The Catholic World Volume Ii Part 32

"The devil a much she's out there, aunt; but I wish I could make her think otherwise."

"Lissen here, Tom; 'a council's no command,' they say, an' my advice is this. Let on when you go back that you could get an illigant fine girl in Armagh wid twiste her fortune; but that nothing would tempt you to forsake your own little girl at home, that was a piece iv your heart since ye were both the hoith of a creepeen; do you see? an' I'll back you up in it. Tell her she may bestow her fortune upon Kate Mulvey or any one she likes; that herself is all you want. You know she won't do that when it comes to the point."

"Not a bad plan, aunt. But sure I should let on to my father, and to every one in the neighborhood; and they'll be asking me who she is, and about her father and her mother, and all about her; and I should have answers ready, if I mean the thing to look like the truth."

"An' won't I give you all that as pat as A, B, C? Don't I know the very girl that'll answer to a T, Tom?"

"Why then, aunt dear, mightn't you bring me across her in earnest?"

"Faix, an' I could not, Tom, for a very good reason--that I'm not acquainted wid her, except to see her sometimes; an' I know her name, an' who she is, an' her father's name, an' how he med his money.

They're as proud as payc.o.c.ks, I can tell you; an nayther the wan nor the other would look the same side iv the street wid the likes iv us, Tom; but they don't know that at Rathcash; an' shure, if Winny thries to find out about them, she'll find that you're tellin' the truth as far as the names an' money goes, an I'll let on to be as thick as two pickpockets wid them."

Tom was silent. The closing words of his aunt's speech made him wish that he could pick some of their pockets of about a hundred pounds.

The plan, however, seemed a good one, and had the effect of putting Tom Murdock into good humor; and when Bill Wilson joined them at dinner Tom was so agreeable and chatty, that Bill thought his wife, although she was Tom's aunt, had not said a word too much for him; and he regretted more than ever that he had used the words "so far as he could see." He antic.i.p.ated--nay, he dreaded--that they would be brought up to him again that night with greater force than ever.

CHAPTER XVII.

The most part of ready cash, whatever the sum may have been, which Tom had received at the bank, having been, as he called it, "swallowed up by them cormorants, the attorneys," he had, after all, but a trifling balance in his pocket. He was determined, therefore, to live quietly for some time at his aunt's upon "the las.h.i.+ns and lavins," taking her advice, and arranging with her his plan of operations upon his return to Rathcashmore. And his aunt's advice, in a prudent and worldly point of view, was not to be controverted, if anything could tend toward the attainment of his object; that was the question.

It was impossible, however, that Tom could rest altogether satisfied with the company of his aunt and her husband, and three or four children between ten and seventeen years of age; particularly as the eldest of his cousins was a long-necked boy with big, stuck-out ears, who worked in his father's shop, instead of a graceful girl with dark hair and fine eyes, whose domestic duties must keep her in the house as her mother's a.s.sistant, or perhaps enable her, when she could be spared, to guide him through the princ.i.p.al parts of the town, of which he would have feigned the most profound ignorance. But the eldest child just past seventeen, as we have seen. {209} happened to be a boy, not a girl, and Tom did not consider this the best arrangement that could be wished. In consequence, he sometimes spent an evening from home, with one or other, or perhaps with all the congenial spirits with whom, as a _delegate_--for the truth may be confessed--from another county, he could claim brotherhood. On this occasion, however, he was not on official business in Armagh; and whatever intercourse took place between them was of a purely social nature.

Tom was not altogether such a _mauvais sujet_ as perhaps the reader has set him down in his own mind to be, from the inuendos which have been thrown out respecting him, as well as the actual portions of his character which have made themselves manifest. It must be confessed--nay, I believe it has been admitted not many lines above--that he was a Ribbonman; and although that includes all that is murderous and wicked, when a necessity arises, yet in the absence of such necessity a Ribbonman may not be altogether void of certain good points in his character. It is the frightful _obligation_ which he _labors_ under that makes a villain of him, should circ.u.mstances require the aid of his iniquity. Apart from this, and from what is termed an agrarian grievance, a Ribbonman may not be a bad family-man, although the training he undergoes in "The Lodge" is ill calculated to nourish his domestic sympathies.

