The Bible was with them a matter of minor consideration. I knew by experience that it was so; and I know that it is so at the present day, with every priest and bishop of the Romish church. I was aware then, as I am now, that it was perfectly useless to attempt reasoning with them, and I had, of course, no alternative left but to cast from me their writings and doctrines, as the veriest trash that ever was written, and seek from the Bible, the fountain of truth, instructions for my future life. I looked upon the majority of the holy fathers either as notorious blockheads or dishonest knaves. There is no alternative. There is not even a medium.
But to return to the subject, from which I have so widely, though unconsciously deviated.
Soon after my arrival in Philadelphia, I became acquainted with a Protestant family. I had the pleasure of dining occasionally with them, and could not help noticing a seemingly delicate young man who waited at the table. There was something in the countenance and whole appearance of this individual which struck me as singular. I could see no indication of positive wickedness or signal depravity in the external configuration of the young man's head. The expression of the eye indicated meekness, humility, and habitual obedience, rather than anything else; but I could see, nevertheless, in the closely-compressed lips and furtive glance, which I could only occasionally catch,—and even then by a sort of stealth,—something that puzzled me. I know not why, but I could not like him. There was no cause, as far as I could see, why I should dislike the young man. Constitutionally, I was myself rather fearless than otherwise. I cannot recollect that, with equal means of defence, I ever before feared any one, I do not desire to be considered a braggadocio, nor do I make this assertion with any such view. I have not in my composition,—if I know myself,—a single particle of bravery, neither do I covet its possession. I have often seen men of bravery tremble at the roaring of a lion, caged up and strongly chained in a menagerie. I have often seen and heard a brave man whistle as he passed through a church-yard; a brave man will shudder and quail at the very sight of his own shadow. A bully, a cut throat, a highway robber, a Jesuit, or a traitor, may be brave; conspirators against the peace and prosperity of their country may be, and have been, brave men. I desire not to belong to this class; but I desire sincerely to merit the high distinction of being considered a man of courage. To this class all sincere Christians belong. To this class all who were distinguished for virtue and morality, even among the heathens, belonged. Witness the conduct of Cicero. He sought to shelter himself against the violent assaults and personal attacks of the conspirator Catiline; he wished no unnecessary, uncalled-for collision with this blood-thirsty villain, when no good could follow, and his duty did not require it. But when the good of his country demanded it, and the voice of conscience called upon him, Cicero came forth, alone, and met the conspirator, Catiline, in the presence of the whole senate of Rome, and charged him, face to face, with his crimes, his treason, and his conspiracy. Cicero was not a brave man, according to the acceptation of the word bravery among the assassins and stiletto-bearers of his day, nor would he be considered so in the acceptation of the word among the brawling repealers O'Connellites, traitors and conspirators of the present day; but he was a man of courage.
There is a wide difference between a brave man, and a man of courage. A brave man may stand at the mouth of the cannon, while under the influence of some animal emotion, and quail even at an imaginary danger; but a courageous man smiles at all such things, and calmly prepares, and is always ready to meet those that are real. A man may be brave, and fear the whistling of the wind; but a courageous man fears nothing, not even the whistling of the cannon's ball.
Luther was not a brave man, in the modern acceptation of that term. He rushed not among his foes; they hunted him like a wild beast, but they turned him not from his path. He met them face to face. He unfurled the standard of Christianity; he took his stand, and met them, and fought them under that glorious banner. He was not brave, but he was a man of courage.
These are the men I should like to imitate, and their courage,—"Sic magna com parvis componere solebam"—is that which Popish priests and Jesuits, traitors to their God and this country of my adoption, will find I possess, as far as my limited powers of mind or body will permit.
Cicero looked Catiline in the face, and told him he was a conspirator and a traitor. Luther looked the miracle and indulgence mongers of Germany in the face, and told them they were base idolaters; and I tell the minions of the Pope in the United States, that they are worthless idolaters, traitors and conspirators against the peace of this country, and that their sovereign lord, the Pope of Rome, should be made to feel that his bulls and insolent interference in the affairs of the United States, shall soon meet that chastisement which is due to treason and its abettors.
