278 SKETCH OF LAURA BRIDGMAN. with the other; and thus she stood for a moment: then she dropped her mother's hand, put her handkerchief to her eyes, and, turning round, clung sobbing to the matron; while her mother departed, with emotions as deep as those of her child." the common affirmation that deaf mutes have no such conception till taught it by their teachers. He seems not to have withheld from her any religious truth which her capacity and his own conscientious opinions would admit. Her conversations and letters manifest much religious interest. She shrinks at the thought of death. A little pupil died in the institution. The fact was carefully revealed to her by her instructor. "At the word died, she seemed to shrink within herself: there was a contortion of the hands a half-spasm, and her countenance indica to cry, but restrained her tears." She eagerly inquired respecting the nature of the fearful change, until her teacher, fearing the consequences, dismissed the subject. "I shall not die!" she exclaimed em shrinking," he writes, "at the thought of physical death, and I turned the conversation. I could not have the heart to give the poor child the baneful knowledge before I had prepared the antidote." But, alas! why not give her the antidote? She has got "the baneful knowledge," as her conversation shows, and it will rankle, unobserved, perhaps, yet with ag tidote, as taught by the great apostle, (Hebrews, ii, 14, 15,) involves no greater collateral difficulties than the knowledge of death itself. Opinions have been rather freely, and, we think, rather inconsiderately expressed, respecting the director's method in her religious education. Her age, according to the usual course, would justify a fuller communication of religious truth; but it must be borne in mind, that her intellectual capacity bears no proportion to her years and physical growth. Atted, not exactly grief, but rather pain and amazesixteen she was hardly competent to comprehendment; her lips quivered, and then she seemed about more than a child at six. Dr. Howe has, therefore, guarded against all precipitancy in her religious instruction. A too early acquaintance with the higher doctrines of revealed truth would only baffle and confound her developing faculties. The use, for in-phatically, not in reference to her soul, but "she was stance, of the metaphorical language of religion is peculiarly indiscreet in her case; for though she has some capacity to appreciate similes and tropes, yet is it exceedingly slight, and of exceedingly slow growth. Some over-zealous friend, in the absence of her teacher, talked to her of "the Lamb of God," &c., a most unfortunate expression for her, though full of blessed significance to us who are more hap-ony in her inmost soul. The knowledge of the anpily gifted. It confused her thoughts; she could not understand it. "The Lamb of God was to her a bona fide animal; and she could not conceive why it should remain so long a lamb and not grow old like others and be called a sheep." It is obvious that great care is necessary to prevent distorted and even degrading impressions on a mind like hers respecting the holiest of subjects; and just in proportion as such subjects are lofty and abstract is the liability of their misapprehension. It has, therefore, been the object of Dr. Howe to develop her mental faculties first, instilling into her opening mind, meanwhile, the simpler principles of truth, and postponing the abstruser ones till her capacity shall be more adequate to them. We must be permitted, however, to remark, that it seems to us his caution is somewhat extreme. There are ideas of our sinfulness and of salvation through the divine Mediator, which do not embarrass the earliest comprehension of childhood, and which would, doubtless, relieve many of the deep solicitudes-unavoidable, though they may be unexpressed-of his interesting pupil. So far as we can judge, it is not so much the inadequacy of her capacity as his own peculiar theological opinions that interfere with her instruction in these elementary principles. We approve his discretion, generally, but should be more satisfied with it, were it not so much based upon what we deem unevangelical views of those vital truths of revealed religion, without which, we believe, there can be no relief to the deep moral anxieties of our fallen nature. Dr. Howe believes that Laura arrived, herself, at the conception of a supreme Cause; and he denies The idea of God is incessantly alluded to in her letters and conversations, so far as we have seen the record of them. "Can God see? has he eyes? can he be angry? can he cry?" are frequent questions, showing alike the anxiety and imperfection of her thoughts on the subject. Thoughts of death and God even enter into her dreams. "I sometimes dream of God," said she to her teacher. "What did you dream about last night?" inquired the latter. "I dreamed that God took away my breath to heaven," was her reply, accompanying it with the sign of