Tom had now been upward of a month enjoying the hospitality of his aunt; and notwithstanding that she had done all in her power to entertain him, and "make much" of him, he was beginning to tire of the eternal smoke and flags, and stacks of chimneys, which were always the same to the eye: no bright "blast of sun," no sudden dark cloud, made any difference in them; there they were, always the same dark color, no matter what light shone upon them. No wonder, then, Tom Murdock began once more to long for the fresh breeze that blew about the wild hills of Rathcashmore, the green fields of his father's farm, and the purple heather of Slieve-dhu, with the white rocks of Slieve-bawn by her side.

Absence too had done more really to touch Tom's heart with respect to Winny Cavana than to wean him from the "saucy s.l.u.t," as he had called her in pique on his departure. He had "come across,"--this is the Irish mode of expressing, "had been introduced,"--through his aunt's a.s.sistance, several of what she called illigant fine girls, nieces of her husband's and others, and his heart confessed that none of them "were a patch" upon Winny Cavana, after all. He thus became fidgety, and began to speak of returning home. Of course the aunt opposed her hospitality to such a step, for the present at least: "Just as we were beginning to enjoy you, Tom avic," said she; and of course her husband made a show of joining her, although he knew there had been more beer drunk in the house in the last month than in the six preceding ones; neither did the cold meat turn out to half the account. He knew this by his pocket, not by his knowledge of the cookery. Tom, however, made no promise of further sojourn than "to put the following Sunday over him," and it was now Thursday. But the next morning's post hurried matters. It brought him a letter from his father, which prevented his aunt from pressing his stay beyond the following day, when it was finally settled by Tom that he would start for home. "It ran thus," as is the common mode of introducing a letter in a novel or story:

"DEAR TOM,--This comes to you hoppin' to find you in good health, which I am sorry to say it does not lave me at present; but thank G.o.d for all his mercies. I was very lonesum entirely afther you left me; an the more, dear Tom, as I had not my ould neighbor Ned Cavana to spake to, as used to be the case afore that {210} young chisel of a daughter of his cam round him to brake wid us. She's there still, seemingly as proud as ever; but she'll be taken down a peg wan of these days, mark my words. I have wan piece of good news for you, Tom avic; an' that is, that young Lennon never darkened their doore since you went; and more be token, she never spoke a word to him on Sunda's after ma.s.s, but went straight home with her father from the chapel.

This I seen myself; for although I have been very daunny since you left me, I med bowld wid myself not to lose prayers any Sunda' wet or dhry, for no other purpose but to watch herself an' that chap. So, dear Tom, you needn't be afeared of him. I think, indeed; I seen him going down the road the three Sunda's wid Kate Mulvey; so I think Winny tould the truth to her father about him. Dear Tom, I have not been well at all at all for the last three weeks, an' I am not able to be out all day as I used to be, an' I hardly know how matthers are goin' on upon the farm. I see old Ned a'most every day from the doore or the garden, where I sometimes go out when it's fine; I see him wandherin' about his farm as brisk an' as hard as ever. I think nothin' would give that man a brash. Dear Tom, I did not like writin'

to you to say I was lonesum or unwell until you had taken a turn out of yourself at your aunt's; but I am not gettin' betther, an' I think the sight iv you would do me good. Tell your aunt to let you c.u.m home to me now. Indeed, dear Tom, I'm too long alone; an' havin' no wan to spake to makes me fret, though I wouldn't interfere wid you for a while afther you went. If ould Ned Cavana was the man I tuck him to be, he wouldn't let the few words that c.u.m betune us keep him away from me all this time, an' I not well; but he never put to me, nor from me, since you left, nor I to him. Dear Tom, c.u.m back to me as soon as you can, an' maybe we'll get the betther of him an' Winny, afther all. Hopin' your aunt, an' the childer, an' Bill himself, is all in good health, I remain your father till death, "Michael Murdock."

