THE DEACON OF LYNN.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XVII, Issue 46, 7 March 1890, Page 25

THE DEACON OF LYNN.

(J. T. Smith in the Catholic Revieyv.)

111.— AN OLD MAN'S GBAVB.

IT was with real cf heart the deacon saw the Irish numbeis increasing in Lynn, and felt at the same time bow helpless he was against the mean trickery of the mill-manager, who bowed, and smiled, and handed out his email favours with a lavish hand, while he filled the poorer tenements with the Irish,

" If ever the day comes," said the deacon in his wrath, " that will give me an advantage over him, I will smite him from the face of Lynn forever,"

In spite of his rebuff in the manager's office, and the total failure of 'his attempt to keep the Irish out, he was determined to do all in his power to keep the Irish down, hoping that in the near future the work of maintaining a barrier against foreigners might be taken up by the nation, So that be could afford, in the meantime, to show Christian kindness to individuals of a race he heartily despised. Hearing one day that old Mickey Whalen was very ill he went in a spirit of charity to visit him.

Old Mickey Whalen welcomed hrn feebly, and the deacon sat by the bed somewhat uneasy at the closeness of Roman superstition. A table at his elbow held a crucifix and a lighted candle, the beads were in the old man's hands, and at times Mrs. Whalen sprick ed the patient and his visitor with holy water, a ceremony which brought from all present a chorus of " Ahmins " and many crossings and genuflections. The di aeon suggested prayer. " Pray for me sowl when I'm dead," said Mickey, " I'll need it more. I'm .to be berrid in Lynn, an' when ye pass the grave, deacon, aay a prayer for me like a dacent Christian. D'ye know, Ineversawa place from the day I get foot in America till this that made me think of Ireland more. An' I want to be berrid here, and may the curee — " " Oh, father," cried the entire family in horror. " Well, I won't say it now. But he'll have small luck that sends me bones out o' Lynn."

" I am glad you like Lynn so well," said the deacon, " but it Btrikes me your proper place is with your people in Norwich."

"As we've all been tellin' him," said Mrs. Whalen, " but he won't listen to raison."

" Ay, raison," Baid the old man with scorn. " Much need the dead have of raison."

" Have you any particular place selected for your burial place, Mr. Whalen ? "

" That I have, deacon, an' its the purtiest place in Lynn— the little hill beyant your own house wid' the Quinabaug right undher it. It's all sand an' good for notbin' but ouli bones, but its mighty good for them. An' there I'll be berrid or nowhere, tbo' it's a mighty big price Medbury asks for the lot — fifty dollars, deacon."

" Rather steep, indeed. Would you like me to read a chapter from the Bible," as he drew a small copy of the New Testament from his pocket.

"Not from that," said Mickey, ordering his wife to place before the deacon an immense copy of the Scriptures hotly illustrated in colours

" Raed, now, the last chapter of the apistol of St. James," he continued with great pride.

The deacon read it in a way that toiched the heart. The little group of friends and relations in the kitchen were at firfct inclined to ]aogh over the tableau of a Protestant deacon and a Catholic Bible, but after the first vere they listened in profound and respecttul silencp. There was a elight commotion at the end. A whisper went rout d that the priest was coming, and at once there was great excitement. Mickey Whalen arrested the deacon'e hands as he was closing ths book.

" Do ye see the verse," he said, pointing to the fourteenth and quoting it : "' Is any man sick among you / Let him bring in the priests of the Church, and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Loid. And the prayer of faith shall save the sick man, and the Lord ehUl rais3 him up, and if he be in sinß they shall be forgiven him.' Now, that's ]ust what I called in the priest for, an' I wish ye to stay, deacon, and see the Scriptures fulfilled."

