lucy Barbury ? "

" I can't make you answer, if you won't answer of your
own accord; but there's some that can," said the con-
stable.

"An' didn't ye hear me sayun I didn't know if I seen
her in years ? I dono did I or no," answered the uncon-
querable woman.

" But that isn't answering my question either ; I asked
if you'd seen her since yesterday morning," persisted
Skipper Charlie.

Young Urston seemed rather inclined to have this ex-
amination go on than to interrupt it. The Priest, how-
ever, mediated.

" Mrs. Calloran will doubtless be willing to answer any
reasonable question," said he. " I suppose you have some

TRACES OF THE LOST.

157

good reason for a«k'*>g. You wish to know whether she
saw this young |.» i.^on, or old person, whichever it is,
yesterday ? Whether she got some message from her,
perhaps ? "

" No, sir," said Gilpin ; " Mr. Barbury's daughter's
missing, and we want to find her, or find out what's be-
come of her."

" Is it left her father's house ? Sure that's not a very
good story of a young woman," said Mrs. Calloran, mor-
alizing.

" Granny ! " said young Urston, sternly, " you'll please
not to speak disrespectfully."

" If it's lost she is, thin may God find her ! " said she,
more softly.

"Of course it will be cleared up," said the Priest;
" there's some explanation of it ; and I only hope it will
come out happily for all. You can say whether you
know where she is, or any thing about her, Mrs. Calloran,
and you needn't keep your neighbors waiting."

" Sure thin, yer riverence, Father Nicholas," said Mrs.
Calloran, " it's not meself asked thim to wait ; but if it's
where's Lucy Barbury, indade I dono, more than I know
where the injens is."

" Now, Mr. Constable, I shall be glad if you're satisfied,
as I'm pressed for time ; but I won't hurry you."

" I haven't got any thing more to ask just now, sir,"
said the constable.

" Then I'll wish you good morning," said the priest,
and went into the house, followed by Mrs. Calloran.

Before going in after them Mr. Urston said, —

" She nursed me as early as I can remember, almost ;
but if it were necessary to dig down my father's house to
find a trace, I say, go on I I'll build it again."

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158

THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER XVII.

SEARCHING STILL.

S the constable and his company drew near the
" Worrell," whither Epictetus, the Minister's dog,
had gone immediately on finding himself at
large, Mr. Wellon and the man whom he had taken down
with him were coming up.

"Here's something that may have been her's," said
the Minister, turning to his companion, who held up a
plain white cap, which all crowded about and looked
upon, in sacred silence.

It was marked with red thread, already faded, " L. B."

Jesse had uncovered his honest red locks before it,
and more than one of his comrades put the back of his
hand to his eyes.

Presently the general voice said sadly, " That's Lucy's,
and no mistake."

" It was part of that figure that Jesse and Isaac saw,
I think," said the Minister, in the same tone.

" Do 'ee think 'twould wear a real cap, sir ? " asked
Jesse, who doubtless looked upon what he had seen, on
the evening before, as a preternatural sight.

"I think it was her real self," answered Mr. Wellon,
looking wistfully upon the path, which seemed to have
been the path of death, or strange disaster, to the girl

B."

it,
his

ley's,

saw,

sked
on

SEARCHING STILL.

159

who had so lately been one of the chief joys and beauties
of the place.

" Where did you find it, sir ? " inquired the con-
stable.

"At the bottom of the Worrell, on the sand under
one of the punts that Zebedee turned over. It may have
floated in on the tide. — I think you told me that boats
were out along the shore here and round the point ? "

"Ay, sir, Cap'n Nolesworth and George Kames, you
know, his mate, were round Castle-Bay harbor, and some
are down now, by land, to Bay-Harbor, and to Brigus ;
Jonathan Frank one way, and Skipper Henry Ressle
t'other way. Young Urston, here, was out all night wi*
a lantern, sculling into every place along shore ; but there
wasn't a scred nor a scrap to be found ; and Solomon
Kelley and Naath Marchant were out till morning ; but I
think now we'll get some track of her, please God, dead
or ahve."

" Certainly," said Mr. Wellon, " if she's alive, as I
hope, we must hear from her; or if she's lost in the
water, as she may be, we may hope to find her body.
(God help us !) We must get word to every place that
she could go to."

The lifeless relic that they had recovered, heavy and
dripping with the ocean water, while it brought them
near to her in one respect, yet gave deep meaning to the
suggestion that she might have perished in the sea ; and
in this way it seemed to impress them all.

" If I can get a crew, by and by, I'll go round the
shore, and give one look by daylight," said the Minister.

" Ef 'ee'll plase to take me an' Izik," said Jesse Hill,
" we'll be proud to go along wi' 'ee, sir."

" ' Deed we woul'," said Isaac Maffen.

ilil

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V. ■

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160

THE NEW PRIEST.

" You've been out a good deal already, though," said
Mr. Wellon.

" Well, we can afford a little time, Pareson Wellon,"
said Jesse. " I don' know who's got a right, ef I haven*,"
and Isaac assented : "All so, Jesse."

"An' I'll make another, if *ee plase, sir," said Zebedee
Marchant.

A fourth offered immediately, and the crew was com-
plete. This fourth was the quiet man several times men-
tioned.

" We'm got somethun to be doned first, afore that, I
suppose, sir," said Jesse, turning gravely round toward
the wet cap which Zebedee Marchant bore, and which, at
this reference, he raised in silence.

" I think we'd better keep that until we come back,"
said Mr. Wellon, " and then we shall have something, at
least, if we get nothing more. Will you take charge of
it?"

"Whatever 'ee says, sir," said Jesse gravely; "I'll
take 'un ef 'ee says so, sir ; " and so saying, the honest
fisherman. Skipper George's nephew, spread a great blue
handkerchief upon a rock, and taking the cap from Zebe-
dee, placed it in the handkerchief, and carefully turning
over the corners, said : —

" Thank 'ee Zippity ; 'e'll be safe wi' me ; so 'e was wi*
you, too." He then carefully held it with both hands.

" We'll take time to get something to eat, and then be
off, as soon as we can," said Mr. Wellon.

The excited state of Jesse Barbury's feelings may have
given readiness and directness to his words, for he said
immediately, addressing his pastor : —

" Pareson, would 'ee be so well-plased now, mubbe,
sir, as come an' take a poor morsel o' tay wi' us, ef I

»» >»

SEARCHING -STILL.

161

m*y make bold. It's poor offcrim' sir, I knows ; but ray
missus 'ull be clear proud."

Is.aac Maffen enforced the invitation in his fashion ;
saying, in a moderated voice, " 'Deed she woul', that's a
clear case."

Mr. Wellon accepted, at once, the ready hospitality ;
and Jesse, saying " Come then, Izik," led the way over to
his house, with a very steady, careful step, and without
speaking. Skipper Charlie was not among the company
at the moment; the other fishermen, besides Jesse and
his mate, took care of themselves.

The cap was deposited safely upon the Family Bible,
to await their coming back from the new expedition ; and
then Jesse's wife, a pretty woman, once Prudence Frank,
from Frank's Cove, (glad enough to exercise hospitality
for the Minister,) urged him, modestly, to " plase to make
use o' the milk," (which is quite a luxury among planters
of the out harbors,) and of the ' scrod,' * and all her sim-
ple dainties.

In a few minutes they had finished their hurried meal,
and were shortly at the water-side. Zebedee and the other
"were already there.

They skirted the shore along by Frank's Cove, and
Mad Cove, and round Mad Head and Castle-Bay Point.
Nothing had been seen or heard that would throw light
upon the mystery, and the Minister set out to go back on
foot along the beach and the little path by the water's
edge on the Peterport side, while the boat's crew made
the best of their way by water.

The beach was strewed with empty shells, and weeds,
and rubbish, and whited with a line of foam, and, as it
chanced, among the other worthless things there lay a

VOL. I.

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THE NEW PRIEST.

I'li-i-

woman's shoe which Mr. Wellon ran to, and snatched
eagerly, but saw at a glance, was nothing to his purpose.
He threw it from him into the water, and his dog, exult-
ing, leaped in and secured it. His search was done, and
he went slowly home.

When at length after waiting hours, that information,
if any were to come, might come, he sought Jesse, who
was the depositary of the little thing recovered from the
sea ; the day — the last of the week, — was drawing towards
evening, and twenty-four hours had passed since Lucy's
strange and sad disappearance.

" I said I wouldn' start un tell 'ee corned, sir," said Jesse.

" 'Ee did so, Jesse," said Isaac, who was still with him,
and without delay the little procession set forth.

The fisherman bore the relic reverently in his two
hands, and carefully and quickly, as if it were an unsub-
stantial thing of frost, that might be wasted by the way.
Near the door of the house of mourning, Jesse and Isaac
drew aside and would not go in, and Jesse gave the slight
memorial into the Parson's hand, and he, uncovering
himself, went in alone.

Skipper George, who sate silently in his chimney-side,
with his wife and little Janie, rose up and took off his
hat on seeing his pastor ; the wife courteseyed and wept.

The Minister put the relic into his hand, without
speaking.

" Have 'ee — ? 'Is, sir, — 'Is, sir," said the father, con-
fusedly, taking the precious thing, but turning it over as
if he could not see it, for something in his eyes, "it's
her's, it's her's. Ah ! God's will be done ! "

Mr. Wellon said nothing of the constable's hope or
expectation of tracing her.

The mother sobbed once, and wept silently, and Skip-
per George rallied himself.

SEARCmNG STILL.

1G3

>kip-

" So ! so ! mother," said he, soothingly, " this 'U never
do I There, there ! take it and put it by ; mayhap the
dear maid '11 wear it agin, in short, please God."

The Minister's eye was caught by a lead-pencil-drawing,
that lay on the bench.

" That's her doun, sir," said the father, sadly.

" I did n't know she could draw," answered the Minis-
ter, taking into his hand the paper, blurred somewhat,
and blistered. ♦

" No more did n' I, sir; it was the last doun she doned ;
we found it next day where she dropped it, when she
went to bed. She must ha' larned o' Miss Dare, or the
widow-lady."

The Minister gazed long at it, and then said, — " I don't
know much about drawing ; but I should say there was
great talent here. I can't think how she should be able
to do this ice."

"Athout she minds about the ice comun in, years ago,
when she was a little thing, about so big as Janie."

"It's wonderful, really!" said the Minister. "This
vessel going off, and the man left behind."

Skipper George said, in a low voice, —

"Ay, sir, that vessel never comed home again ! Nor
no word ever comed of her! — Will 'ee plase make a
pr'yer, sir ? " added the father.

All kneeled down by the fireside ; the mother crying ;
the father full of woe as he could hold, but more full of
faith and will, and little Janie holding fast in both hands
some stones with which she had been at play.

The Minister prayed for help to find the lost child, and
for grace to do and bear God's will, and to learn meekly
His lesson.

" Would n' 'ee be plased to set fast, sir ? " asked tho

164

THE NEW PRIEST.

fisherman, as his Pastor moved to go. "Well, sir, we
shall be proud to see *ee again ; and — it comes heavy to
bear ; but we'll do our best, wi* God's help."

The sturdy man followed the Minister to the outside
of the house, and then, lowering his voice, said, —

" I've abin to B'y-Harbor, sir, an' I've abin to Brigus j
but there's nawthun, sir I "

« By land?" asked Mr. Wellon.

" 'Is, sir, an' put my poor ol' sorry face into amany,
many houses — but they were kind, sir, they were all
kind, sir. They sid I was heavy hearted, an* they were
very pitiful over me."

"Why, you've been forty miles!" said Mr. Wellon,
rather to himself. "It must be; besides being out all
night. You must take rest. It's a duty.'*

" 'Is, sir, an' to-morrow 's Sunday, and even when the
Lord was dead, they w'ited an' ' rested on the Sabbath-
day, according to commandment,' afore ever they 'd 'balm
*E's blessed body. There isn' e'er a thing to be doned
now, sir, that I knows, an* I m*y as well rest bumbye,
an' ef I can't, mubbe, get sleep right aw'y, I can pr*y
for un, however."

"And good days will come, I hope, shortly."

"Ay, sir, they 'U come," said Skipper George. " They
'11 come ! "

How far ahead he looked, he gave no sign; but he
spoke confidently.

"An* I know she'll find home," he said, " ef she never
comes to this place no more, sir. There's others have
agot sore hearts, so well as we. That good lady that's
loss'd 'er husband an' 'er child, takes stren'th, an' comforta
them that wants, an' I musn' give up."

Mr. Wellon pressed his hand and left him.

SKARCHINO STILL.

1G5

As he came out upon the ridge from which he was to
go down to the road, his eye was caught by the flash of a
white sail, and he stopped to gaze.

It was the Spring-bird gliding fast by the land in her
way out to Bay-Harbor, from which she was to clear (or
Madeira. A ship's silent going- forth is a solemn thing,
and to sad minds a sad one. There was silence too on
board the brig, in this case, in tribute to the prevailing
sorrow of the little town, and she had no streamer or Hag
flying at peak or truck.

Does the sea hold the secret ?

Along the wharves, along the little beaches, around the
circuit of the little roves, along the smooth or broken face
of rock, the sea, which cannot rest, is busy. These little
waves and this long swell, that now are here at work,
have been ere now at home in the great inland sea of
Europe, breathed on by soft, warm winds from fruit-
groves, vineyards, and wide fields of flowers; have
sparkled in the many-coloured lights and felt the trivial
oars and dallying fingers of the loiterers on the long
canals of Venice ; have quenched the ashes of the Dutch-
man's pipe, throwm overboard from his dull, laboring
treckschuyt ; have wrought their patient tasks in the dim
caverns of the Indian Archipelago ; have yielded to the
little builders under water means and implements to rear
their towering altar, — dwelling, — monument.

These little waves have crossed the ocean, tumbling
like porpoises at play, and taking on a savage nature in
the Great Wilderness, have thundered in close ranks and
countless numbers, against man's floating fortress ; have
stormed the breach and climbed up over the walls in the
ship's riven side ; have followed, howling and hungry as
mad wolves, the crowded raft; have leaped upon it,

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THE NEW PRIEST.

snatching off, one by one, the weary, worn-out men an<i
women ; have taken up and borne aloft, — as if on hands
and shoulders — the one chance human body that is brought
into land, and the long spar, from which man's dangling
cordage wastes, by degrees, and yields its place to long,
green streamers much like those that clung to this tall,
taper tree, when it stood in the northern forest.

These waves have rolled their breasts about amid the
wrecks and weeds of the hot stream that comes up many
thousands of miles, out of the Gulf of Mexico, as the
great Mississippi goes down into it, and by and by these
waves will move, all numb and chilled, among the mighty
icebergs and ice-fields that must be brought down from
the poles.

Busy, wandering, reckless, heartless, murderous waves !
Have ye borne down into the ravening mouths of the
lower Deep, the innocent body of our missing girl, after
that ye had tossed it about, from one to another, un-
twining the long hair, one lock of which would be so dear
to some that live; smearing the eyes that were so glad
and gladdening ; — sliming the

Oh ! is that body in the sea ?

There is more than one mystery in little Peter-
port.

WHICH WAY SUSPICION LEADS.

167

CHAPTER XVIII.

WHICH WAY SUSPICION LEADS.

I HE Minister had had no time for Mrs. Barn*, or
any thing but the search. That Saturday evening
he and the constable sate together in consuhation
ill the former's study, putting together their information
and conjectures. Gilpin's suspicions had been aroused as
soon as his eye fell on the Prayer-book that he had se-
cured at Mr. Urston's ; and he had found, in the middle, a
book-mark bearing a drawing of a lamb, with the legend,
" I am the Good Shepherd," and the letters " L. B." in
delicate German text. This mark Miss Dare had already
recognized as one which she herself had given to Lucy
Barbury, since her sickness. On the inside of the cover,
however, was the name "Lucy Barbury" still legible,
from having been also written in German text, though
with a less practised hand. The latter had been iden-
tified by the mother as Lucy's own writing.

The present condition of the book, taken in connection
with Mrs. Calloran's conduct in regard to it, made it
probable that it was in her house that it had been given •
to the fire.

Moreover she would not answer a plain question
whether she had seen the missing maiden since Friday
morning.

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THE NEW PRIEST.

— " But she contrived to tell different stories about the
Prayer-book," said the Minister ; " why shouldn't she, —
if she had occasion, — about seeing Lucy Barbury ? "

" Sometimes they won't lie to a straightforward ques-
tion ; and they'll lie fast enough, of their own tongue :
and then the Priest was there that time, and he wasn't,
the other."

" You're too severe upon J.loman Catholics," said Mr.
Wellon.

" Not upon her sort o' Roman Catholics," answered the
constable; " I know 'em, sir, — too well."

" We seem to have traced her to just about that place,"
said Mr. Wellon, musing ; — " so far she seems to have
gone on her own feet, — and alone."

— " And there they picked her up, when she fell down,"
said the constable, " and then those nuns carried her off."

" What nuns ? "

" Tliat Cap'n Nolesworth saw ; and this Yankee, — Mr.
Banks, they call un, sir, — he was prying about there, last
night, just when these nuns were going away from the
house. When he was telling his story he said they car-
ried something ; and so I followed un up. He couldn't
tell what it was, for the night was dark ; but there were
two or three women, and carrying something among 'em
down the Worrell, there. Being a stranger, he didn't
want to be brought in, he said; 'twould knock up his
business."

" It's a pity he hadn't helped carry her down, while he
was about it ! " said the Parson ; " and then we should
have had some better evidence."

" Then there's Cap'n Nolesworth knows what he*s
about ; and he come right across their punt, and had a
good look at it, with his lantern. They pulled for dear

WHICH WAY SUSPICION LEAPS.

169

life : but he says he's sure he saw somebody they were
holding up. — That's how her cap got down there," con-
cluded the constable.

The Minister was struck with Gilpin's statement, which
was confirmed, slightly, by the few circumstances and
facts of the case within their knowledge.

" But," said he, " there's no proof, and who do you
suppose is at the bottom of it ? "

" I believe Granny Calloran is, sir ; and that priest,
Father Nicholas." Mr. Wellon smiled. — " And then
that new priest just coming here ! " exclaimed the con-
stable.

" It's a * popish plot,' with a vengeance ! " said the
Minister; "with priests and nuns and all. But what
should she do it for ? and what should the priests and
nuns be concerned in it for ? "

" If Granny Calloran got a fair chance at one of Mrs.
Barbury's daughters, — ay, and one that young Urston
was leaving their priesthood for, — she'd do it fast enough,
sir, I'll go bail. She'd steal 'em to make Romans of 'em ;
and she'd steal her to get her out of his way ; and the
priests and nuns 'd be ready enough to lend a hand at
that work, and no mi^itake. 'Twas only t'other day there
was that case at home, in Lancashire."

" Ay, but Lucy can't have conspired with them," said
the Minister, upon whom Gilpin's convictions made some
impression ; — " if there's any thing sure on earth ! "

" I can't say for that, sir," said Gilpin ; but then, cor-
recting himself, did justice to Lucy, without injustice to
his argument. " Oh no ! " said he, " if there's truth on
earth, she's got it ; but she's been crazy, by spurts, ever
since she was sick, you know, sir."

" To be sure," answered the Parson ; " but she hasn't

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THE NEW PRIEST.

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run away every day ; and I don't suppose these nuns
have been over, every day ; and they happened, some
how, to be just in time."

" So they might, sir, they might ; just as it happened
there was nobody with Lucy, and nobody in the way, on
the whole path. The nuns were there, any way, sir ; and
Lucy was down there, — Jesse saw her on the road ; — and
there's her Prayer-book, — come out o' the house ; and the
nuns carried something down ; and you found her cap
down below ; and there was the one Cap'n Nolesworth
saw in the punt," answered the constable, summing u}),
very effectively ; " and Granny Calloran afraid to answer,
till the priest told her how ; and doing her worst not to
let me have that book ; and he helping her."

" How do you mean ' telling her how to answer ? ' "
" I asks her, ' Have you seen Mr. Barbury's daughter,
since yesterday morning?' three times; and she puts me
off Avith Irish palaver ; and then he says, ' you needn't
keep 'em waiting, Mrs. Calloran; you can tell whether
you know where she is ; ' and so she says, fast enough,
'No; I don't know, any more than I knows where ihe
Injin.:. is ;' or ' the wild Injins.'"

" Do you think young Urston is concerned ? "
" I don't think he is, sir ; he doesn't seem like it. He
didn't seem to be one of 'em t'other day. He's very much
cut up, and he's been out all night ; but that isn't all.
When I saw things looking that way, I thought I'd make
one of 'em, if I could, while that priest was there ; and
I got one ear in among 'em, far enough."

" The priest talked very serious to the young man, and
said ' he was sorry for his disappointment ; it seemed a
visitation of God,' he said. ' Now he'd find he couldn't
set his heart on earthly things ; and the only way was to

!'' ■•

WHICH WAY SUSPICION LEADS.

171

H ( ■

md
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lln't
to

fly to God while the wound was fresh ; to think of his
promises ; and to think what he'd cast away.' He said
' others had been through it ; ' (and it seemed as if iie'd
cry, while he was about it ;) ' but,' he said, ' they'd found
the balm,' or ' the myrrh ' ; and then he came to busi-
ness, and told un ' to-morrow was the very day for un to
go to St. John's ; and he'd go along with un, and there
was a glorious path for un.* INIrs. Calloran only vexed
un, with telling him how Protestants despised un."

" You listened to some purpose," said the Parson.

"• Well, sir, I'd good reason."

"And how did he take it all ? "

" He told the priest ' he was sorry to disappoint un ;
but his mind was made up, and he'd given over b(Mng a
priest ; ' and then there was a stir among 'em, and I come
away, and in two or three minutes the priest was riding
away home."

The Minister sate a little while in thought, and then
said : —

" If they carried her away, it's a very strange thing !
There seems certainly a clue as Hue as a spider's web,
leading to that suspicion."

" It looks as plain as a ship's wake to me, sir," said
Gilpin, his eye shining like the star that guides sailors on
a tiackless sea.

" But what can we make of it, beyond suspicion ? "

" If we had a magistrate that " the constable began,

in a tone of small observance towards the greater official
under or around whom he moved.

" We've ffot a magistrate," said the Parson, smiling,
taking the words as if there had not been a " that " at
their end ; " and we must get all this before him. Will
you go to Mr. Naughton, and tell him what you've seen

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THE NEW PRIEST.

M il

and heard ? and I'll make a memorandum of what we've
been over to-night, to serve, if there's occasion."

" And we'd better not talk, sir, I suppose ? "

" Oh 1 no. Is that Mr. Bangs, the American, to be
had, if he's wanted ? " asked Mr. Wellon.

" He's going to set up a shop here, in fall, I believe,
sir. I shouldn't wonder if he'd gone down to Bay Har-
bor (whatever he's after) : — he asked me if I thought he
could do a little trading with the priests, there. — And
Cap'n Nolesworth's at Bay Harbor, by this time."

" Well, then, we can't do any more, now ; but Chris-
tian men mustn't forget to pray. If any thing turns up,
to-morrow, please let me know it."

The constable had something more upon his mind, and
presently said, as he rose to go (but he said it with hesi-
tation, as if it were not of his business) : —

" I suppose you heard about this new priest and the
widow-lady, Mrs. Berry, sir ? More than one thing goes
on at once, in this world."

" I don't know," the Minister answered.

" There's stories going about the harbor, that they've
had meetings, down at some Roman Catholic's, — in Mad
Cove, they say, — and passed some high words ; but it's
very likely, only people's talk. They say one of 'em
seems to have some sort of claim upon the other, or
they're relations, or something. Some says it's about
some great fortune ; that he's her brother, and wants to
get all away to give to his Church. (They say he looks
like her.) I hears he got into a great passion and was
very abusive, and she just as gentle as a ?amb ; but I don't
believe that of him, for Skipper George and everybody
gives un a good name for being very civil-spoken, and
kind in' his way."

WHICH WAY SUSPICION LEADS.

173

"I don't believe it, either; but I know that they're
related — probably, nearly. He does look like her : I'd
forgotten. — Now, you'll tell me, to-morrow, if any thing
happens, please. Good-night ! "

The day's work was done, and the week's ; but there
lay over a heavy burden for the coming time to bear.

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THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE DAY FOR REST.

(TI'^ N the next day, Sunday, it may well ho tliought
^^ -. B that the churcli showed signs of g(MU'ral sorrow ;
^ \./ tidings had come from every quarter, and nothinf^
CO aid be heard of Lucy Barbury. Before the flag (which
hjrd not, that morning, flung its white cross abroad upon
the fresh air, but had hung henvily) was hauled down,
the little parties, by land and waiter, gathered, anxious
and agitated-looking, instead of wearing the Day's peace ;
and silently and straight down the road, with his broad
head bowed, came Skipper George, without his wife, and
escorted by Jesse Hill and Isaac Maffen on the one side,
and Mr. Skilton (the second smith) on the other. Sev-
eral women, of liis family and neighbors, followed him in
silence. As the brave man came to the point at which
he was to (urn up from the road to the church-door, he
gave on< glance over to the sea, and one over the land ;
then, ai if forgetting h^aself, took off his hat in the open
air. At the instant, every man's luad was silently un-
covered, and every woman drop})ed a silent courtesy.

It had been customary to chant the Canticles and
Doxology, as well as to sing the Metre-psalms and
Hymns ; but this day, the chief bass (Skipper Charlie)
was not in his place. Mr. Piper's violin, — which, for love

THE DAY FOR REST.

175

of tho, ownor, a {rood-naturod Irishman, was allowed to
s(!t tho pitch and go with tin; voices, — did not appear;
and (what was tho great want) tluire was no Iieai't for
singing. Even the Clerk, Mr. Williamson, trying to
l(!ad, hroko down. The answering of tho people was
more full than nsual ; and when the priest, at the peti-
tion " to su(H!or, help, and comfort all that ar(^ in danger,
necessity, av.d trihulation," added, "especially Oeoi'ge
liarbnry, our hrother, and his family," thus binding their
special soitow to tho [)ray(;r of millions, juid of ages, the
great voice of the, congregation trembled ; and again, at
tho next [)etilion, for them that travel by sea or land,
there was a general feeling, as if a wind from the deep
Bay or dreary ]5arrens had blown in. So morns w(mt by
at church, sadly. Tiio Minister preached, out of his heart,
about the Lord's having all in his hand.

After tlje forenoon service, Jesse edged himself up to
the JNIinister, and said : —

'^ 'Ko could n' 'ave e'er a funeral sarvice, could 'ee, sir,
for Uncle George, to comfort un up, a bit ? "

Gilpin was near enough to hear, (indeed, good J('sse
looked aside to him, during the saying of it, fur his suf-
i'rage,) and the eye of the constable twinkled ; but he did
not smile at the honest fellow's mistake.

" Please God, we may find her alive yet, Jesse," said
he.

" I wish we mought, indeed, Mr. Gulpin," returned the
fisherman ; " but 1 don't think it."

Isaac MafFen shook his head, in melancholy confirma-
tion.

" You won't forget Mrs. Barre," said Miss Dare, to the
Minister, when she had opportunity.

Gilpin followed the magistrate, Mr. Naugliton ; and,

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TIIR NEW PRIEST.

having come to speech with him, began to lay his case
before him.

" It '11 be cleared up, Charles," said the magistrate, sen-
tentiously, by the time they got to the solid part of it.

" Not without taking the law to it, I'm thinking, sir,**
said Gilpin.

" You couldn't do any thing about it on Sunday," an-
swered the stipendiary.

" It isn't a civil prossess, you know, sir ; it's criminal.'*

" That depends upon what it's called," said the magis-
trate ; "but I'm obliged to go away, as soon as possible,
out of the harbor. If there's any thing to be done, I'll
attend to it when I come back. I shall act deliberately."

So saying, the Stipendiary hurried through his own
gate.

Gilpin looked after him, a moment, with a curious twist
on his lips ; then, nodding his head, as if he knew of
another way, went up the harbor. Mr. Naughton's house
was apart from the road, and near the cliff on which Ihe
flagstaff stood.

The constable passed the drung * that led up to his
forge and dwelling, and keeping on, to Mr. Worner's,
knocked at the door, and asked for Miss Dare.