Tom, as I have hinted, was not without his good points, and, as he read over the above letter from his poor lonely father, his heart smote him for having been so long away, and where, to tell the truth to himself, he had no great fun or pleasure. His conscience, moreover, accused him of one glaring act of ingrat.i.tude and villany, he might call it, toward the poor old man. There was something tender and self-sacrificing in the letter, yet it was not without a complaining tone all through, that brought all Tom's better feelings uppermost in his heart; and he resolved to start for home early the next morning.

He now felt that he had business at home, which at one time he had never contemplated taking the smallest trouble about, beside keeping his poor old father better company than he had hitherto done. Yet, with all this softening of his disposition, he was never more determined to carry out his object with respect to Winny Cavana, by fair means---or by _foul!_

What his father had said about young Lennon gave him hopes that, in the end, a scheme which he had planned for the latter might not be _necessary_.

Tom knew there could be no use in writing to his father to say he would so soon be home with him. The nearest post-town was seven miles from Rathcashmore; and although any person "going in had orders" to call at the post-office, and bring out all letters for the neighbors of both the Rathcashes, yet were he to write now, his letter was sure to lie there for some days, and he would undoubtedly be home before its receipt. Thus he argued, and therefore endeavored to content himself with the resolution he had formed to make no delay; and whatever "his traps" may have been, they were got together and locked in his box at once.

{211}

He had engaged to meet a _particular friend_ on the following evening, Friday, partly on _business_ previous to returning to _his own part_ the country. But he would now antic.i.p.ate this visit by going there at once, so as to enable him to leave for home early next morning. He hoped to find his father better than his letter might lead him to suppose; and he had no doubt his presence and society, which he was determined should be more constant and sympathizing than heretofore, would serve to cheer him.

Nothing, then, which his aunt could say, and certainly nothing which her husband had added to what she did say, had any effect toward altering Tom's resolution to start for home on the following morning.

By this means he hoped to reach his father on the evening of the second day,--railways had not been then established in any part of Ireland, not even the Dublin and Kingstown line,--and he would save the poor old man from the lonesome necessity of going to church on Sunday, "be it wet or dry."

He carried out his determination without check or hindrance, and arrived at the end of the lane leading up to Rathcashmore house soon after dusk in the evening of Sat.u.r.day. He travelled by car from C--k; and the horse being neither too spirited, nor too _fresh_, after his journey, stood quietly on the road, with his head down, and his off fore-leg in the "first position," until the driver returned, having left Tom Murdock's box above at the house.

The meeting between old Mick and his son was as tender and affectionate on the old man's part as could well be, and as much so on Tom's as could well be expected. Old Mick had some secret antic.i.p.ations--presentiment, perhaps, I should have called it--that they would never part again in this world, until they parted for the last time. Daily he felt an increasing weakness of limb, weariness of mind, which whispered to his heart that that parting was not far distant. His son's arrival, however, had the effect which he had promised to himself. He seemed to improve both in spirits and in health. If he had not thrown away the stick,--which the reader was forewarned he would adopt,--he made more use of it cutting at the _kippeens_, and whatever else came in his way, than as a help to his progress.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

From The St. James' Magazine.

THE INVENTOR OF THE STEAM-ENGINE.

In 1828 the learned Arago, a Frenchman, published a remarkable work on the history of the steam-engine. It contains much information that had hitherto been little known on the scientific labor and discoveries of Salomon de Caus. He cites the work of the latter, ent.i.tled "_Les Raisons des Forces Mouvantes_," which was first published at Frankfort in 1615, and reprinted at Paris in 1624; and M. Arago draws from it the conclusion that Salomon de Caus was the original inventor of the steam-engine.

