BESSIE, the subject of this brief memoir, was born December 20th, 1815. She was the youngest but one of a large family. Her mother was of Irish descent, and a Roman Catholic; but her father was a native of Scotland, and a Protestant. As he died when she was only three years old, she was deprived of his instruction, and the whole charge of her education devolved entirely upon the surviving parent. Her only sister, named Sarah, was seven years older than herself, and was, as well as Bessie, brought up in the Roman Catholic religion; her brothers, by their father's dying request, were allowed to remain Protestants.
Mrs. A—, the mother of Bessie, was a woman of strong mind and superior intellect, well able to sustain the duties which now devolved on her alone. She had devoted Bessie from the cradle to be a nun, and, consequently, had adopted a peculiar mode of education to prepare her for a convent life. From infancy she was accustomed to observe the fasts of the Roman Church most scrupulously, and with the utmost rigor. On ordinary fast-days she partook of only one meal, which consisted of a few plain potatoes and salt. On particular occasions she was not even allowed that scanty meal until a late hour. Her hunger was once so pressing that she ate some raw potatoes, which she found in the Barden.
Her whole education was one long novitiate for a conventual life; accordingly, she was led not to expect the same indulgences as the other children, as they were being educated for the world, but she for a "religious." Her childish imagination was fired by glowing descriptions of heaven,; and when she asked if she should ever reach that happy place, she was told she would without doubt, for she was to enter upon "a religious Life," and be a bride of Christ; and, of course, His bride would be with Him in heaven. Strengthened by this hope, she heroically bore the mortifications and self-denials imposed upon her, for the cake of the happiness for which they were preparing her; and she longed for the time when she should enter those walls which she looked upon as the portals of heaven.
With this object in view, her mother enforced strict obedience, and severely punished all departures from it. On one occasion Mrs. A—went out walking, and told Bessie to stay at home quietly till her return. But as soon as her mother's back was turned, Bessie and her younger brother held a consultation as to the probable length of her absence, and carne to the conclusion that she would not return for some time; they therefore went into the garden to play, and, in roaming about, they both climbed to the top of a hay-rick, from whence, to their consternation, they saw their mother returning home. They hastily jumped off, hoping to regain the house before her arrival; but poor Bessie twisted her ankle in her fall, and was unable to move. Her cries brought Mrs. A—to the spot. She bestowed no sympathy upon the little sufferer, but reproved her sternly for her disobedience; and, as a punishment, told her she should not set foot to the ground for a whole month, but lie on the sofa all day long. Though this measure was made a punishment, yet, no doubt, it was wisely intended to combine with it also an effectual cure; for when the month was expired, and Bessie was again allowed to stand on her feet, she did not feel the slightest inconvenience from her sprain, which had at first threatened to be serious.
When she was only about three years old she had a very narrow escape of losing her life. She was one day playing with several children, and fell into the river. The current turned her over and over, and carried her so far into the stream that none of her young friends could reach her. Whilst they were all streaming with terror, one of the bigger boys sprang across, catching hold with one hand of some boughs which stretched out over the river, whilst with the other hand he seized the drowning child, and held her, sustaining himself in that position until proper assistance could be obtained. Did not this seem a foreshadowing of her future life? Tossed about by the waves, but rescued, and brought safely to shore.
She was yearly in the habit of accompanying her mother on a visit to her grandmamma, with whom they usually stayed some weeks. She looked forward with much pleasure to this visit, both from love to the kind old lady, and for the sake of the handsome presents she always received on such occasions. One year the preparations for the journey were being made as usual, and Bessie was wild with delight at the prospect before her. At length the hour arrived, and her mamma told her to go and be dressed. Bessie asked if she might wear her blue pelisse.
“No, my dear, you must wear the other." "Oh! but, mamma, I don't like it, and I will wear the blue one.”
“My dear child, you must not speak in that manner, but be good and obedient, and wear the one I told you.”
“No, I won't. I will wear the bias pelisse, or not go at all.”
After much arguing, the mamma obtained her way, and Bessie carne down dressed as she had been ordered.
Her mamma then spoke to her seriously, and said, "I could not break my word, having said you should go to your grand mamma’s in this pelisse, and none other; and as I am jealous of my word, 1 wish you to be equally so of yours, and, therefore, as you said you would not go in the dress you have on, you must stay at home.”
Bessie in vain retracted the foolish threat; her mamma was inexorable, saying, "No, my dear, if you were to go as you are, you would break your word, and if as you wished, I should break mine. You must take heed another time not to make a resolution without having fully considered whether you will adhere to it.”
Such argument Bessie could not answer; and, as her conscience told her she had acted wrongly, she silently watched her mamma step into the carriage and drive off without her.
But this severity was exercised only to enforce moral principles. Mrs. A— was generally cheerful with her family, and most kind and affectionate, making herself quite a companion to her two daughters, and conversing freely with them; but Bessie being the younger, received most of her attention.