He took off his hat, and scratched his head with his
forefinger, in the presence of the young lady ; and then,
having obtained leave to speak with her a moment, on
important business, he changed her astonishment into
extreme agitation, by saying, " I've come about Skipper
George's daughter, please, Miss Dare."

" What of her ? — Is she found ? — Is any thing heard
of her ? " she cried, turning paler than ever, but keeping
command of herself

* NaiTow way: OM English from the same source as throng.

, »>

THE DAY FOR REST.

177

" Not exactly. Miss ; but there's some track of her,
I believe. I think there's some liviiij;, and no j^rcat
ways otF, tiiat could tell about her, it' they were made
to."

" Well, I know you've got plenty of honest hearts and
hands to help you : but if money is needed, or will do
any thing, don't spare it. It Avon't be wanting : — and do
follow out the least thing, won't you ? I wish I could do
something more about it."

" I'll try and do my part, with a heart and a half," said
the constable ; " and there is something, JNIiss, if you'll
excuse me for thinking of it ; — it's a little unconnnon,
I know. If you'd only just please to speak to Mr.
Naughton, and get un to do something."

" But I'm not the person," said the young lady, " to
speak to Mr. Naughton about his duty."

" It looks strange, I know," answered the constable ;
" but Mr. Naughton isn't like everybody. I've hcvn to
un about it, and I couldn't do any thing with un. * IIo
hadn't time : he was called away.' I knows un. He'll
be out o' the harbor in half an hour."

" But the Minister would be the proper person to speak
to him."

" It's a busy day with his reverence," said Gilpin ;
" and besides, Miss, there's no time to lose ; he'll be along,
directly."

" But wtiat am I to try to do ? "

" To get' him to take up some parties that are sus-
pected, please, Miss Dare."

" What ! not of murderinff her ! "

" No, Miss ; I don't know what's been done to her."

"Well, I don't want to think about it, till we know
something more ; but if I can do any thing, I'm sure I

VOL. I. 12

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THE NEW I'RIEST.

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will, with all my heart, as you say. Certainly I'll speak
to INIr. Naii;»hton, if that's tl»e case."

" Thank you, Miss ; and I'll go out the hack way, if
you please ; he mustn't know that I was here."

After the constahle's {le[)arture. Miss Dare stationed
herself near the garden fence hy the road, and presently
the solid, flat horse-tramp, which hrings to the mind in-
stinctively the image of a man rising and falling in the
saddle, on a very hard and slow-going beast, came to her
ear. After a time, the horse and his rider made their ap-
pearance, the latter seeming to be getting on faster than
the former, except that he never got over his head.
Which saw Miss Dare first, (for, though there was some
shrubbery, there were no trees of any consccpience on
Mr. Worncr's premises,) cannot be said ; the effects on
each were simultaneous. Mr. Naughton did not let it
appear that he was conscious of her presence, unless in-
voluntarily, by coloring and looking more deliberately to
each side of the road than usual, and by unusual atten-
tion (between whiles) to his steed. It seemed to him
proper to go over that part of the road (which was level,
with the fence on one side and storehouses on the other)
with a sidling, curveting, prancing, and other ornamental
horsemanship ; and he sat up for it and reined in for it.
Meantime the horse (men called him, familiarly, " Donk,"
from a certain sparseness of hair upon his tail) was will-
ing to sidle, — made one duck with his head towards the
curveting, (and, in so doing, got the bit between his
teeth,) but wished to dispense with the prancing, as a
vain and superfluous performance. His notion seemed
to be that the sidle might be made useful as well as orna-
mental, and might bring them, up to the fence wliere the
young lady stood ; and then he could nibble the grass, or

THE DAY FOR REST.

179

shut liis eyo^ and in('<litato, while tlie two human beings
amused their, ^f'lves with eonversation.

The beast succeeded : Mr. Naup;liton put the ])eat grace
upon it that he could, and sat up on his steed, a short
man, with small eyes and large whiskers.

Miss Dare's address to the maj'istrate gave no evidence
of her having seen any thing ridiculous in his progress.

" You're not going away just now, of all times, Mr.
Naugliton, surely," said she, " when you're the only mag-
istrate ? "

" Am I to flatter myself, then, tl ny going or stay-
ing is of any consequence to Miss Diue?"

" Certainly ; and to every body in the [dace."

" I knew a magistrate was of some little consequence
to the state and to the community," returned the stipen-
diary, gracefully ; " but I wasn't aware that my going or
coming was of so much importance."

" "What ! " when this di'eadful case of Lucy Barbury
stands as it does, and when some persons are suspected ?
Who's to do any thing, if the magistrate's not ? "

" I'm of opinion that it won't be necessary to invoke
the law," said Mr. Naughton. " I think not."

" I don't know what you mean by ' invoking the law,' "
said Miss Dare ; " but if you mean doing something ."

" It isn't to be expected that ladies should comprehend
the abstract province of the law ; that seems rather a
perquisite of the sterner sex," said Mr. Naughton,
" How do you like the new chancel arrangements, Miss
Dare ? "

" Oh ! I can't talk about ecclesiology. I didn't si3e any
thing ; but if any body's to be taken up, does your com-
mission extend so far ? Or must they send to Sandy-
Harbor, or Bay-Harbor ? "

W-

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180

THE NEW PRIEST.

" My commission is of the most extensive description
— ^I could arrest any man in this harbor " — answered the
magistrate, sitting up straight and drawing in his breath,
" It's under the Broad Seal."

'* Now, if any thing can be done in this case, " she

said, seriously.

" The majesty of the law will be vindicated ! " said the
stipendiary, with emphasis. The worst part of him, by
the way, was outside, in every one's sight and hearing.

" Then you're not going away, are you ?" said Miss Dare.

" It was important for me to leave the harbor, not-
withstanding it's Sunday ; but within an hour I shall be
back. What we do must be done deliberately, but firmly.
I think we can satisfy the moral sense of the community
and Miss Dare."

" There can be only one feeling in the community," said
the young lady, as Mr. Naughton drew suddenly up the
rein, to resume his progress.

Animation seemed to be diffused through the body of
the quiescent Donk by electricity, (though not so fast as
lightning,) for the memorable tail went up by a jerk, like
that of the more intelligent member, to which the bridle
was attached, though with a slight interval. Mr. Naugh-
ton, this time, attempted no caracoling or capricoling, but
studied to combine the several wills of man and beast on
one continuous (and pretty rapid) motion. If he did not
at once nor entirely succeed, even with frequent sharp
spurring. Miss Dare was not there to see.

At Evensong, the magistrate was in iiis place at
church; half an hour afterward, having briefly listened
to Charles Gilpin, he issued the decided order : —

" You'll bring those parties before me by ten o'clock
to-morrow moraing."

THE DAY FOR REST.

ISl

" I shall want a warrant, you know, sir," said Gilpin.

Whether the stipendiary had forgotten, or wished to
consult his "Justices' Assistant," he maintained his dig-
nity, and, at the same time, the symmetry of his arrange-
ments.

" You'll call for that at ten o'clock this evening,'*
said he.

ill

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182

THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER XX.

SUSPECTED PERSONS.

E pass to the next day, the vane of suspicion
having, within twenty-four hours, (though no
man could say that any wind had been blowing)
got round, and pointed straight to Mr. Urston's house.

On the Sunday afternoon, young Urston had been at
church, and, after service, Skipper George had called the
young man to himself, and walked with him quite over to
the Backside. He was not suspected; but rumors had
got about that three females went away in the punt, in
which only two had come.

On this Monday morning, that sound so interesting to
boys and men, of hammer ringing upon anvil was not
heard at Skipper Charhe's smithy; nor that other, of
blended human voices, telling, asking, speculating upon
the news or gossip of the place ; for here, where are no
barbers shops or coffee-houses, every thing that is to be
told and heard is brought to the smith's forge, and, be-
ing heated hot, is laid upon the anvil, pounded, turned,
and pounded into a final shape. The smith and con-
stable himself, — whose manifold name of Gilpin, Galpin,
Gulpin, might remind one of the derivation, Nipkin —
napkin — diaper — draper — tailor, or the more classic
dl^Ttt]^ — 7ti^ — pax — puX — fUC!)lS — pox — was, at about
eight o'clock, walking quickly, with several companions,

SUSPECTED PERSONS.

Ids

■ i

along a path that led from near his house downward on
the Backside. With him were William Frank, commonly
called Billy Bow, Zebedee Marchant, Nathan Marchant,
Jesse Hill, and Isaac Maffen, who had severally (except
the last two) fallen in behind him at different points,
like the involuntary followers in some of the German

" Can 'ee walk in ef the door shouldn' be open, Skip-
per Charlie ? " asked Billy Bow, who was considered a
great humorist by his neighbors.

" It'll go hard if I can't get into e'er a house that's got
a door or window, open or shut," answered the constable.

" 'E's got to keep the king's peace," said Billy Bow ;
" an' I'm afeared 'e'U get it broke mto a good many pieces."

" Ef the constable kicks up e'er a rout, boys," said one
of the others, " 'e've got a good many craft in tow, that
can keep un from hurting 'isself."

" It would'n' be good subjecks, an' show respec' to the
king, ef we didn' favor 'e's constables, after 'e's abin and
tookt the trouble to appoint 'em, an' *e's trusty an' well-
beloving yeoman, Mr. Charles Gulpin, petic'lar ; we mus*
give 'em a chance to do their dooty, 'ee knows. Skipper
Charlie," said another of the posse comitatus,

" Let me ketch ye givin' me a chance, (without there's
good cause for it,) and I'll do my dooty on you, very
quick," returned Skipper Charlie.

With such simple attempts at wit, did the quiet and
good-natured Newfoundlanders follow their " officer ; " and
with such downright authority did the officer maintain the
dignity of the law and the constabulary. Other topics
also occupied them : Jesse was engaged in literary criti-
cism ; having listened at the window of the Wesleyan
Meeting-house, at a funeral, and then given, to a Wes-

i ■

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184

THE NEW PRIEST.

leyan friend who asked it, the opinion he was now repeat-

ing :-

"'Abner,* I says, * there was text out of Scripture,
sure,' I says, * an' a little about how we ought to do,' I
says; *jus' like anybody; an' then varses an' scraps o*
poultry, an* such ; an* then more, agen, an' so on ; but 'e
wasn' a proper-growed sarmun, at all,' I says ; * not what
I calls proper-growed.' So then he couldn' say nothin' ;
when I tolled un that, 'e couldn* '*

" Come, Jesse, he couldn't answer yow," said the con-
stable. " Now, you half, go across here, — (1 don't want
any more ; if any comes, send 'em back,) — and, when ye
git within hail o' the house, bring up, all standing, and
lay to ; an* don*t stir tack nor sheet, till I tells ye. They'll
be just about coming in from the water.'*

So — giving his orders, like a good general, in his peo-
ple's familiar tongue — Gilpin went on with the other half
of his followers. Presently, he sent off a second detach-
ment, with like instructions. Wliile still n good way off
the place, he and his companions were astonished at see-
ing in front of them, going fast in the same direction, the
tall, strong figure of the bereaved father.

" We'll follow un, without sayin' any thing," said Gil-
pin ; and accordingly, on overtaking him, they kept
quietly in his rear.

On Skipper George's becoming aware of his being fol-
lowed, he turned about.

" Save ye, kindly, nighbors ! '* said he. " Ef *ee *m
goun for company, it's proper kind of 'ee to take part wi'
a poor,' afflicted man, lookun for 'e's loss. I've ahard
they knows somethun o' my. dear maid at Mister Urs-
ton's, — I can' think it ! I can' think it ! — an' I'm goun to
ask un in plain words. — I can' think it ! I've asid fine

1I!|

SUSPECTED PERSONS.

185

children tookt from me ere now, (an' 'E's got good right !)
an' it's 'E's will, most like, to take she."

He said no more ; and they, in their way, comforted
him : —

"Mubbe we'll find her again. Skipper George, for
all."

They came silently to the door, and the father knocked.
When he entered, Gilpin, and Frank, and Jesse Hill, and
Isaac, went in as his companions. The opposite door of
the house was just closing upon " the new priest," Mr.
Debree.

" Do 'ee know any thing about my maid, — that's Lucy
Barbury ? " the father said, in a voice scarcely articulate.

The only occupant of the room remaining was Mrs.
Calloran.

" Is this Misther Barbury, thin ? " she asked, somewhat
agitated at the invasion of so many men, — ^most of whom
were not very friendly-looking.

" You ought to know un well enough, if you don't know
un," said the constable.

"But I didn' come about any thing, only my dear
maid," said Skipper George, beseechingly ; " ef *ee knows
any thing about her. Have 'ee hard ? "

"I'd best call himself," said Mrs. Calloran; "he's just
at the Worrell, beyont."

" Ay ! call un, please," said the constable ; adding, as
she passed out of hearing, " but, if anybody knows any
thing, you're the one, I'm thinking."

The father, while they waited, stood with his face
against his hand upon the wall ; his grizzled locks looking
so innocent and touching, that, as William Frank said
afterwards, " a body could sca'ce look at un wi* dry eyes ;
it was so feelun, like."

I 1 1

(

186

THE NEW PRIEST.

'1/

Mr. Urston came in very frankly, showing no surprise
at the number of persona present, and answered, before
he was asked the question, " that he did not know where
Mr. Barbury's daughter was ; he wished he did ; he
wouldn't keep it to himself long.'*

Skipper George, who had turned round at the sound
of footsteps, sank heavily down into a chair. It was
evident, from the effect of these words upon his feelings,
that, in spite of himself, he had not only feared but hoped
something from this visit, and that the hope was now
smitten within him.

" Look to un, some of ye I " cried Gilpin. " Plandle
un gently."

" N'y lovies," said Skipper George, catching his
breath, as if he had been through a severe struggle in the
waves, " thankee ! Whatever was o' George Barbury, —
thank God ! thank God ! — it bides here yet ; on'y two
tarrible heavy blows on the same place, — that's lossing
'er before, an' now, agen, lossin' that false, foolish hope, —
have abrought me doAvn. I'm a poor, sinful Christen ;
but I am a Christen, an' I can get up. — ^I believes 'ee,
Mister Urston ; I'm sorry to trouble *ee ; but 'ee knows
I've alossed my child/ Some thinks 'ee'd want to turn
her from her religion ; but, ef 'ee had e'er a chance, *ee
wouldn' make a cruel trial of her dear, tender heart, nor
her faith in the dear Saviour she loved an' sarved sunce
ever she knowed 'E's blessed name ! Would 'ee ? "

There was something very affecting in this speech and
the father's tears that accompanied it.

Mr. Urston said that " if ever he should hear of her, or
find her, or any trace of her, the father should hear of it
as soon as he could get the word to him ; " and he said it
with much feeling. " They were of a different religion,

SUSPECTED PERSONS.

187

perhaps, but not of a different nature. He felt for him
from the bottom of his heart."

" Her faith's nothing that can be turned about," said
James Urston. " It would go through 6re unhurt."

At this, Mrs. Calloran made some remark aside, which
could not be overheard. Skipper George thanked the
young man, and rose to go, declining, kindly, the hospit-
able invitations urged upon him.

" Go with un, Jesse," said Skipper Charlie ; and Jesse
and his adherent went out with him.

" Now, I've got a bit of disagree'ble dooty to perform,"
said the constable, as he proceeded quickly to lay his hand
upon one after another of those present, and to arrest
them.

" This is my Warrant," said he. " I'm doing my dooty,
and I'll do it as civilly as I know how. I'm commanded
to have the bodies of Bridget Calloran, and Thomas
Urston, and James, ' before me, the worshipful Ambrose
Naughton, Esquire, Stipendiary Magistrate, &c. &c.; as
witness my hand and seal of office.' "

Gilpin's proceeding astounded Mr. Urston and his son,
and was very exciting to all present ; to whom capiases,
and warrants, and writs, are strange things. Even the
smile with which Gilpin (who was more familiar with
such things — theoretically, at least — ) read Mr. Naugh-
ton's indirect assertion of his official dignity, did not take
from the excitement.

" Sure, an' is this English law, thin, that they brag
about ? Bring up their bodies to examine thim ! Kill
thim first, an' try thim afler ! " exclaimed Mrs. Calloran.
"Is this the way it is wid yes? an' is this Protestant
justice ? Sure, it's small justice ye can do an a corrupa I
And do you raJy many to kill us, thin, ar what ? "

mr^'

188

THE NEW PRIEST.

/.'

^ Mrs. Cnllomn wns ready to contend with her tongue,
as in the (Micounter of two days before ; but a look from
Mr. Urston,— who acted and spoke with a self-possession
and dignity that contrasted strongly with his surround-
ings,— put her to silence.

" Ho could not understand this most extraordinary pro-
ceeding," ho said, " and knew no more of ' abducting or
carrying away ' Mr. Barbury's daughter, than the father
did } but would make no resistance to a legal warrant."

For Mr. Barbury's sake, he begged that his premises
might bo thoroughly searched. The constable complied ;
but the soaroh found nothing.

Mrs. Calloran's submission in Mr. Urston's presence,
could not prevent her crying out at this point, —

"Will ye sind for the praste, thin? Sind for the
praste 1 There's Father Ignashis is at Misther O'Rourke's
beyant; they'll niver deny us the sacramints from our
own clargy ! Will ye sind for the praste ? "

" May bo we'll have to send for them bimebye," said
Gilpin aside. He then comforted Mrs. Calloran with an
assurance, " that she should hang like a Christen, if she
was found guilty."

The preparations for going were soon made ; the con-
stable assuring his prisoners that, at any rate, they could
come home a bit after the examination, even if the magis-
trate should commit them. So they set forth for the wor-
shipful magistrate's presence.

One ailor another of Gilpin's former escort made his
appearance by the way. Jesse Hill, also, and Isaac
Maffen reappeared.

Mr. Urston complimented the constable upon his gen-
eralship ; but assured him that he didn't want so much
help. ,

SUSPECTED PERSONS.

189

" It's goo<l to have enough of a good thing," said the
constable, glancing with his one eye over his troops.
" William, you take command o' these limbs o' the law,
will ye ? Keep about two or three cables' length astern,
if ye know how much that is ; or as much more as ye
like."

So Billy Bow took charge of the posse, except Jesse
and Isaac (who, with the constable, made one for each
prisoner). These attached themselves to the immediate
escort, and were not meddled with. Jesse and Isaac
were two important witnesses.

Near the bush, from behind which Jesse had seen his
apparition come forth, the new Priest was lingering to
meet the approaching party. Jesse, at sight of him,
bristled, a good deal like a sturdy mastiff, and Isaac felt
contagious animosity. Mrs. Calloran expressed herself by
tongue.

" Don't look at us, yer riverence. Father Ignatius," she
said, though he could not hear her, and could only have
seen the zealous and eager courtesy that she dropped,
afar off; " don't look at the way they treat us for being
Catholics."

"You may as well keep a stopper on your tongue,
while you're my prisoner," said Gilpin, peremptorily.
" I've heard a good name of this gentleman ; and I don't
want to bring un into trouble for meddling with an officer
in the execution of his warrant."

Father Debree stood quite unmoved at the evidently
hostile expression of the escort ; or, at least, if not un-
moved, his face did not lose any thing of its very hand-
some openness and dignity. His manner, however, was
agitated.

He saluted the prisoners and constable, and even Jesse

' * I

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190

THE NEW PRIEST.

and Isaac, who U ked gruff and implacable, exceedingly,
and scarcely returned the salutation. Tlte constable,
though not cordial or over-courteous, kept himself from
showing any active dislike. The Priest addressed him in
a very prepossessing voice, —

** I think you're the constable, — Mr. Gilpin, — are you
not?"

" I'm constable, sir, for want of a better," said Skipper
Charlie ; " and blacksmith, too."

" May I have a moment's conversation with you ? "

" Not about my prisoners ; I'm going with 'em to the
magistrate's. You can go along, sir, if you please," said
Gilpin, but falling, at the same time, in the rear.

" You mistake me," said the Priest ; " I've no wish to
interfere between you and your prisoners. If I could
be of any service, in a proper and lawful way, to any
one whose friend I ought to be, I'm sure you wouldn't
blame it ; but I want to ask if you have found any
thing to throw a light on Skipper George's daughter's
fate?"

" I hope we shall find out about it," said the constable,
ambiguously.

"Are these prisoners arrested on suspicion of being
connected with it ? "

"It'll appear on their examination, sir," answered
Gilpin.

" I don't wish to ask any improper question ; but I
know the father, and I know her, and I know them, and
feel very much interested ; — I ask as a friend."

Gilpin's one sharp eye had been fixed on the speaker's
face.

" I don't think it was Protestants have made way with
her," said he.

SUSPECTED PERSONS.

191

" You don't auppose she's been murdered ! " cxclaiuied
the Priest.

" I can't say what's been done to her, sir," said Gilpin,
more softened ; " but it looks bhick."

" But what motive could these people have?" asked
Fath(!r Debree, much agitated.

"There might be motives," said Gilpin; "but I can't
say about that. There's reasons for having them up."

" I'm very sorry to hear it," said the Priest ; " but ii* it
was the nearest friend I had on earth, though I would
do any thing to have justice, yet, if he were guilty, I
wouldn't move an eyelid, if it would save him from pun-
ishment. — But I can't think that any such crime has
been committed ; and I cannot believe that, if it had, Mr.
Urston here could be guilty."

" I hope not, sir," said the constable.

" My being a Roman Catholic Priest prevents your
trusting me ; but do you think that I cannot have any
regaid for right, or any feeling for that father? and for
any father who had lost his child? That's a little too
severe."

Gilpin, who was an honest, kind-hearted man himself,
was evidently moved by this appeal. The Priest ended
by saying, —

" Skipper George shall not want any effort of mine,
with the neighbors, (if I can do any thing,) to recover his
daughter." •

" I'm glad to hear you say that, sir," said Gilpin ; " a
man isn't a man that hasn't got a man's feelings. — I can't
say about J , Urston ; but the suspicion lay all round his
house ; and he's not the only one that lives in it."

As they drew near to the road, F'ather Debree wished
his companion " good morning ; " and let him pass on.

■ Jr

f 'if

192

THE NEW PRIEST.

1 )

CHAPTER XXI.

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION FROM WHICH SOMETHING

APPEAIio.

)HE magistrate's house, to the party now ap-
proaching it, looked as a house might look, which,
built in very ungainly style and of no large dimen-
sions, was dignified by its association with the magistracy,
and now clothed in all the awfulness of an official want
of animated life. Not much impression seemed to settle
upon " Mr. Gulpin," or his prisoners, who walked, with
little apprehension, up to the front door ; unmindful how
the gravel-stones were scattered from their heels ; but to
the valiant Jesse and the vahant Isaac an awful figure of
spectral personation of Authority or Infliction seemed to
possess the gate and plant its shadowy terrors directly in
the way. They drew off to each side ; accounting for
their movements by the remark : " He don't want none
of we yet, I don't suppose, do 'e ? "

On the arrival of a second squad, however, the first,
as if they had received a sudden summons, anticipated
the new-comers by a hasty movement, which brought
them to the door in time to make their way into the
kitchen ; while their official leader and his captives went,
under the guidance of Mr. Naughton's maid-of-all-work,
mto the presence of the magistrate ; if presence it could

■ f >

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION.

193

bt called, where he sate with his back broadly towards
them.

" Please your worshipful," said the usheress, " it*3 Mr.
Gulpin, sir ; wi* some that Vve caressed, most like, sir."

" Directly ! " answered the official voice ; which then
proceeded to read in a low tone, and hastily, out of some
book before him, " * both houses of parliament, and * — I
must look at that again ; seven hundred and twenty-
seventh page."

Meanwhile, the constable leaving his charge, for a mo-
ment, standing at the stipendiary's back, went out long
enough to give a message, of which the last words were
heard, as he enforced them : —

— " And mind ye, Jesse, bring un along : don't come
without un ; and come back as quick as you can."

The ermine, or other fur of the magistrate, set itself
up at this, and he intimated to his subordinate that * order
and silence were necessary at that investigation.' — With
a large dignity, he invited the Minister, who was entering,
to a seat.

Having, at length, received the constable's return, he
proceeded to business by ordering that officer to swear
the prisoners at the bar. Gilpin looked, with twinkling
eye, at his prisoners, and then at the magistrate :—

" What'U I swear 'em to, Mr. Naughton ? " he asked.

" There's a copy of the Holy Evangelists here," said
the stipendiary.

"I can find Bibles fast enough, sir: but they're not
witnesses."

** I may ask them some questions and desire their an-
swers to be under the solemn sanction of an oath," an-
swered the magistrate ; but when Mr. Urston had the
Sacred Volume held out to him, he decidedly objected ;

I* ^

•if "

■

VOL. I.

194

THE NEW PRIEST.

insisting that if he and the others were there as prison-
ers, they were not there as witnesses ; and desiring that
the accusation might be read, and the witnesses exam-
ined.

The magistrate assured him, with dignity, that that was
not the regular order of judicial proceedings, but that he
would waive the point.

Having, in his own way, made the prisoners acquainted
with the charge, he said, " There must be a record of the
proceedings of this court ! Mr. Williamson, you will act
as clerk. Constable, qualify Mr. Williamson, and sum-
mon the witnesses."

The constable having qualified the clerk, called " Jesse
Hill ! " but there was no answer ; and he called Jesse
Hill again, and again with no answer.

" I sent him after Mr. Banks," explained Gilpin.

" Sending one witness after another is quite irregular ;
I trust that it will not occur again. It will be my duty
to suspend the proceedings until you can produce Mr.
Hill, or Barbury."

At this moment, Mr. Naughton noticed Father Debree
near the door, attended by a shufiling of feet and a low
buzzing of the waiting public. The magistrate with
dignity invited him to a seat, but the Priest preferred
standing. Mr. Wellon attempted conversation with his
new neighbor, but found him this day so reserved or
preoccupied as to give little encouragement to the at-
tempt.

Mr. Wellon, during the absence of the constable, was
entertained by the stipendiary with an argument for
having a " lychnoscope " introduced, as a sacred accessory,
into the new chancel of the church ; the earnest advocate
for ecclesiological development claiming that the thing

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION.

195

ifor

)ry,
kate

was 80 old that its very object and purpose were entirely
unknown.

Gilpin, as he returned, with Jesse (and Isaac) behind
him, said, in an under voice, " I told un not to come with-
out Mr. Banks ; an' so he stuck to his orders. I found
un sitting on one rock and Isaac Maffen on another,
neither one of 'em sayin* a word."

The Stipendiary now crowned his brow with the awful
rigors of justice once more, and sat as the chief figure of
the scene. The witness, having been sworn, was ques-
tioned : —

" Mr. Barbury, proceed. Are you a witness ? "

" Is, sir, ef it's wantun, I'll tell what I knows."

The noise of heavy shoes on the feet of those of the
public furthest back in the entry, testified to the un^^^bated
interest with which Jesse's story was expected.

" What's your name ? is the first question."

Jesse was redder than usual ; but he saw his way, and
gladly opened his mouth.

" Oh ! 'ee wants it that w'y, do 'ee, sir ? * N or M '
is what it says."

" Ha ! you're not much acquainted with legal proceed-
ings," said the magistrate, throwing a sentence loaded
with about the usual amount of official wit, of about the
usual quality, and glancing at the Minister to see if he
took the joke.

" What is your name ? that's all," said he again, to the
simple-minded testifier.

" Jesse Barbury's my name, sir. I sposed 'ee knowed
that, sir ! "

" The Law knows nothing, Mr. Barbury. Our infor-
mation is from the evidence. Have you any alias, Mr.
Barbury?"

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196

THE NEW I'BIEST.

" No, sir ; I driukt a morsel o' tay, — Izik Maffen an*
me, sir, afore we corned ! " answered Jesse, mistaking the
magistrate's technicality.

"Are you ever called any thing else, the Law means."

" They calls me Hill, sir ; I suppose 'ee knows that,
8ir." .,. .,

" Mr. Barbury, what is your occupation ? "

" Fishun, sir, fishun."

" Have you any other occupation, Mr. Barbury ? "

" I follys the Church, sir, ef that's what 'ee manes."

" That's a respectable occupation," said the Parson,
parenthetically.