Six years after this notice of the life and labor of the French engineer, there appeared in "_Le Musee des Familles_" a letter from Marion Delorme, supposed to have been written on the 3d of February, 1641, to her lover Cinq-Mars, in which she tells him that she is doing the honors of Paris to an English lord, the Marquis of Worcester, and showing him all {212} the curiosities of that city. She goes on to say that among other inst.i.tutions she had taken milord to Bicetre, where a madman was confined for insisting on a wonderful discovery he had made on the application of steam from boiling water; that the superintendent of the asylum had shown a book to the marquis written on the subject by this lunatic; and that after reading a few pages the English n.o.bleman begged for an interview with Salomon de Caus, from which he returned in a grave and pensive mood, declaring that this man was one of the greatest geniuses of his age.

Such is the substance of the letter of Marion Delorme; and the editor of "_Le Musee des Familles_" adds that the Marquis of Worcester appropriated the discovery to himself, and recorded it in his work ent.i.tled "Century of Inventions," thus causing himself to be looked upon by his countrymen as the inventor of the steam-engine.

The anecdote became very popular, and was copied into standard works, represented in engravings, etc., etc. At length some incredulous authors examined more closely into the matter, and found that not only had Salomon de Caus never been confined in a lunatic asylum, but that he had held the appointment of engineer and architect to Louis XIII.

up to his death in 1630, while Marion Delorme is a.s.serted to have visited Bicetre in 1641!

On tracing this mystification to its source, we find that M. Henri Berthoud, a literary man of some repute, and a constant contributor to "_Le Musee des Familles_," confesses that the letter imputed to Marion Delorme was in fact written by himself!

But the most curious part of the story is that the world refused to believe in M. Berthoud's confession, so great a hold had the anecdote taken on the public mind; and a Paris newspaper went so far even as to declare that the original autograph of this letter was to be seen in a library in Normandy, in which province Salomon de Caus was born. M.

Berthoud wrote again denying its existence, and offered a million to any one who would produce the letter. From that time the affair was no more spoken of, and Salomon de Caus was allowed to remain in undisputed possession of his fame, as having been the first to point out the use of steam in his work, "_Les Raisons des Forces Mouvantes_." He had previously been employed as engineer to Henry, Prince of Wales, son of James I., and he published a volume in folio, in London, "_La perspective avec les Raisons des...o...b..es et Miroirs_."

In his dedication of another work to the queen of England, 15th of September, 1614, we find some allusion made to the construction of hydraulic machines. On his return to France he, as before said, was appointed engineer to Louis XIII., and was doubtless patronized by Cardinal Richelieu, that great promoter of the arts and letters.

The writings of Salomon de Caus were held in much estimation among learned men during the whole of the seventeenth century. He had, however, been antic.i.p.ated in the discovery of steam for the propelling of large bodies, for on the 17th of April, 1543, the Spaniard, Don Blasco de Garay, launched a steam-vessel at Barcelona, in presence of the Emperor Charles V. It was an old s.h.i.+p of 200 tons, called the _Santissima Trinidad_, which had been fitted up for the experiment, and which moved at the rate of ten miles an hour.

The inventor of this first steamer was merely looked upon as an enthusiast, whose imagination had run mad; and his only encouragement was a donation of 200,000 maravedis from his sovereign, but the emperor no more dreamt of using the discovery than did Napoleon I., three centuries later, when the ingenious Fulton suggested to him the application of steam to navigation. It is well known that Fulton was not even permitted to make an essay of this new {213} propelling force before the French emperor. So then, we must date the fact of the introduction of steam navigation as far back as 1543; anterior to the discovery of Salomon de Caus in 1615; to the Marquis of Worcester in 1663; to Captain Savary in 1693; to Dr. Papin in 1696; and to Fulton and others, who all lay claim to the original idea.

But perhaps we may be wrong in denying originality to these men, for we have no proof that either of them had any knowledge of the discoveries of his predecessor.

It was only on the 18th of March, 1816, that the first steam-vessel appeared in France, making her entrance into the seaport of Havre; she was the _Eliza_, which had left Newhaven, in England, on the previous day.

