INDEX, JULY TO DECEMBER, 1856. CATHOLIC INTELLIGENCE:-- Catholic Schools in Dublin, 43 the Catholics of that Country, 56 Catholicity in the South of England, 74 Confirmation at Alnwick, 79 Cardinal Wiseman and the French The Sheffield Young Men's Society, 89 News from Rome, 106 The late Canon Moore, 110 The late Father Kaye, of Blackburn, 139 Catholicity in Birmingham, 157 New Church at Walsall, 190 Chapel of St. Joseph, Dublin, 233, 313 Longford Cathedral, 248 Kingsland Church, 249 Nicholas's Guild, Liverpool, 282 Institution for First Communion, 282 Christian Brothers' Schools, 283 Mary Queen of Scots' Chapel, 286 The Peckham Mission, 296 Dublin Catholic Young Men's Society, 345 St. Elizabeth's Hospital, London, 360 Reopening of SS. Marie and Joseph's Society of the Holy Childhood of our Lord, 405 Catholic Mission at Leeds, 407 Manchester and Salford Young Men's Societies, 411 TALES, ESSAYS, LETTERS, AND The Casket: a Tale, 1, 20 Provideut Benefit Society, 13 St. Alban's Abbey Church, 21 Cardinal Wiseman's Lecture on the Rev. Mr. Anderdon's Lecture on Rome, 27 The Blessed Sacrament, 27 The Young French Soldier, 30 The Lion and the Woodcutter, 53 Religious Controversy, 60 Providence Protects All: a Tale, 85 The Appian Way, near Rome, 115 A Summer's Day, 117 Letter on Catholic Literature, by the Gainsborough the Painter, 150 Father Devenny, or the Baffled Persecutors, 277, 298 The Philosopher's Stone, 279 The Great Eastern Steam-ship, 285 Catholicity Proved by its Enemies, 300, 348 The Very Rev. Dr. Manning, 300 A Cheap Pleasure, 302 An Oxford Ghost-gathering, 310, 339 The Greek Church, 325, 409 66 Only a Child," 327 The Catholic Home Mission, 328 The Heroines of the Crimea, 332 Valerie: a Tale, 337, 353, 369 The Progress of Sin, 341 The Bahama Islands, 343 The Sisters of Charity on Mercy, 350 St. Clotilda, Queen of France, 365 A Christmas Story, 385 The Shepherds' Visit to Bethlehem and The Journey to Bethlehem, 394 Christmas Games for the Young, 396,406 SCIENCE: A Polymetric Cane, 103 Wonders of the Vegetable Kingdom, The Crystal Palace Vulcanite Court, 174 The Chemistry of Bread Making, 221 POETRY:Cambridge, 5 Calvary, 22 Flowers, 23 The Song of the Veterans, 37 Hymn to the Mother of God, 38 The Boy-Martyr, 54 Sancta Maria, Mater Amoris, 55 The Child's Reverie, 87 Hymn to St. Anne, 103 Friend of My Youth, 118 Song for Summer, 134 The Sister of Charity, 150 The Penitent, 183 Te Deum Laudamus, 183 Farewell to Ireland, 199 The Clearance, 231 A Song of Native Land, 262 Hymn to Our Saviour, 359 The Lamp WHEN YOUTH IS PASSED IN VIRTUE AND IN DREAD OF VICE, IT DRAWS DOWN MERCY ON THE REMAINDER OF OUR LIVES, FOR THE LORD WATCHES OVER OUR PATHS, AND WE BECOME THE OBJECTS OF HIS ESPECIAL CARE AND PATERNAL GOODNESS.-Massillon. SATURDAY, JULY 5, 1856.] THE CASKET: A TALE. BY J. V. RYAN, ESQ. It was a cold wintry December night in London; the midnight hour had been just proclaimed by the iron-tongued messengers of time of the neighbouring churches, and the echoes of their sounds still floated faintly on the frosty air. All was silent, save the sharp hissing sounds made by the keen wind in its swift flight. The snow fell like glittering jewels in thick flakes on the ground, and the moon and stars shone brilliantly in the clear heavens. The streets were hushed in profound silence, disturbed only by the occasional tread of some solitary person returning homewards. The poor and hard-working were now enjoying the comforts of rest, in the arms of sleep, and the homeless and outcast were either within the precincts of the work house, or sleeping exposed to the virulent wind, on the door-steps of houses. It was on this night that a woman, clasping tenaciously to her breast the form of a tender infant, lay stretched, seemingly lifeless, near the door of an old and ill-looking house, situate in one of the many back courts of London. Her ragged apparel indicated her distress. Her features were pallid and wrinkled, her eyes closed and sunken, and her thin, emaciated form showed that much hardships, privations, and sufferings had fallen to her lot. The child she clasped so fondly to her bosom, was enveloped in a large shawl to protect it from the excessive severity of the cold. It would be difficult to discover the remnants of any human being in that form, so completely was it covered with the falling snow. From the thickness of the snow on her clothes, it would appear she had been laying in that pitiable condition some time. The wind still blew cuttingly, and not a sign of life could be discovered in that sad form. The child, however, breathed heavily, and slept unconscious of its perilous situation. It was now that a man, wrapped in a large overcoat, approached the spot. To dissipate the loneliness and gloom naturally settled on him, he was humming to himself the tune of some well-known popular air; but his mood was soon changed when he arrived at the door, near which the ontcast woman was lying. There a mournful spectacle met his view, and aroused within him all the softer feelings of man. [PRICE ONE PENNY. Resolved to remove her from so unfitting a place, he hastened to arouse the inmates of the house, and implore their aid. He commenced a loud knocking at the door, but received no reply. He removed the shawl from the infant, and found it still animated with life. He felt the woman's face; it was as cold as death. He again renewed his endeavours to awaken the people of the house, and this time his efforts were crowned with success. him