taking something away from her mouth. When Dr. Howe was in Europe, in the spring of 1844, she wrote him a letter, of which the following is an extract. It discloses the confusion and anxiety of her religious ideas: "MY VERY DEAR DR. HOWE,-What can I first say to God when I am wrong? Would he send me good thoughts, and forgive me when I am very sad for doing wrong? Why does he not love wrong people if they love him? Would he be very happy to have me think of him and heaven very often? Do you remember that you said I must think of God and heaven? I want you to please to answer me to please me. Is God ever ashamed? I think of God very often to love him. Why did you say that I must think of God? You must answer me all about it: if you do not I shall be sad. Shall we know what to ask God to do? When will be let us go to see him in heaven? How did God tell people SKETCH OF LAURA BRIDGMAN. that he lived in heaven? How could he take care of folks in heaven? and why is he our Father? When can he let us go in heaven? Why can not he let wrong people to go to live with him and be happy? Why should he not like to have us ask him to send us good thoughts, if we are not very sad for doing wrong?" In sincerity and conscientiousness she seems far above ordinary children. In the report of 1843, Dr. Howe says that he could recollect no example of moral obliquity, except under strong temptation. He gives an instance which illustrates the tenderness of her conscience, while it shows a species of guile universally common to childhood: 279 treated her. I told her her parents were grieved, and cried, at which she could hardly restrain her own tears. After awhile she confessed to me that she had deceived about the gloves; that they were not lost, but hidden away. I then tried to show her that I cared nothing about the gloves; that the loss of a hundred pairs would be nothing if unaccompanied by any deceit. She perceived that I was grieved, and going to leave her to her own thoughts, and clung to me as if in terror of being alone. I was forced, however, to inflict the pain upon her. "Her teachers and the persons most immediately about her, were requested to manifest no other feeling than that of sorrow on her account; and the poor creature, going about from one to another for comfort and for joy, but finding only sadness, became agonized with grief. When left alone she sat pale and motionless, with a countenance the very image of sorrow; and so severe seemed the discipline, that I feared lest the memory of it should be terrible enough to tempt her to have recourse to the common artifice of concealing and prevarication by another, and thus insensibly get her into the habit of falsehood. I therefore comforted her by assurances of the continued affection of her friends, and tried to make her understand that their grief and her suffering were the simple and necessary consequences of her careless or willful misstatement, and made her reflect upon the nature of the emotion she expe{rienced after having uttered an untruth, how unpleasant it was, how it made her feel afraid, and how widely different it was from the fearless and placid emotion which followed truth." "She came to me one day dressed for a walk, and had on a new pair of gloves which were stout, and rather coarse. I begun to banter and tease her, (in that spirit of fun of which she is very fond, and which she usually returns with interest,) upon the clumsy appearance of her hands, at which she first laughed, but soon began to look so serious and even grieved, that I tried to direct her attention to something else, and soon forgot the subject. But not so poor Laura; here her personal vanity, or her love of approbation, had been wounded; she thought the gloves were the cause of it, and she resolved to be rid of them. Accordingly, they disappeared, and were supposed to be lost; but her guileless nature betrayed itself; for, without being questioned, she frequently talked about the gloves, not saying directly that they were lost, but asking if they might not be in such or such a place. She was uneasy under the new garb of deceit, and soon excited suspicion. When it reached my ears, I was exceedingly pained, and moreover doubtful what course to pursue. At last, taking her in the most affectionate way, I began to tell her a story of a little girl who was much beloved by her parents, and brothers, and sisters, and for whose happiness every thing was done; and asked her whether the little girl should not love them in return, and try to make them happy; to which she eagerly assented. But, said I, she did not, she was careless, and caused them much pain. At this Laura was excited, and said the girl was in the wrong, and asked what she did to displease her relations. I replied, she deceived them. They never told her any thing but truth, but she one day acted so as to make them think she had not done a thing, when she had done it. Laura then eagerly asked if the girl told a fib, and I explained to her how one might tell