The deacon rose, to see a tall, vigorous, commanding man enter the kitchen, and was conscious of a deep emotion as the priest returned his distant bow and withdrew to the sick-room, A Roman priest on the sacred soil of Lynn I He had never before come face to face with these curiouß persons, and it gav"e him a shock to meet the fiist one on the Lounsbury acres. He remained in the bull courteously while the last Sacraments were administered, and unseen himself saw the solemn rites around a Catholic deathbed. The tears and prayers of the kneeling people, the courage of Mr?. Whalen assisting her husband, the devotion of the old man receiving the Blessed Eucharist, the practical application of the Scripture in the anointing, quite carried him away. He was more than ever determined this people should be kept down. He slipped away to avoid the priest, but returned at mghtto the waking — for old Mickey died in the afternoon— and great was the astonishment of the neighbours to find him sociably seated in the kitchen like one of themselves. It was an odd scene for Lynn. The candles burning about the body. the formal prayei which each newcomer said in silence at the bier, the quiet laughter and conversa'ioo, the occasional wailiDg from the old women who clung to customs of the motherland 1 The deacon

was much impressed, and gave delight and edification by his courteay and interest, but these feelings had changed with another day, and great wrath against him seized the Irish of Lynn. When the widow Wbalen went to place the purchase money of the burial lot in Mr. Medbury's hands she was told that the lot had already been bought by Deacon Lounsbury. It rejoiced her to kuow that her husband's bonea would be taken out of Lynn in consequence, and placed with the faithful dead in blessed Toun J. But her joyful news was angrily received by the friends of the family. •' He's the greatest ould thief of a deacon in the State," said Philip McQuade to a number of his countrymen, when the news was sent out that Mickey Whalen must be buried in Norwich. "If there was any curse in Mickey's dyin' words, may be get the full of his crop of it."

" Musha, thin Phil," said Mrs. Whalen, " but the man had a right to buy as well as ourselves."

" Thrue for you, Mrs. Whalen, but be bought the land just to keep Mickey out of a grave, so he did. He thinks the ground too good for a Papist, An' if I wor you, me good woman. I'd buy a bit o' land elsewhere, an' I'd bury Mickey here to spite him."

" Phil McQuade," said Mrs. Whalen with dignity, " I'll bury him in peace an' not in spite ; an' if he's not wanted in Lynn, we'll go where be won't be cheated out of a grave."

'' Ay, but the meanness of it, to steal his grave from a dead man," said Philip bitterly, and the phrase was caught up and repeated until it had astonished every ear in Lyon, and tickled 'Lijah Palmer into uproarious laughter. He told it to the deacon promptly. " An' now they're movin' heaven an' earth to git a grave for him in spite o' ye, deacon," he said, " an' 1 rather think they'll head ye off, even though you be a Lounsbury."

The deacon smiled with triumph.

" Unless they get it from the two men who are responsible for their presence in Lynn," said he, " they must go elsewhere. Yon and Slade may be willing to see the Popish graveyard, and the Popish Church, and the Popish priest here, but most of us are not. You may be willing to see your sons and daughters turned Papists, your farms bought out by Papists, your business snatched from you by Papists, the whole State overrun by Papists, but most of us think the other way. Yon can turn your farm into a Papist cemetery, and Slade can turn his mill into a Papist Church, but while I live not a foot of Lynn soil shall be owned by them living or dead. As for you, Palmer, and your Irish connection, I wish you joy of them. When you have sold them your land, buried their dead, and married their daughters you will have earned the right to turn Papist yourself." With which shot the deacon ended his speech and walked away.

'Lijah was stunned less by its vigour thau by its truth. He was the patron of the Irish. If they failed to get a grave for Mickey Wbalen elsewhere they would surely come to him, and rather than accept a responsibility from which Lynn people shrank, 'Lijah fled from home, and was seen no more until the day of the funeral , when, amid sincere mourning, old Whalen was buried in Norwich.

