Apples, Ripe and Rosy, Sir Part 22

"Do you know how these superst.i.tions originated, Miss Graham?" asked Anna, who was of an inquiring mind.

"Many of them are very ancient," replied Cousin Irene. "That which predicts that the gift of anything sharp cuts friends.h.i.+p probably dates back farther than the days of Rome and Greece, and is almost as old as the dagger itself. No doubt it originated in an age of frequent wars and quarrels, when for a warrior to put a weapon in the hands of a companion was perhaps to find it forthwith turned against himself. In those days of strife also, when men were more ready in action than in the turning of phrases, and so much was expressed by symbolism, the offering of a sword or dagger was frequently in itself a challenge, and a declaration of enmity. Thus, you see, that what was a natural inference in other times is meaningless in ours. The adage which advises the person obliged to turn back in his journey to be careful to sit down before setting out anew, was at first simply a metaphorical way of saying that having made a false start toward the accomplishment of any duty, it is well to begin again at the beginning. The custom which restrained comrades in arms, or friends walking or journeying together, from allowing anything to come between them, had also a figurative import. It was a dramatic manner of declaring, 'Nothing shall ever part us,--no ill-will nor strife, not even this accidental barrier, shall interrupt our friendly intercourse.' In the times, too, when there were few laws but that of might, when danger often lurked by the wayside, it was always well for a traveller to keep close to his companion, and not to separate from him without necessity.

"Many other superst.i.tions, as well, have a symbolical origin. But the nineteenth century does not deal with such picturesque methods of expression. We pride ourselves upon saying in so many words just what we mean; therefore much of the poetic imagery of other days has no significance in ours. And is it not symbolism without sense which const.i.tutes one of the phases of superst.i.tion? As for your bread-and-b.u.t.ter exorcism, Anna, I presume it was simply the expression of a hope that nothing might interfere between hungry folk and their dinner. This is, indeed, but a bit of juvenile nonsense; just as children will 'make believe' that some dire mishap will befall one who steps on the cracks of a flagged sidewalk; and so on through a score of funny conceits and games, innocent enough as child's play, but hardly worthy of sensible girls in their teens.

"You know, the practice of refraining from beginning a journey or undertaking on Friday," continued Miss Irene, "arose from a religious observance of the day upon which Our Lord was crucified. As the early Christians were accustomed to devote this day to meditation and prayer, it followed that few went abroad at that time, or set about new temporal ventures. Superst.i.tion early perverted the import of this pious custom. As on that day Satan marshalled all the powers of evil against the Son of G.o.d, so, said the soothsayers, he would beset with misfortune and danger the path of those who set forth on a Friday. As regards the case in point, since we do not go into retreat once a week, I presume Anna and Rosemary have not this reason for refusing to visit their young friend on Friday."

There was a general laugh, after which Miss Irene went on:

"For the rest, we know G.o.d's loving providence carefully watches over us at all times, and constantly preserves us from countless dangers; that nothing can betide us without His permission, and that He blesses the work of every day if we ask Him. Far from being influenced by the common superst.i.tion with regard to Friday, it would seem as if we should piously prefer to begin an undertaking (and in this spirit seek a special blessing on the work thus commenced) on the day of the week which commemorates that most fortunate of all days for us, on which was consummated the great act of Redemption.

"The superst.i.tion with reference to thirteen at table dates from the Last Supper, of which Our Lord partook with His twelve Apostles on the eve of His crucifixion. Hence the saying that of thirteen persons who sit down together to a repast, one will soon die. I think it was originally the custom to avoid having thirteen at the festive or family board, not so much from this notion, as to express a horror of the treachery of Judas. Such would be, for instance, the chivalrous spirit of the Crusaders. We can understand how, in feudal times, a knight would consider it an affront to his fellows to bid them to a banquet spread for thirteen. In those days, when a feast was so apt to end in a fray,--when by perfidy the enemy so often entered at the castle gate while the company were at table, and frequently a chief was slain ere he could rise from his place,--the circ.u.mstance would point an a.n.a.logy which it has not with us, suggesting not merely mortality but betrayal; a breach of all the laws of hospitality; impending death by violence.

Since we can not live forever, among every a.s.semblage of individuals there is likely to be one at least whose life may be nearly at its close. The more persons present, the greater the probability; therefore there is really a greater fatality in the numbers fourteen, twenty, thirty, than in thirteen.