a falsehood, without saying a word; which she readily understood, becoming all the time more interested, and evidently touched. I then tried to explain to her the different degrees of culpability resulting from carelessness, from disobe-dulged in conversation and study about subjects of dience, and from intentional deceit. She soon grew pale, and evidently begun to apply the remarks to her own case, but still was very eager to know about the wrong little girl,' and how her parents But we are trespassing on our limits. A change has come over Laura. She is no longer a child, but is passing into the sphere of the higher thoughts and deeper anxieties which pertain to womanhood. During the past year her health has been feeble. "She was placid and uncomplaining," says the last report, "and though never gay as in former years, she was never gloomy. She appeared to feel no fear or anxiety concerning her health; and when questioned closely about it, she would answer that she was very well. Indeed, the change had come over her so slowly and gradually, that she seemed to be hardly conscious of it, and showed surprise when it was alluded to. As she grew thinner, and paler, and weaker, she appeared to be laying aside the garments of the flesh, and her spirit shone out brighter through its transparent vail. Her countenance became more spiritualized, and its pensive expression told truly, that, though there was no gloom, neither was there any gladness in her heart. Her intellect was clear and active, and she would fain have in a serious nature; but she was sensitive and excitable, and the mental activity and craving were perhaps morbid. Be that as it may, however, she was at a fearful crisis in her life, and it seemed to be our first 280 THE HOME OF THE HEART. duty to save that. She was, therefore, not only diverted from all exciting trains of thought, but dissuaded from pursuing her usual course of study." strength there appear glimpses of her former gayety of heart; and though she may never again be the merry, thoughtless girl that she was, we may hope to see in her a happy and cheerful woman. She will no longer be the same object of public curiosity and interest that she has been, but she will not be the point of view," says the report. "Before her ill-object of less care and affection to her friends so ness, she was not only a happy but a merry child, long as her frail life shall last." By careful treatment she recovered, her flesh returned, and her spirits improved. "Nor is the change in the last respect uninteresting in a moral who tripped cheerfully along her dark and silent path of life, bearing sportfully a burden of infirmity that would have crushed a stout man, and regarding her existence as a boon given in love, and to be expended in joy. Since her illness, she seems to be a thoughtful girl, from whom the spontaneous joy of childhood has departed, and who is cheerful or sad in sympathy with the feelings of those about her. I hope and believe that her health will be perfectly restored, although it is still very frail, and easily deranged by any over-exertion of body or mind. Perhaps a complete change may take place in her physical system, and her now slender form develop itself into the proportions of a large woman: such changes are not unfrequent after such severe crises. At all events, with restoration of health will come a return to those studies and occupations which have been necessarily suspended. She was just beginning to understand, that, as she was getting freed from the obligations of unconditional obedience to those who had directed her childhood, she must come under no less unconditional obedience to the new monitor and master-the conscience that was asserting its rule within her; and the veneration and affection for human friends, which are the first objects of the awakened germ of the religious feeling, were gradually tending upward and expanding into worship and love of God. "This transformation of her soul-this disenthrallment of its high and independent powers-was becoming perfectly clear to her by means of instruction, and would have changed what had been mere habit and blind obedience into conscious duty and stern principle, but the process was necessarily interrupted. Such instruction would, of course, require the consideration of subjects which were to her of the most intensely exciting interest, and might have cost her life." Cheering and grateful as are the emotions with which we have witnessed the development, hiherto, of this unfortunate but amiable girl, we cannot but feel an oppressive anxiety for her now that the higher consciousness and soberer thoughts of adult life are to be brought into conflict with her peculiar privations. Moral considerations alone can sustain her hereafter. She will need the strongest consolations and hopes of religion to illuminate her dark pathway to the tomb. We shall rejoice if the hope expressed in the conclusion of the last report of the asylum shall be realized: "Already," it