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First Interview of Father Huestace and Joseph
MADELON HAWLEY, or, THE JESUIT AND HIS VICTIM. A Revelation of Romanism
ByWilliam Earle Binder.
"Would you pass within The chamber of this mystery—and bow Before the awful knowledge that is there?" MELLEN.New York: H. DAYTON, No. 29 ANN-STREET.
1857.Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year by H. DAYTON, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York. J. J. REED, PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER 16 Spruce St., N. Y.
INTRODUCTION.
IN the city of Philadelphia, and during the forepart of the year 1844, I accidentally made the acquaintance of an old man named Joseph Secor. He was a strange, but yet a kindly being. His intimates, and they numbered but very few, were unacquainted with his real name; and I only learned it after our chance acquaintance had ripened into a more lasting friendship. If some one, more inquisitive than his fellows, chanced to raise such an inquiry, the old man with a quiet smile would exclaim—"why, what's the difference?—call me Uncle Joseph—that will do." And there the matter ended.
He seemed desirous of shunning all unnecessary observation, and yet was never discourteous, or rude, or unkind, or ungenerous. He appeared only to seek retirement, and in doing so he did not, by any means, act suspiciously. He was old, and yet not so old as feeble; he was poor, and yet he was content; or if he was not he seemed so. Somehow I pitied the old man's loneliness, and having grown into his good opinion from the beginning, I was frequently in his page: 2-3[View Page 2-3] company. It was but very few that he would admit into his privacy, and I soon became the most favored of all. Association with him soon convinced me that he was educated, well informed, deeply read, and possessed of a most close and tenacious memory. During our interviews he was generally cheerful, occasionally thoughtful, but never morbid. He lived in the upper part of a, small house in the western outskirts of the city; and after our casual acquaintance had become confirmed I usually walked out there two or three times a week. I liked to hear him talk, his mind was so extensively stored with interesting facts, and entertaining reminiscences.
For himself he seldom went abroad, and when he did it was not far. One of the windows of his room overlooked the gardens of several large dwellings which stood on an opposite street; and there the old man generally sat and dreamed away his unoccupied hours. He lived solitary and alone; his little room was kept in order, and his meals cooked by the family that occupied the lower part of the house. Sometimes one—sometimes another of his few friends would gladden his old heart with some trifling present, which they fancied he needed, or imagined would gratify him. In return he never said more than "thank you;" but the tone of his voice was sufficient to prove the words not idle. As I have said, I was his most frequent visitor; and the old man seemed pleased with the attention I paid him. In exchange he entertained me with the fruits of his long experience, and close observation. I was well repaid.
It was in 1844, it will be remembered, that the terrible and bloody riot between the American Protestants and Irish Catholics occurred in Philadelphia; and it was shortly after that eventful and exciting period that I happened to make the acquaintance of this isolated old man; how, precisely, is immaterial to the development of my narrative. I soon noticed that the old man was laboring under some unusual nervous excitement, the secret of which he finally related to me himself. Had I known then all that he afterwards disclosed to me, I should very reasonably have argued that the nature of the scenes which had just passed must necessarily have exercised a powerful influence over the condition of his mind.
Naturally enough, for a long period afterward, our conversation would almost unconsciously turn upon that one engrossing subject. Together we canvassed over and over all the incidents from the beginning to the end, commencing with the meeting of free Americans—its material and purpose—continuing on to the unprovoked and murderous attack which the Irish Catholics made upon the citizens—the sudden and wilful shooting down of several unoffending persons—the retaliation of the Americans—the destruction of the Irish quarters, and the burning of the Nunnery, and St. Michael's Church—the conflagration of St. Augustine's page: 4-5[View Page 4-5] —the fortifying of St. Mary's by the Romanists—the threatened attack upon the building by the infuriated Americans—the charge of the military, and the shooting down of the people;—each and all were severally arraigned at the bar of out opinion. And the old man invariably took bold grounds against the Romish Church; and always lifted up his voice against her iniquities.
Thus days, and weeks, and months passed away, and midwinter was upon us. The season was intensely and unusually bitter, and by Christmas the river was frozen over with every prospect of remaining so for a very considerable period. Still, however, I continued my visits to the old man—and still, somehow, our conversation would almost unconsciously turn upon the recent riots—upon the rights and immunities of American citizens generally, and upon the high-handed and unwarrantable position which the great mass of Catholic foreigners were fast assuming.
"It is most unmistakably significant!" he exclaimed one evening, referring to the collision between the Americans and the Irish Catholics. "The wanton attack in the first place, was entirely characteristic of the Romanists; for to oppose them is always to arouse their bitterest hatred. And what they cannot accomplish by precept or example—always in their hands powerful instruments—they assuredly will by either stratagem or open and undisguised violence I speak advisedly for I know"—the old man raised his face to mine and emphasized the last word strongly—"the material of the Romish Church. The retaliation by the Americans, so wild, so furious, so destructive, is an everlasting evidence of what may be expected at their hands when once they are thoroughly aroused to action by the iron heel of Romish oppression. Both elements are powerful, and there will be more of it yet—more of it yet. The time is fast ripening; but I shall not behold the fruition, for the lamp of my life burns dimmer and dimmer. I have seen the seed of contention planted, but the blossoming of the tree is for other times and other men."