with a demand why their rest should be thus disturbed. The man described the sad scene which he had witnessed, and demanded his succour. The window was closed. After a short interval the door of the house was opened, and a man, stout and burly, and apparently in indigent circumstances, appeared with a light in his hand, accompanied by a woman, his wife. A gruff voice hailed "For heaven's sake, lend me your assistance to recover this poor woman," said the man, who had first beheld her. "With all my heart," replied the other. They then proceeded to convey the body into the interior of the house"; and the woman taking the child in her arms, rubbed its frozen face with her warm hands. The house was badly furnished, and everything seemed in a decaying condition. In the parlour, as they choosed to called it, was an old and almost rotten sofa. On this they placed the form of the inanimate woman, and after applying as many restoratives as they could furnish, they perceived no tokens of life. The child was carefully placed in a warm bed, and enjoyed a sound sleep. "I see no use in applying remedies to her," said the man who resided in the house; we may as well send for the doctor. If we don't send for him now, we may perhaps send for him when it is too late." 'Well, as you wish it, I can offer no objection, and as I think there may be yet some life in her, I shall myself bring the doctor." He set out for the nearest doctor's house. During his absence, the woman was divested of her wet and chilly clothes, and placed in a comfortable bed. As yet she was to all appearance quite dead. The man who thus took her into his house was, as his dress might lead to suppose, a poor working man. Though an Irishman by birth, he was sent at an early age to this country to seek his fortunes, and after a number of changes in his condition, he at last obtained a permanent, though not lucrative situation, in a large soap manufactory. He was rather advanced in years, and had no children. He had seen many troubles, but though now dwelling in poverty, he had heart for those who were worse off than himself, although, perhaps, he could not give them pecuniary assistance. His wife was an Englishwoman. Like her husband she was reared in the doctrine of the Catholic Church, and though many obstacles came in her way tending to shake her belief, she remained true to the religion of her birth. Mr. Leary (for such was her husband's name) had a very forbidden appearance. To look at him when he was waging a war of words on politics or religion, against any of his fellow-workmen, would be almost to look at an angry bear. His hair was arranged in the best way it could arrange itself; and his whiskers shot out from his checks like so many bristles. He was truly of a rough exterior. But he had a noble and generous heart-an Irish heart. Beneath his bold and formidable appearance, was a soul compassionate and forgiving. Though, perhaps, one moment, by his gestures and words, he was about almost to devour, you, at the next he would shed his life's blood to protect you from harm or danger. There were a few points from which if you dissented, he would become furious. He was not well educated, but a fine intellect, unchastened by the blessings of a good education, beamed forth in his countenance. He was a firm and staunch Catholic, and any meeting convened to support measures relating to his creed, Mr. Leary, or, as he wished in his pride to be called, Mr. O'Leary, was sure to be there, checring lustily with all the advantages of stentorian lungs. At one portion of his life, he had an unconquerable desire to be following street preachers of the Gospel, and challenging them to discussion. This passion was subdued. One Sunday afternoon, a shoemaker, whom Leary knew, ascended a portable pulpit, and commenced a discourse on the superstitions of the Romish Church, much to the amazement of our friend. "O then, it's you, is it? A purty fine preacher you are. It would be fitter for you to stay at home, and learn to read before you come out here as a preacher of the Gospel." The preaching shoemaker was heedless of Leary's exclamation, and continued his tirade of abuse against Mr. Leary's belief. The Irishman could stand it no longer. His passions were aroused, and the result was the pulpit was broken, and our enthusiastic Mr. O'Leary taken to the station-house. He was, however, pardoned, with a severe reprimanding not to interfere with street preachers again. He promised, and he kept his word. On relating this event to a friend of his, Mr. Leary said, "I could not at all reman quiet, while the fellow was abusing my religion." Such was Mr. Leary. It was some time before the doctor arrived. The poor wonian lay in the same state. The doctor, after feeling her pulse and forehead, remained for an instant wrapped in thought. The others were eager to know whether life was extinct or not. After a short time, through the doctor's care, the woman slowly revived. The doctor, after giving his orders, departed. Sense gradually returned, and she opened her eyes, and gazed around with a wild look. "Where, O where, is the child ?" were the first words sho could utter, and they were spoken in a tone of anguish. "Be comforted on that point," replied Mr. Leary, “the child is safe. Poor innocent soul! it must have suffered much. When my wife took it from your arms, it seemed like a piece of cold stone. Poor thing! so young to be out on such a piercing night." "Thank God!" murmured the woman, in a faint