Page images
PDF
EPUB

to call her " his flock."

ness.

the most precious lamb in

In the mean time, Cuthbert was anything but composed in his own mind. His gracious smile covered up a great deal of perplexity and uneasiHis difficulties naturally arose out of the peculiar position in which the Romish Church places her ministers. He was human; but was expected to disown, crush out, or smother down, as best he might, part of his human nature. He must never indulge in feelings that made other men brighter, happier, and holier. The Church, very generously and very considerately, provided abundant objects on which her sons in holy orders might lawfully bestow their love. There were St. Ursula and her thousand virgins, and a whole legion of other saints,-all proper objects of regard; and no one would rebuke the most extravagant expressions of devotedness shown to any or all of them. It is true they were dead, and were some of them rather mythical personages; but there was this advantage, that they could be idealised to any extent.

In simple

words, it was a crime for a priest to set his affections upon any living woman, though a promising candidate for saintship herself. Yet of all classes of men, that to which Cuthbert belonged was the one most exposed to this very temptation. Women might kneel before him-sweet penitents, pouring into his ear their troubles and sorrows, or, with blushes and sighs, acknowledging their shortcomings, looking prettier than ever in their humility and grief. All might draw without limit upon his sympathy and indulgence. The coquette, ready enough to win even what she could not wear; the simple devotee, venerating her priest as an angel in mortal form: -these might lavish upon the handsome director undisguised tokens of admiration and fondness. But towards each he must maintain a cold reserve. To have returned a single tender glance,

VOL IV.-NEW SERIES.

to have cast a partial eye on any of the winning faces, would have been a deadly sin; while he could hardly impose a penance upon his gentle flock for their attachment to his person or office.

Cuthbert, despite his susceptible nature, had hitherto resisted any soft impressions, until he undertook the conversion of Anka Gerhardt. She used no arts to win him, for Anka had very little vanity; but she frankly showed how grateful she was for his kindness and protection.

She was simply his fate; only, as Cuthbert had voluntarily resigned any other fate than celibacy, it was a misfortune that they had ever met. He really struggled honestly against his love for Anka; but, with all his efforts, it engrossed daily more and more of his thoughts. Her face haunted him everywhere; he saw it in pictures and images; the very bells rang out her name, until he grew nervous and restless. At one time he decided to fly from the city; at another, he hoped something would occur to help him out of his dilemma. But nothing did occur, except that of a new torment in the shape of jealousy. Others would think her fair ; she might be wooed before his eyes; might come to him confessing her love, and asking his blessing. In his great distress, he formed a most selfish resolution: he determined to persuade Anka to become a nun. She was to be made the sacrifice. Sooner than think of her as the happy wife of another, he would consign her to the gloomy cloisters of the convent. He did not think she would have any religious scruples to deter her from the step: the voluntary display of piety at the Festival dispelled any remaining doubts.

After mass that night, he gently opened the subject, and bade her consider it well. Anka was quite dismayed. Sunless as her life might be, she was not so disgusted with the world as to wish to exchange it for a living tomb. She had become reconciled. in a great

G G

measure, to her new religion; but it was another thing to spend the rest of her days in a ceaseless round of such duties as it required of its devotees. She was piqued, also, that Cuthbert should want to send her from him; and, moreover, deep down in her heart, she felt that she could not set this seal upon her apostasy. All this passed rapidly through her mind, as Cuthbert brought forward every reason but the true one. She only said, sadly, “Then you are tired of teaching me, Father? I fear I have been very troublesome"-and a great tear rolled down Anka's cheek.

[ocr errors]

66

'No, no," interrupted Cuthbert, hurriedly. Why should you think so? Have I ever seemed weary of my pupil? Do you think I should not miss you, Anka?" He stopped, and then added, in a constrained voice, “A priest's first duty is to the Church: he must win brides for her, though he shuts a door between himself and his dearest friends. I do not ask your answer now; you need not decide in haste; we will speak of this again."

And so he dismissed her that night. Week after week, however, he renewed the subject; but what could he do, when Anka wept and besought him not to ask her to do this thing? Every interview ended by his loving her more than ever, and feeling that his arguments had very little weight. He knew something must be done. He could not see Anka much longer and hide his feelings: they would betray him some day, and then disgrace would follow. He must fly from his pleasant, lucrative post, his beloved Bruges, and go far away amongst strangers.

But he thought he would make one last appeal to Anka. He could not send her to wander in the world. She was desolate enough; but in the convent of St. Catharine, whose abbess he knew, and where he might still keep watch over her, she would be provided for for life.

The priest and his convert stood in

one of the side chapels of the great church. He was leaning against an old tomb, and tried to appear at ease; but there was light enough, from the curious little window behind, for Anka to have seen that he was deadly pale, as he rather sternly asked her if she really intended to withstand his earnest wishes, that could only be for her wel fare?-if she really declined to be guided by him?