" Ah ! abstract questions seem to confuse the witness's
mind ; we will therefore come to the point. Mr. Bar-
bury, do you know any thing of this affair of Mr. George
Barbury's daughter, in connection with any of the pris-
oners at the bar ? "

" No, sir. Skipper George is my connexion, sir."

" Yes ; well, tell all you know."

" There, that won't take ye long, Jesse," said the con-
stable, by way of encouragement. " Go at it your own
way, Mr. Naughton means."

" Let us preserve decorum, Mr. Constable,'* said the
magistrate. " Let the witness proceed, without fear or
favor. Which side is he on ? "

" Are you for or against, Jesse ? " asked the constable.

" Oh ! agen harm comin to Lucy, surely, Mr. Gulpin."

If the solemnity and sadness connected with the maid-
en's loss did not prevail in this examination, it might have
consoled right-minded spectators to reflect that this whole
scene appeared entirely separated and apart from that
calamity, after it had proceeded a little while.

The witness being now encouraged to go on, (all diffi-

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION.

197

Lve
ole
lat

ffi-

culties being taken out of the way,) proceed i as follows,
the magistrate ostensibly neglecting to listen, and studi-
ously, with much flutter of leaves, comparing one place
with another in his great book.

" I was aw'y over, t'other side, a-jiggin squids, I was ;
and Izik Maffen was along wi' I ; and I says to un, ' Izik,*
I says, * 'ee knows Willum Tomes,' I says, ' surely.' * Is,
sure,' 'e says, * I does,' to me, agen. * Well, Izik,' I says,
* did 'ee hear, now, that 'e 've alossed 'e's cow ? ' I says."

The magistrate oflScially cleared his throat of some
irritation ; the Minister wiped his face with his handker-
chief, a circumstance that seemed to have an encouraging
effect upon the witness. He went on : —

" So Izik 'e says to I agen, * No, sure,' 'e says, * did un,
then, Jesse ? ' * Is, sure,' I says, * 'e've alossed she, surely.*
With that 'e up an' says to I, * A loss is a loss, Jesse,* *e
says. * That's true,' I says.'*

This moral reflection brought the Minister's handker-
chief suddenly to his face again. The constable received
the saying with less self-control, though it was as true as
any sentence of the Philosophers. William Frank, who
was further off, commented : " WuU, wisdom is a great
thing ; it's no use ! " — Jesse continued.

" ' Izik,' I says to un, agen, ' Izik,' I says, * do 'ee think,
now, would n' the squids do better a little furderer up ? '
I says. With that we takes an' rows up tow'rds River-
head, a bit. WuU, after bidin' there a spurt, I axes Izik
what e' thowt sech a cow as that might be worth. I

says

"You must remember, Mr. Barbury," interposed the
Stipendiary, " that the time of a magistrate is valuable,
not to speak of the time of the others that are here."

" Be 'e, now, sir ? " said the poor fellow, getting abashed,

ill

198

THE NEW PRIEST.

'(''

" SO 'e must be, surely ; that's a clear case. That's a'most
all I've agot to s'y, sir."

" Begin just where you're going to knock off, Jesse,"
suggested the constable.

" WuU, Mr. Gilpin, I were goun to tell about what I
sid myself."

"That's the very thing," said Mr. Naughton; "no
matter what you said, or what was said to you, you know."

With these directions, the witness paused a little, hand-
ling his sou'wester (hat).

" Whereabouts was we, Izik ? " he asked of his adju-
tant.

" 'Ee was talkun about the cow, Jesse, 'ee was," an-
swered Isaac, anxious that Jesse should do justice to
himself.

" Wull, sir." Then the straightforward witness for the
Crown began : " I was jest a sayin to Izik, I was "

" Your observations and those of your companion (or
friend) are of comparatively little consequence, Mr.
Barbury," said the magistrate, who must have had a
standard for estimating speech.

" He means, he doesn't care what you and Isaac said,"
the constable prompted.

" 'Is, sir, surely. Wull, Izik says to I "

" Never mind the sayins, you know," persisted the con-
stable.

The witness looked like some animal in an inclosUre ;
but he did hit upon the opening in it.

" Wall, sir, I sid a sorae'at all in white clothes a comin'
down Backside-w'y, (an' Izik Maffen, 'e sid the same, so
well ;) like a woman or a mayd, like, an' it corned right
along tull it goed right aw'y, like, I dono how. I never
gid no more of it."

/■

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION.

199

" Did you stop to look ? "

"Is, sir, surely ; I says to Izik, ' Izik,' I says, as soon
as ever I could speak, — for I was dumb-foundered entirely,
first goun off, — * Izik,' I says, ' Did *ee ever see 'e'er a
angel, Izik ? ' ' No, sure, Jesse,* he says, ' how should
I ? ' * Wull then,* I says, * that was a some'at looked
very like one, seeraunly, to ray thinkin,* I says, 'O,
Lordy ! ' he says — that's his way, you know, sir, — * what
'ave abecomed of 'un ? Jesse,' he says. ' Mubbe' I says,
* it was a goun somewhere, tull it sid we ; an' now it's
adone a doun of it, for a notion its ahad I says ; sartainly
we tookt svviles, of a Sunday, last spring,' I says. ' Hows-
ever,' I says, ' mubbe we'd best knock off now,' an' so we
done, sir, an' corned right home, sir, round the land-head.
That's all the witness I knows."

" You may retire, Mr. Barbury ; (unless any of the
prisoners at the bar desire to question you.")

This privilege the prisoners did not claim.

There was a monstrous discharge of pent-up breaths at
the conclusion of this evidence, showing that a good
many of Jesse's friends were in the passage communicat-
ing between the kitchen and the parlor, who felt that
Jesse had more than satisfied the highest expectations
that could have been formed about his testimony, and had
contributed to the fund of information which the magis-
trate was gathering, as wonderful an ingredient as any
that was likely to be produced that day. To his friends,
as he modestly withdrew from the blaze of importance,
he gave the information for the hundredth time, perhaps,
that it was Friday evening that this occurred ; that he
did not hail the apparition ; that it did not come witiiin
hail ; that " he shouldn't have a know'd what to say to
it, ef he'd a wanted to."

t i

200

THE NEW PRIEST.

" No more 'ee would'n ; that's a sure case," said Isaac
Maffeo.

"Any evidence as to the credibility of Mr. Barbury
and his friend, will now be admissible/* said the magis-
trate, with uigiiity tempered by condescension.

"Haw! H — " burst from the constable, very un-
timely ; a laugh cut off in the middle.

Mr. Wellon, at this point withdrew.

" Call the next witness I " said the magistrate, waiving
further interruption.

" I dono how to call un, exactly ; I believe his name is
Naathan ; but he's got an ' L,' stuck before it, I thinks,
from the way he spoke it."

" L., Nathan Banks ! L., Nathan Banks ! " Gilpin

called, making his comment also. " Well, if that isn't a
way of writing a name I I've sid L's and D's stuck at
the end, but sticking 'em at the beginning 's noos to
me."

Our readers have seen the world some days farther on
than Gilpin had, and are familiar enough with a fashion
of which Mr. Bangs, whose name happened to be El-
nathan, was quite innocent.

Mr. Bangs did not appear. " I thought surely he'd turn
up, as he did t'other night," said Gilpin. " I didn't tell
un he'd be summonsed ; but he's got a sharp nase."

" I understood that Mr. Wellon could testify," said the
stipendiary.

"Ay; but without Mr. Banks you can't weld the
evidence together, sir."

" You'd best summon him ; and that point can be de-
termined." i

" 'E's just out in Tom Fielden's house," timidly sug-
gested Nathan, or Zebedee, or some one of them, not

ifr.

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION.

201

thinking his voice fit to intrude in so awful a presence.
" 'E went there, however, a bit sunce."

" Present my compliments to him then, please, one of
you ; * compliments of his worship, the Stipendiary MagivS-
trate, to the Reverend Mr. Wellon,' and ask if he'll
please to step here for a few momenta."

The " one " who undertook this errand must have had
an unusual number of feet, or of shoes upon his feet, if
one judged by the multitudinous clatter that followed.

The Minister, on coming in again, gave his short
account of finding the little cap at the Worrell ; and that
was all. The stipendiary spoke : —

" The evidence just received may go towards establish-
ing the nature of the crime by which Mr. Barbury'a
daughter has been assailed; but, in my judgment, it would
be insufficient to fix the guilt with unerring certainty upon
any individual."

" I shall proceed to examine the remaining witnesses ? "

The case had assumed an entirely different look, since
the beginning of this investigation, from that which it had
worn when tlie Parson and the constable put together
their facts and conjectures, like bits of a torn letter. In
the present condition of things, Gilpin's evidence about
the Prayer-book, and Mrs. Calloran, and Father Nicholas,
amounted to little, unless in its effect upon the public
within hearing; an effect testified to by moving of feet,
hard breathing, whispers, and low-toned remarks. Cap-
tain Nolesworth was not called.

Mr. Urston was indignant at the listening which Gilpin
confessed to, and which the latter justified by the grounds

of suspicion

existmg

agamst

Mrs. Calloran, at least.

The Stipendiary Magistrate took a new view of the case
at this point : " That, being the trusted depositary of jus-

:•

202

THK NEW I'KIEST.

l< ''

tico, ho Imd consulted the convictions of tlie community
in eutoring upon this Investigation ; but that, as impor-
tant witnt^ssos for the crown were absent, and the pris-
onor« at tliC bar asserted their own innocence, he judged
it best, employing that discretion which the crown and
nation necessarily bestowed upon the administrators of
the Law, to postpone the farther examination for one
calendar month ; in the mean time binding over the pris-
oners nt the bar to keep the peace with sufficient
sureties."

Mr. Urston very pertinently suggested that "until
some sort of show of evidence appeared against them,
it was unreasonable to treat them formally as suspected
persons ; and why they were to be bound over to keep
the peace, ho could not understand."

The magistrate explained that "'keeping the peace*
was merely a legal expression; the object being to
prevent prisoners from escaping. He would say fifty
pounds each, for Mr. Urston and his son ; and would con-
sider them responsible for the appearance of Mrs. Cal-
loran. The day to which he had adjourned the court,"
he said, " would ^e appreciated by the persons chiefly in-
terested ; it was the fifth from that of the Exaltation of
the Holy Cross, and following that of St. Lambert,
Bisho[) and Martyr. In consideration of the result of
the patient and deliberate investigation which had afforded
hira peculiar gratification, he would him^self be responsible
for the U8ual costs."

The Minister offered himself as surety, and was at
once accepted.

Gilpin, on getting into the open air, as he did very
speedily, 8unx)unded by the open-mouthed and eager
public, did not prevent himself from exclaiming, (w^hile

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION.

203

he looked flushed and chagrhicd,) " Well, if that isn't
law, with a tail to un ! "

An irreverent voice from among the public (strongly
resembling Billy Bow's) asserted that "The King (ef
'twas the king 'isself that doned it) might as w(;ll take a
squid or a tora-cod for a magistrate, as some *e'd amade,"
and then proposed " thrce cheers for Mr. Charles Gulpin,
Constable of his majesty in this harbor and the neighbor-
ing parts."

, The cheers were begun lustily, though at Gilpin's men-
tion of Skipper George's loss, they broke off, and just as
they were dying away, the door of the Magistrate's house
opened, and he appeared, looking from side to side, and
with a modesty that sate gracefully upon dignity and
authority, said that " Words would fail him to express his
sense of the generous confidence of the people of New-
foundland ; that he was glad that his humble efforts had
met the applause of his fellow-subjects, which was next
to the award of an approving conscience. He looked
with confidence to the approval of his sovereign. In
conclusion, he begged all present to partake of a little
coffee, which he had given orders to have prepared."

" Three cheers for 'e's woshup, the Sti-pendery of
Peterport " ; cried the voice again, " and may the King
soon be so well plased to put un in a berth better fittun
to his debilities ! '* Over this there was more subdued
laughter than shouting.

! i

• I M !

Meantime the sad loss was just the same, and just where
it was. The noble old father whom they had seen bearing it
like a hero a few hours before, had carried home a heavy

204

THE NEW PRIEST.

load ; the gentle mother was heart-stricken ; the whole
company of neighbors, the moment they got away from
the examination into the open air, — like those who had
not been at the Magistrate's, — bore a share of the sor-
row.

Billy Bow and others staid to share Mr. Naughton's
hospitality; but Jesse Hill and Isaac MafTen went
silently away in one direction, Skipper Charlie moodily
in another, and many more dispersed.

— " I wish they'd appoint Parson Wellon, as they do
at home," said Gilpin, as he went along by himself.

" And I hope they'll just let parsons be parsons, and
magistrates magistrates," said a voice behind.

" I didn't know your reverence was so near ; " said
the constable ; " but I wish they'd do something."

Captain Nolesworth, having had no opportunity of de-
livering his testimony, went back to Bay-Harbor with
the intention of making his affidavit there, before he
sailed. It was to be to the effect that he saw three females
in the punt leaving the Worrell ; that one of them was
supported as if sick, and that there seemed to be a fear
or strange unwillingness to be neared, and that a male
voice, (as he judged, of some one having authority,)
called out to " Keep on ! Keep on ! Don't stop ! "

This was to be the substance of the captain's evidence,
as he detailed it, walking up the harbor. He pronounced
at the same time an opinion upon the magistrate, some-
what enigmatical, as follows : —

" Mr. Naughton '11 live a good while, sir, I think, if he
doesn't meet with an accident ; that sort most generally
does."

The reader may take the captain's speculations as to
the stipendiary's longevity, at what he pleases, and may

AN OFFICIAL KXAMINATION.

205

estimate the cnptniii's evidence a."* he thinks fit ; but Cnpt.
Nolesworth himself gave liis opinion, as fuDov-*: —

" D<!peiul upon it, sir, if tliat punt im followed up, you'll
follow her up. I wish I could H(,iy to see it out ; but I
expect to be off to-morrow. If I'd known enough totlier
night, I'd have known more of that punt, one way or an-
other."

" It won't stop where it is," said the Minister ; " higher
authorities will take it up."

" It wont be amiss to lend a hand and help along
justice, I think, at any rate," said the captain.

The Parson turned aside and went in at Mrs. Barre's
house.

206

THE NEW PRIEST.

Ifeli

hilsl )

CHAPTER XXII.

uW'

AN OLD SMUGGLER.

(^) T was not long after the magistratual examination
was completed, before the constable made his ap-
pearance at Mr. Wellon's door, followed by Jesse
and a company.

" Please, Mr. Wellon," said he, " here's a bit o' some-
thing Jesse's brought ; Skipper George found un in the
path by his house, this mornin'. That's what made un
take it so hard not findin' her at Mr. Urston's to-day,
I'll go bail."

" 'E was laayun jes this w'y, sir," said Jesse ; (" so
Uncle George told I,) wi' 'e's broadside to, an' a string
fast to un, 'e said, otherw'ys Uncle George wouldn' ha'
tookt notus to un, 'e said, (didn' um Izik ?) an' the string
cotch 'e's foot, sir."

The thing was a chip, smoothed on all sides, and bear-
ing an inscription, rude and illegible enough, but which
Jesse repeated very glibly in his own English.
«YER MEAD IS SAFE ANF."

It was determined that the bit of wood was an oar-
blade, and that the meaning was,

" Tour maid is safe enough"

Gilpin dismissed the fishermen and went, as he had
been desired, into Mr. Wellon's study.

AN OLD SMUGGLER.

207

The writing upon the chip was not the only literary
effort to be scrutinized. There had been left at the
Minister's door, during the night, a bit of paper on which
(the handwriting being better than the spelling or syntax)
was written as follows : —

" Thers som prodstins bisen about sarchen that's not to
Gud is niver thafe ar smuglar Emunx thim id lik to no
Ef al tels bes thru — plen Spakun."

Gilpin made his way through this much more readily
than Mr. Wellon had done, smiling at the word " Emunx"
which he said " was one way o' spellin' it ! "

What the writer meant to have written, it was con-
cluded, was, —

" There\ some Protestants bussing about searching,
that's not too good. Is (there) never (a) thief or smug-
gler amongst them. Id like to know, — if all tales bes tr^e ?
— Plain Speaking."

Gilpin said, " It w^as easy enough to see what that
meant; it meant Ladford, who fished with Skipper
George, and who was said to have been a wild and des-
perate fellow years ago, and to have a price on his head.
He had been very active in the search ; a quiet man that
kept back, as Mr. Wellon no doubt had noticed, on Saturday.
But if ever a man had repented in this world, Ladford
had repented, Gilpin believed, and he had been a great
many years in the country. Withal he was the very
handiest man in the Bay ; could work a frigate, Gilpin
believed, single-handed, and twirl her round in her own
length.

" As for Skipper George's daughter, everybody knew
that Ladford considered her as an angel, or something
moio than earthly ; and it was no more to be thought that
he'd harm her, than that her own father would. There

!.i

••I

■ *; ■ ■

,^ii

!]«?■

208

THE NEW PRIEST.

was something between Ladford and Skipper George;
but whether there was a relationship, or what, nobodj
knew."

This was Gilpin's story ; and with what Mr. Wcllon
had heard before, determined him to find out Ladford and
talk with him ; to give the letter to the magistrate just
then, WPS not thought likely to further the ends of justice;
nor was it thought advisable to mention it.

Captain Nolesworth's opinion, about the punt, seemed
well worth attending to ; and it was determined, if possible,
to follow it up. Messrs. Worner & Co.'s head clerk had
expressed a willingness, on behalf of the house, to put
down their names for fifty pounds towards one hundred, to
be offered as reward for finding the lost maiden, — or one
half of fifty pounds for finding her body ; and it was
understood that the other merchants of the place (includ-
ing Mr. O'Rourke,) would make up the full sum. Un-
doubtedly Government would take it up, if the local
magistrates could not do any thing ; and whatever facts, if
any, should come out, implicating any persons in the guilt
of kidnapping or abduction, could be laid before the
Grand Jury. Ladford's house, on the southern side of
Indian Point, was the worst there, — and scarcely a house.
Ladford, himself, was of middle size, or more, and up-
right, except his head. He had a high, smooth forehead ;
deep-set eyes, looking as if their fires were raked up ;
slender nose, and thin cheeks and lips ; — the whole face
tanned by life-long exposure to the weather.

Beside a battered " sou'- wester," thrown backward, his
dress was made up of a shirt of bread-bag-stuff, sewed
with round twine, in even sailmaker's stitches, and clean ;
and of trovvsers cut out of tanned sails, and sewed as
neatly as the shirt. His feet were bare.

AN OLD SMUGGLER.

209

" I've come upon some private business with you," said
the Minister ; — Ladford started. The Minister, noticing
it, said : " but I'm not an officer ; you needn't be afraid
of me."

" I oughtn't, sir, surely, of a Minister," said Ladford.

" No ; and needn't. You see I know something of your
case ; and we should have known each other, if I could
have found you before ; for I've been here two or three
times."

As he mentioned his fruitless visits, a startling — most
repulsive — ^leer just showed itself in Ladford's face ; but
it disappeared, as suddenly and wholly, as a monster that
has come up, horrid and hideous, to the surface of the
sea, and then has sunk again, bodily, into the dark Deep ;
and is gone, as if it had never come, except for the fear
and loathing that it leaves behind. — This face, after that
look, had nothing repulsive in it, but was only the more
subdued and sad.

There was a short silence ; and then Ladford spoke : —

" Some men," said he, " mus'n't keep upon their form ;
for it won't do for them to be found by every one ; but
I'm sorry you came for nothing, sir ; I'd have been here
if I'd known you meant it."

The Minister took the anonymous letter from his pocket,
and read it.

" There ! " said he, " that's what I came about ; but
I come as a Minister, you know, and therefore as a
friend."

" I believe it, sir," said Ladford, who had been looking
in his face, and now bowed. " I don't blame any man
for thinking ill of me, or speaking ill of me ; — I'm a poor
fellow ; — but this does me wrong. Why, sir ! it may
sound strange, but I'd give my life to find that girl !

VOL. I. 14

210

THE NEW PRIEST.

There's only one thing, besides, that I care much about,
now ; — my line's nearly paid out, sir."

As he spoke thus, implying a presentiment of his own
near death, he looked fixedly at the Minister, as if to see
what impression the words made. Then hastily added,
anticipating the answer, — " Those things are all as God
wills ; but it comes in on me, like an east wind. Now,
what can I say to you, sir ? I wouldn't mind telling all
my story to you, some day, if you'd care to hear it ; but
after that letter, I must go off, for a while."

" Oh ! but you needn't go away," said the Minister,
" being innocent."

" Yes, sir, but I must ; I won't stay away, but for a
while ; and I can do something, perhaps, all the time. I
know a place to look in. You'll be hke to sec me, or hear
from me, before long."

" I should be glad to hear your story," said the Minister.
" I suppose your life has been a pretty dark one ; but
you repent."

" It is a bad story, I confess, sir ; thirty-six years of
smuggling and all deviltry. — That's a good while ! "

" Not so long as God's mercy, to one who repents and
believes," said the Minister; whose very lips Ladford
watched, much as a deaf man does.

" And one thing I can truly say : — In all my life I

never, knowingly, hurt man, woman, or child : but

once ! but once ! and that was a bad ' once ! ' — Ah ! poor
Susan ! " — As Ladford said this, he gave way, without
restraint; he then continued, (more to himself than to his
hearer,) " I'd give my life to find this girl, if it was only
to help make up for that ! "

" We can't make up for one thing, with another," said
the Minister, gently ; " but we can repent, and plead the
Blood of Christ."

AN OLD SMUGGLER.

211

" Ay, sir ! Thank God, I know it ; and I've been
working away, on that course, these years back. — But,
sir, I was brought up to wickedness, for a trade. You'd
have thought they were a set of devils, out of Hell !
Law-breaking, Sabbath-breaking, oath-breaking, heart-
breaking, swearing, drinking, fighting, — thirty-six years I
was among all that, and more ; shamed by it, and hating
it, till I got away from it. — Then, after all, to feel a devil
inside of you, that you've got in a chain ; and to feel him
climb up against the sides of you, in here, before you
know, and glare, with his devilish look, out of your eyes,
and put his dirty paw and pull up the corners of your
mouth, and play with the tackle in your throat, and make
the words come out as you didn't mean, and then to feel
that this fellow's growth is out of your own life ! "

Mr. "Wellon, as he looked at the man, during this
speech, could see, in a sort of fearful pantomime, the
struggle started and stifled between the poor fellow and
his devilish beastly familiar.

" But you do get him down. Christ will trample him
under foot. The more you need it, the more help you
get ; * He giveth more grace,' " said the Minister of God,
pouring out encouragement to him.

" I haven't been a man," said the poor fellow, showing,
by the very words, that he had never lost his manhood ;
" I never was a son, nor a brother, nor a friend ."

" Were you ever married ? " asked the Minister.

" No sir ; never. I ought to have been, and meant to
have been ; but I wasn't. — There's one that knows tliat
story, if he choose to tell it ; " and saying this. Lad ford
looked at the Parson humbly, as if waiting for further
question, and then proceeded : " It's just about that part
of my life I'll tell, — if you'll please to hear ; 'twas the

1 1

if'
A

212

THE NEW PRIEST.

happiest and 'twas the most terrible sad, and mournful in
it all. And it'll come in very well just now. Per-
haps, you'll know me the better when you've heard it. I
tried to do my duty hke a man, to one thing, and there's
all that's left of it," taking the black ribbon out of a
Bible, " It's aU right,— it's all right ! "

Many well-bred people would have been content with
seeing this poor man's relic, and would have kept their
touch and smell far off from it ; but Mr. Wellon, with the
senses of a gentleman, had a man's heart, and was a min-
ister of Christ. He saw that the owner wished to lay it
in his hand, and he held out his hand for it and took it.

" That riband," the story went on, " used to be about a

little boy's neck ; a pretty little fellow : like this Lucy ;

very like ! — It isn't likely that he'd have been a wonder-
ful scholar, like her, but oh ! as pretty a little fellow as
ever God made to grow in the world. He was so
straight ! — and he stood right up and looked in your face ;
as much as to say, ' Do you know God ? Well, I belong
to Him.' There ! There ! " — said poor Ladford, over-
come with what he had been saying and thinking, and
fallin<if down on himself, — his breast on his Bible and his
head between his knees — and giving two heaves of his
body, forward and back. He then raised himself up
again ; and, as his hearer, of course, said nothing, he
began again, when he was ready: "His hair was as
thick and solid, as if't was cu -^ut of stone ; and his lip had
such a curl to it, just like the crest to a wave ; — you
know Lucy's, — it was much the same. I can't tell you his
eyes. You could look into 'em, and wouldn't think there
was any bottom to 'em. It seemed as if you could look

miles into 'em. Oh ! that boy ! " he exclaimed, in such

an intense sort of way as might have fixed one of the

AN OLD SMUGGLER.

213

trees into listening, and then suddenly appealed to hid
visitor : —

" You're not tired of hearing, Mr. Wellon ? "

«No,no."

— and 'twas this

« Oh ! that I He's gone I —

hand I this very hand I "

The voice was one of sorrow and not of remorse ; but,
having in mind the wild Hfe that this man had led, and,
perhaps, having his heart full of the child that had seemed,
a moment before, to be playing close by them, Mr. Wellou
cried out —

" Why, what did you do to him ? "

" Oh ! no ! not so bad as that. — Not worse than I am,
though," said Ladford, the indignant voice changing to
self-reproach; "but I couldn't have hurt hirrij unless I
was drunk, and I never was drunk in my life."

" Whose child was it ? " asked the clergyman.

The smuggler looked at him, with a start, and an-
swered instantly, —

« He was God's child ! "

Having waited for any further question, and none being
asked, he again went on where he had left off: —

" I took him to the church myself, on this arm, and
two real good Christians were godfather and godmother,
for the poor mother's sake. I was over in the far corner ;
she wasn't there. I didn't carry him back from church.
I wouldn't have opened my arms to take him in any more
than if he'd been the Lord Jesus Christ, in a manner.
They did love him dearly — poor motherless, fatherless
darling ! "

" Why, what became of the mother ? "

" Oh ! she died. Naturally^ she died^^ answered the
smuggler, shaking his head and looking down. " I can't

■|:

!, fi

\ !

THE NEW PRIEST.

talk about her, sir — but the boy growed ; and the aoa, that
had had so much wickedness done on it, got that boy."

" I thought he never came near it," said the Parson,
much as if he thought that he could save it all yet, and
keep the pretty boy, by thrusting in an impossibility made
of words. '■

Poor Ladford looked mournfully at him, and wistfully,
almost as if he, too, half hoped that it might not all be as
it was, and then, glancing at the black ribbon, continued
his story : —

" lie never did, sir ; but it got him, just as much as if
it had a great rope of seaweed fast to him and dragged
him in. One day when I was going down the cliff, think-
ing of nothing, what should be there, like a beautiful bird
or a butterfly on the path, but that handsome, handsome
boy ! I was confused and mazed like, I suppose. It
was so strange to see him there ; I don't know if he'd
ever been told not to come to the sea ; but he'd been kept
about home ; and when I saw him, if I'd only once had
the thought to speak to him ; — but I hadn't. I was fright-
ened, I suppose, and I put out my hand to save him — just
this way — and that's all. That was the last ever was
known of that beautiful child, alive. There's my mark,"
said Ladford, showing the lower half of his left arm with
a knob on it, where it might have been broken.

" Ah ! that's a bad break. That was broken in more
than one place, or it hadn't good surgery," said Mr.
Wellon.

" You know about surgery, sir ? " said the smuggler.
" It was broken more than once ; but I think the surgeon
did his best. I went over the cliff, too."

" And the cliild ^vas lost and you saved, though all the
probability was the other way."

AN OLD SMUGGLER.

215

" Yes, indeod. Thoy say I gave a great spring, like a
madman, and cleared every thing, (except what did this,
and nobody could tell what that was,) and he ! he went
right down to his deatii. There was a rose-bush all
there, wiiere they buried him, and his spirit and life and
all his dear, blessed beauty was gone away out of tho
world ; and whether it took something out of my eyes I
don't know ; but there isn't such a brightness on the
leaves, or grass, or any where. I saved that bit of rib-
and ; it went down with me and came up with me. —
Now, sir," said Ladford, suddenly gathering himself up,
" I want to get this girl of George Barbury's. It's a good
thing that it wasn't me that Avent down ; ay, it's a merci-
ful thing, that it wasn't me taken away without e'er a
hand or a word raised up ! — But, Parson Wellon, if
there's a way on earth, we must find George Barbury's
daughter. God only knows what I'd give to be the one
to find her ! — I owe George Barbury life's blood, and
more ! — though he's forgiven me."