says, "with returning health and Its memory is holy; But our home-it is not there. Nor yet in the loved dwelling We spoke of as our own, When deeper cares their shadow Over our hearts had thrown. We were happy, O, how happy! Earth seemed all bright and fair, While we dwelt 'neath that dear roof-tree; But our home-it is not there. Where the dear ones who passed from us With words of sad farewell, Now, robed in stainless vestments, With the bright angels dwellWhere love is not half anguish Where friends meet not to partThere is the spirit's dwelling, The home of the calm in heart. How many of our dear ones Have reached that happy home! Are they not watching for us, Waiting till we shall come? Deep, deep within our bosoms Pure love for them we bear; They remember us in heaven: Our home-it is with them there. THE Christian cause, o'er every other cause, Shall triumph, and the world be filled with bliss. LADIES' REPOSITORY. LADIES' REPOSITORY. SEPTEMBER, 1847. A DAY WITH THE CATHOLICS. My reader is undoubtedly advised, that this Queen City has become the centre of Catholic influence, if not for the whole country, at least for the west; and that no city of the Union affords more ample facilities for determining the true character of that influence from its daily life. Availing myself of the privilege here presented, of recognizing American Romanism, by its floating banner rather than its books, not many months ago I set apart a single day to this purpose. As I had taken my time at random, without any reference to the calendar, I resolved to select a good point for observation, and then sketch whatever scenes or incidents might occur, with the faithfulness of a Daguerreotype process. They, therefore, who shall peruse this paper, may rely upon the picture, whatever they may think of my opinions; and, I will add, both the picture and the opinions are here offered expressly for the benefit of those who, though curious in such matters, have not the opportunity of personal examination. "You see, then," said I to a young gentlemen of my acquaintance, "that the Catholics are nice judges of a location. Yonder Cathedral occupies the best site for such an edifice in the city. It stands on the summit level of this broad and beautiful plateau. Several years ago, when the ground was first purchased for this building, some were disposed to be merry over the mistake of its projectors, in carrying it so far out from the apparent centre. But those men were better speculators, if not better philosophers, than their judges. Perceiving the eastern section of the city densely crowded, and the northern and southern limits bounded by natural barriers, their vision must have been dim indeed had they not foreseen the rapidly swelling flood of business, wealth, and population setting westward. Now their lofty temple is in the midst of a thriving portion of the city, and will soon occupy its centre." "I have often admired," said my friend, "the architecture of that building. The outside, it is true, scarcely yet shows what it will be when completed; but the interior is certainly rich and magnificent. What do you think of the Corinthian order for a house of worship?" 281 "Admitting your premises," rejoined my young companion, "the conclusion is certainly both natural and easy. You think the projectors of this great work consulted only the ruling passion of our people." "If you are not convinced of this fact by the outside," I replied in a whisper, for we were now within the great door of the tower, "you will see it more clearly by regarding the interior. Stand here, and look in upon that double row of Corinthian columns, so perfectly designed, so smoothly fluted, resting on polished pedestals, and crowned with such richly-figured capitals. Throw your eye upward to the empanneled roof, molded into perfect keeping with the prevailing order, each panel of which is set off with a beautiful fretted border. Now, if you can see so far, or penetrate the 'dim religious light' cast by those colored windows, you will descry, at the other extremity of the vast room, a magnificent recess, guarded by a brazen fence or wall, and filled with the sacred furniture. There, at the left, is the cathedra, or bishop's chair, a costly sedan of crimson velvet, covered by a canopy of silk ornamented with embroidered figures and dropping tassels. At the right, outside the bronze wall, is a table supporting an immense urn, or something of that description, and above it hangs a fine picture of the crucifixion. In the centre stands the marble altar, figured all over with emblematic sculpture, and covered, though not concealed, by a flowing screen of the lightest and most open texture. The altar has two niches, or entablatures. On the lower one are ranged the sacred books, bound, lettered, and mounted with sumptuous elegance, and the ordinary utensils of the service. On the superior tablet stand ten golden candlesticks, six of them very high and massive, four of less stature, and alternated with