till the present volume appeared, we had no categorical narrative of the sufferings to which Cromwell doomed the Irish Catholics, clergy and laity, for their unswerving attachment to God, king, and country. Their devotion to the creed of their fathers, and their loyalty to a worthless sovereign, sire of a son still more worthless, involved them in common ruin, and brought down on their heads that curse-death, outlawry, and confiscation,which to the present day remains proverbial in Ireland. There are many, doubtless, whose squeamishness, real or affected, will find fault with the "Historical Sketch," simply because it revives memories which the over-sensitive would have buried in oblivion. Objections of this sort, however, are little worth; for, on the same principle, and to cater to such tastes, we should destroy the Roman Martyrology and every other book that records Christian heroism struggling against the iron band of despotism. Nor are we to forget that the Irish Catholics have been held up to the world by Temple, Borlase, and other lying writers, too numerous to mention, as a race plunged in ignorance, rioting in blood and rapine, and incapable of performing a single deed that could be pleasing in the sight of God or man. It is quite certain that the fanatical Puritans pretended to view them in this light, and thought that they were justified in exterminating the whole race by sword, halter, famine, and every other device which wicked ingenuity could invent. This, indeed, was merest pretence, but the real object of those canting knaves was to get possession of the churches, estates, and homesteads of the Irish Catholics, after the latter had been swept from their native soil. Instead, therefore, of finding fault with the "Historical Sketch," we should rather be proud of it, as an able and lucid vindication of our national honour, and as an unanswerable apology for our Catholic forefathers, whose devotion to the faith defied Cromwell's sword, and came out, if possible, brighter and more purified from the terrible ordeal through which it had to pass. Every Irish Catholic should feel himself exalted by the contemplation of what his predecessors had to endure for their religion, and none can say that he has formed an adequate notion of their sufferings till he has perused the pages of this admirable volume. Want of knowledge may, in many instances, be excusable, but surely it is a shame and a disgrace to be ignorant of the vicissitudes of Catholicity in this island, or of those who laid down their lives in the dungeon and on the scaffold to transmit the sacred deposit to us, who enjoy its manifold blessings now that the sword of persecution is rusting in its sheath. The long series of pains and penalties inflicted on the Irish Catholics by Cromwell and the ministers of Charles II. is faithfully and minutely detailed in Dr. Moran's "Sketch," and we may here observe, that many of the documents he quotes were never before published, being for the most part "Reports," carefully drawn up by ocular witnesses, who deposited them in the Roman archives, where they might have lain, lost to the reading world, were it not for the research of the learned author. The veracity of those Reports, so painfully minute and circumstantial, is placed beyond doubt by collateral evidences collected from Protestant writers, whom Dr. Moran cites; and we need hardly state, that he has given additional value to his book by copious extracts from Dominic O'Daly, Lynch's "Life of Kirwan," "Cambrensis Eversus," and other works of equal importance. As we hope that the Historical Sketch will pass through many editions, we take this opportunity of suggesting to Dr. Moran, that he can materially heighten the interest of the chapter which he devotes to "Individual Instances of Persecution," by consulting Carte's Life of the Duke of Ormond, where he will find many examples of fiendish cruelty inflicted on the Catholics by the Lords Justices of the period, far surpassing in atrociousness any that we read in the fabulous histories of the Inquisition. We may also remark that it would be well to record how many of the worst persecutors of the Irish Catholics died, for, as is generally the case, most of those miscreants came to a horrible and untimely end. Thus, for example, Sir Charles Coote* was shot dead in Trim, after he had risen from warming himself at a fire made of a wooden image of the Blessed Virgin, which he contemptuously caused to be hewed into billets. The renegade Lord Esmond, too, the murderer and exterminator of the O'Byrnes in Wicklow felt God's avenging hand press heavily on him, for, after being struck blind, he died on the road-side, and was laid in the ancestral vault, unreconciled and unanealed. Many instances of similar visitations overtook others of the chief actors in the bloody drama, so graphically described