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- young, and perhaps more beautiful than ever.
TIIE DIFFUSION OF
CATIIO-LlC KNOWLEDGE AND THE ‘INSTRUCTION OF YOUTII, SIIAIiL BE OUIIKI OBJECT AND OUR‘ AIM.
vol. 4.-No. 26.
A YOUNG MAN RESCUED FROM THE
JA“'S OF IVFIDELITY. ,
‘ TIIE CATIIOLIC WEEKLY INSTRUCTOR,’
I: printeul and I‘ub.’i'slisd Weekly, '
av, .
VVILLIALYI J. CUNVI.VGI'li'i‘tlfI,‘
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Written for the Catholic Weekly Instructor.
JESUS WEPT.
' I or wan. sriirr anus.
Yes, Jesus wept; o'er Lazarus’ tomb,
Heheaves the sigh-the Spirit’s groan ;'
The manhood shines almost divine,
A hVliile falls the tear at friendship‘: shrine.
Yes,’JesIis wept ; ‘ and will he scorn
‘A frieiidiess student’: heartfelt m‘aanr
No: He who hears the raveu’s cry,
‘Vii! cast on me His pitying eye.
Jesus, thy hand hath dealt the blow
Which lays my foridest wishes low:
Yet thou art kind. 1 kiss the rod,
And still adore my Saviour God
Boston, Mass, I849.
Tram the U. . . e.
CLARA DE MONT CALi
. C II A P T E R l.
Madame de Montcalm had inherited from her
husband one of the most valuable estates in the
West India islands. Previous to her marriage
she was neither distinguished by nobility nor
wealth. and her unaided beauty rind intelligence
had achieved an alliance that made her rivals
openly sneer and secretly weep. Shortly after
the birth of a girl, whom he named elara.
the Count de Montcalm died, bequeathing all
his possessions absolutely and without reserve
to his w'fe.
Madame de Montcalm was of English pa-
rentage and Protestant education, but had
embraced the religion of her hushand-Cath-
olicity, some months before her daughter's birth.
Her life had always been benevolent and amia-
‘ ble, and in the hrst fervor of her conversion,
she was ti model of l'l"‘Y- O .
At her husband's death she was still very
lhit sincere and too violent grief for this irre-
parable loss had thinned hcr checkand saddened
‘ her eye, and brought all thy cliange of time
on her form and f'.ice. For years she lived
almost secluded, brooding over her daughter,
shunning all society save the poor. and only
venturing off her own groundrlo administer
charity to those who could not come to seek
Many who knew her beauty and her fair
plantation, pined in secret for both. but fidelity .
to the.dead was so evidently stamped on all
she said and did that none entertained a hope
of either. ‘ ' - .
In the meanwhile the little Clara passed from
infancy to girlhood. and her mother. felt the
necessity of education as well as of carressing
her. There was no convcnt, nn adequatctutnr
,‘I'llILADELl'llIA. SATURD.-I)". JUKE ‘.10, I849.
solitude, and permitted herself to mingle in the
ball and appear at the opera. The houscs‘of
the rich, the noble and the gifted, were open to
her, and she was not insensihle to the cli.ii'm of
zi society where polish of mind was as conspi-
cuous as polish of manner. But beneath this
smooth, glittering elegance-within this fair
basket offruit.-lurked the worm of indiffer-
ence and the asp of infidelity. Her charititis
were as numerous and unostentatious, and her
devotions as long as ever, nor could the ponips
of riches or the sparkle of genius divert, for
one moment, the main current of her heart
from her child. But the feeling imbibed from
all intimate association in which the spirit of
0' Catholicity is not supreme. will sooner or later
betray itself. Prayer and aims-giving may go
on, and it is long before we discover that the
instincts ofa noble nature, a sort of heart-
rirtue, are counterfeiting the words and the
works of religion.
Clara had bccome very beautiful? not that
selfevident, transient beauty, perpetually sug-
gestingitself; but a beauty derived from and
dependent on the pure, sweet soul that shone
through, suggesting the almighty hand that
made it. Willi a mind strong. clear and quick,
and an exqui ite taste that bordered on genius,
she had rapidly advanced through the routine of
" severe stiidyand the range of at-coiiipllshmcnt.
and was near the completion of her academical
career. But above all, her saintly teachers had
inspired her with the tenderest piety, and she
felt not the faintest wish to join the brilliant
world that was sometimes pictured in her
mother's speech. Such was Clara de Mont-
calm at cighteen; but delicate-even frail!