voice; "the innocent child has at least escaped the dreadful punishment. Now I can die with an easy heart, though my career has been a vicious one. Oh, that I could; but it is too late, I feel my hours are numbered, and death is fast drawing on me." Exhausted by this outbreak, uttered in an impassioned tone, she fell back on the pillow, and lay insensible some minutes. The couple of the house renewed their endeavours to soothe her, but it could be plainly seen she had not long to live. On her recovering again they made some inquiries as to how she came to be exposed with a tender child to the inclemency of such a frosty night. After a few moments' recollection, she told them her history in broken and interrupted sen tences. Mrs. Baines (the name of the dying woman) was married at an early age to a gentleman in easy circumstances. The union, for a time, was a most felicitous one. Her husband loved her, and appeared to be a kind and attentive man. She soon found she had mistaken his character. Though affluent, he squandered his money in gambling and drink, and frequented taverns known as the rendezvous of bad characters. This his deceived wife soon discovered, and it caused her the most intense sorrow. His wealth was soon squandered, and his unfortunate wife learned, but too late, the bad and depraved disposition of her husband. Starvation now seemed to stare her in the face. She was unhappy. Her only child, a blue-eyed girl of a gentle mien, was snatched from her by the hand of death. Her husband still continued in his wretched career. He seemed utterly without feeling for the death of his child. To the remonstrances of his wife he turned a deaf car; and when she persisted in her warnings, oaths and blasphemies thanked her for her trouble. Thus they led a miserable life. Suicide often presented itself to the distracted and ill-treated wife, as a relief to her heart-breaking suffering. She had the strength to reject this dreadful temptation. What was she to do? Leave her husband? Where, then, could she live in happiness and peace? A plan came across her mind. She resolved to live a dissipated life like her husband, and endeavour to drown, by destroying drink, the cares and miseries which corroded her heart. Her once peaceful home was now a scene of sin and wreck. Her husband had wasted away his income, and, through his bad conduct, was expelled from his situation, and thrown almost penniless on the world. Drink could not drown the anguish and unconquerable agony of his wife. Death, poverty, degradation, and starvation were prospects which loomed in the distance. To add to her misery, it came to her notice that her husband was, by artful plots and false representations, endeavouring to win the hand of a wealthy merchant's daughter. Possessing a winning address and agreeable manners, and giving a glowing account of riches, he made a great impression on the young lady's feelings, though the cool, reflecting merchant gave no encouragement to his suit. He at length prevailed upon his intended victim to elope with him, carrying with her a considerable sum of money from her father. The merchant, in discovering his daughter's flight, was in the greatest consternation. Liberal sums of money he offered for their apprehension. It was of no avail; their retreat was undiscovered. But there was one who vowed vengeance on the head of the seducer. This was his neglected, deserted wife. Maddened by the great potions of drink she had imbibed, she called down from heaven the malediction of God on her husband. As the tigress which has been deprived of her young, so was she enraged; unhapppy, conscience-stricken, and heart-broken, she followed close in the track of the fugitives. Months had fled, and their whereabouts was not found. Ragged, debilitated, and mournful, the revengeful wife still sought the object of her vengeance. She had travelled from village to village, begging subsistance and lodging on her way, but she as yet found him not. She had seen happiness in the peaceful cot of the hard-toiling peasant, and the youthful day-dreams of her innocent childhood returned to increase her torments. How did her heart almost burst with these harrowing recollections. Tears, unrelieving tears, bedimmed her eyes, but soothed her not. Then would these soft feelings give way to the overwhelming passion of vengeance. Her eyes would dart fire and her teeth clatter together. Though feeble, her cherished hope gave her a stimulus to proceed on her wished-for discovery. After many months of careful search, she discovered the residence of her husband,-one of the gay and showy shops of London. He had become steady, and settled down as a vendor of fancy-goods. When she saw him, how much was he altered. Once the well-forined and handsome Frank Baines, and now thin and pale and gray-haired. Gloom was on his countenance, yet that deceiving leer was there still. Now was the time for the accomplishment of her vengeance. She was informed he had a child,- -an only one, and this she determined to grasp from him. It was the habit of the nurse, who had charge of the child, to stray out in the afternoon, leaving the infant in charge of its mother. Her visits were found to be a great disturbance to her master, who forthwith discharged her. His deserted wife resolved to apply for the situation. So altered was she in appearance, that she relied upon him not discovering her identity. She was accepted. The means of accomplishing her long-wished-for object was within her