IV. — THE CBOSS ON THE STEEPLE.

The Irish were deeply hurt by the refusal of the natives to Bell them land enough for a grave. As it was Mrs. Whalen's business to feel indignant, and yet the good woooan continued to rejoice that her husband lay among his own, they could not arouse any strong popular feeling among themselves, and were forced to let the matter drop. In vain Philip McQuade scolded her for her want of courage. " I sleep now, Misther McQuade," she answered to all his reproaches. " But to think o' poor Michael lyin' beyant alone on the hill, I coulin't sleep a wink till I was lyin' beside him. I don't think he'd like it himself now that he's dead, and knows more abo ut it, poor sowl."

All I he women said " Amen " to this sentiment, the more grieved ami irritated among the men found no sympathy outside of their own circle, and finally the peace of absolute submission, at least the deaccn co interpreted it, settled upon the Irish. It might have continued tor many years but for two circumstances which occurred within a month after the burial of Mr. Whalen. Mrs. Whalen had h dream, such a dream, and Philip McQuade had another, such another; whose conjunction and interpretation shortly afterwards brought upon Lynn aod its deacon a great disaster. Mrs. Wbalen had been nursing her grief in an easy fashion for a month, saying many ro3aries for Michael, and, when she was not weeping for him, rejoicing that tne little hill " beyant the deacon's " did not hold his bones. So sound was her sleep of nights that she never once dreamed of her husband or of one belonging to him, a fact she attributed to his happy rest in heaven] or to the lightness of his purgatorial puns. It wa9 an as'oaishing thing for a Whalen to pass a whole month without dreaming of white horses, dead relatives, and immease conflagrations. Mrs. Whalen dreamed of nothing, whatever until the night, which was to shatter the deacon's hopes, had arrived. Then out of the blank darkness of sleep that night came a vision, clear as noonday, of the " hill beyant the deacon'd," and Mickey wandering among the weeds in a vexed way, looking for something. " Michael, ' said Mrs. Whalen, softly, " what are ye lookin' for t asthore } "

" For me grave, ma'am, ' said Michael, sourly, and in the same instant the dream faded, Mrs. Whalen awoke, and would have filled the house with her lamentations but for fear of disturbing the children. She lit a cannle, shook the holy water about the rooms , and prayed until morning for the repose of Mickey's boul. The dream, however, she kept to herself for a time. It would not do to frighten the children. But from that ni»ht Mrs. Wbalen's rest became no more than a sporting ground for dreams of endless variety. All the white horses that ever a Whalen had seen in dreams pranced before her, often with Mickey riding them ; all the fires for generations back, blazed and died out to her staring eyes. These dreams signified letters and hasty news, but no post-office system could ever

supply letters enough to match the numberless horses ; no telegraph could send news as fast as such conflagrations demanded. In her distress she took counsel with Philip McQuade. a " 'Twas a strange dhreim, ma'am, said Philip, soothingly, " an' Jftre I had wan miself about tbe same times that was terrible — terrible. I told it to no livin' soul for fear o' the harm it might do."

" Wae it about Mike ? Lord rest his sowl this night," exclaimed the widow faintly but fervently.

"No it wasn't said Philip gravely, " but I'm thinkin' he wasn't far off. If I slept two minutes longer I'd have seen him, but Anne gi 1 me a poke in the ribs just as th<s marryin 1 was on. " "Oh," said Mrs. Whalen, with a little shiiek of horror, "was it marryin' ? "

" Faith it was," he answered, hastily, " an' wan that'll come thrue if Tim O'Rourke and my Mary can bring it about. An' they're tryin' as hard as ever they can."