Anka's head was bent, and she saw nothing but the time-worn lettering on the floor. She was in no docile mood now, as the impatient movement of her foot and her rising colour indicated. To Cuthbert's soft words she had replied by tears; but his cold, almost severe tones, stung her to the quick. "It is cruel to insist upon my obedience, Father," she burst forth, with flashing eyes; "what have I done that I should spend the rest of my life in prison? The best convent must be a prison, or why do they put bolts and bars between the holy sisters and the life they have left? And if all be true that is whispered abroad, my salvation is as secure in this wicked world as beneath the black veil. Or, if a nun's life should be all that you represent, it can be but a living death. Oh, Father! you do not really care for my happiness; if you can calmly think of consigning me to such a fate, with no vocation for religion, as you call it; to pine away year by year, longing for death in reality. I know that I am poor and despised, while you are happy, honoured, and beloved; but liberty is as sweet to me as it can be to you, and sweeter, for it is the only thing I have left."

"Hush, hush! Anka-you don't know what you say," said Cuthbert, in a low, hoarse voice.

[ocr errors][merged small]

drive me wild?" exclaimed the priest, trembling with agitation. "Don't you know that you are becoming dearer to me than even my hopes of heaven itself? Can I be 'happy,' when I feel that it is a sin to love you? and should I be 'honoured' if men knew that I had broken my vows? I deserve all your reproaches."

66

'Forgive me, Father; and, oh! forget what I have said," prayed Anka, completely subdued and covered with confusion.

"Tis I who should ask forgiveness. I dared not trust myself to see you much longer; and fear has made me selfish. Your admission of to-night increases the danger for us both. Yet, believe me, dear Anka, I never meant to steal your heart for myself. I desired, above all things, to see you a Catholic."

The knowledge of being beloved brought little joy to either. Even while speaking, Cuthbert had resolved to leave the city, and never look on the beautiful face of his convert again. His manner, so sorrowful and determined, frightened Anka; and, when he suddenly bent down and kissed her forehead, she burst into a passion of tears.

"I will go to St. Catharine's, Father," she said, at length; thinking only of his credit and safety. "My objections were very foolish: I was angry because I thought you did not care for me; but, now, I can go anywhere."

[blocks in formation]

Cuthbert drew her towards him, and looked mournfully into her eyes.

"I must go, Father; it is late," she said; but he did not seem to hear. Father, I must not stay longer."

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

66

'No," he replied, sighing, or they will say evil things of my guileless Anka."

"But bless me before I go;" and, releasing herself from his hold, she knelt before him.

"Bless thee! Will heaven hear me, until I have made amends for these broken vows?"

"Yes; heaven will hear and pity; for heaven means love."

"Alas! that love should not always mean heaven," groaned Cuthbert; "but if my petitions can avail for aught, they are yours." With one hand on her head, and the other laid on her clasped hands, he prayed in his native tongue -it was no time for dead forms in a dead language:-"A thousand blessings on thee! May the Lord remember thee, and give thee rest and peace; and may His love comfort thee at all times! The Lord make my daughter faithful to the Holy Catholic Church, and, at last, number her amongst the saints. Mother of Jesus! protect and shield thy chosen one; and let not my sin be visited upon this beloved head." He ceased; then added, sorrowfully, "Valere! hein valere !"

"Oh! not farewell," cried Anka, starting to her feet; but the priest was gone, and she was alone with her misery.

Cuthbert left Bruges next day. Part of his conversation with Anka had been overheard; and he received warning from a friend to depart without delay. Great and universal regret was expressed by the citizens for the loss of their favourite and popular priest; and, the real cause of his departure having come to the knowledge of Van Hoven and his family, their wrath against the maiden knew no bounds. Her position soon became unendurable; and she felt that

beggary was preferable to the life she was compelled to lead. And so, without a coin in her pocket, or a friend in the country, she fled from the inhospita

ble roof that afforded no shelter from insults and abuse, to wander abroad in the world.

SOME OLD RELIGIOUS ASSOCIATIONS OF THE NEW BOROUGH OF HACKNEY.-PART I.

THE hamlet of Hackney-by the recently-granted Reform Bill, transformed into a great metropolitan borough-is a spot whose history abounds with incidents of religious and historical interest. Whether the neighbourhood be regarded as a favourite retreat for courtiers and noblemen, or as an early centre of Puritan effort and Nonconformist influence, we may become equally instructed and interested. The suburb has been consecrated by the labours of a large number of worthies and celebrities. At the time of, and before the Reformation, the village likewise contained the country homes of many leading English families, amongst whom was that of Lord Percy, sixth Earl of Northumberland, and supposed suitor of Ann Boleyn. This nobleman died in 1537, and lies near to the surviving tower of the former church. In those days the Knights Templars inherited the rectory; and a sumptuous mansion close at hand, served as a rural retreat for the brotherhood, whose principal home was the magnificent monastery, whose site Saint John's Square, Clerkenwell, now occupies.