by Dr. Moran, and we trust that he will find room for them in some future edition. Meanwhile, we will claim for this excellent volume a niche in every Irish library, and we would recommend all those who are entrusted with the training of Catholic youth, not only to place it in their hands, but, if possible, to make them learn every page of it by heart, for there are few books fuller of instruction, interest, and edification, and none, certainly, better calculated to make us love our religion, and revere the memories of those who died martyrs to uphold it. Before dismissing this subject, it may not be out of place to observe, that the "Historical Sketch" is dedicated to the Rev. Monsignore Yore, than whom none could be better entitled to such a tribute of respect and esteem. This venerable ecclesiastic is, indeed, the last link of that long chain of priests who lived in the penal times-one of those who beheld our sanctuary, and our beauty, and glory laid waste. Happily, however, for himself and the community at large, he has survived those evil days; and now, grown gray in the constant performance of good works, he can calmly contemplate a new order of things, for which we are in great measure indebted to his pious and patriotic exertions. The churches, the asylums for the deaf, the dumb, and the blind, which he has founded, are so many imperishable monuments of his zeal and disinterestedness; and whenever it may please God to call him to his reward, the tears of the orphan, and the regrets of all those who appreciate virtue, will be showered on his grave. So, indeed, should he be honoured whose whole life has been a practical commentary on the beautiful words of the Psalmist-"He hath distributed, he hath given to the poor." Need we add, that justice of this sort remaineth for ever and ever? • Coote was buried in Dublin, and his tomb bore the following significant inscription : "England's glory, Scotland's wonder, DUFFY'S HIBERNIAN SIXPENNY MAGAZINE. No. 8. AUGUST. 1862. THE OUT-QUARTERS OF ST. ANDREW'S PRIORY. BY MRS. STANLEY CARY. CHAPTER XXIV. AN UNWELCOME MEETING. AFTER an arduous day passed in assisting her father to sort his various papers, Urcella Trevillers sallied forth in the direction of the Cedar Grove, to enjoy the sweet, refreshing air. The evening was far advanced, and all was hushed in repose. The wind which had spent its vagaries during the course of the day, was now completely lulled. The old fantastic trees threw their gloomy shadows along the grassy path which Urcella had chosen for her troll; whilst the wild and tangled underwood told a tale of long neglect. Oft in this secluded spot would Urcella pass a listless hour, musing upon the past and future destiny of all around her. Sometimes her pensive mind would soar to higher regions, and, unseen by the world, she would pour out her soul in supplication for the well-being of those most dear to her, and whose safety and happiness were the fervent prayer of her affectionate heart. Thus absorbed, she trod with slow and gentle steps the velvet sol. The discovery of Gerald's duplicity, of which (since her visit to the labourer's cot) she had no longer any doubt, would force itself unbidden across her mind, and add another proof of the little there was to be relied on in this deceptive world. She tried to banish the recollection of this disappointment, and turn her thoughts towards the Disposer of all things, praying for submission to his wise decrees whatever they might be. Nightfall now began to show signs of approach, and Urcella deemed it prudent to return home. She had no fears for herself, but in consideration of those whom she knew would be anxious at her prolonged absence, knowing her to be alone, she pursued her solitary walk no further. That she had strolled far from the Priory was true, but that she was alone was not the case, a searching, scowling eye was watching her at no great distance. Her steps had been observed, and tracked by one she little dreamt was nigh. With noiseless tread this dark intruder followed in the distance, concealed in view by the shadowy branches of the cedars. Reaching the VOL. II. NEW SERIES. G spot where Urcella was, he stealthily drew nearer, till, catching a full view of the beauteous maid, he stood motionless. Urcella Trevillers was no stranger to him. He knew her well, had known her from her earliest youth; had been her playmate, her companion, and might even have aspired to a nearer kinship had not his wayward conduct thrown an impenetrable barrier against all further communication betwixt himself and the family of Sir Algernon Trevillers. He would now fain take this opportunity of addressing her; but he dared not. There was that in her angelic mien which forbade his rude approach. He was too conscious of his unworthiness to disturb her. He stood spell bound, hesitating whether to advance