Mrs. A—possessed all that glow of imagination so remarkably characteristic of the Irish; and Bessie, being of an ardent disposition, listened to her eagerly when she rapturously dwelt on the happy destiny which was before her. How peculiarly she would be favored of heaven! In being shut out from the turmoil of the world, she would never feel the bitterness of disappointed hope, nor the uncertainty of the future; for, once within those hallowed walls, she would only leave them to enter a happier abode, and to receive the bridal crown reserved for the spouse of Christ. No cloud of sorrow would ever cross her path, but all would be quietness and peace.
In this anticipation of happiness, however, vital religion had no part; for Mrs. A—had never known what it is to be brought out of darkness unto God's marvelous light. 1 Peter 2:99But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should show forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light: (1 Peter 2:9). She knew there was a heaven and a hell, but she knew not the work of Christ; she trusted to the priests to secure her entrance into heaven, and believing herself to be a member of the "true Catholic Church," thought she was quite certain of eternal happiness; I do not say eternal Life; for she knew nothing of the new birth, of that life from above which is alone eternal. She knew not that she was "dead in trespasses and sins," and, consequently, that she needed the blood of Christ to wash away her guilt, and the Holy Spirit to quicken her soul. She felt not her need of a Savior, and the peace she enjoyed was a false one; she saw salvation only through the ordinances of the Roman Church, and infused into Bessie's mind the highest respect and admiration for everything connected with it.
At the age of ten, Bessie was confirmed by Dr. Doyle, the celebrated Roman Catholic Bishop of Carlow, and admitted to frequent confession. She did not view it as a mere form, but most carefully examined herself, according to the directions laid down in the Missal. This examination convinced her of sin. She saw in how many things she continually offended the justice of God, and it was in great sorrow of heart she approached the confessional, feeling deeply humbled at the recollection of her short-coming; and as she knelt, and laid her hand on her heart, and said she had sinned, "through my fault, my fault, my exceeding great fault," she felt overwhelmed, and uttered the words with the deepest feeling. After confession she felt as if a weight were removed, and that she had been fully forgiven. But this peace was of short duration, the week's preparation for the next confession soon carne round, and her short-lived joy was gone. It seemed remarkable that, in one of such tender years, there should have been such Jeep conviction of sin; but her character in every point ripened early. A life of sorrow was hers—
"A stormy April day!
A little sun, a little rain,
And then night sweeps along the plain.”
The gleams of sunshine between the storm were of short duration, but now she basks in eternal sunshine, without a cloud of sorrow on her brow.
"Blest is the tempest, kind the storm, Whose billows drive us home.”
At the age of twelve she lost her only surviving parent. Her mother had long shown symptoms of consumption. At length they became more manifest, and no hope of recovery was held out to her.
When Mrs. A—saw death approaching with rapid strides, the thought of eternity overwhelmed her. She sent for the priests, and told them what agony of mind she endured at the prospect of appearing before God. They appointed various services of the Church for her, directed her in her devotions, lent her books to read, and did everything in their power to allay her mental sufferings. But it was all in vain, her misery increased; for it is only God who can give true peace of mind, and who can say to the stormy billows, "Peace, be still!" It is only acceptance through Christ that can satisfy a truly anxious soul. Other things in time of health may give false confidence, but in the dying hour naught but Christ can satisfy. It is only when He is with us that we can calmly enter the valley of the shadow of death, and fear no evil.
Priests and friends having failed in their utmost attempts to afford her any consolation, her daughter Sarah raid to her, "I remember, mamma, when papa was dying he used to call me often to the side of his bed, and tell me to read the Bible to him, when he was so ill that he could not read it himself; and though I was too young to understand what I read, yet I well remember the Pleasure it gave him, and the bright joy that lighted up his face. So that I used at last to offer of my own accord to read to him, that 1 might see the happiness he enjoyed. Perhaps if I were to read to you it might give you comfort.”
Having obtained the permission of the priests, Sarah began reading the word of God to her mother, who found it to be "spirit and life." Light from above entered her heart, and all was peace and brightness, where before had been darkness and sorrow. Her joy was now as great as her grief had been previously. She no longer feared death; she only viewed it as the entrance to eternal life. Eagerly she devoured the sacred book, and gained increasing happiness from every line. How different are God's words from those of men!
One evening, in the month of May, Mrs. A—wished to be taken to the open window. An easy chair was placed for her, in which she sat gazing on the beautiful view before her. She knew her time would not be long on earth, and therefore she availed herself of that opportunity of speaking to her daughters, who were kneeling on each side of her, on many subjects of mutual interest, until, from exhaustion, she could speak no more; but a placid smile played over her pale features, and the joy which filled her soul shone through the bright but sunken eyes.