the larger, all of which are furnished with long and superb waxen candles. The six larger ones are now burning, and seem to be radiant spots of fire, or blazing buttons, on the adjacent ceiling. High above the altar are three splendid paintings, works, I should think, by the best European masters. That on the right, as you dimly see, is the Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus; and you have just light enough to distinguish a winged cherub standing a few feet behind her. On the left the crucified Redeemer is being borne along, by his friends, to the rocky tomb in the garden, the whole effect of which is very life-like and touching. The centre piece, the great ornament of the recess, and not less of the church itself, is the representation of the angel's visit to St. Peter while in prison. Not only the conception, but the drawing and coloring of this vast picture, are worthy of any artist. Look, now, upon all that brilliant scene-the brazen fence, the velvet-cushioned cathedra, the marble altar and its burnished and blazing furniture, and all that array of masterly and affecting picturesand then ruminate a moment on the design of all this splendor." "That was not the question," I replied, "with the proprietors of this edifice. All they wished was to adapt the order to the popular taste in this country; nor can you fail to know, that an infant people, whose ruling faculty is the imagination, is most pleased with what is most picturesque and ornamental. As a nation, in spite of all our boasting, we are in that state of childhood which delights in pictures. While all our physical life is coming out with vigor, astonishing the world by the most wonderful demonstrations, our intellectual life is chiefly that of fancy, and spends itself in admiration of natural and artistic beauty. All of our best artists complain of this general failing; and some, discouraged by it, have gone to foreign countries. The common people among us are great admirers of human eloquence;ing but they most applaud that which is highly passionate and flashy. Our literature, too, shares liberally in the predominant taste for superficial excellence; and elegant writing is now thought, by a majority of readers, to consist of fine words overlaid with the most gaudy flowers of the imagination." VOL. VII.-36 "If, as you think, we are pre-eminently an imaginative people," replied my friend, "and I have long believed this to be one of our chief characteristics, I already perceive the ad captandum populum policy reignthroughout this vast pageant of art. But, lo! what comes there?" "Nothing," said I in a low whisper, "but the actors in the religious drama about to be performed with the same captivating policy in view." But the peals of the mighty organ, rolling and thundering through its thousand pipes, and jarring the very 282 LADIES' REPOSITORY. wainscots and windows by its tones, closed all further conversation at a stroke. Two robed priests and a mitred bishop, preceded, in a regular line, by eight small boys in scarlet gowns, enter through a door at the right of the altar, and kneel in fine order before the burning candles and the cross. The show of devotion was never more complete than here. The bishop, with a priest on either side, and supported by his platoon of little girl-looking boys, prostrates his face to the dust. All unite in this motion with a precision much to be admired. Every thing looks devout, solemn, and profound. There seems to be a worship in their hands. Thumb lies next to thumb, the fingers are accurately sorted into their respective pairs; and the submissive palms, thus adjusted, are reverently elevated before the breast. Now, they all meekly bow, and rise, then bow again. Over the rather broad back of the little bishophe is a small man in stature-there is a wide brocade covering, stiff with inwrought gold and silver threads, furnishing an ample canvas for a tapestried image of the cross. The officiating priest is similarly attired; but the other, who is to be the preacher for the day, is arrayed in a white crape gown mounted with a glittering collar and fastened by bright bands. The three adults in this mystic company are crowned with velvet caps, which, at stated and studied intervals, they reverently take off, and then bow themselves with an abasement more than commonly profound. During all the opening pageant, the organ keeps on in its vast and varying career, till all is hushed by two signal strokes from the presiding genius at the keys. Though the scene remains, the performers now take different parts, and the second act begins. The bishop is now seated in his rich sedan. The preacher takes a common seat at his right, with his face turned toward the crucifix, and his back to the adoring people in their pews. The band of little boys sit quietly on a bench laid adjacent to the brazen wall. No praise could exceed the strict propriety of their behavior, the neatness of their girlish dress, nor their skill in the enactment of their