In 1591, Elizabeth honoured her Hackney subjects with a visit; and while she walked around the graveyard, her majesty doubtless noticed the tomb of Alice Ryder, whose fame the sculptured stone commemorated, by representing her as bearing a pail of milk. This effigy reminded the inhabitants of the fact, that mistress Alice, from an humble ocupation, had risen into a position of affluence, wherein she had proved

herself a lasting benefactress to the poor. A daughter of Sir Thomas More inhabited a neighbouring dwel ling; and till modern research had shewn us otherwise, another old mansion enjoyed a reputation of being Howard's birthplace. Through the years of the Commonwealth, Dr. William Spurston held the rectory; and from the outer world, to this hospitable hearth, Richard Baxter loved to retire. Somewhat later, Hackney benefited by the labours of Bates and Henry. The site of the original manor-house has been long forgotten; but an extant description of it says, "It was a fayre house, all of brick, with a fayre hall and parlour, a large gallery, a proper chapel, and a proper library to laye books in."

From time immemorial, London citizens have appreciated our old suburb on account of its pleasant healthy situation; and to-day, one cannot travel far about its streets and lanes without repeatedly recognising spots known to history. The village once boasted of several wells, whose cold clear waters were anciently highly valued, as we infer from their names being yet remembered. One of these was Pig-well; and from another, in the Old Church Field, Well Street took its name. There was also one upon the Downs; and a little to the north was Shacklewell. Hackney likewise took its share in completing the Reformation; for in the days of Henry VIII., the rector, Richard Sampron, undertook, in a published work, a defence of the King's policy in every innovation, besides

exposing Romish insolence and presumption. This opportune service gained the Bishopric of Chichester as its reward; though strangely enoughafter the seed, thus sown, had germinated into fruition-Sampron relapsed into his former bigotry, and even endured some amount of hardship on account of his opinions.

The Church of Saint Augustine at Hackney contained a number of curious, interesting monuments; and beneath its time-worn aisles lay sleeping, many whom the world chooses to remember in death. At the close of the last century this ancient structure was taken down, and the present building erected in its stead. This is one of the largest of our suburban churches, the design forming an exact cross. As regards education-as far distant as the year 1616, one Mistress Audley, bequeathed the sum of £20 a-year, which she directed should serve in educating a number of lads. Fifty years subsequently to the planting of this school, the trustees, with becoming indignation, dismissed the master, seeing that he had failed to prepare any pupils for either of the Universities, or the Inns of Court.

In Cromwell's days, there flourished in Hackney a singular dame whom the inhabitants called "Hannah the Prophetess." Certain eccentricities occasioned hundreds from amongst the curious to visit her; and the woman's seemingly-earnest prayings for the Protector, possibly shielded her from the rough treatment dealt out to her class, when such were regarded with suspicion and terror. A more amiable and interesting person, during the same years, resided in the village; and about the time of the Restoration, a quaint volume appeared, entitled, The Pattern Virgin, or the Life of Susannah Perwick." The writer describes at length, the virtues and attainments of his once-renowned heroine; but before the number of sheets were filled,

66

which he supposed a book should contain, the author experienced a sudden failing of his powers of delineation and panegyric; he, nevertheless, adroitly escaped a dilemma, by filling the space with extraneous notes which he chanced to have in stock. Miss Perwick resided with her family at the "Black and White House," in which mansion her parents conducted a school for young gentlewomen. In the middle of the seventeenth century this seminary had attained to a wide reputation, eventually winning the sobriquet of The Ladies' University. In the person of the maiden Hannah, liberal intellectual endowments were joined to an attractive disposition. Besides being accomplished in the elegant learning of the period, she became celebrated for a rare proficiency in music. The girl's early trials are affectingly referred to in this curious memoir. The hopes of life's springtime, death annihilated by taking a youth who had sought her love, and whose affection she had fondly repaid. Although well-nigh heart-broken by the death of her lover, Hannah's sorrow carried with it deep convictions of Divine truth, and of the rectitude of Providence. Her own departure shortly succeeded that of her betrothed, having been sadly accelerated by a damp bed in which she slept while visiting London. Relatives and schoolfellows surrounded her in her last moments, to whom she either distributed her trinkets or gave a dying Christian's advice; and, bidding them all farewell, she expired in the full assurance of faith. The details of the funeral afford an interesting glimpse into the daily life of a by-gone age. Six maidens carried the body into the church, while as many others bore the pall, and two more preceded the procession, carrying a banner bearing an emblematical device. These were all appareled in pure white. The parents followed, and were accompanied

« PreviousContinue »