The Minister waited, but Ladford added nothing.

" Then that brought you up ? "

" I was brought up at last, but it was years first. I
stopped many a bad thing being done by shipmates or
landsmen after that, and at last I knocked right off. I
had a house and a garden and a fishing boat, and I meant
to sell the whole of 'em, and give away the money to
something good ; but they got out a warrant against me,
long after I'd given up, and just when I was going to try
to do some good after all my bad, and so I got away, and
came off; and the neighbors know what I've been since
I've been in this country."

" You haven't given over honest labor, I hope, now
that you are repenting ? " asked Mr. Wellon, his question

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216

THE NEW PRIEST.

i !i

being one tluit might be suggested very naturally, by the
appearance of tlio former smuggler's house and dress.

" No, sir ; I do a man's work," answered the smuggler ;
"perhaps more."

" But you don't drink " —

" And yet I live in that wretched place, and dress like
a convict, you might say," answered Ladford with a quiet,
sad smile, drawing the contrast in words, that the Minis-
tor had, most likely, in his thought.

" For a man's work you can get a man's wages, can't
you ? " *-

" That wouldn't follow in my case," said the poor exile ;
"but I do."

Air. Wellon understood the sentence and replied —
" But certainly, any body that employed you would pay
you ? "

" Not 80 surely ; but I'm laying up wages in one place^
I h()[)e. I live, and aU I cani do in a day's work, is for
others, and I hope I'm laying something by."

Just as Mr. Wellon was leaving him, a voice was
heard from above, in the little woods, and Ladford an-
swered —

" Ms. I'se a comin*. I'll be with 'ee in short, and
bear a hand about that chumley." And so entirely had
he taken the words and way of the country, that he
seemed almost another man.

His story had not been a very complete one ; but
there seemed to be a tie that bound Ladford to Lucy's
father, or herself, through that boy.

TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFOUE.

217

CHAPTER XXIII.

AN INTERVIEW OF TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFORE.

the whirl of

)enings

3 doings we must not
too long forget some of our chief characters. Fan-
ny Dare, who saw most of Mrs. Barre, — indeed
any one who knew her, could not but see the change
which a little while had made in her ; for she was
changed. There were tears oftener in her eyes now
than before ; and they were formerly not seldom there.
Her cheek was something thinner and more pale ; there
was a fixed and intent look in her eye when she was
listening to another, or was in thought ; and when she
spoke, — if her thoughts were not apparently abstracted, —
her words came so few and strong, that it seemed as if
all she did were done with a great might. Yet she was
gentle and tender.

There was a wakefulness about her, as if she were ever
fearing or expecting something ; and she had that expres-
sion, which, to the best hearts, is most touching in the
human face ; not of asking pity, but of needing it. Her
eye grew fuller, as her cheek became more thin and pale.

It is very touching to see one to whom life is so earnest
and serious a thing, as it evidently was to Mrs. Barre ;
(there was no trifling, or play, or idleness with her ;) and
it was quite as touching to see how unforgettingly she
kept her burden from bearing on the young life of little
Mary.

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218

THE NEW PRIEST.

It was on Monday evening that she sat in her chamber,
whose window looked to the west, and gazed upward into
the sky. Her smooth forehead, whose clear brows were
bared by the falling-back of her dark hair, and her large
eyes fixed, made her a fit figure for the silent time.

Miss Dare sat near her. ^

Before them both hung one bright star, in air ; and on
the earth was the still land and water ; and far off, the
inland hills, which, at this distance, and in this waning
light, and standing in a land as unknown as if it were yet
undiscovered, look like a rim of some happy, hidden val-
ley.

Mrs. Barre had never opened her mystery, further, to
her friend ; nor of course, had Fanny sought to look into
it ; only, that there was something, was understood be-
tween them.

Mrs. Barre broke the thoughtful silence, saying,
" Sometimes what I am striving and hoping for seems
as hopeless and unattainable as the star that the child
reaches after.'* (Such was the bright star shining down
to them, mildly as it had shone- so many — countless
many — nights since first this world knew darkness.)
" And yet," she added, " auguries are nothing. The faith
of our best wisdom, and clearest conscience, and simplest
trust, is right ! "

So she spoke, in faith ; and so God heard, who orders
all things. There are, to us, no gates, — the "geminae
somni portae," — through one of which fleet disregarded
hopes and prayers unheeded ; while, through the other,
go glad prayers accepted and bright hopes to their fulfil-
ment ; and yet in our day, as of old, one strong wish forces
its way through rugged, rocky soil, grows up from sturdy
root, and comes to ripeness ; another falls and leaves not

TWO WHO HA\T MET BEFORE.

219

i into \
i be-

a wreck of froth upon the ground, wljere stood n perfect
globe of loveliest hues.

While she was speaking, a man came across the little
open green towanln the house. He was of an unfamiliar
look and unlike the harbor-planters, but he came straight
forward, turning neither to the right nor left, and not
hesitating, up to the gate and through the gate, to the
dooi, and th(;re he had a message for the lady of the
house ; for Mrs. Bray, as he called her.

Mrs. Barre was much agitated, and pressed Fanny's
hand, as she rose to go down to him, and leaned against
the stairs in the hall, as she stood to hear his message.

The man was an uijcourtly messenger. " A Catholic
clergyman," he said, " desired his compliments, and would
like to meet Mrs. Bray at Mr. Henran's, at any time she
might please to set."

The lady's voice testified to her agitation, as she an-
swered, " I shall be happy to meet such a person as you
speak of; but, of course, I cannot make appointments out
of my own house."

" It's a Catholic praste," said the messenger, almost
gruffly.

" Who is he ? " she asked.

" That I don't know any thing about, ma'am ; I was to
say ' a clergyman.' "

" And what is your own name ? "

" Froyne is my name."

" Yes ; then have the kindness to say that I am at
home now, and expect to be at home to-morrow, till three
o'clock."

The man turned on his heel, and with an ungracious
or awkwai'd ceremony departed.

Mrs. Barre, after standing a few moments where she

■ I'

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III

220

THE NEW PRIEST.

was. went up stairs to her seat opposite the bright star,
taking Fanny's hand and holding it. Presently she spoke
of the appointment she had just made, and hoped that
Fanny Dare might be in the house when the meeting
took place. They both started, as again a man's dark
figure came upon the green; Mrs. Barre, clasping her
hands, turned away to the wall.

A knock was heard ; not long nor loud, but even, reg-
ular, decided; the work of a hand whose weight was
exactly known.

" I didn't expect him to be on us so soon," said Fanny
Dare; « what shall I do ? "

" Just stay here, if you'll be so good. Don't go further
off; there's a good girl," said Mrs. Barre.

"But it's almost the same thing as being in the same
room," said Fanny, in a whisper.

Mrs. Barre was too occupied to answer, and the servant
announced a gentleman to see her, waiting in the parlor
below.

Mrs. Barre came to the door of the room, pale, and
earnest, and straightforward, as she always was in all
things ; but as she paused upon the outside, so on
first entering the room, the door of which she did not
shut entirely, she paused, with her sight fixed upon the
floor.

When she raised her eyes, she found the gentleman
standing respectfully; it was Father Nicholas. In the
light of the candle, which marked distinctly the well-cut
outlines of his features, and threw the deep lines and
hollows into shadow, he looked more handsome and
thoughtful than even by day. His simple black dress
was just as fit, and seemed as much to belong to him as
his smooth, shining cassock or soutane.

TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFORE.

221

" I have made a mistake, I think," said Mrs. Barre, in-
stantly possessing herself. " You do not wish to see me,
Mr. Crampton ? "

" Yes, if you please ; that was the object of my visit.
I hope you'll excuse my availing myself of the earliest
opportunity mentioned to the messenger, for the impor-
tance of the business that brought me. But I wait to
know your inclination."

She satisfied him upon that point.

" Oh ! for the time, it is of less consequence than it
may seem to you. If we meet, it matters little to me
when it is. Our interview is not likely to be very long,
I suppose. You may wonder that I suffer you to speak
to me ; I have my reason ; and you know, long since, that
I have no need to fear you."

To this the Priest said nothing. His answer was to
another point.

— ^"And I hope that any harsh feelings or injurious
suspicions, formed in other days, may be set aside from
our present meeting, that what is said may take its tone
and character, not from remembered prejudice, but from
present truth and reason."

" I permit your speaking to me, Mr. Crampton ; I may
see cause to answer. Let that suffice. I cannot destroy
a part of my nature, or turn a faculty of my mind awry.
I cannot forget ; nor can I misunderstand what I remem-
ber," answered Mrs. Barre, looking steadily at him with
the distance of the room between.

He stood in a meek, unobtrusive posture, looking on
the floor.

" I thank God, I can forget," said Father Nicholas,
gently.

*' It is not always a thing to be thankful for," she an-

i i:.

222

THE NEW PRIEST.

swered ; " some things ought not, too easily, to be for-
gotten."

" It is a duty to forget the things that are behind, in
going forward to new work and hope," said the Priest.

" Let there be no cant between us, Mr. Crampton. I
think I may well expect you to speak very plainly, if you
speak at all."

" I cannot lay aside my priestly character, if that is
"what you wish. I speak as a priest ; I cannot speak
otherwise."

" I have known you speak otherwise," said Mrs. Barre.
" I ask of you mere honesty."

" If I have ever, for a moment, forgotten that character
since I bore it, — if I have done amiss, or spoken wrongly,
— the mighty force of second nature and the grace of con-
secration have rushed upon me and made me more than
ever what I am, — a priest."

" "We will not argue that point, if you please. If you
knew not what I know of you, I could not tell it to you.
What is your present business with me ? "

" I cannot come in any other character ; and it is only
as a priest of God that I have any thing to say. Will
you sit down ? and shall we speak together ? "

If he had at all lost, he had now resumed, the manner
of one accustomed to be yielded and deferred to.

They were still standing, as at first ; the lady made no
movement towards a chair, and they continued standing.
She, evidently, was not one that would defer to him.

"I am prepared to hear you, Mr. Crampton, and to
judge of what you say by its own merits. Will you be
good enough to let me know what you desire of me ? "

" What I shall say, with your permission," the Priest
answered, " will not depend, for its effect, upon your esti-

TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFORE.

223

mate of rae, or feelings towards me. I come not to speak
of or for myself, in any way ; but first, may I, in meeting
you again, after so long an interval, be allowed to ask
about your little children ; how they are ? "

" I have but one," returned the mother.

" Ah ! is it so ? " said the Priest, with a deep emphasis
and very thoughtfully ; " you have lost one of them since

you left the ? How is the other ? I heard of a

child of your's meeting with a severe accident, some time
ago ; was it the one whom you have left ? '*

" Yes ; she has recovered, thank God ! "

" What a sweet, happy family it was, three years ago ! "
said Father Nicholas, as if drawing up a fair, vanished
island, or a noble ship, long foundered, out of the waste
of waters ; then he said, sadly and thoughtfully again, as
before, " It might have been otherwise ! " as if speaking to
himself. " The Catholic Church was a safe harbor ! " he
added, as if it were a sad reflection immediately following
from what had just been said and thought.

" It might have been otherwise, indeed ! " she answered.
" It was in that ' safe harbor * that my fair ship went down.
A ' safe harbor ' ! — Ah ! I wouldn't trust my dear ones in
it." Her words were short but bitter.

The Priest answered, without bitterness : —

— " And yet our enemies allow that salvation may be
had among us, (and you are no enemy ;) and if the Cath-
olic's belief be true, what priceless privileges belong to
those who are in and of the Church ! " This he said
gently and sadly.

" For any thing not written in your Bible or mine,"
said she, again, " I wouldn't give the snuff of that can-
dle. — Will you oblige me by coming to your business ? "

" xind yet, if it be true (what we are compelled to

M; If

! :

224

TlIK NKW PRIEST.

believe) that there is no salvation elsewhere," he an-
swered, in a more gentle and a sadder voice ; " if that be
true ! "

" And if it be true what the Mahometan believes !

Pray, Mr. Crampton, what has your belief, or his, to do
with my salvation? Your believing a thing does not
make it true. Pray, do not argue theology ; please say
what else you have to say."

" But suppose," he pleaded gently, " that it should be
true ; and that one cast out of the Church is cast out of
God's kingdom "

" So, you wish to argue ! — One word, then, for God !
I suppose nothing about it ; for it is simply not true.
There are good rules of morals in your Bible as well as
ours. The things between your church and us are in
neither, nor in the creeds. I have no fear at being cast
out a hundred times for not believing them ! "

The Priest pleaded gently, in answer : —

" And yet your reasoning is not quite sound. Suppose
it could be shown that we have other doctrines beside
those contained in the Gospel ; you see they are beside
the Gospel, — and we have the whole Gospel, too. Ac-
cordingly, our enemies are compelled to grant that salva-
tion may be had with us, while we deny that it can be
had with them. Would not a child see that it was safer
to believe even more than enough, than not to believe
enough ? "

It was no reasoner of yesterday that was speaking ;
and yet in Mrs. Barre's sad, thoughtful eye, fire flashed,
and her pale, thin cheek glowed, and her lip curled with
scorn, as if, for the moment, she forgot all but the insid-
ious reasoning.

"Yes, it's just a child's argument; I am not a child.

TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFORE.

225

Your doctrine, Mr. Crampton, is as false as your prac-
tice. Again you speak of your denying, and other peo-
ple's granting ! What has either your granting or deny-
ing to do with me ? I begged you not to argue ; and if
I permit myself to answer, it is for your good, priest
though you are ! " (Father Nicholas bowed, with a slight
smile, looking to the ground. She looked straight at the
Priest, and spoke steadily and strongly.) " ' More than
enough ? ' and * less than enough ? ' What is true, is
true ; and what is not, is a lie, — less than the truth, or
more ! * True Gospel, only something added ! * Let me
remind you that there was only ^something added* to that
true wine that Pope Alexander VI. prepared for his
guests ; — it was, in that case, a very little ' something ; *
it did not, to the eye, or taste, or smell, change the true
wine, even in the least particular ; and yet Pope Alexan-
der VI. drinking of his true wine, * with something added,*
died. Remember, that only a few words * beside * his own
part, made another priesfs confessional into a deviFs-
school. A very little something added may make poison
of pure wine. The raising of a throne in heaven, and
digging of a pit in purgatory, are no small things in doc-
trine, as sin is a monstrous thing in morals, Mr. Cramp-
ton."

The Priest's face grew damp, as some of the statues of
his religion are said to sweat, portentously. He waited,
as if to hear more ; but Mrs. Barre had said all that she
intended. When he spoke, it was only in a pained and
regretful tone : —

" I have not come to excite or weary you or myself,
with the discussion of particular points of theology ; but it
seems a fearful flippancy to speak of the faith of the
Catholic Church in this way ! That very doctrine that

VOL. I. 16

i -f-

22G

THE NEW PRIEST.

you mentioned last, is one solemnly established by the
Church, and universally accepted by its members. It is
one on which the tenderness of the deep heart of the
Common Mother breaks itself; over which the broad,
dark, silent wings of a dread mystery are stretched ;
before it the stupendous, unbloody sacrifice of the Lamb
of God is offered without ceasing ; and around it roll the
agony of prayer, and the mournful, melting melody of the
divinest music ! Is this to be blown away by the slight
breath of a woman's scorn ? "

" Wliy not by a breath, if it be but froth of the work
ing human fancy ? '* she answered. " God has not re-
vealed it ; and whatever beauty or terror man may clothe
it with, cannot make it any thing to my salvation, Mr.
Crampton, — or to yours."

" Does it not occur to you," said the Priest, " what
danger there is in thus taking your soul into your own
keeping ? "

As quietly as a person swimming with one hand, she
answered : " Since God has put it into my keeping, and
said, ^worh out your own salvation,* the danger would
seem to be in my committing it to the keeping of others."

" You will remember," said the Priest, " that the Bible
also says, ' obey your prelates, for they watch as to give an
account for tour souls.' "

" Ay, an account for the souls lost through their mis-
leading or neglect ; but * every one of us shall give
account of himself unto God ! ' I shall try and make
the two things go together ; to * obey them that have the
rule over me,* while I work out my own salvation."

" Rejecting," said Father Nicholas, sadly, " that sacred
body which alone has power to bind and loose, and in
which is the fulness of divine presence and authority ! "

TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFORE.

227

" We are wasting time, Mr. Crampton ; you can hardly
expect me to argue over the dozen or more new articles
of faith added to the Nicene Creed, or the crowd of your
other doctrines not yet added, that I know as thoroughly
as you. Is there any other subject upon which you wish
to speak to me ? "

" Yes ; indeed, I did not come to argue. The mind is
not the chief seat of religion, and one so strong, and active
and inquiring as yours, might be allowed a little latitude,
with safety, where the moral principle is so strong. "We
need not discuss these irritating subjects ; we may put
them entirely aside ; for there is a nobler field to work in.
Your strong character, and ascendancy of mind, might be
most useful in the Church of God ; not in a subordinate
capacity, like that which, in the novitiate, you found so
irksome, but in a more fitting one. In a very short time,
the place of Lady Superior "

" Allow me ; the time is valuable, and the end of your
sentence obvious. You make such a proposition to me,
knowing me to disbelieve and reject your church ! — and
employ a little gross flattery, as if I should take it into
my ears, — to put myself into the control of your Church,
and under the immediate spiritual guidance of one whose
foul heart once showed itself to me. No ! I trust that
the lovely girl who is missing is under no such control."

"She is under no control of mine," said Father Nicho-
las, " nor have I any means of knowing where she is. —
You refer to the past, again. A priest is a man, and
strong temptation has been, momentarily, too much for
chosen saints ; and yet they remained God's saints,
and "

" No more, sir ! Your temptation was from the Devil
and yourself. Do you dare, calling yourself a minister

! f

. It

228

THE NEW PRIEST.

of God, at whose mouth men should learn the law, to use
God's word in that way ? To make warnings into exam-
ples ? I need no answer ; you may consider your pro-
posal as answered, — if you intended one."

" Your charges and constructions," said the Priest, " I
suppose, you have made the new priest acquainted with."

" If you wish to know whether I have exposed your
character to him : No ! — You have no further business
with me, Mr. Crampton ? "

The Priest collected himself: —

" I wish I were more eloquent, that I might save you
from the ruin you are drawing upon yourself. You care
not for the scandal you are bringing on God's Holy
Church ! You are blind to the loss of your soul. The
judgment of God in taking away your child is sent in
vain ; his warning hand laid upon the remaining child is
disregarded; but there is one thing that presses often
nearer yet, than fear of unseen things or visitations of
God. If, as is so often the case, your own character and
reputation should be visited, and if men should say, with
more than a sneer, that the fault in your separation did
not lie on the side of the Church "

" You needn't be at the trouble to go further, sir. I
have listened to you patiently to this point, and have an-
swered you. I have, in turn, a single question to pro-
pose, which I think I may claim an answer for : Was
Mr. Debree privy to this visit ? "

" My motions," answered Father Nicholas, " are gen-
erally without consultation with other people, as my
means of information, also, are independent. I nra rather
in the habit of giving advice, than of taking it from them,
and Mr. Debree knows nothing of my coming here."

" I have had patience with you thus far, Mr. Cramp-

TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFORE.

229

ton," said Mrs. Burrc, opening the door wide, " only for
the sake of the little information I have indirectly got.
You have had no claim on my forbearance, and loss than a
right to expect me to talk with you. We shall have no
further communication together."

The Priest bowed formally ; but there was an inten-
sity in his look which showed what was roused within
him. His face was livid and his forehead moist. lie
passed out, with another slow inclination of his body,
saying,—

" Not now, but very likely hereafter. I think yon will
not forget — I came with little hope of saving you, but
to clear my own soul."

. ' ■ s

: :
■

" I couldn't help hearing," said Fanny Dare. " I
wish I had been deaf; I can be dumb."

They sat long silent, and she held Mrs. Barre's hand.
Mrs. Barre sat long after Fanny had gone home.

; ;■■

230

THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER XXIV.

FATHER DEBREE AT BAY-HARBOR.

AY-IIARBOR is a town of some importance in
Conception Bay ; and quite a place of trade and
business. It is also the chief town of a district,
as respects the Roman Catholic Church ; and the chief
clergyman of that denomination officiating in Bay- Harbor
h superior in rank and title to the others in that district.

At this time the Romish clergy there were the Very
Reverend Father O'Toole, the Reverend Father Dunne,
(absent for some months,) and the Father Nicholas, whom
the reader has already met.

The elder priest had been for a good many years at
Bay-llarbor, and was generally liked and thought of, as
easy-going, good-natured men are apt to be. He held
the reins of discipline gently ; had been, until quite lately,
a frequent visitor in Protestant families, and had made a
present of his horse to the Protestant clerg nan.

The nature of Father Nicholas's position there, or con-
nection with the mission, was not very evident. By short
and frequent steps he had made his way into the very
midst of every thing; had got Father O'Toole's right
hand, as it were, in his ; while the latter had, for the last
few months, (since the withdrawal of the priest who had
boon associated with himself for years, and who was ex-

THE NEW PRIEST AT BAY-IIARBOR.

231

pected a«:]fain,) submitted so quietly to the absorption of
rniieh of his own work and authority, that it might havo
been thonglit to be an arrangement that lie liked. Many
people thought the new comer to have been sent out
specially by the Holy Father himself, and it was reported
that he kept a record of every thing done and said in the
important town of Bay-Harbor, (people think their own
town a place of great consequence in the world ;) and
that the Court of Rome was kept regularly informed of
every thing that transpired, and a good deal more. It
was agreed that his father had been once a merchant in
Jamaica ; afterwards in Cadiz ; and that Father Nicholas
had been brought up in Spain.

Some Protestants said of him that it was not likely
that a man of his talents would be kept in the sort of
obscurity that even Bay-Harbor must be considered as
imposing, unlcos for good reason ; and that it was prob-
ably a kind of banishment, inflicted or allowed by his
superiors ; but other Protestants maintained, in opposi-
tion, that Father Nicholas was intrusted with every
priestly function and authority, and that it was a vulgar
prejudice only that attributed to the Church of Rome the
tolerance of unworthy men in its ministry. Many Pro-
testants accordingly showed particular attention to this
priest.

His own character gave no more encouragement to one
supposition than * i another ; but might be reconciled to
any. Elegant, oven to extreme, at times, in his inter-
course with ladi3S or men of intelligence, he was, some-
times, negligent and even abrupt or rude to either sex.
Highly educated and studious, as he was thought to be,
he was not free from a pedantry, (or affectation of
pedantry,) in conversation. There was another habitual

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232

THE NEW PRIEST.

antithesis about him ; he allowed himself often in a remark,
whose freedom betrayed his familiarity with the ways
and wisdom of the world, or whose sarcasm, bitterness, or
even venom showed the cheap estimate at which he held
men ; while, on the other hand, he would utter, habit-
ually, lofty principles of virtue, and warm and moving
arguments for truth, and quoted (in their own language,)
the offices of the Church and the authorized Scriptures,
very frequently and with great solemnity.

It was curious to see the influence of hifi new associate
upon the plain old Father Terence. liominally and
ostensibly at the head of the clergy of the district, and
enjoying the title of Very Reverend, he put the other
forward, very often, or allowed him to put himself for-
ward, both in doing and counselling, in a way which
proved his own indolence, or the intellectual or other
superiority of the younger man.

In one respect the influence of the younger upon the
elder was amusingly exhibited ; the worthy Father
Terence, having resumed his studies, and making a point
of quoting Latin and also of discoursing ethics and
logic when the presence of Father Nicholas tempted him.
He also prevented the recognition of his own precedence
to fall into desuetude, by asserting or inferring it, not
seldom.

Father Nicholas, for his part, proclaimed his own sub-
ordination.

So matters stood in Bay-Harbor, at the time of our
story, and to the house in which the two priests lived, not
far from the chapel, we are now to bring our reader.

It must have been about seven o'clock, on the Tuesday
morning, that Father Debree was leading the horse from

Tin: NEW PRIEST AT BAY-HAR»()R.

233

wliich ho liiul just dismounted, int«) the premises of the
Roman Cutliohc mission at liny- Harbor.

"Ah ! thin, it's the early bird catches the fox," cried
a good-natured voice from above. " Can ye tie liiiii
some place, a bit ? an' I'll be with ye, directly."

AVhile the utterer of the proverb was coming, or pre-
paring to come, the dismounted hoi*seman looked about
for the " some place " at which to hitch his horse, a thing
more easily sought than found. Posts there were none ;
trees there were none ; and at length the horse was las-
tened to the paling near the road.

" Y'are younger than meself," said the voice, which
had before addressed him, and which now came through
the door, " and ye haven't that weight of cares and labors ;
but I'm glad to see ye," it added heartily, as Father De-
bree came up into the door and received a very hospi-
table shake of the hand.

"I beg pardon for being so unseasonable. Father
Terence," said the visitor. "You didn't expect me so
early ? "

"Ah, brother, if ye do ever be placed in a con-
spikyis and responsible post, ye'll know that it's what

belongs to us. I am continyally, continually, but

come in ! "

As he talked thus. Father Terence hrA gone, with dig-
nity, solid and substantial, before his guest into the parlor.
The dignitary's most " conspikyis " garment was not such
as gentlemen of any occupation or profession are accus-
tomed to appear in. It was not white, and yet it was not
black or colored ; it did not fit him very handsomely ; was
somewhat short in the legs, with a string or two dangling
from the lower ends, and, indeed, had the appearance of
something other than a pair of trowsers.

i !,

i '

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234

THE NEW PRIEST.

I? i

His stockings were not iw" conspikyis " ; being one of
gray and one of black-mixed, very indulgently pulled on
and crowded into two slippers, (not a pair,) of which one
had the appearance of being a shoe turned down at heel,
and the other was of quite an elegant velvet, though of a
shape somewhat wider than is elegant in a human foot.
He had a long black coat opening downward from a
single button fastened at the neck ; and on his head a
close fitting cotton nightcap coming down cosily about two
good thick cheeks and tied below his chin.

The face for all this body was plain, but kindly-look-
ing ; the eyes being narrow, the nose longish and thick,
and the mouth large ; the upper lip appearing to be made
of a single piece, and the lower one looking as if it were
both strong and active.

The chin in which the face was finished, was a thick,
round one, which Underneath had a great swelling, like a
capacious receptacle in which for years had been accu-
mulating the drippings of a well-served mouth. His
forehead — now partly covered by the nightcap, — if not
remarkably high, had an open, honest breadth.

" Take a chair ! Take a chair, then," said the host,
seating himself.

"Now, brother," said the nightcapped head, bowing
with dignity, '' I think we've made a beginning."

" I've hurried you too much, Father O'Toole," said the
younger. " I can wait here, very well, until you're ready
to come down."

"Amn't I down^ thin," asked Father Terence, con-
clusively. " Do ye mind the psalm where it says ' Prae-
venerunt oculi mei, diluculo, ut meditarer ? ' "

" Excuse me. Reverend Father Terence," said a third
voice, " you never lay the harness off "

THE NEW PRIEST AT BAY-HARBOR.

235

" Ah ! Father Nicholas ! " said the elder, expostulat-
ing, but glancing complacently at Father Debree

" But," continued the new-comer, " your impatience
to obey the call of duty has prevented your taking time
to make your toilet. Allow me to take your place, as
far as I can, in entertaining my old neighbor and friend,
while you allow yourself a little of that time which
you may reasonably bestow even upon so insignificant
an object as dress."

Father Terence had evidently not bestowed a thought
upon so insignificant a thing ; and glancing downwards, at
the " harness which he had not laid off," hastily gathered
the skirts of his black garments over his knees, and get-
ting up, made his retreat with a convenient, if somewhat
irrelevant, clearing of his throat, and a bow in which
dignity bore up bravely against discomposure.