The old man had gradually become abstracted, and his last remarks were uttered as if he was entirely oblivious of my presence.
"Let the day come!" I replied, warmed by his words "And in that hour may this 'mother of Harlots' sink down forever in all her wickedness and shame."
At the first sound, of my voice the old man started as if suddenly awaked from a dream. Lifting his face again to mine, be continued to watch me, with kindling eye, until I had finished my briefly expressed hope.
"Amen!" he responded earnestly, and his voice grew deep and full. "Amen; for the day is dark and the night is filled with crime where ever she abides. Her presence blasts and destroys all that is good—all that is noble—all that makes life honorable or happy. Free thought—free page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] principle—free life, cannot exist within the circle of her influence. For her pleasure, men, and women, and children, are transformed into incarnate fiends—for her gratification all law, save her own arbitrary will, is ground into the dust—for her aggrandizement individuals, communities, and nations are pitilessly robbed. She was born in ignorance, and darkness, and crime—cradled in iniquity, and fed with the the warm blood of massacred innocents! What else then can men expect? What from such a creed of blood, and sin, and shame? What from a religion which assumes to hold the keys of heaven, and to stand sentinel over the gates of hell? What? Nothing but misery!—nothing but crime!—nothing but blood!"
The old man straightened himself up, and spoke with a power and vehemence I had never before seen him exhibit. He was thrillingly eloquent. It was a new phase in his character, for he was usually quiet and practical. I wondered and looked, but did not break the silence which followed his energetic words.
In a few moments, and almost imperceptibly, his whole form underwent a change. Once again his body bowed, and the fire of his eye went out; and there gathered upon his brow a heavy cloud—a look of agony, of suffering, of sorrow. I felt that some terrible memory was rushing through his brain—some recollection struggling for the liberty of an utterance. And I was correct as the reader will see.
The struggle in the old man's heart was a stern one, and with a quick, nervous step he paced up and down his little apartment. Let what might be the result of his emotion, I thought it best to allow h s own feelings to decide him, and so continued speechless. Suddenly he stopped in the centre of the room, and turning to me he grasped my hand tightly; not, however, despairingly, but as one who gathers confidence from the clasp of honest friendship.
"I will speak now! I must tell somebody—I feel it—and better you than many others!" he exclaimed, in a short, agitated whisper. "I cannot contain myself any longer—this concealment is killing me. The truth, terrible and hateful as it is in this case, must be told. The threads of my life are cracking fast, and I cannot, cannot die with such weight upon my heart."
I gazed at him curiously. His conduct and his words were at once singular and unusual—entirely at variance with his generally quiet and unobtrusive manner.
"Bend low,"—said he, without noticing my look of astonishment—"bend low, so that even the walls may not hear what I say to you. We have talked of Romish bigotry, cruelty and deception, and of priestly enormities, until your young blood has grown hot with anger and indignation, and your soul has revolted at the things which your imagination has pictured. And yet you did not think—how could you? page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] —that, I had ever been a Papist—more, a priest—an artful, cunning, wicked priest."
"No, it cannot be!" I replied, beginning to doubt my companion's sanity. "You jest or—know not what you say!"
"I do not jest!" he exclaimed energetically. "I was never more in earnest—never better appreciated my words!"
"You, a Romanist!—a priest! One of that class who have always rendered themselves obnoxious to every principle of honesty or honor? Who have been the great purveyors of crime from the very extreme of ages?" I exclaimed, incredulously.
"Yes, yes; I have been such, and, I tell it to you now with shame and horror—now that the vail of darkness has been lifted from my soul, and the light of a true faith has rent the thick pall of bigotry, superstition, and crime. But even yet, sometimes, though years have passed away, and I have struggled hard to atone for my sins, a memory of other days, so black, so terrible, so crushing, fits through my aching brain that I feel as if I should go mad, stark mad, with the thought of it."
"I can not believe what you tell me!" I once more exclaimed, bewildered by his strange words and excited manner.
"Cannot? Right! It would be, a greater wonder if you could. Sometimes"—and the old man's look became vacant—"sometimes I can scarcely believe it myself. And yet it is so—memory, mysterious memory forbids me thinking otherwise. Would I could! Would, O would the past were but an idle fancy of my weakening brain."
"And even yet I can scarcely credit your singular acknowledgment!" I continued, more and more astonished. "Still I am inclined to think that you but jest."