At this moment, Madame de Montcalm receiv-
‘ ed intelligence final home that fell upon her like
aihunderbolt. The convulsions of Europe had
told fearfully upon the colonies, and ruin stared
her in the face.
from her daughter, she hastened home to ex-
amine nnd repair her loss: but the wound was
more easily seen than the reincdy. Ilcr agent
had proved incompetent and unfaithful, and her
once unfettered estate was deeply mortgaged to
SirGeorgeArlon, an English Protestant gentle-
man, who owned and inherited the adjoining
plantation. Day after day the finestestates were
offered before the court house door at less than
one third of their value without a bidder. The
universal depression of confidence and trade
fl)l‘bBl‘Ie the hope of extrication; and though
from her stately mansion house she coiild still
count her broad acres. a title slip of parchment
had power to transport all, like Aladdin's palace,
into other bands, and leave her but remember-
ance and regret. , . . '
This sudden ruin almost broke her heart.-
Slie felt sick. deserted, desolate. ln the solitude
of her neglected chamber, as the brilliant pano-
rama she had so lately witnessed came gliding
back, and the phantoms of aflluence and fashion
grew still fairer in the majesty of distance-
she wept long and bitterly. Thus may we
mingle carelessly, even disdainfully, in the
vanities-of rank and wealth, while conscious
that we are above them; it is only when they
threaten to elude our grasp that we feel how
miserably dear they are. , ' ‘ ,
Sir George Arlon was not the man, however,
to avail himself of a neighbor‘s misfortune.
and he had advanced his money not ‘in the
hope of fettering but rclieving the property.-
Ilis own fortune was princely and he felt no
desire to augmcnt fl.’ llc;was a tall. noble
looking old gentleman. proud nnd peculiar. but
wiihal generous and benevolent. lie called on
on the Island. and she [Silt herself unequal to
the task. . Leaving her estate under the direc-
tion of an experienced agent, she sailed for
prance. and placed her daughter in an Ursuline
convent. Years glided by. Alniostimperccrb
ably the young widow relaxed the rigor of her
Madanie rle Montcalm the morning nflcr her
arrival. and entreated her to feel no uneasiness
at recent events-that the momentary stagna-
tion of the present would soon disappear in the
most favorable reaction. She thanked ‘him
Conrealing this sad reverse an
was far too liigliniinded to feel any resenlmey1t'
at his position, and yet for too proud not to
writlie beneath another‘: forbvarance. ' I
There was one frnni whom ‘Aladame de
Montcalm derived f'.ir more consolation-
Fallicr Ll('SS, the parish privst. Yet even
with him she was somewhat cold and reserved,
and though often at his church, was seldom at
his house. This good and venerable man saw
clearly enough that ,pride was the root of her
obstinate sorrow, and he labored most'assidu-
ously to remove it. But the pang was dccp-
for the mother's heart had shaped out a succes-
sion oftriumplis lbr her daughter, and this sad
visitation had withered them all.
it was now: time, to send Err Clara. A new
dream had been dancing before the mothers
mind. faint at first but gradually acquiring a
fixed shape and color, until'from a hope it
became a belicti She grew more clieciful,
more amiable, and met Sir George and his
son with an engaging smile. . She became
more attentive to the relics of her revenue; and
active exercise and the animation 0 ope
recalled a portion of the bloom to her check.
And yet, though she met Father Licss more
happily, she seemed to seek him less. and the
good man fclt pained and heartsick, he knew
not why,and often tit mom and midnight he
prayed long and fervently for her and the young
girl who was soon to return. .
CHAPTERII.“ ,
Sir George Arlon had been summoned to
England by the sudden death of a near rela-
tive, and was to return after a short absence.
bringing Clara with him. Some months after
his departure, Madame dc Montcalm was sitting
alone in an arbor shaded by a grove that
crowned the principal hill on her, plantation.-
it was a lovely summers afternoon, clear, calm,
warui : beneath her lay the smooth mirror-
like harbor; and beyond. thestrnnge, thought-
compelling ocean came rolling out from the
misty horizon until its white.capcs gliilered in
the sun. Here. and there, gray cloudy sails
were flitting phantom-like over the face of the
waters; and looming in the distance, a square-
gged vessel riveted Madame do Montcalm‘:
gaze. as if by fascination. She was in the
habit of visiting this spot to watch‘ for her
daughter and fancy her in every approaching
sail. But hitherto she had sought in vain.
On came the noble ship, fast before the wind,
-straight for the bay like a‘ racer to the goal.