She was looking at the prospect from the window, and Bessie mechanically did the same, and was struck by the contrast presented before her. All nature was bursting into life, and the bright sun was adding increased beauty to the scene. She turned from it, and looked at her mother, on whose face death was evidently marked; but her clear blue eyes were brighter still, and seemed to express that which she had not strength to utter. At length she broke the silence, saying, with great emphasis, "I know that my Redeemer liveth." The exertion was too great, she fell back in the chair, and they were the last words she spoke. She was carried back to her bed, and soon her spirit left its mortal clay to enter on the realization of those promises which had cheered her dying bed.
When Bessie saw that her mother was really dead, her grief knew no bounds. She threw herself on the lifeless corpse, clinging to it and embracing it, until her brothers were obliged to separate her by force, and drag her away.
Her sister, who had nursed her sick mother, and had been in constant attendance by her side, sank with fatigue when her attentions were no longer needed, retired to her room, and sickened of typhus fever, brought on by over-watching and anxiety.
Bessie was left all alone that evening; no one was near to whisper a word of comfort; and reflecting that her mother could never return to her, she left the house unobserved, and determined to spend the night at the end of the garden by the river without a bonnet or shawl hoping that the damp chills of the night air might give her such a violent cold that she should die, and thus quickly rejoin her mother. As the attention of everyone in the house was bestowed on her sister, Bessie was not missed, and she spent the night undisturbed, walking up and down the garden by the river's side in the dark and the cold, giving full vent to her grief in bitter lamentations, calling in vain to her mother to return. No voice answered her, and no other sound disturbed the stillness of the night save the murmuring of the waters as they flowed past her. At length morning dawned, the sun rose, and the glad earth reflected his bright beams; but no ray of comfort cheered this lonely child.
Whilst her sad heart was thus bursting with grief, the violence of which was varied only by deeper musings of anguish, as in mental vision she was still gazing on that loved face over which death had cast its stern and pallid shade, some notes of distant music fell upon her ear; and as the sounds floated on the breeze, softened by the water over which they passed, they soothed her troubled spirit, and calmed her excited feelings. She listened eagerly to catch every note, and when they had passed, and she heard them no more, she was so much quieted that she wandered back to the house. The music had proceeded from a pleasure party on the river. Perhaps young and thoughtless hearts were enjoying the gladsome beams of the rising sun and the freshness of the morning breeze, which, combined with the strains above alluded to, may have lulled into forgetfulness every anticipation of a cloud to obscure, or storm to disturb, the unruffled calm that reigned around.
What different scenes are often presented to us in the moving pictures of life; each scene rendered more vivid by being contrasted with another. In that before us we have, on the one hand, the children of mirth, joyous as the morning beams that played around them; and on the other, standing in mournful shade, a bereft orphan, fatherless and motherless in the wide world, now made to her a dreary waste and desolate void. If asked, "With which of these will you take your place?" nature would reply, "In that happy skiff, with sweet music and joyous spirits." But pause—consider—that lone one has an eye fixed on her, an invisible hand that is leading her through those avenues of gloom and darkness into the pastures of His grace. "Blessed are ye that weep now; for ye shall laugh... Woe unto you that laugh now! for ye shall mourn and weep.”
The following lines, written by her some years afterward, allude, in the third verse, to this occasion:
Conflicting Feelings
"Lo! the pearly gates unfolding
All within exempt from pain;
Rise, as promis'd joy beholding,
Oh, my soul! nor now complain,
Soon triumphant,
Thou shalt joie Messiah's train.
“Wherefore sigh o'er vanished pleasure?
Weep not, though the weary eye
Meet no sweet oasis. Treasure,
Pilgrim, hast thou not on high?
There await thee
Joys that bloom eternally.
"Rise and sing, oh, heir of heaven!
Bound is thy harp in memory's chain?
Break, oh, break the spell! 'Tis riven:
Sweep the trembling chords again.
E'en the desert's
Saddest places send the strain
“Yet afflicted nature often,
Ere her journey 's o'er, will weep;
But Thine own heart, Lord, was broken,
And Thou dost remembrance keep
Of its anguish,
Lest Thy sympathy should sleep.
“Having been a Man of sorrows,'
Thou canst feel for others' woe;
Then behold these barbed arrows,
Lord, and let Thy pity flow;
In this bosom
See them fixed, and grace bestow.
“Grace to endure the Father's chast'ning,
As believing God is love;'
Onward, ever onward hast'ning,
Till I 've reached the goal above,
In the circle
Of thy crowned saints to move.”
As might have been expected, she was laid up with a severe cold, and confined to her bed for some time. Then it was she felt the full extent of her loss, as she tossed about upon her bed, hour after hour passing heavily away, without either father, mother, or sister to break their silence; she had only the recollection of happy days, now gone forever And when night drew its dark curtain around her, sleep brought, no relief, for in her dreams were mingled scenes of past joyous times; and she would awake with anguish, as she realized her lonely situation.
“Night is the time to weep:
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory, where sleep
The joys of other years.
Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perished young, like things of earth.”
MONTGOMERY.