boldly, or wait a more fitting occasion. At this moment Urcella turned suddenly round, as if to retrace her steps. The moment was not to be lost, he sprang from his retreat and intercepted her path. Greatly alarmed at this unexpected apparition, Urcella was on the point of rushing by, and flying for safety, when the tones of a well-remembered voice fell upon her ear, and arrested her course. "Stay, good cousin, stay, I beseech you," were the supplicatory words that stopped her hasty retreat. "Geoffrey!" exclaimed Urcella, giving a terrified glance at the changed and haggard face before her. "Is that you?" "Yes," was the agitated reply; "it is your old companion, your old admirer, your own cousin, who implores you to listen to him for a few moments." "Geoffrey," said Urcella, endeavouring to recover her self-possession, "what brings you here?" "Ruin-destitution—" "Ruin!-destitution !-what, in mercy, has brought you to this dreadful state?" said Urcella, advancing little by little. "My evil destiny. That wretched fate which has ever pursued me from my childhood to this moment, and which will not cease to cling to me to my last hour.” "And have you, Geoffrey, in no way assisted this evil genius in bringing you to this extraordinary condition ?" "Hold!" cried Geoffrey, his brow darkening as he spoke. "This is no time for reproaches-rather deplore my desperate condition." "I do, indeed, deplore it," said Urcella. "Well, then, let me test the truth of what you say by your promising to procure me an interview with my uncle. See him I must; and a word in my favour from you will be the means of procuring what I desire. me this promise, sweet cousin, and I will leave you immediately." Give "I pray you, Geoffrey, make no such request. I cannot, indeed, I cannot grant it. How can I lead you into my father's presence, after you have so ungratefully requited his generosity?" "Do you "Generosity!" cried Geoffrey, with a contemptuous smile. call that generosity which drove me from my home, and thrust me inexperienced upon the wide world?" "You were not driven from my father's home, Geoffrey. You left us abruptly, and entirely of your own accord." "And who could have staid under the tyrannical thraldom to which I was subjected?" "Tyrannical thraldom! Talk not thus, Geoffrey; my father's goodness to you had no bounds; he indulged you, forgave you over and over again, treated you as his own son, and would have continued to do so to this day, had not your perverse spirit made your presence a misery, instead of a happiness. You cannot deny it; the very recollection of your past conduct ought to upbraid you with ingratitude, each time you pronounce your uncle's honoured name.” "Hush!" cousin, said Geoffrey, impatiently; "prate no more to me of ingratitude. My mind is filled with more urgent matter. I am left without a stiver, and must be assisted. In fact, I am come to be again admitted under that roof, which my dying parent begged might ever be a refuge and a home to me." "And was it not a refuge and a home to you till your strange habits made you no longer worthy of its protection ?" "Be that as it may, it is now my desire to be received again as an inmate of my uncle's abode. My present straitened circumstances give me an additional claim to be there; and you, cousin, if you have any proper feeling left, must urge this claim for me.' "You have no claim," said Urcella, mildly, " on my father's roof, or on his bounty. His goodness alone took you, reared you, loved you, till your unwarrantable behaviour snapt the cord of affection, and made you as one no longer known to him." "For the last time I ask you," said Geoffrey, his eyes kindling with wrath, "Is there, or is there not, any chance of my being received as a member of my uncle's family as heretofore?" "None, Geoffrey, none! My father will never consent to be a party to those painful scenes which so frequently occurred when you were with us, and which you cannot have forgotten." "How, then, am I to subsist ?" "By those ample means secured to you by your father, and which ought to have far exceeded your necessities; what has become of that noble portion ?" I "Gone!-gone into the coffers of others!-lost to me for ever! have nothing left-and an therefore driven to call upon those who have plenty." "You are greatly mistaken, Geoffrey, if you imagine that my father possesses more than he requires for his own and our maintenance. His adherence to the old Faith has drawn down the anger of the law upon him; and he is fined to well nigh ruin.” "Greater the fool he, then," said the excited young man, "for not shaping his belief to the progress of the times." "Oh, shame on you, Geoffrey! Shame on you, to talk thus irreverently. Take yourself away to your boon-companions, and anger not my father with your unwelcome presence. There is not the slightest prospect of your 148128) |