Father Nicholas was not liable to censure on the score
of having neglected his dress ; for nothing could impress
one with a sense of thoroughness, more perfectly than his
v^^hole personal appearance ; black, — somewhat glossy, — ■
from his throat down to the floor ; contrasted about the
middle by his two white hands, (of which one glistened
with a signet-ring,) and relieved above by the pale, yel-
lowish face, with its high forehead, and dark, shining eye,
and the emphatic, determined mouth. Above the face,
again, it was glossy, wavy, black hair, cut short, though
no tonsure was apparent.

As Father Debree made no motion, and gave no sign
of noticing his presence, he addressed him, in a courtly
way, without committing himself to too great warmth of
manner.

" I'm sorry to have seen so little of you. — I'm so busy
that I can't always get to mass even."

! I

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23G

THE NEW PRIEST.

So saying, he held out a friendly hand, which the other
took without any show of cordiality. Father Nicholas's
eyes searched the face of his companion, during this in-
terchange of salutations.

" You've made an entrance at Peterport ? " he asked,
renewing the conversation.

The other answered simply, " Yes."

Father Nicholas did not tire.

" What is the case, now, about that girl ? " he asked,
making an effort to throw ease and kindliness into the
conversation.

" How do you mean ? " said Father Debree, as dis-
tantly as before.

" Do they think her drowned ? or lost in the woods ?
or carried off."

" It begins to be pretty generally believed that she has
been carried off?"

" Are any particular parties suspected, do you know ? "
continued Father Nicholas, in his persevering cate-
chism.

" Yes ; I'm sorry to say that some of Mr. Urston's
family and other Catholics are suspected."

There was more fire in Father Nicholas's eye than
force in his voice ; and there was, always, a very decided
assertion of himself in his manner, however quiet it
might be.

" Do you mean you're sorry that they should suspect
Catholics ? or that they should suspect them of getting
hold of a Protestant's daughter ? The first is not very
new, and the last is no great crime, I believe."

" SteaHng a man's daughter ! " said Father Debree.

" Suppose you say * saving a soul ? ' ^ de igne ropientes
odientes et maculatam tunicam ? ' There seems to be

! l?

THE NEW PRIEST AT BAY-HARBOR.

237

divine warrant for it," answered Father Nicholas, with
very quiet self-possession.

"You wouldn't apply that to this Mr. Barbury's
daughter ? "

*' I don't know that her being Mr. Barbury's daughter
ought to exclude her from our interest," said Father
Nicholas, smiling.

" I feel very little inclination to jest," said the other.
" Here is a father mourning the loss of his daughter, a
girl of most uncommon character and promise, and he
himself an object of universal respect ; one whom no one
can know without respecting."

" You seem to forget about the mother, whose case is a
little peculiar," answered Father Nicholas ; " but suppose
I speruj >r another mother, and say that she has been
moumi! J dr her lost children, and yearning for
them?"

" But this girl was a Protestant, heart and soul "

" And therefore mustn't be made a Catholic, heart and
soul? I don't see the application," returned Father
Nicholas. " You're new to this neighborhood ; but I
gave you some information, I think. This girl's mother,
'In good old Catholic times, when our L..J the Pope
was King,' would have been reduced to a heap of ashes,
by way of penance involuntary. Moreover, "

" I don't quite see i/our application," said Father De-
bree, in his turn ; — " I remember what you said of the
family, before."

" — Moreover," continued the other, " this girl has
been baptized into the Catholic Church. — Yes, sir," he
added, noticing a start of surprise in his hearer ; " and,
moreover, this girl was stealing a sacrifice from the altar ;
— the heart of young Urston; nay, I believe she has

238

THE NEW PRIEST.

stolen it, (and done me a mischief, in certain quarters, by
that very thing, by the way;) and moreover, lastly, —
what you may think more to the purpose, — I believe they
found no evidence, whatever, against the Urstons in the
examination, yesterday morning."

At this point of the conversation, solid steps were
heard, bringing Father Terence back. "^Bonum est
viroj cum portaverit jugum ah adolescentia sua,*" he was
saying.

" What a treasure to have a mind so stored with sacred
precepts ! " exclaimed Father Nicholas ; " dulciora super
mel etfavum." Then saying to his companion, " Excuse
my want of hospitality ; I must see to your horse ; " he
hurried out of the room by a different door from that
which Father O'Toole was approaching.

The priest from Peterport hurried in the same direc-
tion> as If to prevent him ; so that when the worthy
elder reentered the room, he found it forsaken, and only
heard retreating steps.

"The present company seems to be mostly absent,"
said he.

Father Debree soon came back and apologized.

«Ah!" said Father O'Toole, "I know meself it's
necessary looking to thim now and again ; sure, hadn't I
one meself then for manny years, named Pishgrew,* from
some French General, or other ; (the boys called um
' Pitchgrove,' from a trick he had of getting tar on um,
however it was he got it,) and when he wasn't looked to,
quare things he did. He gnawed his own tail and mane
off, many's the time, when my eye was off him; the
children all said the one thing of him ; and sure, they'd

* There was a French General Pichegm famous in the armies of
the Kepublic.

THE NEW PRIEST AT BAY-HARBOR.

239

to,

the best chance to know, having nothing else to do, mostly,
but to be watchin him at his pasture."

Mr. Debree could not help smiling at this simple
notion of the necessity of looking after a valuable horse
who had come some miles at a good rate, lest he should
eat off his own tail and mane.

" Ye'll stay the day, then, like a man of good sense,
won't ye," asked Father O'Toole. — " It's not that much
time I give upon the externals; — 'turbamur — ' what's
this it is ? — * erga — plurima ; ' * one thing 'a necessary ; *
but I'm more conforming and shutable, now."

Indeed he was ; dressed in a long, black cassock of
camlet, or something like it ; black stock and black stock-
ings, and shoes with small silver, (at least shining)
buckles on them ; and irongray locks behind ; respectable,
if not venerable, he looked like one of the Irish Roman
priests of the old time, who had been twenty or thirty
years in the island.

" "We'll be having breakfast shortly," said the host ;
" it's not good talking too much with only air in your
belly ; and after breakfast we'll hear how ye're getting on "

The old gentleman went to see after breakfast, or some
other matter, and Mr. Debree was left to himself.

Nothing appeared in the room to occupy the attention
of the visitor but two remains of books, one painting on
the wall, and a box upon the mantel-shelf. Tlie furni-
ture was scanty, not quite clean, and many of the pieces
occupied with things of many kinds. Of the books upon
the table, one was a breviary without covers, and almost
without contents ; for a great deal of what had formerly
been paper was now nothing. Of what remained in type
and tissue, a greasy flaccidness had taken hold. The other
was an odd volume of Mr. Alban Butler's Lives of Saints,

i 1

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240

THE NEW PRIEST.

of which it would be hard to say why it had lost one
cover; for the inside showed no such marks of use and
wear as would account for it. Some places had been fin-
gered, and here a scrap of a tobacco wrapping-paper,
and there some grains of snuff, showed that, by accident
or of set purpose, its bulk of pages had been sometimes
broken.

The hanging picture was a specimen of painting not al-
together such as monkish or other hands devout have some-
times produced, without concurrence of the head or heart,
but one into which had gone something of spirit from the
worker. It showed a comfortable-looking person, dressed
as a Dominican, and with a halo indicating saintsliip around
his head, within the ring of which, and covering his shaven
crown, there was a fair and fruitful grape-vine, with broad
leaves and clustering, purple grapes, a bunch of which the
sainted man was squeezing into a golden helmet, from
which, already overrunning, a stream was flowing down
and off into the distance. Over the top was a legend
from Is. xxii., " Galix mens inebrians, quam prcBclarus ! "
Some explanation of the circumstances was probably con-
tained in a Latin inscription underneath, which, being in
some parts quite imperfect, had been freshened and re-
touched, as it appeared, with ink.

Divus Vinobibius, olim Miles fortis,
Contra Gentes indicas fortissime pugnavit:
VIII. M Viros, sine Timore Mortis,
Solo Intuitu mire trucidavit.
Deinde raultis Ictis, a Tergo immolatus,
Ecce super Capite repente Vitls exit:
Et illius Palmite superne circundatus,
Bibit, et Virtute nova resurrexit.

Father Debree cast rather a sad look at the " saint," and
turned in a listless way to the outside of the last object

THE NEW PRIEST AT BAY-HARBOR.

241

st one
le and
en fin-
■paper,
ccident
letimes

not al-
e some-
r heart,
L-om the
dressed
I around
5 shaven
th broad
hich the
et, from
lo- down

legend
darus ! "
ibly con-
being in

and re-

aint," and
ast object

of attraction — the snufF-box on the mantel-shelf — when
he was called to breakfast by Father Terence.

« It's not my own, that," said Father O'Toole, " 'twas
left upon me by the man I got the Blessed Virgin of, that
hangs at the left of the altar, beyond. Himself hung it,
and I never stirred it. — He takes his meals by himself,
mostly," continued Father O'Toole, by way of explaining
his assistant's absence. " The conversation was much
more cordial without him."

As may be supposed, no duty of hospitality was omit-
ted by the kindly Irishman, and a good example was set
in his own person of practice in eating.

There were several subjects on which the two priests
were to confer, or did confer ; but Father Debree was
still occupied with the loss of Skipper George's daughter,
and the suspicions attaching to the Urstons and to the
nuns from Bay-Harbor. The old priest took a kindly
interest.

" Indade, it's a sad thing for a father to lose his chad ! "
said he.

" But he's a Protestant," said Father Debree.

" Aijd hasn't a Protestant feelings ? Ay, and some o'
them got the best o' feelings. I'm sure yerself 's no call
to say against it. — It's in religion they make the great
mistake."

" I'm not inclined to deny it, Father Terence, and this
is a noble man, this Skipper George ; but "

" And who's Skipper George, then ? Is he the father ?
Oh ! sure there's good Protestants ; and it's hard to lose
a child that way, and not to know is she, dead or living, or
torn to pieces, or what ! "

" Not every one has such good feeling, when the father's
a Protestant."

VOL. I. 16

242

THE NEW PRIEST.

Mir--''

II <

^< But the Urstons are not that way, at all ; and James
was a good boy ! " answered the old priest.

" It's a mystery, and a deplorabi one ! I couldn't
think they've taken her ; but she was last seen near their
house, probably ; and some things belonging to her have
been found at the house and near it ; there's no doubt of
that ; "

— "And haven't ye the direction of them?" asked
Father Terence.

"Mrs. Calloran confesses to Father Crampton. I
never see James. She tells me that he's leaving the
Church."

" No ! no ! " said the old priest, with great feeling ;
then shook his head and added, " I hadn't the charge of
him, this while back. — I mind hearing this girl was lead-
ing him away, but I can't think it of him."

" I don't believe she has done it. Father Terence, from
all that' I can hear. He may have fallen in love with
her."

" And why would she let him, and him going to be a
priest ? "

" There were some nuns, so it seems, at Mr. Urston's
house that evening," said Father Debree, returning to the
former subject ; " and it's said that they were seen carry-
ing some one away."

" It's little I know about the holy women," Father Te-
rence answered, "more than if they were the Eleven
Thousand Virgins itself; but what would they do the
like for ? And would any one belonging to this, whatever
way it was with the girl, without me knowing it ? — but
will ye see to the boy James ? And couldn't ye bring
him to speak with me ? "

Father Terence forgot and neglected his own break-

THE NEW PRIEST AT BAY-HARBOR.

243

fast, though he did not forget his hospitality. He seemed
almost impatient to have his commission undertaken im-
mediately.

His guest, too, appeared to have little appetite ; but he
lingered after they left the table, and presently said :-^

" There was another subject. Father Terence "

" Come and see me again, do ! and we'll talk of every
thing ; and don't forget the lad. I'd not let you go at all,
only for that."

The young priest accordin^^ly took his leave.

#■

244

THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER XXV.

A CALL AT A NUNNERY.

DJOINING the priest's house in Bay-Harbor
was a small building of later construction, en-
tered from the opposite direction. At the door
of this building, a pretty loud and continuous rapping
was heard early in the forenoon of Tuesday, the nine-
teenth day of August ; and again and again.

** Wall, s'pose I may's well go 'n' stir up the neighbors
n mite, *n' see what's the matter here. 'Guess they've
got a little o* the spirit o' slumber in 'em, b' th' way they
act," 8uid the visitor.

As Mr. Bangs turned to go away from the door, a
noise was heard within the house, and the door was un-
locked, unbolted, and opened. Mr. Bangs had by this
time got himself at some distance from the scene of his
lute exercise, and, in his business-like way of walking

o»

was lengthening the distance between it and himself. At
the opening of the door, he retraced his steps with alac-
rity.

" ' Wanted to see the head o' this Inst'tootion a minute,
*f tuin't too m'ch trouble. Wun't you jest ask her to step
this way ? "

The janitress hesitated ; but, saying she would speak
to Sister Theresa, shut the door gently between the holy
women and the man from the world without.

A CALL AT A NUNNERY.

245

Another nun appeared, and meekly waited until the
visitor should declare his errand. Mr. Bangs, for his
part, had not his wonted fluency of speech.

" 'Twas on business *f some 'mportance t' the Catholic
Church," he said.

" I must refer you to the reverend clergy, sir. You'll
find one of them at the other door — Father Terence or
Father Nicholas." She was very definite, though very
gentle.

*' Wall, ma'am," said the American, " 'f you think I'd
bfts' go 'n' see holy Father Nichols first, wh' I'll go. 'M
sorry 'f I've disturbed ye ; 's no harm meant, I'm sure.
If you'll make my compliments t* the rest, I'll say ' Good
mornin', ma'am ; ' " and he held out his hand for a part-
ing courtesy. He might as well have held it out to the
moon.

" Hope the's no hos-tile feelin's ; — wish ye * Good-day,
ma'am.' "

The sister bowed gravely, and gently shut the door.

" Wall, look a' here," said Mr. Bangs, as he found him-
self alone with himself, on the outside, turning round to
survey the building and neighborhood.

" Have you business with some one here ? " asked a
voice that made him start a little ; and he saw Father
Nicholas, such as we have described him.

" Wall ! ol' Gen'l Isril Putnam's wolf was a fool to
this," said Mr. Bangs, in a low voice, by way of rein-
stating himself in his self-possession ; then aloud, " Oh !

How d'ye do, Mr. ? Can't 'xacly call ye by name

— Holy Father guess '11 do. Wall, I did have a little
business with 'em, 'r some of 'em. Seems to be c'nsid'ble
rural retirement 'bout this — nunnery, s'pose 'tis, — . This
country don't seem t' have much natch'l gift 't raisin' trees

1 1

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24G

THE NEW PRIEST.

—don't seem *t take to it. — Bangs, my name is. Come
f m th* States."

" And may I ask, Mr. Bangs, what particular business
you had here ? '*

" Certin ; 'a no harm *n askin*, ye know. 'T's the
motto 'f the Republic, ye may say."

" I should be glad to know, then," said Father Nicholas,
drily.

" Shouldn't wonder 'f 'twould 'ford ye some pleasure ;
though guess ye'll be ruther 'stonished, f r a spell. Come
to look int' this r'ligion-business a mite. Don't mind
tellin' you."

Father Nicholas smiled : " Oh ! Mr. Bangs, from Pe-
terport, the American merchant I " said he. " Your nation

is becoming distinguished ," ("they're 'bout it, I

b'lieve," inserted Mr. Bangs, by way of commentary,)
" for intelligence and enterprise." (" The' is such a thing's
bein' cute, certin," said Mr. Bangs.) "So you wanted
to make some religious inquiries ? "

"Wall, 'smuch that 's any thing, 'guess," said Mr.
Bangs, who, as he concentrated his force upon his words,
knitted his brows, and looked a little to the left of the
person he was addressing, as we are taught to look at
bright bodies in the sky. " D'ye s'pose they'd gi' me a
chance to git conviction ? 'T any rate, t' look into it and
join, 'f I felt like it?"

" Oh ! yes," answered the priest, " any body can have
a chance. There's a way wide enough."

" Yes. — Bible says, ' Wide is the way,' " said Mr. Bangs.
" Ye see the's all my folks are Protestants, 'n' al'a's were,
fur's I know, f 'm th' beginning of the Bangses, and stood
p'tty high, too, — that is, some of 'em did. Why, my great
uncle was Deacon Parsimmon Tarbox — lived at Brain-

A CALL AT A NUNNERY.

247

tree, *n Massachusetts. 'Tain't likely you ever hoard of
him ; but I dono what *d come over 'em to hear 't one o'
the family 'd turned Catholic."

" But let me ask, If you wanted to see me, how come
you to call here ? "

" Wall, sir. I didn't exactly come to see you. I come
t' see some o* the folks that keep this 'stablishment."

" What sort of establishment do you take this to be,
then?"

" Why, a nunnery, *r a convent, or somethi \' o' that
sort."

"But you don't expect to take the veil, do you ? " in-
quired the priest, with an unqualified smile.

"No. 'T'a on'y women-folks 't wear veils; but you
see, it's these nunneries, and mummeries, 'n' what not,"
(Mr. Bangs looked very innocent,) "are gen'lly count.'.!
about the hardest thing in the Catholic religion ; and i ly
way is, al'a's to go chock up to head quarters, when I
want to know about a thing, and so, thinks I, I'll jes' go
and see for myself."

" Did you expect to walk right in and look about lor
yourself?"

" Wall, I thought, you know, 'taint like one o' those
Eastern hairims, where they wun't let a fellah go in, any
way, 'cause the women all belong to 'en: nnd they're
afraid to have 'em ketched or snapped up. Siiys I, This
is a Christian institootion, all open and above board."

" Yes, you're right, to a proper extent. There is no
concealment but what is necessary for the object ; which
is, retirement from the world in peace and safety. Men^
of cour.^e, are excluded, because this is a house of holy
women."

" Cer-tin. 'Stablishment I'k' this 'd make a church of

I hi

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248

THE NEW PKIEST.

itself, and might have meetin', — mass, ye know, — all t*
themselves, and a priest o' their own. Why, 't the Lu-
natic 'Sylum up to Worcester, they have a preacher, and
keep the men and women — wall, keep *em separate, any
way. Say here's where the females sit, all 'long here,"
(waving his hand,) " then here's what ye may call a broad
aisle

" May I inquire what particular object you had in view
in seeing the head of the family here ? " asked the Priest.

" Wh' ye know th' Protestants 'r* pleggy hard upon
convents ; — clappin' gals up, an' keepin' 'em 'n prison, *n'
dungeon, 'n' what not. When the's so much *f it, ye
want t' hear t'other side. Over here to Peterport, th*
wanted me to go 'n' testify 't I saw the nuns acarr'in' off
that gal, (down the rocks, there ;) but I come away 'n*
left 'em, s'pose ye heard ; — 's such a thing 's goin' too far.
Sometimes they want to be carried off; 'n' sometimes the*
aint 'ny carr'in' off 'bout it. Thinks I, 's nothin' 'gainst
my goin' 'n' callin' 'n a fash'nable way, 'n' takin' a look.
The's ben some pleggy smart men 'n the Catholic church ;
(there's Cardinal Wolsey ;) and these Protestants, s'pose
you'll admit, are a little the slowest race ! — kith, kin, kit,
— the whole boodle of 'em. Their wits ain't cute 'nough
to find the holes in their heads, / b'lieve. Why, there's
their Magistrate can't stand it : shouldn't wonder 'f he
turned."

At this point Mr. Bangs waited for his companion, who
had been apparently rather entertained by the American's
matter and manner.

" You saw Sister Theresa, I suppose ? " he asked.

" Yes, sir ; 'n' found her quite the lady. Don't seem
t' come out, 'xactly, I'k' some^-owin' to bringin' up, likely
—but what ye'd call a fine woman. Now, 'n th' States,

A CALL AT A NUNNERY.

249

ye walk right up to a public inst'tootion, 'n' they invite ye
in, and show ye the whole concern, 'n' ask ye to write
your name 'n a big book t' show 't you ben there."

" Well, Mr. Bangs, it's unusual, but your case is peculiar,
being a citizen of the Great Republic, nnd disposed to be
impartial. Perhaps wo might make an exception in your
favor. I suppose the sooner the better, in your opinion.
For instruction I shall introduce you to the Very Rev-
erend Father O'Toole, by-and-by."

"Wall, sir, the's a hymn (dono's y' ever heard it)
goes —

* Now's the day, an' now's the hour:
See the front o' Babel tower :
See approach proud Satan'o power:
Sin an' Slavery.' "

" I's all'a's brought up t' know the value 'f time, 'n' do
a thing while ye're about it. I's brought up there by
Boston, ye know, — close by, out to Needham, that is,
where they had the Gen'l Trainin', (used, to, 'n I's a
shaver, 't any rate.) Never had t' tell me, ' Go to yer
aunt, ye sluggard.' Wall, folks al'a's bed the credit o*
bringin' up p'ty fair specimens, about Boston, you know.
'Course your province-people (that is, dono 'bout the
jancs^part, but province-folks gen'lly) know all about
Boston 's well 's I can tell ye. Why, fact, up here in
Canady, (*ts all same thing, s'pose,) they used to call all
the people in the States ' Bostonese,' or ' Bostonase ' or
whatever the French word is. Wall, the bringin' up
'bout Boston 's p'tty well known. I's a mere runt to
some of 'em ; but, 's I's sayin', about tiiis Peterport, 's
they call it — might 's well call it Potter-port, 'n' be done
with it—for such a potterin' and pokin' about their busi-
ness, I never saw. Yankee Doodle 's our naytional toone,

! l'

ill

if.

Ill

250

THE NEW PRIEST.

ye know ; and there aint 'ny stop about that ; when our
Yankees set out with that, something's got to go, ship-
shape or shop-shape, 'r some way. A fellah must hev a
plaguy sight of stick in his shoes that don't go ahead to
that toone. *Twa'n't so much the fault o' the British, *s
'twas becos nothin' can stand before our Yankees when
they're hitched on to it and that toone agoin'. Wh' *t

Bunker that's 'bout wars and battles, though; don't

concern us, now ; but I dono's ye ever noticed what a sol-
emn psalm-toone that '11 make, only put it slow enough.
Faw ! " he sang, setting his head straight on his neck and
swelling out his throat, as if beginning an illustration of
the adaptedness of his favorite air.

The Priest smiled. « We'll try, then," said he.

So saying, he turned to the door on which the knuckles
of the American had been playing so persistently, and
knocking three times, and ringing a bell, gave the sen-
tence, " Ave, Maria Sanctissima ! " in a clear voice. An
answer was made by a woman, " Sine labe concepta,"
and then the entrance was made open to them.

Father Nicholas went forward into the nearest room,
Mr. Bangs following, and the sister being in the rear.
He then turned square about and said : " Sister Agnes,
this visitor from the United States of America is making
inquiries into the truths of our Most Holy Faith. He has
a desire to ascertain whether our religious houses are
prisons. Have the kindness to say to Sister Theresa,
that, with her leave, we are come to see this simple little
house."

— " What's your will, Father Nicholas ? " asked Sister
Theresa, meekly, as she entered.

" Mr. Bangs, Ma'am, — you recollect," said the Ameri-
can, recalling her memory to himself.

A CALL AT A NUNNERY.

251

" I only wish to asV. permission, in favor of Mr. Bangs,
here, to go through y.jur little establishment in my com-
pany. It is not for the gratification of idle curiosity, but
for important reasons, which I will explain hereafter,"
said Father Nicholas, looking significantly, less at Sister
Theresa than at the visitor, who answered, with an ex-
pression of intelligence, " Jes' so."

"Will you have the kindness to direct me?" asked
she, in return.

" We will follow you, if you please."

" And where shall we begin ? " asked she again, still in
uncertainty.

"Any where. Here, for example, at the beginning,
if you'll let me take the guide's office," said the Priest.
" This room, Mr. Bangs, is the parlor. Not very splen-
did, you see."

" Certin. This paintin' ain't a common work, by con-
sid'ble. One o' the best things o' that sort, I 'most ever
saw." In saying this, the American put himself at a
distance, inclined his head a little to one side, and applied
his hand, made into a tube, to his right eye, closing the
other. " Seems to freshen on the gaze ! don't it ! "

" This room, with this sort of hole in the door," con-
tinued his reverend guide, to the tasteful American, not
too abruptly, opening the door communicating with the
room in the rear, through which the nun had come to the
former interview with her curious visitor, "is a sort of
back-parlor, having this opening to allow the ladies to
communicate, if necessary, with persons here, without ex-
posing themselves to the observation of strangers or others."

" Jes' so. Good '1 1'k' one o' the peek-holes at Bunkum's
Grand Universal Skepticon, down to Boston ; greatest
thing o' the kind in the world, they say. I don't s'pose

252

THE NEW PRIEST.

Sister Theresy ever had much notion for those things ;
but you're aware there are great, — wall, — "

" Here we are at the last room on this floor. This
little place is a private retiring room, for prayer," inter-
rupted the Priest, gently and easily, — Mr. Bangs accept-
ing the interruption as quite regular.

" Don't seem to make much provision f * the wants o*
the flesh, any how," said the latter. " First house, pretty
much, 's I may say, I ever see 'thout a kitchin. "Wall, I
didn't s'pose 'twas a fact, but they used to say, you know,
that nuns lived p'tty much like Injuns, on parched corn,
and so on."

" The Sisters' simple cooking is done in the adjoining
house, belonging to the Reverend Father O'Toole," ex-
plained his guide, " for the Mission, in this place."

" Very solemn, cer-tin : — that fixin' there, I mean."
Father Nicholas and the lady, standing silent, after hav-
ing crossed themselves at sight of the crucifix and one of
the usual representations of a woman with a child, before
which " fixin'," as it had just been called, stood, on a little
bracket-shelf, a metal candlestick and candle and a few
very artificial flowers, with one real moss rose and three
real rose leaves among them.

" I ain't quite used to doin' that, yet," continued the
visitor, referring to the crossing, and gesticulating after
some fashion of his own. While he was making his
demonstration, however, there was some sound of a cough
or sneeze from more than one of the neighboring females,
whoever or wherever they were.

" Pupils, or servants," said the priestly conductor, look-
ing with something like asperity towards the Sister ; then,
turning the end of the sentence to Mr. Bangs, " We shall
soon run through our narrow limits ; and you will get no

iji

A CALL AT A NUNNERY.

253

very exalted notion of the importance of our meek little
community," continued Father Nicholas. " Our next steps
go up these narrow stairs."

" Guess thV ain't much goin' down, f 'r *t seems folks
gen'lly, here, think the land turns to water, 'little way
down. No need o' raisin' a cry o' dungeons, and lockups,
and what-nots, under ground. Why, here's a little door —
fact, — goin' down to some root-cellar, likely ; — * should like
to see a cellar under ground, f ' once, f ' variety, in this
country."

" You shall be gratified, certainly," said his ecclesiasti-
cal guide, " as far as may be ; but I fancy that not much
is to 1 )c seen, unless the darkness is visible."

The American putting his eyes and nose down towards
the opening, remarked upon it, very summarily, " why,
't is ' 's dark 's a pitch-pipe,* 's the boy said, and smells
strong 'f old straw or hay ; but 't's a comfort to see it, any
how. You see, corain' right f 'm the States, where a man
'd jest 'bout 's soon think of hevin' no pockit in his pants,
as not hevin' a cellar to his house, it looks strange to me
not seein' one, all the time I've ben here : one o' your
real old-fashioned ones comes in well. What curis sort
o' partitions they have here, compared 'th real walls o'
lath and plaster," he concluded, knocking, at the same
time, with the knuckle of one finger, on the thin deal that
separated one room from another.

" These are slight houses, certainly ; but religious per-
sons, of all people, may be content to have what will last
their day: ^ Non, enim, hahemus hie — for we have not
here a lasting city, but we seek one that is to come.' "

" Certin," said Mr. Bangs. " We ought to, any how."

The visiting procession passed now up the little creak-
ing stairs, the Priest leading ; Mr. Bangs accompanying

itl!

254

THE NEW PRIEST.

him by going up two stairs at a time, and then, poising
himse'^^for a moment, so as to keep the same relative dis-
tance between himself and the rest o^ the party, before
and behind ; the females bringing up the rear.

" This is * recreation-hour/ is it not. Sister Theresa ? "
inquired the guide, and, receiving an answer in the
affirmative, added, " I shall have great pleasure, Mr.
Bangs, in giving you an opportunity of seeing every
member of the household, without any exception ; the list
is not as long as the roll of Xerxes' army, or the immortal
Washington's. We number only five, all told, I think :
one sick. Sisters Theresa, Agnes, Frances, Catharine,
and Bridget ; two professed, as we call them ; one lay,
one novice, one postulant."