------ From The Fortnightly Review.

THE CLOUDS AND THE POOR.

No one can write upon the clouds without some reference to Mr.

Ruskin's labors. Few will forget the four chapters in the first volume of "Modern Painters," dealing first with men's apathy for those forms of beauty which daily flit around us, and ending with the magnificent contrast between Turner and Claude, showing with what difference they had rendered the calm of the mist and the shock of the tempest, the crimson of the dawn and the fire of sunset We are, indeed, all of us too apathetic, and the summer and the winter clouds are alike unheeded by us. And yet our grey English clouds have impressed themselves upon even our language and our daily speech. Our word "sky" has nothing in common with the _ciel_ of the French and the _cielo_ of the Italians, which through the Latin _coelum_ refer to the clear blue chasm of the air. Our "sky" is connected with the Old-English _seua_, and literally means "the place of shadows." Our "welkin" is connected with _wolcen_, "a cloud," and is derived from a root which points to the incessant, rolling, billowy motion of the clouds.

But if we have failed to notice the clouds and their beauty, others have not failed. Men, seeing their power, feeling their blessings, have wors.h.i.+pped them. Upon them our Scandinavian ancestors built their creeds, and from them created their G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses. The beauty and the delicacy of the early Aryan mythology is interwoven with the storm-cloud, which alike inspires the story of the Odyssey and solves the mystery of OEdipus. Mr. Ruskin has already quoted from Aristophanes. We could wish that he had supplemented the Athenian poet, who gives merely the latter sensuous mythological view of the clouds, with pa.s.sages from the fathers, who so deeply penetrated into both their beauty and their moral aspect. With them the clouds appear no longer puissant G.o.ddesses, daughters of Father Ocean, thronging in troops from Maeotis and Mimas, their golden pitchers filled with the waters of the Nile. Their fleecy forms told them of him who "giveth snow like wool, and scattereth the h.o.a.r frost like ashes," of him who "maketh the clouds his chariots, and rideth on the wings of the wind."

They could not feel the whirlwind's blast without remembering that it had borne Elijah heavenward, nor hear the thunder without remembering the thunder and lightning which clothed G.o.d on Sinai, {214} nor watch the evening rack without remembering that the clouds, such perhaps as they were gazing at, had received their Master out of his disciples'

sight, and that again from them he should descend at his second coming. In these days of atmospheric laws, of measurements of rainfalls, and weather forecasts, we cannot by the utmost effort of the imagination place ourselves in their position. To them, as to the first Christians, heaven was directly above their heads, divided from the earth only by the screen of clouds. They must have regarded those white ethereal shadows, those dark rolling ma.s.ses, in much the same way as the early sacred painters,--peopled each flake with cherubs and angels, and heard the air rustle with wings.

Be this as it may. Even if religion inspired them with such thoughts, they certainly were not insensible to the beauty which daily blossoms in the sky. "There is," cries St. Chrysostom, "a meadow on the earth and a meadow, too, in the sky. There are the various flowers of the stars, the rose below, the rainbow above." [Footnote 31] "Look up to heaven," he says, "and see how much more beautiful it is than the roof of palaces. The pavement of the palace above is much more grand than the roof below." [Footnote 32] His writings are full of metaphors drawn from the sky and the clouds. He speaks of "snow-storms of miracles," and "thick-falling showers of cares," and cries, "When G.o.d doth comfort, though sorrows come upon thee by thousands like snow-flakes, thou shalt be above them all." He reproaches men for looking down like swine to the earth, and not up to the sky, [Footnote 33] which he declares is the fairest of roofs, guiding them by its beauty to their Maker. [Footnote 34] And filled with that democratic spirit which so burns in all his writings, he cries to the poor man, "Seest thou this heaven here, how beautiful, how vast it is, how it is placed on high? This beauty the rich man enjoyeth not more than thou, nor is it in his power to thrust thee aside, and make it all his own; for as it was made for him, so it was, too, for thee...