"Jest!"—exclaimed the old man, elevating his voice, and speaking with a sternness which I had hitherto deemed foreign to his nature. "Jest? Do my words, or my manner, or my subject, imply that I jest? Would to God that it were but a jest, their could I lie down and die, and not have this fear, this dread at my heart. Jest? It were a sorry jest thus to confess myself so vile and hateful. No, no, young man, I—do—not—jest!"
I felt the reproach contained in the old man's words, and, exclaimed apologetically;—
"I would not wound your feelings by a doubt, but that—"
"I know it—know all you would say—guess what you think," the old man broke in. "I was quick in my words, but there is much at my heart. I get querulous sometimes, and did you know all, you would not much wonder. Much thought, sometimes, makes me unjust. But leave me now, friend, for I am weary in mind and body. Don't think hard that I should bid you go, for I must rest. The secret which I have divulged to you has agitated me; and at the best I am very feeble. Some other time we will talk page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] further upon this subject. I have much to tell you that yet you do not dream of. But leave me now."
The old man sank down upon a chair, evidently exhausted, and buried his face in his thin white hands. I offered to speak again but he silently beckoned me away. Wonderingly I left the room.
Twenty-four hours after—about the same time on the following evening—I was suddenly and peremptorily summoned to his bedside. He was sick—sick unto death, it was thought. I hastened to obey the call. I found him much altered even in the little time since we had parted. Death was indeed busy at his life-strings; and I felt that in a brief time the few straining chords which still bound him to this world would be snapped asunder, and his freed soul would fly away upon its mission to eternity. Hourly and momently the gulf narrowed down which separated his spirit from the great mystery beyond the grave—hourly and momently the pains of that second birth became more intense—in a little time the last, great, final agony would be over, and I hoped, whatever were his sins, that the spirit of a repentant man would be born again unto God.
A dim-light was burning in the little solitary room, and its one single occupant was alone, if indeed men are ever alone. He seemed glad, and doubtless was so, when I arrived; and addressed me kindly, though with a somewhat pre-occupied manner. I walked directly to the bedside, took his attenuated hand in mine, and sat down; after having at his request, arranged the pillows so that he could sit up without much exertion.
A moment of silence ensued, broken only by the long, low, instinctive death-howl of a neighboring watch-dog. I shuddered at the fearful omen, but the old man remained impassively abstracted.
At length he raised his head, and pointing with his long, lank finger across the room, he whispered;—
"Bolt the door!"
Quietly I complied with what seemed to me a very singular request, and returned again to my seat, I could not, however, avoid a look of astonishment at such an unusual and suspicious proceedings. He seemed to understand my thoughts for he said;—
"When men talk of murder they should be safe from intrusion!"
Mingling with the words arose again upon the still air the watch-dog's ominous howl. At the best of times a fearful sound, at that moment it ascended up like a wail of agony from the white lips of the murderer's victim. I started and trembled. The sick man observed my momentary agitation, and catching my hand in his cold grasp he exclaimed;—
"Nay, do not start!—you have nothing to fear! you are not guilty of any crime! you have not, like me, stood by and heard men's lives plotted away! you have not witnessed the page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] wanton destruction of unoffending, defenceless, women, as I have!—why then should you start and tremble at the mention of murder?"
"Merciful Heaven, old man, can you have ever been implicated in such fearful doings?" I exclaimed, recoiling from his touch with a feeling of horror. "I would have stacked my life to the contrary had it been necessary."
My kindly words touched his fast withering heart, and he brushed a tear from his sunken and hollow eye. After another brief period of silence he remarked;—
"In all men's lives the past has some mystery—with many much crime. Mine is surely not an exception. When first I informed you that I had been a Romish priest, you refused to credit my words—still less will you be likely to believe the apparently wild narrative which I am now about disclosing, if strength is permitted me. And yet, both declarations are eminently true. Long since, however, I cast off the dark superstition, and with both heart and lips, confessed myself to the only true and living God. And now I hate it as once I revered it; and could my curse annihilate the hideous monster, my last breath should pass away in a malediction. But these are worrisome thoughts, and I must check them. I sent for you that I might redeem my word, and relieve my heart. The occurrence I am about relating I had designed communicating to you on the first favorable opportunity; death has but hurried on the confession."
Here the old man again paused—bade me replenish the fire, and mix for him a stimulant, as he directed. These things complied with, I trimmed the dimly burning lamp, settled myself down as comfortably as the circumstances would permit, and signified my willingness to receive his revelations.
The thrilling and almost incredible story which I that night listened to will be revealed in the following pages; and improbable as the circumstances may at first appear I cannot, for my own part, doubt the veracity of that poor, old man, standing as he, was upon the very outermost brink of eternity. Why should I doubt?—why should any refuse to believe? Things may appear improbable that are not impossible. And why should any one thing, except indeed it be miraculous, be impossible to so tremendous a combination as the Romish Church?