" Yes : postulate means wanted^ or aid, I b'lieve ; one
't you want to have join, I guess."

" Reverse it, and you have the meaning of postulant,
exactly ; one that asks to be admitted."

*' Oh, postulant ! I's thinkin' of postuZa^e. I got that
out of an old book o* my father's, time I was keepin' com-
pany o' Casty — wall, a good while ago."

" This room is what you'll understand, at once," open-
ing one to the left, of some ten feet by twelve, with a
recess at the further end, about five feet deep and six feet
wide, railed across even with what was left of the wall ;
which latter was occupied entirely by a closed door on
one side, and an open one on the other, showing a little
closet opening into the recess before spoken of, with a
screen or paling.

" That, you see, is an altar ; these pictures around the
room are what we call stations, used for marking different
places to kneel and pray."

" I see ! " said the visitor j " solemn-lookin' place,

^ft

A CALL AT A NUNNERY.

255

)en-
th a
Ifeet
^all;
|r on
little
th a

the
srent

[lace,

fact ; " then turning away, as before, with a bow, he said
to Father Nicholas, " this house stows more, atop, 'n down
b'lovv, 's they used to tell o' the York Dutchman and his
hat."

" You've an excellent eye, sir. This room is taken out
of the next house that I spoke of. If you'd fancy it, you
shall see the whole arrangement of that, also, by and by.
Ah ! here is Sister Frances ; and there is Sister Ursula."
(They all, except Sister Theresa, stood with their backs
turned toward the visitors.) " You see all of the family
but one. These rooms are dormitories," opening one of
the doors which led into a plain room, (like those with
which the reader is familiar enough,) containing several
bare and hard-looking beds, and little furniture 'of any
kind beside.

Mr. Bangs cast a sharp side-glance into this room, and
then looked forward for further progress. Before the
next door were standing several of the Sisters ; Si&ter
Theresa explaining that this was the chamber of the sick.

" Please to let our visitor see the inside of the sick-
room, in which the gentle hands of our religious smooth
the pillow of the afflicted, as a sister. * Universum stratum
ejus versasti — thou hast turned his whole couch in his
sickness.' Is the sufferer awake ? " the Priest asked, in
a tender and sympathizing tone.

" No, Father Nicholas, she has been sleeping for some
time, quite heavily," answered, in a whisper, the nun who
held the door, and who, as she spoke, threw it open and
drew herself aside, as did Sister Theresa, who had been
standing beside her in front of the entrance.

The American, not changing either his place or posture,
except to bend his head, with unwonted reverence, down-
ward, stood, demisso orcj with a subdued look, bent first

I : :

256

THE NEW PRIEST.

towards the bed on which the mere outline of the sick
one could be seen, and then gradually turned to other
objects in the room. There was such perfect silence, that
the heavy, regular breathing was distinctly heard from
within. The change which had passed upon the visitor,
in presence of this scene of human need and helplessness,
was very striking, as he stood thus subdued, with his
hands before him, one holding his hat, and the other the
opposite wrist. He was as still as if his very breathing
were too loud.

But it would be too much to look for very long stand-
ing-still or silence from him ; and soon, indeed, abruptly
turning to his reverend guide, he spoke in an awkward
whisper, considerably above his breath, which he had kept
down so carefully, as follows : —

" Dono's ye ever noticed it, about sickness — " when, —
precipitated by an ungainly gesture accompanying his
words, — a shower of things out of his hat dispersed them-
selves within the sickroom and about the floor on which
the company stood. The accident affected every member
of the party, even those whose backs were turned. These
last rustled a little ; and a sound almost like a giggle
came from some one or more, the most impulsive. Sister
Theresa crossed herself, as soon as she recovered from
the first shock of this rude and most unnecessary inde-
corum. The Priest at first came near to smiling, uninten-
tionally ; but instantly visited the unsanctified misadven-
ture with a frown that gathered over the still lingering
smile, like a dark cloud above the streak of sunset-sky.
The short word '' bah ! " escaped his lips.

The author of all this commotion, — interrupted in his
well-meant speech, glancing round the company, brushing
up one side of his hair over the bald, and saying, " Do

A CALL AT A NUNNERY.

257

tell ! wall, don't stir," all at the same instant, almost, and
before any one had had time to recover, — dove forward
after the most remote articles of his scattered property.

In doing this he made little more noise than a cat, and
was just about as expeditious in his motions, following a
lead-pencil to one side of the chamber and a penknife to
the other, not leaving behind the habit of his nation, even
in this unexpected visit; but drawing near and casting
a glance, in passing, at a colored engraving of a saint,
as very likely he would have looked in a glass, had there
been one in the place, which there was not.

The handkerchief and an outlandish-looking news-
paper, which had dropped down in the passage-way and
remained there, lay where they had fallen, when he came
out, and then resumed their former place. " Hope ye
wun't think hard o' my hat," he whispered, loudly, by
way of reconciling matters, " 't don't gen'lly act like that.
However, b'lieve no harm's done. Don't let me keep
you, sir, awaiting, and the ladies."

The remainder of the visit was soon dispatched. Father
Nicholas appearing not less kind, if less cordial than be-
fore, and saying, — after a brief exhibition of the adjoining
room, — " You have now seen the whole, sir, and I hope
you'll remember your visit with pleasure. I told you at
the outset that you were treated with very rare con-
sideration, because I didn't believe that in your case it
would be thrown away. I shall be happy to give you
any further information which may be in my power."

" Very much obleeged to you, 'ra sure, sir. *T's done
me good. Jest what I like. Come and see for m'self
and ben treated like a gentleman. 'F 't 'adn't ben for
that — wall, ' accidents will occur, you know,' 's the fellah
said once. 'Wish all success to the ladies, adoin' good,

VOL. I. 17

i ^
V 1 I

258

THE NEW PRIEST.

nnd I'll jest go straight to the other priest, — that's the
llev. Mr. Terence's or O'Toole's, — and do a little busi-
ness 'th him, *f I find I can."

As Father Nicholas and his guest withdrew, Sister
Theresa was heard saying, "We will now go to our
oiHce, sisters, and we have something to make up." The
machinery of the establishment (after the obstruction had
been removed) began to go as before. "We go with the
retiring party as far as the outside.

OTHER SUSPICIOUS PERSONS.

259

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE MAGISTRATE DEALS WITH OTHER SUSPICIOUS

PERSONS.

)HE world was going on in Peterport also. Public
suspicion had, of course, repeatedly touched
Father Debree, but had never been able to
fasten on him. One or two overwise bodies undoubtedly
thought him the more dangerous, because (as they said)
" he was so deep, and made people think he was harm-
less ; " but almost every one (with Skipper George) ab-
solutely discharged him, before the third day. To have
found out what was his painful and mysterious connection
with Mrs. Barre, would have been a great deal for the
public. — It did not yet appear.

He was seldom seen in the harbor, and was soon little
spoken of; the fever too, in Marchants* Cove, which
killed no one, ceased to occupy men's tongues, or the
tongues of their wives. Mrs. Barre's sorrow and her
mystery were left to silence, while steadily the general
thought busied itself with following the lost maiden.

James Urston, it was said, had been with the priests
at Bay-Harbor ; but it was also said, that he was threat-
ened with excommunication, or some great penalty, and
public opinion naturally sympathized with the bereaved
lover and the disaffected Roman Catholic, (if he was dis-

ill:

200

THE NEW PRIEST.

affected ;) — the public eye still looked darkly at Mrs. Cal-
loran, and beyond.

Mrs. Calloran herself had said, — very truly, — that
" there were other old women in Peterport," and the hands
of justice, again feeling about, grasped Granny Palasher
and held her to an examination. They were to have
laid hold on Mr. Bangs, (this time,) and Ladford ; but
these had both slipped between, like other little men of
old time, between those of another giant. Of Ladford's
movements nothing was reported ; but of the American,
"William Frank had this to say. That he had sent some
important communication to the vice-consul of his coun-
try, at St. John's, and had left the harbor for parts un-
known.

The magistrate made little out of the Granny, except
that her name was properly Ann Pilchard, and that the
public suffrage was with her when she asserted that she
" had an occupation and knowed it 'most so good as some
other folks did theirs, mubbe." Having in the course of
a day elicited so much, he adjourned his court.

Awaking from the sleep which had settled down upon
a mind and body, faded with the long day's and night's
work, which went before and followed the last adjourn-
ment of his " court," and yet another full day's painful
deliberation, he was informed by his servant, that there
was a paper on the front-door, and that "he" (the
paper) "looked mostly like a print, seemunly." The
color rose in Mr. Na :ghton*s cheeks, and his fingers
trembled as he proceeded to examine this new decoration
of his house. He evidently suspected it.

He walked leisurely and stopped at more than one
thing in the way, and when he got out of doors, looked
up at the sky and down at some vegetation on which he

OTHER SUSPICIOUS PERSONS.

201

had expended a great deal of manure, before approaching
the object which had titiniuhited the curioi^ity of his maid.
When he did at length deliberately turn to view it, he
saw a huge broadside of wrapping-paper, bearing the
words (in charcoal,)

" the FaytFul megistrun."

He certainly looked fateful, (as the poster uninten-
tionally called him,) when he had read this thing.

" Ha ! " said he, " parties may burn their fingers, if
they don't look out ; " and he conspicuously, — that all the
neighborhood or the world might see it, — tore the paper
first into long strips and then into little bits, which he
gave by instalments to the winds. He then walked delib-
erately up and down in front of his house, turning his
face, (considerably reddened by the activity of his mind,)
frequently to the road, with an " Hm ! " as if to show the
world that there he was, unmoved, and ready to be the
mark of any animadversion.

" Si fractus illahatur orbis (sedente ipso, sc, in cathedra),
Impavidum ferient ruince.^*

So for some time he aired himself, before going in to
breakfast.

That the impersonation of Justice in Peterport was pot
weary of its efforts, was soon made manifest. Gilpin,
the constable, hinted the propriety of having Mrs. Cal-
loran up again, and giving her a " hauling-over."

This proposition the magistrate disposed of summarily,
by a legal aphorism : " A person can't be tried twice for
the same offence, Mr. Gilpin, according to English law ; "
and he forestalled an argument over which the constable's
eye was twinkling, and which he was just making up his
mouth to utter, by putting into that oflSccr's hand a war-
rant, and saying authoritatively, —

262

THE NEW PRIEST.

_ ''IB,

; i I i

"You'll see that Mrs. Frank is brought before me
with all diligence."

The constable's eye twinkled as much as ever ; and,
putting the writ in his pocket, before he went forth upon
his errand, he made a new suggestion : —

" She'll never be able to stand it, sir, will she, poor old
thing ? she's had a good deal o' worriment over this al-
ready, they say."

" Justice is absolute, Mr. Gilpin ; if you find her health
impaired, you will report it."

So the constable went about his business.

Granny Frank was at the time upon a few days' visit
to her grand-daughter, Jesse Barbury Hills's wife, and
thither the constable proceeded, to subpoena her, or rather
fetch her with him to the magistrate.

There was a little commotion in the house as Gilpin
came to it, which prevented his tap at the door from
being heard, and he walked in, accordingly, unbidden.

A child or two were playing in the sitting-room ; but
all the older members of the family had drawn together
in a bedroom at the side. The constable came silently
across, and was not noticed ; for Jesse and his wife, and
Isaac Maifen were busy about a bed, in which the shriv-
elled and exhausted old woman lay, heaving long, slow
sighs for breath.

" Jes-se, — child — ," she was saying, with longer than
her usual intervals between the syllables, and more feebly

than usual, — " un-der — my-
— wants — to — go — high "-

-rump ! — heave — I — up, — I

'11 ':

Jesse Hill, as dutifully as a child, and as tenderly as
might be, did her bidding ; and raised the slight body up.

" She's gone ! " said Gilpin, as he scanned her face
" that's her last word in this life, you may depend ! "

OTHER SUSPICIOUS PERSONS.

263

} me

and,
upon

or old
lis al-

health

s' visit

fe, and

rather

Gilpin
►r from
len.

; but
ogether
silently
iie, and
e shriv-
g, slow

;er than
e feebly
-up,— I

lerly as
|)ody up.
IT face

" Do 'ee think so ? " asked Jesse ; " why, she's sca'ce
got through wi' talkun ! "

" Next time she speaks it won't be here," said the con-
stable gravely.

" God rest her, then ! " said her grandson-in-law ; " I'm
glad we was all w'itun upon her when she goed, any-
how."

" It's ofood one trouble for nothinj; was saved her ! "
said the constable.

So they laid her down again, decently, upon the bed,
and sent for the different members of the family, while
the constable lingered, without mentioning the errand
upon which he had come.

" What have you got here, Jesse ? " said he, as his eye
caught sight of a parcel standing on the mantle-shelf.

" Mr. Banks give it to I to brihg up, for un, from B'y-
Harbor."

" Why, it's for the Parson, man ; why didn't you deliver
it?"

" He on'y asked I to bring it," said the trusty deposi-
tary ; " an' so I kept it, tull 'e'd call, 'isself. I never
knowed what it was."

" Well, bad readin' '11 never spoil you, Jesse. How
long was the old lady sick ? "

" She never was sick ; not that we knowed of; but just
visitun, an' layun on the bed, as comfortable as could be,
tull just a few minutes sunce ; — as it might be, two-three
minutes afore you corned in."

" Well, she's had enough of it, if she was ready. She
might have had too much, if she'd staid longer. Is Naath
home ? "

" No ; we'll wait the funeral tull Monday, I suppose, to
give un a chance to come back."

m; ;■

'■'I

•S*-; *?

'■m

mm '

I '

i !

lilP

264

THE NEW PRIEST.

The constable took his leave, and went to make his
return. Jesse went too.

Both the men started back, and made a reverential
salutation, as they met Mrs. Barre, on coming into the
road. Her look was more troubled than usual.

" It's easier partin' a gran'mother than it is a husband
or a child," said the constable, shortly after.

"All so, Mr. Gulpin," said Jesse, " that's a clear case ;
you've got to part they. I hard Parson Kingman's wife
say, ' death is an alteration, surely, an' can' be helped.' "

There were some loiterers about the magistrate's prem-
ises ; — people that can always spare time for public affairs ;
and whom, now, the mission of the constable had stimu-
lated to strong expectancy. The magistrate was im-
mersed in mental and manual occuprti^n : reading and
writing.

"■ There was some one to summons her before I, sir,"
said Gilpin.

" How do you mean ? " asked the magistrate, nervously ;
for though he got along very well ^\ith i)lenty of sea-
room, the prospect of a collision or conflict of jurisdictions
was a new thing to him.

" She's dead," said the constable.

" Dead ! Why, that can't be," exclaimed,Mr. Naughton,
" she was alive yesterday."

"And so she was the minute she died, sir ; but she
won't be again, in one while, unless the Day of Judgment
comes."

The comparison, so strongly drawn by the Almighty
between his might and the stipendiary's "absolute jus-
tice," affected Mr. Naughton considerably.

He went to the window, (the public being outside,) and
through it spoke, —

OTHER SUSPICIOUS PERSONS.

265

" I am given to understand," said he, " that Mrs. Abi-
gail Frank, commonly called Old Granny Frank, who
had been summoned as a witness, is dead. I shall,
therefore, prorogue this court, as is customary, until after
the funeral. Mr. Gilpin, this warrant is dismissed ; " and
he solemnly bowed away the constable and a few of the
more adventurous neighbors who had got a place within.

" Good ! " said Gilpin, as soon as they wore in the
king's highway ; " I hope the next thing, he'll hear the
Emperor of Egypt's dead, and adjourn for a twelve-
month."

The people dispersed, (to better occupations, perhaps,)
and Granny Palasher having certified herself of the fact,
from Jesse, commented upon it as many another old
woman has commented upon a like case : —

" Poor thing ! she alw'ys seemed to ail o' somethun,
these few years back ; but I do wonder what 'ave atookt
she, at last ! "

From the magistrate's, Gilpin made his way to the
Minister's.

*" The ' Spring-Bird ' has sailed, sir," said he ; " o' Tues-
day nig)it, Jesse says ; so Cap'n Noles worth's off."

" Is he ? " said Mr. Wellon. " I'm sorry he couldn't
have staid to help us clear this up ! "

The " little mite of a bundle," as the sender had d^'sig-
nated it, proved, when developed, to be a quaint-looking
letter on a foolscap sheet, addressed to " Mister Wellon,
the English episcopalian minister at Peterport, to the
kindness of Mister Barbury, with Dispatch."

The Minister, having read it with varying expressions
in his face of surprise, amusement, and interest, handed
it to the constable, saying, —

*' You seem to be concerned in this."

|!if

li'iii

Iplllijl

F' i

266

THE NEW PRIEST.

The latter took it, with a look of astonishment, and

.having prefaced his work by the remark, "Well, that's a

queer-looking concern, any way," proceeded to read aloud,

in a subdued voice, and here and there with difficulty, as

follows : —

« Mister Wellon, Sir :•—

" Thinking you may be aware of a little surcumstance
that happened here, and knowing your concern in people's
souls, is my reason for writing, to let you know what,
maybe, will prove interesting. You see I took a notion
to look into this Holy Roman Religion, a might, while I's
about it, and not having any thing partiklar to do till fall
business commences. I think best to inform friends and
all concerned, / mai/ be converted, and I may not : sup-
pose it ell be according to. I have ben in oiie of those
Nunneries, ye may call it. Never saw any thing the
kind managed better, in my life. Sister Theresy is as
genteel a lady as I should wish to see. A little accident
occurred while I's holding inspection, as you may say.
My hat, you may have taken notice to it," (" Well, this is
a pretty fellow ! " said Gilpin,) " it went and come right
out of my hand, away into the middle of the floor, in a
room where they had a young lady sick. Most every-
body carries a few notions in his hat, I guess, and so I
had a pocket-handkerchief, and a knife, and a razor, and
a comb, and what not ? and they all went sescatter. Pen-
knife, one of your Congress knives, present from honor-
able Tieberius Sesar Thompson, Member Congress, went
away off under a picture ; see it wi-^s " Saint Lucy," right
opposite the bed; same name of your Miss Barbury:
pretty well executed, I sho'd judge ; only a might too red
in the face, supposing she fasted as I should say she had
ought to, if she was a Nun. Lucky I didn't wake the

OTHER SUSPICIOUS PERSONS.

267

;, and
at's a
aloud,
Ity, as

istance

leople's

\f what,
notion

hile I's
till fall

ids and

)t: sup-

of those

ling the

ay is as

accident

lay say.

[1, this is
le right
3or, in a

|t every-
md so 1
tzor, and
sr. Pen-
honor-
!ss, went
|y " right
larbury :
It too red
she had
ake the

sick, but, most likely, she'd had medcine, as I took notice
to her breathing, ruther heavy and dead. Should judge
they kep her ruther covered up. All I could see was
jest an attorn of her face and a might of black hair : should
say she ought to have fresh air. I thought of the short-
ness and uncertainty of human life — seemed to be about
eighteen nigh as I could judge; but Father Nicholas,
they call him, that showed me round, seemed to feel bad
about the accedent, and I come away, and took a cour-
teous leave.

Sir, I needent say to you that writing about religious
experience is private and confidential, without it's a friend
like Mr. Gilpin, the constable. Shouldent like to hurt
tne feelings of the old gentleman, that's Father O'Toole,
who is willing to take unbounded pains ateaching. I told
him if he ever had occasion to call on the Governor of
Massachusetts, to mention my name, and say Mr. Bangs
of Needham that used to be. Believing, sir, you know
how to act about correspondents of a confedential char-
acter, I remain. Yours truly, and to command,

Elnathan Bangs."

" "Well ! " exclaimed Gilpin, looking up, with his one
eye twinkling, when he had finished the reading, " if that
isn't a letter .u^.d a half! "

"These Americans have strange ways," said Mr.
Wellon ; " but do you notice any thing particularly in
his letter?"

"About the sick girl ? and the black hair ? and about
eighteen years old ? " asked Gilpin, putting these things
together with a directness that would not have been un-
worthy of a policeman of abundant practice ; " yes, sir ;
and ' St. Luci/ ! ' How should that happen ? Or do you
think Mi, Bangs put that in ? "

' ii

!tl'3i

■

■ - ir

m I

THE NEW PRIEST.

" Oh, no," said Mr. Wellon ; " that's just what they would
do, very likely, if they were trying to make a convert ;
they'd hang up a portrait of her patron-saint, as they call
it. All this confirms our suspicion. Thank God it comes
just in time. I never thought of the American making
himself so useful."

"Dropping his hat!" said the constable. "If that
isn't one way of gitting into a place ! That is a joke !
* Holy Koraan Religion ! ' There's a convert for 'em !
But tha' sick girl "

" T^iat's a pity ! " said the Minister, thoughtfully, —the
constable eyeing him curiously the while. " If we could
iioe \i\\ evidence "

'^ I take it, sir, we can use it by the time we want it."

" Ay ; but in the mean time this poor man will get en-
tangled, perhaps, beyond help."

The constable still looked curiously and inquiringly.

" The maid, sir ? Lucy Barbury ? " suggested he, by
way of amendment to the word " man," in the Minister's
sentence.

" No ; I was thinking of this American, — Mr. Bangs."

" But it won't do him any harm, sir ; will it ? " asked
Gilpin, still puzzled.

The Minister answered : —

" To be ;:ure, he wasn't a churchman before ; but I
should bf. very sorry, nevertheless, to see him become a
papist. If he should see this ^)lot, it might cure him."

" He sees it fast enough, sir, or I'n, much mistaken,"
said the constable.

" But," answered Mr. Wellon, " I can't think he under-
stands the whole thing ; and if he could be rescued "

" From Father O' Toole, sir ? The Yankee '11 t-ake care
of himself, I'll go bail. We needn't trouble ourselves

i;;!i

OTHER SUSPICIOUS PERSONS.

269

ould
ert;
call
omes
iking

that

joke !

'em!

,— the
could

t it."
»;et en-

he, by
nister's

5angs."
asked

but I

jcome a

_ »>

um.

staken,"

about saving him, sir, any more than a fish from drown-
ing. If he isn't up to any of 'em, he's no Yankee. It's
my opinion, they'll find it slow work converting him."

The Minister smiled, good-humoredly, as his solicitude
for Mr. Bangs was blown away. "It's strange that he
should get in there," said he.

" They've been too cunning, and not cunning enough,"
answered the constable. " They thought he'd tell every
body he'd been all over the place, and people would think
it must be all right, if they weren't afraid to let un in.
Father Nicholas, there, thought he could keep un safe
enough ; but he didn't think about his hat ! " —

So, this evening, the old suspicion, setting towards Bay-
Harbor, and the nuns and priests there, possessed tjie
Minister and his council more strongly than it had done
since Lucy Barbury was lost.

,( .

e under-

3d -"

ake care
urselves

270

THE NEW PRIEST.

e;MB

I mm

;!!«

i,l!ilili

CHAPTER XXVII.

MR. BANGS HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE HEAD OP

THE MISSION.

)E left Mr. Bangs at Bay- Harbor, in charge of
Father Nicholas, coming from the nunnery,
which he had just inspected. Under the same
sacerdotal guidance, he walked towards the priests* quar-
ters.

They passed into the hall, Father Nicholas leading, and
awaited, next, the result of the latter's knocking thrice
upon an inner door.

The word " Enter," surrounded, so to speak, b}' a sound
of bustle, — much as a word is written by painters in a sur-
rounding of cloud, — called them to the " dignitary's " pres-
ence. He sat, sedate, in his wide chair, — his dress care-
fully arranged in his style of state, — and was intent, in
studious zeal, upon a book. Looking up gravely from
his work, he fidgeted a little, trying to wear a calm, high
dignity, in waiting for an explanation of the visit, —
(which, by the way, it may be thought he imderstood
beforehand,) — and ended with a kindly bustle of bringing
chairs.

"This gentleman, Reverend Father Terence, is an
American, descended from an eminent stock in the re-
public—

MR. BANGS HAS AN INTERVIEW.

271

AD OP

arge of
unnery,
iC same
s' quar-

ing, and
thrice

a sound
n a sur-

" pres-
5SS care-
itent, in
ly from
m, high

visit, —
ierstood
jringing

, is an
the re-

Mr. Bangs, — who sat with his right ankle resting on
his left knee, his chair now and then rearing under him,
like a trained horse, and coming down again on all fours,
— said, meekly : " Oh, some of 'em 've got their coats-'f-
arms, 'n* what not ; that's beyond me ; but I know jest as
wall who my gran'ther was as can be. You know, I told
ye about the deacon — Parsimmon Tarbox— on mother's
side ; but, on father's side, they were Bangses all the
way up to Noah's flood, 's fur *s I know ; Jedidiah, and
Jehoshaphat, and Jeshimon, and Joshuy, and wliat not,
— church-members and s'lectmen, (some of 'cm,) — an* so
on, all down."

" Atavis regihus ; they are all kings and sovereigns in
that favored country," — (" Cer-tin," said Mr. Bangs,) —
"and he professes a desire to be acquainted with the
Catholic Faith, Father Terence, and, indeed, a readiness
to be converted. I bring him, of course, to yourself," —
(the dignitary bowed, with as smooth and stcjidy a swing
as that of a pendulum, and said " Of coorse ! ") — " know-
ing that if there was any one to do extraordinary work,
that one was the very Reverend Father O'Toole ; " —
(again a smooth, slow bow from the dignitary, who spoke
thus :) —

" And, by a strange forchuitous accident, what should
I be engaged npon at this identical, present moment, but
a very cJ'siiuse work upon that very country! It's a
rare work, too, I'm thinkin'. I've here the second vol-
ume, which I procured with great difficulty through
Barney Baine, — (did ye know Barney ?) and he had but
the one. I'm not sure is there another copy iv it cx-
tant."

" You're quite recondite in the authorities you consult.
I should have thought that credible writers on that coun-

III

I- %

I !

■ ;lr
J''

. -m

i^-l! iiiiiii

ml
^ il ill

272

THE NEW PRIEST.

try rould be found with less trouble, and in a complete
form."

** Ay ; but, d'ye see ? it's but little they've known of
writing and the like o' that, — those Amorikyins, — until
those late years, (the most o' thira, that is,) being all
mostly savage Indgius, I suppose, (with a small sprinkling
of Europyins and Irish, certainly.) Some o' thim took
to learning, I suppose, naturally, for the man here's got a
name of his own that would puzzle a Tom'hawk himself,
—(that's one of their tribes, d'ye know ? as they call
tlu'm.) To be sure, the most of it seems to be in plain
English, surely ; but then, d'ye see ? the great learning
that's here, undoubtedly, all in the original tongue," said
Father O'Toole, shutting the book.

" Have you mastered the ' original,' then, already, in
your retirement, and without a teacher ? "What a figure
you'd have made in the Sacred Congregation, or in our
College at Rome, to be sure ! "

The portly personage complimented thus, rose up to
put away the book, while tlie younger priest, with a grave
courtesy, followed him, and, asking permission to look at
the learned treatise, secured it, when laid down, and read
tiloud " Diedrich Knickerbocker," as the author's name,
and added, as comment, " What a Dutch-sounding name
it is ! "

" Ye may say that ; and ye'll remember, be-the-by, the
Dutch has much trade with the Indies and the neighbor-
ing parts, and has had, those many years. It's to be
feared they've been teaching them their own religion, too,
mostly."

The other inquired : —

" Do you find this writer orthodox ? The name sounds
as if it ought, fairly, to be found in the Index ; ' Diedrichius

III

MR. BANGS KAS AN INTKKVIEW.

273

Knickerbocker. Storia di Nuova York, quaeumque lingua
impressa.' "

" Oh, it's for reference, just, that 1 keep them, — books
o' that kind I It's a learn'd work, — it's a wry learn'd
work, this, doubtless, in its way, — but not sound in
the one f)oint. They're to stand up in a library, and it's
not too often that a busy man, like meself, can get a look
at them. It's only dipping into it, that I've done, just to
get at ihe marrow of it. But here is our excellent friend
ready to throw behind him all the Dutcl id Indyan re-
ligion," — (" Cer-tin," assented the Ami., an,) — "and to
take up the old anncient faith."

