"They are all chips of the same block;" and the description in the following pages of their attempts to proselytize, seduce, and corrupt, is not at all exaggerated, as thousands of candid American Protestants can testify. Perhaps the sectarian dominies do not see the sad consequences that are infallibly produced on the minds of their hearers, after they come to detect the frauds and falsehoods which the parsons inculcate on them when children; but they are in the cause, and morally responsible for that doubt, irreligion, and downright infidelity which are the well-known characteristics of the male and female youth of our great country, and which threaten such disastrous consequences to society.

Yes, dominies, you are responsible for all the extravagances of modern times, for the irreparable loss to virtue and society of the noble youth of your country. You hate the church of God because she is a witness against you. The priest, the nun, and the recluse are objects of your malice; for they are living examples of what you call impossible morals, and refuters of the code of low virtue you practise and preach. The faith of the Catholic laity, too, you endeavor to destroy, in order more securely to deceive your hearers, and to secure your children, your wives, and yourselves, that bread which you eat by the dissemination of error, contradiction, and contention, and which you are too lazy to "earn by the sweat of your brow."

Finally. This work is submitted to the reader by one who will be well pleased if it affords the former any pleasure or amusement during one or two of such few hours of leisure as it took the latter to write it. Regarding style, method, and arrangement of the matter, the author has no apology to offer, except that the work has been written in great haste, and by one who, in five years, has not had a single entire day for recreation or unoccupied by severe missionary duty. Let not the critics forget this.

CONTENTS.

[CHAPTER I.
A DEATH BED SCENE,]
[CHAPTER II.
GETTING THE MOTHER'S BLESSING,]
[CHAPTER III.
AN OFFICIAL,]
[CHAPTER IV.
THE POORHOUSE,]
[CHAPTER V.
THE O'CLERYS,]
[CHAPTER VI.
THE COUNCIL,]
[CHAPTER VII.
A RUDE LOVER OF NATURE,]
[CHAPTER VIII.
THE ORPHANS IN THEIR NEW HOME,]
[CHAPTER IX.
THE PRYING FAMILY,]
[CHAPTER X.
A RAY OF HOPE,]
[CHAPTER XI.
VAN STINGEY AGAIN.—HOW HE GETS RICH AND ENDS,]
[CHAPTER XII.
MASS IN A SHANTY,]
[CHAPTER XIII.
THE TEMPTER AT THE WOMAN,]
[CHAPTER XIV.
THE FRUITS OF THE CROSS,]
[CHAPTER XV.
THE CONVERSION,]
[CHAPTER XVI.
THE ENLIGHTENED CITIZENS,]
[CHAPTER XVII.
"HE AND HIS WHOLE HOUSE BELIEVED,"]
[CHAPTER XVIII.
"TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION,"]
[CHAPTER XIX.
WHAT HAPPENED TO LITTLE EUGENE O'CLERY,]
[CHAPTER XX.
THE SAME, CONTINUED, ]
[CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS,]
[CHAPTER XXII.
THE DESERTED HOME OF THE ORPHANS,]
[CHAPTER XXIII.
IN WHICH THE SCENE OF OUR TALE IS CHANGED,]
[CHAPTER XXIV.
SHOWS HOW THE CROSS AND SHAMROCK WERE PERMANENTLY
UNITED AFTER A LONG SEPARATION,]
[CHAPTER XXV.
CONCLUSION,]

CHAPTER I.

A DEATH-BED SCENE.

A cold evening in the month of January, a drizzling rain storm blowing from the south-west, a cheerless sky, a dull, threatening atmosphere, together with almost impassable roads,—these are the chilling and uninviting circumstances with which, if we pay regard to truth, we must introduce our narrative to our readers. It is usual, with writers of fiction and romance, to preface their literary exhibitions with high-wrought and dazzling descriptions of natural and artificial objects—the sun, moon, and stars; the clouds, meteors, and other fantastic creations of the atmosphere; the seas, rivers, and lakes; the mountains, fields, and gardens; the birds, fishes, and the inhabitants of the savage forests, as well as the forests, groves, and woods themselves,—in a word, all nature seems as if conscious of the effects likely to result to the morals, habits, and projects of men, while some of your modern novelists are arranging their matter, sharpening their scissors, preparing pen, ink, and paper, and taking indigestible suppers to make way into the world for the offspring of their creative fancies. Ours being a tale of truth,—yes, of bare, unvarnished truth, yet of truth more interesting, if not "stranger, than fiction,"—it is not to be wondered that, when we acknowledge the homely dame, and her alone, as our guide, inspirer, and preceptor, we lack the advantage of romancers, and cannot command "a special sunset," or a storm made to order, or other enchanting scenery, to introduce us to our patrons.