"But to return to the point from which we started--no, Emily, it is not necessary to sit down. You will observe that many persons who declare emphatically that they are not superst.i.tious, are nevertheless influenced by old-time sayings and practices; some of which, though perhaps beautiful originally, have now lost all significance; others which are simply relics of paganism. Men are often as irrational in this respect as women; and, notice this well, you will find superst.i.tion much more common among non-Catholics than among Catholics.

As we have seen, however, some of us do not realize that what we are pleased to call certain harmless eccentricities, are very like the superst.i.tious practices forbidden by the First Commandment."

Kate and Emily were not giving to this little homily the attention it deserved. They had begun to trifle as girls are wont to do. Catching at the tiny bisque cupid that hung from the chandelier, Emily sportively sent it flying toward Kate, who swung it back again. Thus they kept it flitting to and fro, faster and faster. Finally, Emily hit it with a jerk. The cord by which it was suspended snapped; the dainty bit of bric-a-brac sped across the room, and, striking with full force against a mirror in a quaint old secretary that had belonged to Mr. Mahon's uncle, s.h.i.+vered the gla.s.s to pieces. Instantly every trace of color fled from her face, and she stood appalled, gazing at the mischief she had done. There was, of course, an exclamation from her companions, who remained staring at her, and appeared almost as disturbed as herself.

Cousin Irene went over and patted her on the shoulder, saying, "Do not be so distressed, child. I know you are sorry to have damaged the old secretary, which we value so much for its a.s.sociations. But there is no need of being so troubled. We can have a new mirror put in."

"It is not only that," faltered the silly girl; "but to break a looking-gla.s.s! You know it is a sure sign that a great misfortune will befall us--that there will probably be a death in the family before long."

"Oh, but such sayings don't always come true! There are often exceptions," interposed Kate, anxious to say something consolatory, and heartily wis.h.i.+ng they had let the little cupid alone.

"Too bad; for it really is dreadfully unlucky to have such a thing happen!" sighed Rosemary, with less tact.

"I know it," murmured May.

"Yes, indeed," added Anna.

Miss Graham drew back astonished. "Young ladies, I am ashamed of you!"

she said, reproachfully, and went out of the room.

There were a few moments of discomfiture, and presently the girls concluded, one after another, that it was time to be going home.

Left alone, Emily approached the secretary and examined the ruined mirror. It was cracked like an egg-sh.e.l.l,--"smashed to smithereens,"

Tom said in telling the story later; but only one or two bits had fallen out. Idly attempting to fit these into place again, Emily caught sight of what she supposed was a sheet of note-paper, that had apparently made its way in between the back of the mirror and the frame.

"An old letter of grandpa's, probably," she said aloud, taking hold of the corner to draw it out. It stuck fast; but a second effort released it, amid a shower of splintered gla.s.s; and to her amazement she found in her possession a time-stained doc.u.ment that had a mysteriously legal air. Trembling with excitement she unfolded it, and, without stopping to think that it might not be for her eyes, began to read the queer writing, which was somewhat difficult to decipher:

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.

Amen. I, Bernard Mahon, being of sound and disposing mind, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament."

"Uncle Bernard's will!" gasped Emily. "It must be the one father always said uncle told him about, but which never could be found.

Perhaps he slipped it in here for safe-keeping." Eagerly she scanned it, crying at last, "Yes, yes! Hurrah! O Cousin Irene!" she called out, hearing the latter's step in the hall.

When Miss Graham entered Emily was waltzing around the room, waving the doc.u.ment ecstatically. "See what I've found!" she cried, darting toward her with an impulsive caress.

Cousin Irene took the paper, and, as she perused it, became, though in a less demonstrative fas.h.i.+on, as agitated as Emily. "Your father!" she stammered.

Mr. Mahon had come into the house and was now in the little study, which he called his den. Cousin Irene and Emily almost flew thither, and a few minutes later his voice, with a glad ring in it, was heard calling first his wife and then the children to tell them the joyful news.

The will so long sought, so strangely brought to light, made a great change in the family fortunes. By it Bryan, the old man's son, who was unmarried and dissipated, was ent.i.tled to merely a certain income and life-interest in the estate, which upon his demise was to go to the testator's nephew William (Mr. Mahon) and Cousin Irene. In fact, however, at his father's death, Bryan, as no will was discovered, had entered into full possession of the property; and when within a year his own career was suddenly cut short, it was learned that he had bequeathed nothing to his relatives but a few family heirlooms.