" Wall, I'm looking that way, to see what I can make
of it," explained the American. " It's conviction, 's
much 's any thing, that I want, I ruther guess. There's
that hymn, — I do'no the Latin of it, — (anyhow it's seven
hunderd forty-seven in * Revival Rhapsodies ' :) —

When I can leave this load o' clay,

And stretch my limbs, and soar away,
And breathe the upper air;

Then let the world go all to smash;

I'll lift my head above the crash,
And take fast hold by prayer.'

the
ibor-
be
too,

" The way Elder Tertullus Taylor used to give that out
at Eastham Camp-Meeting * would do a body good.
There ! You know, he w's a long kind of a slobsided
chap, an' when he come to ' load o' clay,' he wriggled his
shoulders, you see, so fashion," (doing it as he sat,)
" an' pulled an' tugged 't his coat, like all possessed ; but
when he got to ' stretch my. limbs, and soar away,' why

* This exposition, used by Mr. Bangs at the period of our story,
may give archaeologists an unexpected hint as to the age of the name
and the thing.

VOL. I. 18

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Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14S80

(716) 872-4503

•'>>

^.^

;ii!!i

274

"^i:

^ '^'THE NEW PRIEST.

the most I can compare it to was, wall, he up *th this

arm, 'th the book in it, an* then t'other, an' kicked down
his legs, jest 's if he was goin* to stick the hymn-book
away up through somew'er's, an' go right up after it.
Why, all the old women, 'most, put right out to git hold
of him by the heels, or what not, singin' ' Glory ! ' jest as
tight 's they could stretch. But, as you say," — (no-
body but himself said any thing,) — " this ain't the ques-
tion now. Question is : What's about the shortest an*
quickest way o' gitting at this Catholic religion ? *s you
may say." :,

In the presence of this active elocutionist, Father Ter-
ence looked, for the moment, as if the world that he be-
longed to had been knocked away somewhere, and he
himself had tumbled down among strange things and
people. Of course his apparatus, argumentative, was as
useless as a battery cf cannon against a freshet or other
incongruity. He almost instinctively glanced around at
the odd volume of Knickerbocker's heretical History,
which the Holy Father (Sanctissimus Nbster,) has put
upon the prohibitory Index, but which he had had in hand,
before this unusual encounter.

Father Nicholas, for whatever cause, adapted himself
at once to the character of the man, and said, with grave
appreciation of the American's performance, (which had
been given with as thorough zest as if he bad had a sly
fancy for astonishing the old priest,) " That seems to bo
to the life, Mr. Bangs. You appropriate the religion you
belong to and make it your own ; and if you once take
the true faith fairly in, no doubt will naturalize that, also.
It's just the thing for an independent thinker."

" Guess I should ; make no kind o' doubt of it ; and
that's the way. Your folks '11 find it out one o' these days,

MR. BANGS HAS AN INTERVIEW.

275

and do according. I tell ye what it is : 't*ll take a pretty
smart chap, and he'll have to unbutton his galluses, to
ketch our real Yankees. What's the use o' talkin' about
winkin' madonnys or maid of honors, or what you may
call 'em, to fellahs that think any thing o' the value o* time.
Why, lor', jes' to consider that the Almighty, 't knows
what a man's soul 's wuth. should set down to that sort

o' work ! 'T looks 's though 'twa'n't consistent. Don't

it, now ? "

" You see. Father Terence, how the uncatholic mind
goes in the same path with the heathen," said Father
Nicholas, solemnly, this is the * nisi dignus vindice nodtis *
of the great Roman critic."

" Ye see they hev to be taught and reasoned down to
it (or up to it, Tt suits better,) b'fore they can swaller
what you may say 's the truth, 'n that department o'
science. After a man's once made up his mind, then *t's
no odds ; give him punkin and tell him it's custard, 'n',
*f ye want him to, he'll swear to't, an' cuss all out-doors,
'f they make 'ny bones about it ; why, 'f you c'n only
convert 'em, yer 'nlightened 'mericans '11 make the greatest
foo — that is, fuUahs for Catholics, agoin. They'll be jest
the fuUahs for mirycles, 'n' imyges, *n' saints, an' what not.
Why, take me, say. Tie a han'k'ch'f 'crost here," (set-
ting down his hat, and going through the motions with his
hands,) " and then jest make me think * now you can't
see, and I can ; so you jest see what I see,' and then tell
me there's a picture 't painted itself 'n' I take it f 'r law
'n' gospil."

Hereabouts Mr. O'Toole seemed to have found his feet
again, and to know where he was, and he joined the con-
versation with an assurance to the American that he was
"well-pleased to hear him talk that way, and that he

'11

276

^ ' ! THE NEW PRIEST.

■;t;

,^-

would show liim as much as he could reasonably expect
of the like of that."

" I s'pose I'm 'bout's ignorant o' this nunnery business
's any thing, pooty nigh; haven't got the hang of it,
yet "

" Indeed you needn't be botherin* yerself about these
holy houses at all, for it's small concern ye'll have with
them, anny way, unless ye've a sister or cousin, or the
like o* that, ye'd want to devote to the service of God*;
but we'll put ye into the direct way of learning all the
whole Order and system of the Catholic religion, all out,

meself will discourse ye, and Father Nicholas, here,

he that was here, a moment since, anny way, for it's not

here now that he is, we'll all take ye in hand, and

we'll make short and sure work of ye, if ye're ready for
it," and Father Terence proceeded to lay down a pro-
gramme for the impending course of teaching.

" Me good sir, ye'll consider, ye know, my avycations,
in some degree ; but a jue proportion of me time shall be
given, doubtless, to the important work ye're proposing.
Yerself '11 mostly give yer whole time to it, iv course."

During this speech the Reverend Father took down his
pipe from his mouth, filled and — after a good deal of
exercise with a flint and steel, between which too great
familiarity had bred a mutual contempt — lighted it.

" Guess I c'd git ye some ' the real stuff*, *n th' way o'

t'bacca, 't less 'n cost and no commission, but, sir,

'bout this religion-business, — ^when sh'U I call ? " said Mr.
Bangs, killing two birds with one stone, whether he aimed
at two or not.

"Ye'll just come every day, beginning the morrow —
not too early, ye know, be rason iv the church juties.
Yerself '11 desire an hour or two for early devotion and

MR. BANGS HAS AN INTERVIEW.

277

meditation, and will practice abstinence ; takin' yer tea or
coffee, and bread and butter, and a morsel of fish, or the
like. In the meanwhile ye'U put yer thoughts upon two
things chiefly : the first, Will ye submit to the Vicar of
Christ, that's His Holiness the Pope, — and second. Will
ye believe as the Church believes ? that's the anncient
Church that's never changed ? Ye'll find it a great help,
no doubt, if ye consider that rason and history and the
Word of God are all upon the one side, entirely, and
upon the other just nothing at all but private opinion and
nonsense.'*

Having thus given a salutary direction to the thoughts
of the religious inquirer, the Very Reverend Father
ceased.

« WaU !" exclaimed Mr. Bangs, «if Casty-Divy "

" Ah thin, y'are not that ignorant o' the holy Latin
tongue but y'ave got a bit iv it at the tip 6' yer tooth ! "
said the Priest.

« Oh ! Casty-Divy ? That's Casty-Divy Scienshy Cook,
't used t' live — (does, now, fur's I know,) — jest 'cross lots
f'm our house. — S'pose 't's this Nunnery, much's any
thing, made me think 'f her. Used to stick 'n m' crop,
's ye may say, — ^ye know birds have a kind 'f a thing
here," (pointing to the place and going on like a lecturer,)
" 's I said b'fore, dono what 'tis 'n Irish — that is Latin, —
wall, 't's what ye may call a swallah — 'n sometimes the'
undertake to git someth'n down, 't wunt go." This illus-
tration from comparative anatomy, he was giving as if it
were quite new with himself.

Father O'Toole was not in the habit of interrupting,
but he interrupted here.

" Come, man," said he, " ye shall stretch yer legs a bit
and we'll go into the chapel convenient, and it'll help on

if:

278

THE NEW PRIEST.

Hv!

the conversion, it's likely, and be a good thing to meself,
at the same time, being at the beginning of an affair like
the present. Ye'll follow me, just, and do what ye see
me be doing.

Down went the reverend gentleman, as they entered
the sacred door, crossing himself, touching himself with
Holy Water, and going through a prayer, apparently, but
with a half-glance towards his companion, now and then,
who went through some performances of his own, which
bore but a very far-off likeness to those of his prototype ;
and exclaiming, before long, " Look ahere, sir ; I don't
expect to git into this sort o' thing right away, 'ny more
'n chawing tobaccah. I s'pose doctrine first, practice
aft'rward, 's the best way. I'll jest as' to be 'xcused,
now. You go on, same as ever, for all me. You find
sweet'nin,' as ye may say, in it, no doubt, 'f ye take
anough of it 't once. When ye come to the lookin'-round
part 'f it, I'll do my share. Fact 'f you want to make a
to-do front 'f any picture, 'r idol, 'r what-not, — ^would
say, not idol, b't image, — 'n the way 'f curtseyin' or
dancin*, wh' I'll stand and keep watch 't the winders so's
t' keep folks from peeking-in and making fun 'f it."

How to subdue, in a quiet and dignified way, this un-
imaginative freedom of the American, without crushing,
in the shell, the promise of Yankee conversion, would
have puzzled a more sophisticated or ready-witted man
than the Very Reverend Father O'Toole. It had the
effect with him of " bothering him," as he would have
said, or did say aflerward ; and, kindly as he was, being
fastened to Mr. Bangs by the tie of solicitude for his soul,
he could not yet avoid banging and thumping against him
every now and then, like one ship against another lashed
to it, when the wind begins to freshen. He was kept in

MR. BANGS HAS AN INTERVIEW.

279

an uncomfortable state. At length, — having satisfied him-
self with the experiment, probably, — he told him " that
if he (Mr. Bangs) thought he would be the better of
staying longer in that holy place, more particularly in
presence of the Adorable Redeemer, whose consecrated
Body was there kept, and in the neighborhood of certain
glorious relics that enriched the altar, "

"No occasion 'thout ye wish it, sir, I'm jest 's well
satisfied 's if I'd ben here a hunderd years ; but then,
I'll hold on 's long as ye'r o' mind to, *f that's all."

" Will ye have the kindness just to employ yerself in
meditation ? or, if ye please to go out, I'll say nothing
against it ; I've some sacred occupation, here, for a bit,
and I'll join ye in the course of a few minutes, it's
likely."

Mr. Bangs accepted the latter alternative, with the
assurance, " Wall, sir ; jest 's you say. 'T's indifferent
to me ; " and having occasion to look in, soon after, he
saw the priest engaged apparently quite in earnest, in
devotion before the altar.

When he looked in again, he saw two figures get up,
where he had seen but one go down, and recognized, in
the double, Father Nicholas.

Mr. O'Toole, as well as could be judged, was taken by
surprise himself; and as our American drew in again
within the chapel, he heard the last words of a short con-
versation which had already taken place between the
priests, while they came forward toward the door. Fa-
ther Nicholas was saying, " Your wisdom and experience
may make something out of him in that way, which I
have no hope to give any efficient help in, if it w^ere
needed. I see, perhaps, another way in which he may
be useful."

280

THE NEW PRIEST.

With his eye fixed upon the strange neophyte that was
to be, he finished his sentence, so that Mr. Bangs might
have begun to think that he himself was not the subject
of discourse.

" We are together again, it seems, Mr. Bangs," he con-
tinued quietly, in the same tone and manner, " and we
meet in a good place," (crossing himself, and saying in a
low voice, as to another inside of himself, " Tahernacula
tuOf quam dilecta.) — ^This is perhaps your first visit to a
place like this."

" Wall, I must own ' never was in b't one. 'Must be
a first time. We don't have all these fixin's 'n Protes-
tant meetin's ; now th'r' ain't a relic in the whole lot of
'em, f m Massachusetts down to Mexico, 'thout 'ts a min-
ister's relic', 'r someb'dy's.* They git to heaven as well
's they can without 'em ; but lor ! there ain't *ny com-
parison. This's one of those cathedrals, likely, *t I've
heard about."

" We have handsomer places than this, certainly, not
a few, and a good deal larger," said Father Nicholas,
smiling.

« Oh ! Yes. There's Saint Peter's at Rome :— Le's
see ; how w's it that money 'as raised ? — I've heard. —
However, that's a pooty sizeable kind of a church, cer-
tin. Ye never heard o' th' * Old South ' at Boston, did
ye ? 'T Artillery 'lections, (that's the Ancient 'n' Honor-
able Artillery) — they hev' a celebration 'n' a sermon
and what not — preachin' to 'em to shoot the enemy 'th
soP balls, I s'pose, — wall, any way, that house'U hold con-
sid'ble many when't's chock-full's I've seen it, jest like
huckleberries in a dumpling, where you can't see the
dough 't holds 'em together. The way they make 'em's
* Mr. Bangs seems to confound two words.

t (

MR. BANGS HAS AN INTERVIEW.

281

this : take a mess o' flour, and make it into a kind 'f a
batter, or whatever you may call it, and tlien stir in your
— wall, that ain't exactly what I's goin* to say. That Saint
Peter's must be great. You see the Protestants ain't
likely t* stand 'ny sort o' comparison *n the way 'f
meet'n'-houses, bVse they think religion ain't s' much t*
be looked at, 's to be joined in."

" It's refreshing to hear your hearty descriptions, Mr.
Bangs, though your abundant information, upon points
with which your friends are not always familiar, leads
you a little wide, sometimes. Did you talk with the very
Reverend Father O'Toole about the houses of God ? "

" Wall, he seemed t' fight ruther shy of 'em, I thought.
On'y wish those fellahs 't Peterport c'd see all I saw " —

" We shall arrange to send any messages or communi-
cations thot you may desire," said Father Nicholas.
" Your own time will be much occupied at first. I've got
a pleasant family for you to stay in, close at hand here ;
and Father Terence, no doubt, will arrange hours, and so
forth."

Mr. Bangs had got into a business-like arrangement,
by which the sun of independence was to be considerably
shorn of his beams. He took it, however, very genially,
and as the priest left him to aw^ilt Father Terence's re-
newed attention, he spread a blut; handkerchief, doubled,
on the ground, and taking a newspaper out of his hat, sat
down to read.

282

THE NEW PRIEST.

i >•

CHAPTER XXVIII.

ANOTHER RELIC FOUND.

'^■

HE bed stood in the little room at Skipper
George's, unchanged except in having been
made up ; and so all other things, there, were as
the maiden left them; nor was the door of that room
shut. ' I

Afler a sickness has been finished in a death, and afler
the burial is done, those who are left miss very much the
round of duties that is so utterly at an end. They start
at fancied calls ; they find themselves putting their hands
to things no longer needed ; they lower the voice ; they
listen sometimes, and then recollect that there is no one
now whose light sleep may be broken, or whose throbbing
head may thrill at a slight sound; there is none now
whose breathing may give token of rest from pain, or
whose faint words can scarcely wing a flight in the still
air.

And then the thought of earlier hours, and happier,
comes up, when the departed one had the same home and
the same household things with them, and shared their
joys and sorrows. Now it is not so. One form — whose
head has lain upon our bosom, whose hair our fin-
gers played with, whose eyelids we have kissed, whose

../■

lips have found our cheeks, whose arms have held us,

—

ANOTHEB REUC FOUND.

288

"whose hands have done so many pretty things or played
us such sweet tricks of merryhood — whose look, whose
laugh, whose sleep, whose waking, had each such beauty
of its own — has gone like morning mist melted in air,
like the blue cloud of smoke scattered forever ; like the
word spoken, like the bubble broken.

Skipper George knew nothing of the speculations and
suspicions of his friends and neighbors, and of their infor-
mation gained. They knew him well enough never to
speak of these to him ; and it was specially enjoined and
urged on all occasions, by the Minister and constable,
that nothing should be said to him about them. His wife
heard more — hoped and feared more, no doubt, but yet
took her prevailing feeling from the strong, steady char-
acter of her husband, and never told him of her hopes
and fears.

The need of sorrowing hearts (as, indeed, men*s need
at all times) is faith in God, and work ; this they both
knew and acted on ; yet she would sometimes sit down
quietly to weep, and he would sometimes lean against the
door-post of the little room, and lose himself in sad mem-
ories.

During this time of planning and consultation in Peter-
port, and searching for information, another memorial of
the lost girl came to hand ; such evidence as it contrib-
uted was from an unwished-for quarter. This was a silk
neck-kerchief, taken from the water a little farther down,
toward Castle-Bay Point, than where the former relic
had been recovered.

The man who brought it said that he had seen it in
passing with his punt along that shore, as it clung to a
rock, and was tossed up and down with the wash. The
cloth was wet with brine, and torn in many places ; but

284

THE NEW PBIEST.

some old fishermen, who saw and handled it after it had
been recognized as having belonged to Lucy, asserted
without hesitation that it had never been a week in the
water. Its fabric was sound and good, though it was a
good deal smeared with sea-weed; and the rents must
have been made before it had ever gone into the deep.

The finder showed the place where it was found ; and
it seemed strange that it could have been descried in such
a place, unless by one searching. So reasoned the plain
fishermen, and they looked with much suspicion at the
thing (at last) because the man, though he told an honest
story and was counted an honest neighbor, was a Roman
Catholic, as it happened ; and though they did not doubt
his word, they " considered," as they said, that " he might
have been put upon it unknowingly," to keep up the opin-
ion that the Missing was drowned. They said, " her
body was not in the sea, but somewhere else."

The neighbors consulted whether they could keep the
knowledge of this new discovery from Skipper George,
and determined at least to try it. They gave the ker-
chief, therefore, in trust to the Minister. The news,
however, got to the father, as news always will, and the
next day he presented himself, with his request : —

" Ef *ee thinks best to give me what 'ee've got, sir, I'd
be thankful over it."

He took the relic in his hand, wiped off the tears that
fell upon it, and at length, handing it over, said —

" Those are cruel, grinding teeth, if they holes were
made by the rocks."

Nothing could be more expressive than what he said,
and his way of saying it, and saying nothing more. The
grinding of the tender body of the innocent, sweet girl,
upon those sharp rocks !

ANOTHER RELIC FOUND.

285

the

3 said,

The

it girl,

'■' There are worse teeth in the water than those of the

sharp rocks : — Did the father think of those, as another

would think of thera, from his words ? Were his thoughts

for his lost child as quick as other men's ?

- " I cannot think her lost yet, Skipper George," the

Minister answered, saying as much as he would venture.

The father still held the kerchief under his eyes, as he

said : — , ,

•1 " There was a coat of many colors that had been

on a dear child, brought home to his father, and 'e

thought an evil beast had devoured un ; but the lad was

n* dead, thank God ! — I don* know where my child

is, but He've got her."

He looked up in Mr. Wellon's face, as he finished this
sentence, and it was like the clearing off of the dark sky,
that broad, peaceful look of his.

He folded the cloth tenderly, and bestowed it in his inner
jacket-pocket and departed. He had now two recovered
memorials of his Lucy, since her loss.

His errand was up the harbor ; and as he passed out
of the drung from Mr. Wellon's, young Urston, who was
thin and pale, but had thrown himself into hard work at
Messrs. Worner, Grose & Co.'s, met him, and having
respectfully saluted him, walked silently at his side, an-
swering questions only. At lengtli the young man broke
the silence for himself.

" I think we can trace her, now," he said, hurriedly, as
if he thought he scarcely had a right to speak of Lucy to
her father. Skipper George turned upon him an eye
mild as a woman's, and said, —

" James, thou doesn' know, yet, what an old father's
heart is. See, here's an old hull wi' a piece knocked
into her side ; and I've laid her over upon the t'other tack,

iliil

286

THE NEW PRIEST.

and after a bit I'll mubbe get all mended up, and tight
again, and then I'll go about, an' never fear ; but ef 'ee
keeps her on the broken side, James, afore we've patched
her and stanched her, in comes the sea, James, and she'll
go down, heavy and solid, afore 'ee can make land. I
mus' n't think o' they oncertain things — " His eyes looked
forth, as he spoke, open and broad, like another sky ; —
" but ef 'ee 've any thing, go to the Pareson, lovie — our
Pareson, — ^an' 'e'll hear it ; " and so James Urston spoke
of his hope no more.

MR. BANGS A NEOPHYTE.

287

CHAPTER XXIX.

MR. BANGS A NEOPHYTE.

^OW, the worthy priest of Bay-IIarbor, having
Mr. Bang3 in his hands to be converted, felt, or
began to feel, the difficulties of that relation. To
keep up dignity and authority, to convince the mind and
engage the heart of this representative oC the great Re-
public, were so many different objects in one. The case
was, in a measure, like that of the '* Angli quasi An-
gdi^'' standing for sale in the market of Rome, whose
beauty led Pope Gregory the Great to undertake the
Christianizing of their nation. This individual American
was no beauty, certainly, but he was from a foreign he-
retical nation, and by his own account, scarce any of his
countrymen knew any thing of the true faith. Mr. Bangs's
account was, " Th' have made a convert 'r two. S'pose
ye've seen a poor f 'saken-lookin' chickin, pokin' after a lot
o' pi — ' animals, and hangin' on to *em, fo* company?
Ye want somethin a little mite stronger." Father O'Toole
was convinced that, as Father Nicholas also had said,)
the opportunity was a golden one, and must not be let go.
On the other hand, the ecclesiastical combatant, finding
himself in possession of such a prisoner, wlio had been
taken " nee gladio, nee arcu" (suo^) — by no weapon of
his own — and was as multitudinous, in his activity, as the

288

THE NEW PRIEST.

company of men whom Father O'Toole's countryman
once took by surrounding them, felt the difficulty of main-
taining the authority and dignity, and, at the same time,
convincing the head and persuading the heart, as was to
be done, according to the programme of his operations.

Under the circumstances, he addressed himself to his
labor, in the bravest manner possible.

Mr. Bangs, whose habits and principles led him to use
time as it went, was anxious not to be unoccupied after
entering upon the work of religious conversion, and the
quiet old man was therefore likely to be stirred up and in-
stigated in a way very unusual to him, and which must
worry him somewhat, and flurry him a good deal, and
give him many solicitudes most unaccustomed. The pro-
posed convert, finding the priest's way of proceeding not
80 methodical and business-like as it might be, and, at the
same time, be'.ng assured of his simple and kindly nature,
whose only relief was in its weaknesses, took upon himself
to propose that he should take a regular lesson, at certain
times each day, or at such times and as often as was con-
venient to his instructor, of whom, meantime, he managed
to borrow a Douay Bible.

On the first occasion of the expected convert's appear-
ance at the converter's house, the next morning after
making the arrangement, the latter found, at the very
threshold, a reminder of the solemn work begun, and of
the new relations existing.

The knocking at the door was answered, after some de-
lay, by a slow-moving man — probably fisherman — acting
as porter, who, opening the door but quarter-way, stopp d
with his body the gap through which Mr. Bangs was
about passing along with the first rays of light, and hav-
ing, by formal question, ascertained from the visitor that

MR. BANGS A NEOPHYTE.

289

he wished to see the very Reverend Father O'Toole,
first showed him into " The Library," with some awk-
wardness and much gravity, and left him to wait until
the doorkeeper had found out whether the Father was at
home, and whether he was disengaged.

" Tell him," said Mr. Bangs — the manner and matter
confusing the mind of the occasional domestic — " not to
put himself out one mite on my account. 'F he hasn't
prepared 'mself, I suppose 't '11 keep." The speaker,
while saying this, combed up his hair from each side to
the top of his head, with a small implement taken from
his waistcoat-pocket, and seated himself with legs crossed
and foot swinging, opposite the door.

On receiving the announcement that Father O'Toole
expected him in the opposite room, Mr. Bangs rather led
than followed the man to the Reverend Father's presence.
The occupant of the room was alone, sitting with a book
in his hand, himself dressed with the utmost care that he
ever bestowed on the adornment of his person. Thus he
sat gravely awaiting, and very grave and dignified was
his salutation to his visitor.

" ' Haven't come b'fore ye're ready, I hope. Father
O'Toole ? " said the candidate for conversion, unabashed,
or, at any rate, not remaining abashed by the formality.
Then, seating himself opposite to the Priest, with his hat
beside his chair, he gave that gentleman the inspiriting
intimation : —

"Now, sir, I'm ready f'r a beginning, and you can
please je^self 'bout goin' at it." So he cast his eyes to
the ground, and sat as demure as possible, though not
without a restlessness of the body, which was the normal
ytate of that machine.

The ecclesiastic fidgeted in his dignity, and from his

VOL. I. 19

) 1

290

'' THE NEW PRIEST.

not beginning at once with the " lesson ** agreed upon, it
might be thought that his plans were somewhat discon-
certed.

" It's a solemn and difficult work, entirely," began our
priest, when he did begin ; " a veri/ solemn and very diffi-
cult work, that we're entering upon the extremity of, or
the borders of." At this point he stopped and recovered
himself hastily with the question : " Did ever ye meet
with a book called * The w^ay to become a Catholic ? * "

" 'Tain't the same as * Way to be Happy, by one o*
Three Fools,' I guess, is it ? ' Never read it ; but 't used
to have a picture, 'n th' beginnin', *f a woman whippin*
her offspring. I alw's said 'twa'n't in good pr'portions ;
woman's arm 's too long for her figger. Dono 's ye ever
saw it."

This little ramble of his disciple, disconcerted the
teacher again, it should seem, for the stream of instruction
stopped, and he began, rather nervously, to turn the
leaves of the book upon his lap. Of course he will make
a new assault. This he does as follows — adapting his
method, as he thought, to the character of the other's
mind — " Y' are aware that men are mortal ; every one
knows that."

" Oh, yes," said the American, heartily ; " * All men are
mortal. Enumeration. And* 's the copy-book used t*
say 'n I's a shaver." '

" Sure, then, it's easy saying that some sins are mortal,
too. Therefore — "

" Adam fell in —

To mortal sin," said Mr. Bangs, by way of illustra-
tion. "'S prepared to grant that proposition b'fore ye
proved it."

" Very good/' answered the reverend reasoner, w^arm-

MR. BANGS A NEOPHYTE.

291

pon, it
iiscon-

an our
y diffi-
r of, or
:overed
e meet

* •

one o'
't used
hippin*
>rtions ;
jre ever

ted the
traction
im the
11 make
ing his
other's
3ry one

men are
used t*

mortal,

illustra-
fore ye

, warm-

ing with success, "since y*are prepared to grant what
cannot he denied, ye'll be prepared, doubtless, by the
same rule, to deny wuat cannot be granted ? "

If the triumphant progress of his argument, in its for-
mer steps, was due, as it probably was, to a happy acci-
dent, this last must have been one of the deliberate pieces
of his plot, as he had thought out the plan of it before-
hand.

" Wall, dono 's 'ave any constitootional objection !
" Grant *t all men are mortal, 'course I deny 't the greatest
man 'n the world, whether 't's Tie-berius Caesar Thomp-
son — that's the Hon'able Tieberius, member o' Congress
'n District I hail from, or Zabd'el B. Williams, Chair-
man o' S'lectmen o' Needham, or the Pope, or what not,
aivHt mortal."

The solid floating bulk of Father O'Toole's argument
was not broken up by this Uttle obstructive illustration ;
nor was it turned aside.

" The Church being wan," he continued, " sure, y'ave
a right to believe that it's never been corrupted."

"Wall, Yankees are noways slow *t assertin* their
rights, ye know. Fact is, they're ruther inclined — wall,
they're dreadful t'nacious, 's ye may say."

" Well, then, don't ye see, if the Church has never
been corrupted, then the Pope's the Vicar of Christ ? I
think ye'll easy see that," urged the Priest, drawing his
argument close. Not being familiar with the tone and
dialect of Americans of Mr. Bangs's class, he very likely
did not readily or entu'ely understand him ; but the latter
seemed to accept the arguments urged upon him cordially.
This was Mr. Bangs's answer : —

" Wall, fact, it is 'bout 's easy reasonin' 's ever I heard.
'R'member a fuUah named Tim ."

li".

! I

292

THE NEW PRIEST.

" That's a very good Irish name, then," said the Priest,
who was in excellent spirits.