" But the sign of it, Phil 1 The sure, sorrowful sign — " '• Not a word," said McQuade. " I don't laugh at the sign, mind, but it won't happen here, I know. I was standin', d'ye see, on the top o" the hill where poor Mickey, God be with him — " ( ' Amin," said Mrs. Whalen.) " Wanted to be berrid, an' there was the deacon's house above, an' here was the old stone church that the divil himsilf owns now down be the road. An' there I was standin' an' lookin' about me kind o' dazed, d'ye see, for I thought I ought to be in bed, an' I knew the place well, but I was tryin' to think what brought me there, an' I couldn't, nor I couldn't remember the date, nor how I got there, nor anythin' ; I was more bothered than a good dale, ma'am. An' while I was stumblin' an' stut'enn' around, who comes along but Father John himself in a great hurry, an' jumps through the back winda' o' the stone church. May I niver die in sin if he didn't " " Worse an' worse," s^id Mrs. Whalen. " • Yer In no hurry, Pbil,' said he in passin'." " ' Wan's enough, 1 says I. The minit he jumped in through tbe window the Church was lit up, an' the music began playin' an' down the road comes a crowd o' the neighbours leadin' Tim an' our Mary to be marrid. Well, I was that frikened whin I saw thim I couldn't move. Whin they kern to the door o1o 1 the church and wor

goin' in — "

" ' Here,' says I, ' I'm the father o' this gerrul, an 1 no man marris her till I'm dhressed up to give her away.'

" Divil a more heed they payed to me than if I was dead. I ran down to the road as fast as ever I could, but me legs were like lead, and there I met Anne comin' along with an armful o1o 1 wood for the stove, an' carin' no more for the marryin' than a stranger might." " ' Ma'am.' says I, grabbin' hold of her, but with that she gi' me a poke in the ribs with the armful o' wood — 'tis she that has the arm — that I thought I was murthered. Bare thin I were up in airnest, an' if it wasn't for its bein' her turn to light the fire that inornin' I'd have murthered her."

" An' what d'ye think oE it all, Phil ?" said Mrs. Whalen with a deep sigh. "Ye saw nothin, o' poor Michael on the hill ?" " I'll tell ye what I thtnk," said Mr. McQaade, as he put down his pipe solemnly and drew his chair nearer, " that there'll be no rest for you or Mickey till his bones are lyin' beyant. The thing can be done. Proaise to put two hundred dollars in my hands the day we lay him there an' I'll guarantee it'll be done."

" Ob, indeed an' I will," say Mrs. Whalen, weeping, " an' if I had more to give you I'd give it to save the poor sowl his rest."

" An' ye'il not say a word o' yourdhreatn or mine. For there's a power o' thinkin' an' chatin' to be done afore old Lounsbury can be mulvathered. I have it all in my Lead. He has the field now. With the help o' God we'll own it in time for a Christmas weddin'.'

What ideas were engaging Mr. McQaade's deepest interest his language did not make as clear as didafier events. When the sheriff announced the sale of the old church at auction, said sale to take place on November 10th, with all the conditions of fair sale, etc., a rumour spread through Lynn, which turned the stomach of Mrs. Fletcher in her aristocratic Lincoln Square residence. The Irish were going to bid for the old church, and, if they secured it. were ready to fit it up for their own idolatrous purposes.

" For Gawd's sake," cried Mrs. Fletcher, when her breath returned. " Wby, what's Deacon Lounsbury a-doin' ? Don't be know if those consarned Papists once git in their Jizwits an' their idles they'll stop here forever." She went in person to inform the deacon of this fact, and of the rtimour.

" There will be no difficulty in preventing them from having a church in Lynn," said the deacon, " but are you suie they are so bold as to think of such a thing ?"

" Bold 1 Bold as brass, deacon. I know that McQuade is collecting money from all the Irish, an' they say he's got five hundred dollars now, but when aDy one asks him about it, he shuts his conearned Irish mouth like a trap, an' smiles. Bold 1 Well, deacon, for you to ask that !"