"I did not grudge Bryan what he had while he lived," said Mr. Mahon; "but when, after the poor fellow was drowned, we heard that he had left all his money to found a library for 'the Preservation of the Records of Sport and Sportsmen,' I did feel that, with my boys and girls to provide for and educate, I could have made a better use of it. And Cousin Irene would have been saved a good deal of hard work if she could have obtained her share at the time. Thank G.o.d it is all right now, and the library with the long name will have to wait for another founder."

The girls of the literature cla.s.s soon heard of their friends' good fortune, and were not slow in offering their congratulations.

One day, some two years after, when Anna and Rosemary happened to call at the Mahons', a chance reference was made to the discovery of the will. "Only think," exclaimed Rosemary, "how much came about through the spoiling of that mirror! Emily, you surely can never again believe it unlucky to break a looking-gla.s.s?"

"No, indeed!" replied Emily, thinking of the uninterrupted happiness and prosperity which the family had enjoyed since then.

"It was a fortunate accident for us," said Cousin Irene; "but I should not advise any one to go around smas.h.i.+ng all the looking-gla.s.ses in his or her house, hoping for a similar result. It certainly would be an unlucky sign for the person who had to meet the bill for repairs."

"Miss Graham, how do you suppose this superst.i.tion originated?" asked Anna, as eager for information as ever. After a general laugh at her expense, Cousin Irene said:

"The first mirrors, you must remember, were the forest pools and mountain tarns. As the hunter stooped to one of these to slake his thirst, if perchance so much as a shadow should break the reflection of his own image in its tranquil depths, he had reason to fear that danger and perhaps death were at hand; for often in some such dark mirror a victim caught the first glimpse of his enemy, who had been waiting in ambush and was now stealing upon him from behind; or of the wild beast making ready to leap upon him. But the popular augury that the mere fact of breaking a looking-gla.s.s portends death, is, you must see, senseless and absurd. And so, as I think you have become convinced, are all superst.i.tions. It is true we sometimes remark coincidences, and are inclined to make much of them; without noting, on the contrary, how many times the same supposed omens and signs come to nought. When G.o.d wills to send us some special happiness or trial, be a.s.sured He makes use of no such means to prepare us for it; since He directs our lives not by chance, but by His all-wise and loving Providence."

UNCLE TOM'S STORY.

I.

Some pine logs burned brightly upon the andirons in the wide, old-fas.h.i.+oned chimney; and the Tyrrell children were comfortably seated around the fire, roasting chestnuts and telling stories.

"Come, Uncle Tom, it is your turn!" cried Pollie, breaking in upon the reverie of their mother's brother, who, seated in the old red arm-chair, was gazing abstractedly at the cheery flames.

"Yes, please let us have something about the war," put in Rob.

"But everybody has been telling war stories for the last twenty-five years. Do you not think we have had enough of them?" said the gentleman.

"One never tires of hearing of deeds of bravery," answered Rob, dramatically.

"Or of romantic adventures," added Pollie.

Uncle Tom looked amused; but, after some hesitation, said; "Well, I will tell you an incident recalled by this pine-wood fire. It may seem extraordinary; but, having witnessed it myself, I can vouch for its truth. You consider me an old soldier; yet, though I wore the blue uniform for more than a year and saw some fighting, I was only a youth of eighteen when the war closed; and, in spite of my boyish anxiety to distinguish myself and become a hero, I probably would never have attained even to the rank of orderly, had it not come about in the following manner:"

Our regiment was stationed at A------, not far from the seat of war.

Near our quarters was a Catholic church, attended by the ------ Fathers. I early made the acquaintance of one of them, who was popularly known as Father _Friday_, this being the nearest approach to the p.r.o.nunciation of his peculiar German name to which the majority of the people could arrive. In him I recognized my ideal of a Christian gentleman, and as such I still revere his memory.

He was one of the handsomest men I ever saw--tall and of splendid physique, with light brown hair, blue eyes, and a complexion naturally fair, but bronzed by the sun. Though in reality he was as humble and una.s.suming as any lay-brother in his community, his bearing was simply regal.

He could not have helped it any more than he could help the impress of n.o.bility upon his fine features. The youngsters used to enjoy seeing him pa.s.s the contribution box in church at special collections. It must have been "an act" (as you convent girls say, Pollie). He would move along in his superb manner, looking right over the heads of the congregation, and disdaining to cast a glance at the "filthy lucre"

that was being heaped up in the box which from obedience he carried.

What were silver and gold, let alone the cheap paper currency of the times, to him, who had given up wealth and princely rank to become a religious! Yet, in fact, they were a great deal, since they meant help for the needy--a church built, a hospital for the sick poor. In this sense none appreciated more the value of money.