But to return. I could never find the eye of this man fixed upon me without an involuntary feeling of dread. I met him often in the streets; he always seemed neat and tidy in his person; he was civil and respectful in his deportment; never seemed to forget that society had its grades, and that circumstances had clearly designated his own. With that he seemed well contented; never, as far as I could see, seeming to feel the least desire of intruding upon that of others. This being rather a rare case in the United States, twenty years ago, at any rate, when it was difficult to get servants who knew their places, struck me as another singular feature in his manner and character, and did not at all tend to remove the unpleasant impressions which his appearance made upon my mind. Not long after this, a messenger called at my rooms to say that "Theodore———" was taken ill, and wished to see me. I was then officiating as a Romish priest, and calling to see him, was shown up stairs to the door of a garret room, into which, after a loud rap and announcing my name, I was admitted to the sick young man. He had returned to his bed before I entered, and was wrapped in a large overcloak. I asked him whether he wanted to see me, and for what purpose. He deliberately turned out of his bed, locked the door again, very respectfully handed me a chair, and asked me to sit down, as he had something very important to tell me. He wrapped himself again in his cloak, lay on the outside of the bed, and spoke to me in a firm, decided tone to the following effect:
"Sir, you have taken me for a young man, but you are mistaken. I am a girl, but not so young as 1 appeared to you in my boy's dress. I sent for you, because I want to get a character, and confess to you before I leave the city." I answered, "You must explain yourself more fully before you do either." I moved my chair further from the bed, and tightened my grasp upon a sword-cane which I carried in my hand. "Feel no alarm," said this now young woman; "I am as well armed as you are,"—taking from under her jacket an elegant poignard,—"I will not hurt you. I am a lay sister belonging to the order of Jesuits in Stonyhurst, England, and I wear this dagger to protect myself." There was no longer any mystery in the matter. I knew now where I was, and the character of the being that stood before me. I discovered from her that she arrived in New. Orleans, some time previous, with all necessary recommendations to the priests and nuns of that city. She had the necessary "Shibboleth" from the Jesuits of Stonyhurst, to their brothers and sisters, who were then, and are now, numerous in that city. They received her with all due caution, as far as could be seen by the public; but privately in the warmest manner. Jesuits are active and diligent in the discharge of their duties to their superiors, and of course, this sister, who was chosen from among many for her zeal and craft, lost no time in entering on her mission. The Sisters of Charity in New Orleans took immediate charge of her, recommended her as chambermaid to one of the most respectable Protestant families in the city; and having clothed her in an appropriate dress, she entered upon her employment. She was active, diligent and very competent. The young ladies of the family were delighted with her; she appeared extremely pious, but not ostentatiously so. She seemed desirous to please in all things; talked but seldom of religion, but took good care that her devotional exercises should be noticed, though she seemed to avoid such a thing. Her conduct was in every way unexceptionable. So great a favorite did she become in the family, that in a short time she became acquainted with all the circumstances and secrets, from those of the father down to those of the youngest child.
According to a custom universally in vogue among the Jesuit spies, she kept notes of every occurrence which may tend to elucidate the character of the family, never carrying them about her, but depositing them for safe keeping with the mother abbess, especially deputed to take charge of them. She soon left this family under some pretext or other, obtained from them an unqualified recommendation for honesty and competency, which, with the previous and secret arrangements of the Sisters of Charity, obtained for her without delay a place in another Protestant family. Here, too, she was without fault, active, honest and industrious, to all appearance. Little did these families, know that while they and their children were quietly reposing in the arms of sleep, this apparently innocent waitingmaid or chambermaid was, perhaps, in the dead hour of night, reducing to paper their conversation of the day previous, and preparing it, at least as much of it as could answer any Jesuitical purpose, to be recorded among the secret archives of the Jesuit college of Stonyhurst, from which they were to be transcopied to those of the parent college in Rome.