reach. On a cold night in December she and the child were missed. Search was made in every direction, but the child was not to be found. The distracted father, who had placed his fondest hopes on that child, swore and stamped his feet with augnish; the mother lay insensible from the shock. Meanwhile she who took away the child sought refuge in a common lodging-house; and, as she had saved a few shillings, she managed to support herself and the child for some time, and elude the vigilant search made for it. But her money being gone, she was compelled to sell the neat clothes which she had purchased while in her place, and substitute for them ragged ones. At last she was turned out of the refuge, and thrust into the street, with the child, on the night on which we first introduced her to our readers; and after wandering for some time, she fell down insensible, and thus lay when she was discovered by the solitary midnight pedes trian. Having told her history, there was a silence of some minutes. It had affected Mr. Leary and his wife, nor was the stranger without his feelings of sympathy and pity. The dying woman grew worse. With great difficulty she took from her breast a small casket, and gave it to Mr. Leary. It was made of silver, and carefully locked. Raising herself up on the bed, the dying woman said, "I must now ask a dying request. I beseech you not to make known the name of that child. Do not restore it to its parents until it has arrived at the age of eighteen. Promise me this before God." They solemnly asseverated to fulfil this promise. And now," said the dying woman to Mr. Leary, pointing to the casket, "I give that to your care. Do not part with it on any account. Never open it until you restore the child to its parents. You can call the child by your own naine. Do this, and may God bless you. I-I feel my strength fast decaying. It will soon be all over with me. My eyes are weak and dim; my tongue is parched with-thirst. I have been wicked; but pray, O, pray for me! Death is coming on me. O God, forgive me! Forgive him! Mercy, mercy! Watch over her, the child. I cannot breathe. O!"-She sunk back dead. The stranger departed in silence. Mr. aud Mrs. Leary were left alone to their prayers. (To be concluded in our next). THE JUSTICE OF GOD. (Translated from the French.) [Meeting with this tale amongst a volume of French selections, I was induced to render it into English, thinking that others might derive a pleasure similar to that which I had myself experienced in its perusal. I regret that I am unable to suggest the name of the author; but the readers of the Lamp will, I think, agree with me, that the style evinces a purity and a beautiful simplicity seldom to be met with, and, while there is no straining after effect, the impression conveyed to the mind is yet of a most pleasurable, because truthful, nature. I have thought it desirable to present it in as English a garb as possible, and have in so doing used some latitude of expression, though iu strict accordance, I believe, with the author's plan and style.-TRANSLATOR.] DURING the wars provoked between the Turks and the Austrians-wars of which Hungary was the theatre--and which reduced that unhappy country to the condition of a vast desert, there arose innumerable bands of robbers, who, with impunity, devastated the country, and carried away from the wretched inhabitants the little that the hostile armies had left them. The most redoubtable of these bands was headed by one Rinaldi, by birth an Italian. An old soldier, it was said, he joined to skill in arms the cunning and audacity so distinctive of the Italian character; and in a short time he acquired such notable celebrity, that there flocked to him from all parts numerous companions--persons of lost reputation, homeless wanderers, prepared not to shrink from the commission of any crime. Rinaldi soon found himself at the head of a band sufficiently strong to render unnecessary the trouble of concealing himself. He appeared with his little army in open day in the midst of some hamlet or small town, and levied a tribute, after the fashion of a conqueror. If his unfortunate victims complied without hesitation, he retired peacefully with his booty; but the least resistance exasperated him; and in the rage of disappointment he sometimes had the barbarity to massacre all the inhabitants, and to burn whole villages. Immediately following one of these visits of this robberfiend, a woman and her young child, whom she led by the hand, might have been seen fleeing with all haste across the country. The feet of both these wayfarers were naked, and their persons were scantily covered with clothes; their whole appearance betokened the utmost fear, and the lurid flames which lit up the horizon behind them bore dreadful witness to the presence of Rinaldi, and seemed amply to justify their terror. They journeyed thus for some time with all the speed of which they were capable; but at length fatigue overpowered them. "Let us stay here, Etienne," said the mother; "we have nothing more now to fear from these brigands; they have done us all the injury it was in the power of man to do. One short hour has sufficed them to plunder us of all we possessed. Thy father they have massacred." The poor widow bowed her head in bitter grief. After a short silence: " Mother," said the lad, "I am very thirsty." "Here, my son, take this gourd. Alas! alas! I had prepared it for thy dear father; how little did I foresee this dread calamity!" |