There was nothing very peculiar in the vessel‘s
appearance-but Madame de Montcalm felt
her heart beat high.and large gurgling fcnrs
started from her eyes. as ever and anon she
thought . she discerned beyond the range of
human vision the tall form of Sir George and
a slight figure in white hovering around him.
Thouuli the good ship was approaching gallant-
ly and rapidly. yet in the mother's impatient
wish. it scarcely seemed to more.
And now the ship is at anchor-and there is
a tall gray-headed man and a young girl in
white at-her side-and they leap intna boat
that is lowered from the bulwarks, and they‘
land on the yellow beacli-and Clara de Mont-l
calm is folded to her mother‘: heart. .
Sir George dashed out a tear with a smile,
and bowed and stammcred and hurried away.
Nor should westand by with stranger hearts
to overlook the reunion, ,
A slight repast chiefly of tropical fruits,had
509" l‘"‘P-ircd. yct.there was little eaten and
little said. The,sun:w.-is setting gorgeously
behind the moui-ltains, as Clara, taking her
mother‘: arm. sallicd forth to revisit the points
of ham thatwere upperinostln her memory.
WHOLE ‘NO. 161
prospect unfolding in the dawn, a thousand
recollections came clearly back; and she rem-
embered the order in which she had woven
wild flowers-the stream into which she had
cast pcbbles at her quivering shadow-the
green slopes over which she had bounded-
the white beach on which she had gathered
shells-the very frees under which she had
wondered at the fair creation around her-
and shining in the distance the wllite spire of
the Catholic chapel where she had prayed.-
And when the first oppression of happiness
was over. her young heart beat thankfully and
serenely; and as her bright smile beamed in
filial love, and she laughed when some forgot-
ten freak of childhood returned, she thought it
strange that her mother's tears were still fal-
ling. ‘
Yet as Madame de‘ Montcalm feasted her
eyes on her hiir daughter, and saw the bloom
of health In her cheeks and a strength and
fullness of form she had scarcely dared hope
for-as she beheld her beauty and calculated
on its blessing without dreaming of its danger-
as the new dream verged on to rcalization,her
sorrow gave ‘way to an outburst of joy, and
she ran merrily over the past, recalling a thou-
sand incidents that led Clara almost back to the
shadow of the cradle. But then again, the
same spd look would return and the same film
gzither in her eye. ‘
Clara saw that something was on her mo-
thor‘s n1ind,and obeying an impulscslic could not
resist, threw her arms around her neck and
implored her to tell her.
Madame de Montcalm wept much and spoke
with difficulty.
“I was, once rich. my child." she said-
"now lam poor. ,l have nothing in the world."
Nothing in the world with such a child!
Most daughters. with fine romantic feelings.’
would have felt it as a reproacli, and tenderly
asserted their value: but Clara was not think-
ing of herself: . - ‘ '
After is long pause, the lady resumed: "I
did not tell you at school, bccauselfcarcd your
unhappiness in my absence-but I can no longer i
conceal from you, my child, that lleft you be-
causel heard of the utter ruin of our fortunes.
Young as you were when you left here, you
must miss many ornaments which were (lien
familiar, and before long you will discovern
sad change in our style of living. In truth,
we only continue in your father's house and on
your father's lands by the generous permission
of astranger-not a stranger, but a dear friend
-Sir George Arlon."
At these words. Madame de Montcalm burst
lntotears and feel on her daughter‘: neck.
" am sorry, my dearest mother. that you
feel our poverty so keenly.“ was all that Clara
said; and though the tears full in sympathy
withgher mother's, her voice was calm and
clear, and thelight of happiness was over her
ace.
“ltis not f'nr myself that I am disturbed,”
exclaimed Madame de Montcalm with emphasis,
rising and collecting herself with the divinity
of pride-" not for myself; but for you,(fiam,
for you alone‘ i expected to bring you back to
a house with every comfort, and all ‘he mgne.
mcnts that were your inheritance and your
right-to see you enter society equal to any
eyethat might scan you.nnd not shrink be-
“mlh the glance of your companions with is
melancholyconsciousncss ofinferiority. instead
Of NHSJ can only welcome you to the poor
filgrffw of :3 home, to solitude andmortihca.‘
"M9ll‘9l‘.” replied the girl astonished and
Rrieved, "I assure you that I had but one
At first all seemed strange and new, and it was
long before she could rind any correspondence
between the objects as remembered and the
sincerely, but the consolation was slight. She
objects as they were. But gradually, like a
thought, one hope on leaving school -to be
with you. never to be separated again, Do
not weep for me ;. the loss of our lbnune does
not give me 3 single pang.(he mmnphs 0;