The deacon assured her of his watchfulness in the matter, and sent ber abroad to assure the citixens of Lynn in turn, but he was very thoughtful nevertheless. Was he fighting a losing battle 1 He could not live forever, nor could he always be on hand to buy the property, which mignt easily fall into Irish hands. He had much sympathy from the citizens in the work of repression, but no practical help, and were he to end his interest in the work tnere would be an end to repression. Once the Irish bought land, introduced their worship, and began to trade there was no further hope of removing them from the soil. And now they were dreaming of these things and planning for them. He went to the auction at the village hotel, where a curious crowd had assembled. Philip McQuade and his friends were there to bid, and Elijah Palmer, who had expressed an intention to buy the property, was there also. The deacon knew at once his bidding was a mere trick to secure the church and band it over to the Irish, and to binder the success of the

plan be determined to bid in the property at any price and then dispose of it under such conditions as would keep it out of Irish hands forever. Slade and the mill-owner, Winthrop, ware walking the platform of the depot opposite, waiting for the train, A sudden thought made the deacon turn to greet them.

" You might buy this old church, Winthrop," he said, " and tarn it into a tenement. I will secure it firat and then dispose of it to yon."

" It is worth the trouble," said the gentleman to Blade.

' Not for the price we must pay," said Siade, smiling. " The deacon here is bidding against the Irish, who wait a churca of their own — "

" The old story," interrupted Winthrop, laughing. "In that case we can have nothing to do with it." "If I should not bid, 1 ' suggested the deacon. " Ah, then," said Slade, " but," he added, " we would still hare the Irish to bid against."

" You can frighten them," said Winthrop, sourly ;" what the devil do they want a church for anyway ? "

Slade hesitated. "If they withdrew of their own wish," he said, " I would not like to anger them."

" Under no circumstances can they buy it," said the deacon. " They know that by this time," with a wave of his hand to a discontented and uncertain group of Irishmen not far off. " You might speak to them."

With more hesitation Slade called them over, and put the case to them with a mildness that exasperated the deacon. Winthrop was more blunt. The men consented, sourly, to withdraw from the auction after a protest, which Winthrop laughed at. He took the train a moment later, and left Slade to bid in the church for a fair sum, After all, the deacon waa a simple-minded man. His ally, Mrs. Fletcher, had scarce'y done shouting the song of this larat victory when like magic the old church was in one day supplied with new shutters, its interior cleaned, its doorwayj and spire painted, and a gilt cross placed on the topmost pinnacle. Lynn folk were slow and easy-going and understood nothing until the cross stood out plain and naked as a gibbet in the December air.

" What's up ? " inquired a passer-by.

" Phil McQaade's daughter Mary is going to be married Christmas night," was the answer, " an' we must have the church ready for the weddin'."

"Ah !of course ; " but the course was not very smooth. When tbe news went round there was some agitation among the na tires, and a few adventurous spirits swore tbe cross Bhould not remain on the spire. In the early morning they assembled at the church door with axes, and were debating the next move, when a strong, pugnacious cough from the belfry smote their astonished ears. Philip McQuade was looking down at them with a knobbed stick in his hand and a pipe between his teeth .

" Pay, Paddy," said the leader, in a low tone, " we're goin' up to pull down that cross." " The firet head that shows up here," said Philip, in a comic whisper, " I'll put a cross on it that won't come off," waring the knoobed stick, "an' the first blow on that door I'll heave a ton o* rock on yez."

There was a gentle snicker among the more humorous of the band, and they quickly disappeared.

The deacon never said a word, bad or good, on the matter. He recognised at once the treachery of Winthrop and Slade, and submitted patiently when hi 3 own brethren went against him. It waa useless to talk now that the evil was accomplished. The church wag near enough to his own residence t> make attendance at the Mass an easy task, and he attended it with that easy manner and cool courtesy which puzzled his opponents always. An invitation to the wedding was also accepted, and he could not but feel some of the human pleasure of the moment when Philip gave his daughter away, and the assembled people broke into low murmurs of delight and excitement.

But when it was all over and he stood alone on the road just above the church, with its naked cros9 visible in the night a sadness came over him. Never till that day had a cross been seen in Lynn. He had fought against the symbol for what it representsd to his mmd — idolatry ; he had failed in the fight, and to crown his failure with shame a curious thought occurred to him just then : that he deserved to fail who fought the cross. But he put it from him as a temptation, and went home to struggle no more.

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