" Timbuctoo Meldrum, 's name was. Wall, 's I w's
saying, we used to argue 't a debatin' s'ciety we had, out
't Needham, and he proved ye couldnH 'xpect ^rdigMn-
ment 'w* civilization from colored folks, p'ty much like
this : ' Don't all hist'ry show that heathens and savigis
wuship idols 'n' images, and b'lieve 'n charms 'n' am'lets,
'n' beads, 'n' all kinds o' blessed things ? Then I say it's
as clear 's the sun 'n the canopy, 't ye can't educate a
nigger.'"

" Does the sun be in a canopy, then, in Amerikya ? "
inquired the Priest, with a zeal for science that would be
found, no doubt, to exist generally in the human race, if
a trial were but fairly made, " and what sort 's it, then,
clouds ? or fire ? or what ? "

" Wall, sir, 'taint made o' silk or satin. So ye think
the Church, — that's the Holy Roman Catholic Church,
'course, — hasn't ben c'rupted, do ye ? "

" Sure, I think we may say we've proved that once, well
enough, anny way," said the Priest, whose easy progress
had given liim great confidence, even with a strange sub-
ject, like Mr. Bangs.

" Wall, ye've proved it one way, fact. 'S'pose we've
got to grant 't's ben altered a mite or two, *n the way 'f
improvin' 'n' growin' better, haven't we ? 'Strikes me we
don't hear so much 's we might, 'n Scriptur, 'bout the
Holy Father, the Pope 4 and Scriptur's ruther mum on
subject 'f Indulgences and Purgatory. Dono's 't any-
wher's recommends usin' graven images and pictures to
help devotion ; and then it's kind o' backward — seems to
hang fire — 'bout wushippin' Virgin Mary ."

Here the worthy priest began to prick up his ears a

MR. BANGS A NEOPHYTE.

293

p'»

little, as if he had mistaken his man ; but he had not
time fairly to get rid of his happy state of satisfaction in
himself and his convert, before he was reassured by the
latter going on, in his own way, to a more satisfactory
ending than his sentence had promised. The ending was
thus : —

" *S you say, these things are all real patterns o' truth ;
all is, I leave 't to any body to say whether *t don't seem
*s if they didn't know 's much, when Scriptur 's written,
*s they do now."

" Ye'U allow," said the Priest, trying a little more ar-
gument, just to finish the thing up, " God has more ways
than wan, mostly ? Well, then, in this present case, th*
other's traddition, and it's as good as Scripture itself; do
ye see that ? "

" *N* then, 's that great text, here, f ' Purgytory, *n the
References, — Matthoo Fifth, Twenty-sixth, — why, 't's as
pat 's butter. I guess, to this day, ye donH take *em out,
t'U somVdy's paid the utmost farthin\ Come t' hitch tra-
dition on, too, 'n* ye can prove 'most any thing, *s clear *s
starch, 's the woman said."

" Ah ! then, I was fearful of ye, a while ago, that ye
might have got some o' the Protestant notions into ye,
that they talk about corruptions ; but here's something,
then, I'd like ye to consider, just by way of exam-
ple : Supposing ye were disposed to hold an argument,
which y'are not, ye'd say the Church was pure at the
beginning, and corrupt after ; now if it was pure at the
first, and corrupt after, what loay was it those corruptions
came in, just ? Can anny Protestant answer that question
at all?"

The position in which the reverend arguer seemed to
feel himself, was that of having his hold fast upon his

ill

294

THE NEW PRIEST.

convert, and being able to deal thoroughly and leisurely
with him. Mr. Bangs answered— =•

" Way I heard that question, put b' your friend. Fa-
ther Nicholas, there, t'other da}', *s this : ('t had a tail a
little mite different — ) ^ If religion was pure atjirst^ *«*
Vcome corrupted^ 'rrnist have ben a time when corruptions
come. Now can any body put hisjinger on the time when
they come ? * 'Struck me 's bein* a p'ty 'cute question 'n
I heard it."

" Ay, that's the very thing, in other words ; it was th*
other way, then, meself was giving it to ye, just to put a
bit more force in it," answered the Priest.

" 'T may be 'nother view o' the same thing," said his
pupil. " 'Bout 's much like 's two sides 'f a flounder, \
there 'n Charles River Bridge, fact."

"Whether Mr. Bangs was or was not aware, that the
two sides of a flounder, which ought to correspond, are
strangely different, — one being white and the other black,
one having two eyes and the other none, — Father Ter-
ence accepted the illustration triumphantly.

" Ay, or anny where else ! " said he. " Can anny
man living tell what time these corruptions came in they
talk so much about? Not wan or all o' them can do
it?"

" Case 'n point," said Mr. Bangs : " Casty Divy Sci-
enshy, ye know, 't I told ye 'bout. Father O'Toole, 's
blind o' one eye, (she's pleggy well off, though, and had *s
many sparks *s a cat in cold weather, — 'fact, they joked
me 'bout her once.) Wall, 's I's sayin', one eye 's blind
's a beetle ; 'twa'n't al'a's so, 't's grown so — ('t must be
one o' these beetles th' have f ' knockin' in wedges, f 'r
insects ain't blind, — natch'l hist'ry 'd tell 'em that ;) wall,
I guess Casty Divy 'd find it pleggy hard to tell when

MR. BANGS A NEOPHYTE.

295

»««»

that blindness come ; that is, time o' day, day o' th' week,
day o' th' month, *n' so on."

" There it is, now," said the Priest ; " she can't tell
what time it came ; and can anny wan o' them tell what
time these corruptions came, I'd like to know."

" 'F I's goin' to answer that 'n the affirmative, I sh'd
say the's few men c'd keep up 'th ye 'n an argument. I
s'pose the way changes come 'bout, *s p'ty much I'k' this :
say ye've got a junk o' pure ice, in water 'taint altogether
clean ; wall, bymby ye come to give a look at it, and
half *f it, or two thirds 'f it say, 's gone into water; 't's
made cleaner water, but 'taint ice any more. *T*d puzzle
the old fox himself, I guess, to tell when that b'gan to
come 'bout. Or, take 'n' slew the figger right round —
here's water, say, and ye 'xpose it to temperature o*
frezin*, — that's 32 Fahrenheit, — 'f it's a little mite warm,
't'll be all the better f ' the 'xperiment, — shavin'- water '11
do ; — wall, go *n' take a look 't that, after a spell, 'n' ye'll
find 'twunt look 's if the cold 'd done any thin* to it ; but
jest stick yer finger, or, 'f ye don't want to put your fin-
ger, put a stick in, and I guess ye'll find it all cuslush ;
'f 'taint, I've misst a figger, that's all."

How this illustration sup'^orted the " argument " of the
worthy converter, it was not easy for Father 0' Toole to
see, and he answered as follows — rather kindly passing
by it, as the work of an obtuse but well-intentioned mind,
than rebuking it as the suggestion of a hostile one : —

" It's a very disagree'ble and tadious process, then, that
melting and freezing ; and it's not often I tried it. I pre-
fer having my shaving-watter warm, towards having it
cold, the way ye speak of. I'll be going on, now, to give
ye instruction in a few points o' the Catholic Faith. The
Pope's th' entire head o' Christendom — that's taken for

296

THE NEW PRIEST.

granted ; I think ye were satisfied with the proof I gave
ye on that p#int."

" Oh, yea, Father O'Toole, 'don't need 'ny more proof.
'T's only 'stonishin' t' my mind, t' find a man Tic* Father
Debree, there, akickin' over th' traces, 'th all that proof."

" An' what traces is he kicking over, then ? " inquired
the Priest. '*I didn't hear of his kicking over anny
thing." The lesson was suspended, and the book was
(inadveilently) shut.

"Wall, he's a pleggy smart fullah, b* all accounts.
'Didn't know b't what he'd got a little mite agee 'pon
8ome points. 'Glad to hear he's all right. 'S'pose 'twas
only *t he got ruther put out 'th the Prot'stants f ' makin'
such a fuss, 'n' 'cusing the Cath'lics o' carryin' off Miss
Barberry, there. They say 't's t'other way." * '

" And who's carried her off, then ? " asked Father
O'Toole, with some warmth.

" / sh'd like to see 'era prove 't she is carried off,"
said Mr. Bangs. " 'Guess 'f 'twas Father Nicholas man-
aged it, 't'll take more gumpshion 'n they've got, to find 't
out."

"And what's about Father Nicholas?" asked the
worthy old Priest.

" Wall, 'f 'twan't f 'r his bein' under you, 'guess folks 'd
say he'd had his finger in it ; but how 'd he go 'n' do
any thing 'thout your tellin' him ? 'n' nobody 'd think o*
suspectin* you, Father O'Toole. B't 's you's sayin, 'bout
those sacrymunts —." '

The good Priest was discomposed, and had lost his
place in the book. The American's assurance of the
general confidence in his supremacy over his assistant,
may have helped to restore his equanimity. Presently,
in liis good-natured way, he began again : — ,

MR. BANGS A NEOPHYTE.

207

" Well, then, there are seven Sacraments. Ye've been
taught two, I suppose."

"'Don't undertake to determine that point, how many
we had. Seven 's a good number for you to have, and I
guess ye can prove it 's well *s any thing else. Sh'd like
to have the proof."

" Those Protestants want the proof from Holy Scrip-
ture, mostly. We'll go to the Holy Scripture, now. First,
How many days was it the Almighty God created the
heavens and the earth ? "

" Seven. That does come pleggy near, fact," said Mr.
Bangs.

" Ah ! and isn't it exactly^ then, it is ? What's the dif-
ference betwixt seven and seven ? Well, then, you see
it in the days o' the week itself. Seven *s a sacred num-
ber. Seven Orders there are, and seven Sacraments, the
same way ; is that clear ? "

" Yes, sir, that's 's clear 's glass in 'n 'clipse o' the sun,
*s the man said."

" Then, Order, Baptism, Confirmation, Eucharist, Pen-
ance, Extreme Unction, Matrimony 's seven. Baptism
gives righteousness, and faith and the like ; and Con-
firmation strengthens all, again ; and then the Holy Eu-
charist "

" That's what ye have for the Lord's Supper, I s'pose.
Mass, I guess ye call it," said Mr. Bangs.

" Indeed, y'are very right. It's the Unbloody Sacrifice,
also. Ye've heard some o' those things the Protestants
speak against the truth, about transubstantiation ; but
when ye think, once, isn't God almighty ? I think the
like of you, — a man that's in the right way, — wouldn't
find any difiiculty at all, in that. He says, ' This is my
Body, — hoc est corpus mewn^ literally ; and it must be,
literally, his body."

298

THE NEW PRIEST.

" I want to know the whole o' that," said the American.
" I heard two fullahs arguing t'other day, Catholic and
Protestant. Catholic said p'ty much 's you've said, just
now, Latin ('f 'tis Latin) 'n* all ; 'n' then the other man
said, ' Look ahcre ; when the Lord fus' said that. He had
His body on Him ; now the bread, 't He said *t of, wa'n't
a piece o' that body ; 'n' if 't wa'n't, then *t wa*n't His
literal body, — ('f that's what ye call it.) — That's what
the man said."

"And do you think, was he the first man ever said
that ? no, nor won't be the last ayther, so long as the
Devil 's in the world. That's what I'm saying ; ye can
answer that this way : * God's word is true, and Himself 's
almighty, and so, where's the trouble of Him making it
what He says ? * Doesn't He make all things ? and how
does He make them? Isn't it by His word?" This
was said with real solemnity and dignity.

" That's what I want," said Mr. Bangs. " I want a
real good answer, 'n case I meet him again. He'll say
't's 'genst the senses "

"And are the senses to be trusted in a miracle, I'd
like to know ? " inquired the Priest, with great animation
and spirit.

" Wh' / take it, the senses 'r' the only things 't is a
mirycle to, — that is, 't's what the man *d say," said Mr.
Bangs ; " he'd say Vs meant for the senses, I'k* the wine
at the marriage, there "

r>^i

" I'm thinking its more than once you're speaking with
that man ; but isn't it the greater faith to believe against
every sense and all senses ? " asked the Priest, putting a
deep question.

"Wall, that's a home-thrust, *s ye may say. Don*
b'lieve the fullah 'd answer that, 'f he sh'd try t'U 's head
come off.'*

MR. BANOS A NEOPIIVTE.

299

" And 'twas with the Scripture, I did it, too, that
they're always crying out for," said the Priest, compla-
cently.

" Wall, thcV fl jirood many fellahs take 'n' pfo by Scrip-
ture, on(3 way 'r 'nother. Th'r' ain't one of 'em 't takes
th' ben'fit o' th' 'n.-<olvent Act, 't don't git a good house 'n*
property f life ; — 'cordin* to Scripcher 'bout *failiW *n*
giUin* int* everlastin* habitations* s'pose they'd say.
The's a man wanted t' git a lot o' money t' put up s'm*
buildins, — great pr'fessor, too, — took 'n* borrowed all
'round, 'n* then he failed, f 'r ever-so-many thousand dol-
lars, (guess 'twas two hunderd thousand,) 'n', come t' look
into it, he hadn't got 'ny money to pay, 'n' one mortgage
piled atop 'f 'nother, 'n' no doin' any thing, — 'said the
buildins were 'n ornament t' th' town ; and he'd gone on
*n faithj 'n* he didn't know 'ny better, *n' what-not, — knoo
'nough not to lose any thing himself, though ; — wall, a
friend 'f his, when the* come to see nobody 'd git any
thing, says to him, * Look-a-here I 'Thought you's a
pr'fessor ; don't the Bible say. Owe no man any thing ? '
So says he, ' I don*t owe any man ; 'took 'n' borrowed 'fc
all o' widows 'n' orphans.* — He wanted it set down on
his head-stone, 't he w's 'providential instr'ment f ' puttin*
up those buildins."

" See the badness o' private judgment, now, tow'rda
having the judgment o* the Church ! " said Father
O'Toole.

" Wall, that kind o' private judgment ain't wuth much,
I guess. Common sense ainH private judgment ; 'fact, 't's
the common judgment o' the Whole. 'Guess private
judgment 's 'bout *s good 's any, 'f 't sticks to common
sense. Church wouldn't be much, 'thout that, I guess. —
's I was sayin*, — 'bout that text, there, ' My Body ; ' 'taint

300

THE NEW PRIEST.

n !•:

■ I] K

P 1

the look, no' the smell, no* the taste, no' the feel, no* the
heft ; but 't's it.

"'S a woman 'n our town, — ('tahit the man, this time,)
— name 's Peggy Mansur, — 't any rate 't's what th' uset
to call her, — guod-natured, poor, shiftless soul, — never did
'ny harm ; uset t' take 'n everlastin' sight o' snuff, —
Mac — guess 'twas Scotch snuff, come to think ; — wall,
she b'lieved p'ty much 's this Bible says, here," (taking
his Douay out of his hat,) " 'bout Peter, 'n Matthew, six-
teeitth, eighteenth, *n a note H the bottom, 't says 'same 's
if He'd said, 'n English, * Thou art a rock ; ' on'y she went
on 'n' b'lieved 't Peter was a rock, cause the Lord said
so, 'n' He's almighty. A fuUah said to her, ' Look a-here ;
do you mean to say that they could 'a' set to work on him
*n' hammered 'n' hacked 'n' what not, and made part 'f a
meetin'-house out of him ? ' * Why, no, I guess I don't,'
s's she. ' I don't mean 't he looked so, 'r' acted so ; but
I mean 't he wus so.' ' Wall,' s's the man "

" I thought I hard ye saying it wasn't the man it was,
this time," interposed the Priest, as the familiar sound
occurred in Mr. Bangs's story.

The interrupted story-teller smiled and knit his brows
slightly closer, and looking still to the left of the object to
whom he addressed himself, explained : —

" Oh ! This 's away out 'n Mass'chusetts, *n the States,
this was. Wall, they spoke up, 'n' says to her, s'd they,
* Why, look a-here, aunty, Wus't his skin, 't was rock ? '
so s's she, * I guess not.' ' Wall, wus't his flesh ? ' * Guess
not,' s's she. ' Wus't his blood ? ' ' Ruther guess not,*
s's she. * Wus't his cords ? ' ' Guess not.' ' Wall, wus't
his stomuch ? ' * Guess not.' ' Wus't his brains ? ' * Guess
not.' Finally, she guessed 't wa'n't 's eyes, nor 's ears, nor
's nose, 'n I dono what all ; and finally they come to ask

MR. BANGS A NKOPIIYTE.

801

*f 'twas his bones, 'n* she didn't know but 't might be 's
bones. But s's they, * Aunty, bones ain't a man, and 't
looks rk' pleggy small p'taters, to come down t' that. You
said the hull man's rock, when ye b'gan *th him. ' Wall,' s's
she, ' I say so, now.' ' Then you don't say 't 's his bones
more 'n the rest-part 'f him ? ' ' No, I don't,' s's she.
* Wall,' s's they, ' Look a-here, if twa'n't 'ny part 'f him,
*t wus rock, 'n' you say th' man 's rock, what wus the' o'
rock 'bout th' man ? * * Why, 't's the man himsi:lf,'
s's she."

« Wall, I tell ye. Father O'Toole, the' wa'n't one o' the
whole boodle 'f 'em c'd answer that ; *n she shovelled th'
snuff 'nto her nose, I'k' a dam breakin' away, 'n kep' a
laughin', t'U she got tired.'

Mr. Bangs's illustrations wcx-e all of the most left-
handed sort, that did not at all explain or enforce the
things they were brought to illustrate ; but rather the
contrary. The Priest saw this, and answered, with a
view to it.

" Y'are not accustomed, it's likely, to discussions of the
sort, — I mane if your mind is just drawing the way ye
said it was. I'm thinking it wanders, a little, just now ;
maybe it's better we leave off now, for it's my opinion
ye've got just about as much as ye can cleverly bear.
One thing I'd like to know : Are ye desiring to be con-
verted, as I understood ye were ? "

" My wishes haven't changed one mite, sir," said the
American.

" I think ye'll do, for a bit, with the teaching ye've had.
It's important to make an impression upon ye with the
solemnities of religion, for it's a great hold they take upon
a man, and, though I speak it with reverence, it's my sol-
emn opinion there's few places where ye'd be Uke to get

802

THE NEW PBIEST.

a stronger impression upon ye than just in my own
church, though there's larger in the country, doubtless,
and finer, in some unimportant particulars ; but I'll take
ye to high mass, on Sunday next, — (the day's Wednes-
day,) — and I think ye'll be struck with surprise and de-
votion, all at wance, if ye give yer mind to it."

" Jesso," said Mr. Bangs, bowing his head at the same
time. " 'Want to see the real thing. Have heard H aint
alw's what *t should be ; — that is, 'n the fixins, I mean ; —
holy candles and what not. 'Tell me the' don't have real
candles, but things t* look like 'em. 'Taint so 'th you,
'course. Wh' I know a lot 'f 's good candles 's any 'n the
universe, f ' next to nothing." So Mr. Bangs departed.

//'

MRS. BARRE'S SAD WALK.

803

CHAPTER XXX.

MBS. BARRE'S sad WALE.

HE cool wind and the sea-smell came together
up the road, and the waves darkened the water ;
it was just the day for walking, and Mrs. Barre
was out. — Peterport harbor-road is pretty and pictu-
resque, as are all these out-harbor roads, (wanting only
trees ;) and the turns, and ups and downs, made very con-
venient stages for the little girl's excursions in front of her
mother. Up hill and down hill, this way and that, along
by Marchants' Cove and Frank's Cove, and along by the
colony of Sinderses, and through the fence across the
meadows, up the hill and through the gorge to Mad Cove,
the mother and her little one went on, pausing at the top
of the steep descent down to this last, which is at the end
of the tongue of land on which stands Peterport, with all
its several coves.

This place, with its wall of rock to the north and west,
and slope of grass-covered ledge to the east, like a valley
in a mountain district, has its goats climbing and capering
on the cliffs, like such valleys in the old world.

As Mrs. Barre thus paused for a moment, before going
down, while the little girl sate down on the rock beside her,
we may fancy what she felt. Whatever Father Debree
may have been to her, or she to him, — whatever memories

804

THE NEW PRIEST.

aiit

jiii

they had in common, whether of sweet childhood in one
dear liome, or of later neighborhood and knowledge of
each other, and whether there were, or not, such relation-
ship between them as made it sure that their two lives,
hereafter, must affect each other, — here, in this little cove,
among strange people, (or people nearly strange,) had
passed two scenes so full of feeling to her and to him, and
so full of pain, as seldom come in the life of any. It was
but a few days since, and now she stood looking down upon
the spot in which, so lately, she had stood with a straining
heart and stretching brain.

There was a door at the back of the Widow Freney's
house, and, while they sat at the road-side, it opened, and
a little girl appeared, as if coming out. As soon as she saw
the well-known visitors, she ran back, as children do, but
shutting the door behind her, with a sense of carefulness or
propriety a little unusual among the people. Little Mary
watched, for some time, to see it open again, and then said
she thought there was no one in the house, except the
child ; and her mamma, acting upon the same supposition,
passed by the place and went to the settlement below.

There was old Joe Royce's wife, a good, simple Chris-
tian body, who was very poor, because she had no chil-
dren, and her " skipper " was stiff in the joints, and in-
capable of much exertion, or exertion to much purpose.
" Joe did go out some very scattered times, and fish for a
spurt, but he wasn' any great shakes, and what could us
expect of he ? " was the professional estimate of poor
Royce's capability, though tlie neighbors did their best,
good-naturedly, in helping the poor fellow to get himself
out, and to do for himself w^hen he was out, and did their
best in making allowances for him. The family were
pensioners, therefore ; but this day, the old couple were

MRS. BARRE'S SAD WALK.

805

graver than their wont; there was an evident restraint
upon them.

At the next house, too, it was the same. As she passed
by the flake, on which were many of the wives at work,
one old woman — a hard-and-broad-featured, small-eyed
woman, in a black dress, very square on the shoulders
and short-waisted — answered her salutation shortly, with-
out leaving or looking up from her occupation. The
woman, evidently, was not in a kindly humor. A cloud
seemed to have darkened the whole neighborhood.

As Mrs. Barre looked among the other workers, at
least one pleasant face put itself forward, belonging to
Jesse Barbury's wife. She came to the flake's edge, and
saluted the lady very prettily and cordially, although it
seemed almost as if she intended taking oflf the effect of
her neighbors* unkind manner.

Mrs. Barre drew her aside, and asked her directly
what the matter was.

" She didn't rightly know," she said, " to say know, —
what was the matter. There was somethun amongst them,
she believed."

"Against mef" inquired the lady, in astonishment.
" There can't be any thing against me ! "

" There's many's the folks ben't gezac'ly what they hold
out to be," said the small-eyed, great woman on the flake,
in a steady stream of voice, that made its way to where
they stood. " 'Tisn' alwaays them that should be 'xamples,
that bes 'xamples. Thes 'am* quality, sometimes, wasn'
what they'd ought."

The good-natured young wife made an effort to occupy
the lady's attention, telling her that her own " skipper had
gone acrass the b'y; and wouldn* the lady, mubbe, be
plased to walk and take a look at the babby that seemed

VOL. I.

306

THE NEW PRIEST.

oneasy, like, as if he wasn' well, altogether? He took
starts into hisself, seeminly, by spurts. He was just in at
John Yarl's house."

Mrs. Barre accepted the invitation, and went ; and,
having seen and praised the baby, again asked for the
explanation.

" I believe, ma'am, 'ee'd oose to be a Eoman, — so I've
ahard said, however, — afore 'ee corned to think better of
it, most likely," said Prudence, " an* it was somethun was
about *ee lavun it." The mother took her baby and
nursed it

" About my leaving it ! " said Mrs. Barre, " how can
they think the worse of me for leaving Popery, if I had
ever been in it ? "

" Surely, ma'am ; an' I'm sure ma'am, if it's no offence.
I'm clear proud to see 'ee come anighst where I am ; I
think it makes me better, only to see 'ee."

Mrs. Barre was always dignified and gentle ; but now
her look of resolute and hopeful sadness was disturbed.

*' Thank you, kindly ; but do tell me, Mrs. Barbury ! "
she said.

Prudence was very loth to speak ; but she spoke.

" It isn' fit 'ee should trouble with it, ma'am ; 'ee've
got trouble enough, surely."

" I shall suffer far more, if I do not know. I beg you
to tell me plainly, and let me set it right."

" I believe ma'am, it was somethun as might be agen
your good name, they said the Romans had. I'm sure it
was lies, or the Pareson would 'a' knowed it."

" Do you mean any thing ? What do you mean ?

Pray, tell me, like a woman ! Do ! I've a right to know
it, I'm sure."

" Oh, it's only somebody's badness, ma'am ! I'm

MRS. BARRE'S SAD WALK.

307

I'm

'shamed to say it, ef 'ee wouldn' make me. Some one
has told they that *ee'd doned somethun agen vartue, — I
didn' heed it, — and so they said 'ee laved the Romans,
for fear of being punished."

" What ! Who could be wicked enough to tell such a
story ! " cried Mrs. Barre.

" That was what they told, ma'am, an* I said it was
lies. Mrs. Freney said it was from the clargy, so they
say."

The cloud of anxious doubt in Mrs. Barre's eyes broke
suddenly in tears, as if riven by a thunderbolt.

" It is a most wicked lie ! " she said. " Will you say
that it's false, Mrs. Barbury ? Will you do that for me ?
Don't let my simple friends here believe it ! It's wicked
beyond measure."

" 'Deed, I won't, ma'am ; an' there's many others won't,
either."

" Thank you ! " — Mrs. Barre did not stay to say more.

As she went up, again, by the way that she had come,
indignation and sorrow must have struggled hard against
her self-control. She walked fast and strongly, with an
unusual color in her cheeks, and a nervous excitement of
manner.

When she reached the gorge or pass, — (what, in
America, is called a " notch,") — she heard the voice of
little Mary behind her, calling to her ; and, turning
round, saw that she had, unconsciously, got a good way
from the child.

" Mamma ! mamma ! " said the little thing, coming up,
out of breath and in much distress, " Biddy Freney won't
take this cap that I sewed on purpose for her. She
brought it back to me, and said her mother was very
sorry but she couldn't take it ; and I told her I made it

308

THE NEW PRIEST.

for her my own self, and I showed her where you told
me how to do it and all. Why, do you think, she wouldn't
take it ? "

At this moment the mother was fairly overcome by her
feelings, and the tears began to run down her cheeks
" We'll give it to some one else, dear," fihe said.

" Are you very sorry, mamma, because she wouldn't
take it ? Was it bad in her not to, when I'd made it
for her on purpose ? " inquired little Mary, putting her
own construction upon her mother's tears.

The mother wiped them all away, and, taking the little
one by the hand, led her along ; but there was no one to
be seen in the road through the pass, and passengers are
few here, and in the loneliness of the place she made
less effort to control her feelings, and the tears came
again. She walked more slowly, thinking sadly, when
the child called out : —

" Mamma ! there's the man that came to our house one
day ! " and Mrs. Barrfe saw, sitting on one of the loose
rocks by the wayside, smoking his pipe, the man who
had brought the message from Father Nicholas,; —
Froyne.

" Sarvice to ye, Mrs. Bray ! a pleasant walk to ye,
ma'am ! " he said, with his pipe in his mouth, not moving
except to keep his face toward her, as she came up and
passed by.

She was no person that would pass an inferior without
knowing and saluting him ; but she took no notice what-
ever of this man ; only walking by, hurriedly, and bidding
little Mary try how far she could keep in front.

That the man got up and walked after her, Mrs. Barre
might easily hear. She walked the faster for it, until she
reached the settlements on the way up the harbor. She
stopped nowhere until she got home.

MRS. BARRE\S SAD WALK.

309

There, at length, she told the story of her sad experi-
ence to Miss Dare,

" It's that priest. Father Nicholas 1 said her friend.

" It must be ! " said Mrs. Barre ; " it's the fulfilment
of his promise ! "

" Can't Father Debree set it right?"
r " Not yet," said Mrs. Barre.
- " Then we must speak to Mr. "Wellon."

« Not yet."

« What will you do, then?"

" Bear it, till it is taken from me."

" All this will kill you ! " exclaimed Fanny Dare.

" Not yet, please God."

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