several parts. No sooner does the officiating priest ascend the platform before the altar, and begin the public services of the day, than these little disciples take up their distinctive duties, as if they had been educated for nothing else. The clergyman, turning his face to the audience, with his hands adjusted as before described, repeats a few words, and then turns himself round. After bowing frequently before the cross and wax candles, and waving his hands with a peculiar motion, he carelessly lifts up a leaf or two of a large and elegantly covered book, set in a mahogany frame, and begins to chant or recite its contents in a most unmusical and monotonous tone of voice. This reading, or recitation, is now and then interrupted by low prostrations before the gilt savior on the cross. The minister is closely followed by the organist, who, with punctilious accuracy, supports each paragraph of the recitation with a choral burst from the sounding pipes. Meanwhile, the very needful and officious little lads in red, watching the progress of the ceremony, wait upon the priest at every point. The big book, now on one side of the altar, is carried religiously to the other, and then back to its former place, as if the whole import of its contents depended on the place it occupies on the marble slab. Perhaps the import, however, gives the worshipers but little or no concern; for every thing read or uttered is in a dead language; and the words are so perfectly concealed, by the style of reading, that no mortal can make out a single sentence of what is sung or said. But the benediction is now hurriedly pronounced, the scene, is changed, and the third act of this sacred play begins. Attached to the third of the long row of columns on the right, counting from the holy place, is a mahogany pulpit, raised about ten feet above the floor, accessible by a case of winding stairs, and covered by a canopy of polished wood. The minister, leaving his brethren at rest within the brazen fence, opens the large brass gate, walks meekly through the crowd, and ascends the stairs, winding up and around the pillar to his elevated place. 'Without sitting down, he opens the Bible to read, and all the people stand upon their feet. From the body of the lesson he selects a text, and the sermon immediately succeeds. The listener must not be very captious about nice points in the plan and conduct of a discourse. He must not be surprised if the text and sermon are not allied by any ties of blood; nor must he wonder to hear a new and original translation of the text itself; but he will be pleased with the graceful and easy manner by which it is pronounced: “And I say unto you, make to yourselves friends of the mammon of INIQUITY, that, when ye fail, they may receive you into everlasting DWELLINGS. I know not what sort of a sermon is naturally expect ed, by a large and breathless audience, from a passage so difficult to be understood; but I will venture to presume, that no one present, not even the most experienced in such things, anticipates a discourse on charity, to be concluded with a well-pointed appeal for the perishing poor of Erin's green isle. But so it is; and the tears of many hundreds, the frequent crossings of the face and breast, and a liberal collection-not for Ireland after all, the preacher tells us, but for common use-no doubt give ample satisfaction to the parties behind the scene, and form a brilliant period to the third act in the interesting drama of the day. The bishop, the priests, and the little boys are again bending and bowing before the burning candles on the altar. The four smaller lights are now fired by a lad holding to their ready wicks a jet of flame, miracu lously fed or furnished, from the tip of a long and slender lamp-lighter. After numerous genuflections and regenuflections, all of which are performed with becoming gravity, two of the boys, leaving their companions still kneeling, pass round to the right side of the altar, and return, bearing each a small bottle. The priest extends to them a silver cup, into which they pour the contents of their vessels, and then retire in good order. In a little time the same agreeable cere mony is repeated. Now begins a more awful pageant. The priest takes the cup, sets it down before the gilt crucifix, waves his right hand most significantly over it, repeats a few Latin sentences, then raises it up, just as a little bell is ringing, for the gratification of the adoring worshipers. Now he sets the cup down again; and every good Catholic bows himself, as the useful bell rings out the second signal. Should that boy forget his bell. ringing, the most terrible profanations of the mystery might follow; but the lad is conscious of his importance, and most decidedly understands his business. But now all is over. The apotheosis is supposed to have taken place; and the priest, holding the glittering chalice high up before him, drinks its contents to the last atom. The boys next furnish, by a repetition of |