The Cross and the Shamrock | Page 3

if it affords the former any pleasure or amusement during one
or two of such few hours of leisure as it took the latter to write it.
Regarding style, method, and arrangement of the matter, the author has
no apology to offer, except that the work has been written in great haste,
and by one who, in five years, has not had a single entire day for
recreation or unoccupied by severe missionary duty. Let not the critics
forget this.

CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
A DEATH BED SCENE, 13
CHAPTER II.
GETTING THE MOTHER'S BLESSING, 23
CHAPTER III.
AN OFFICIAL, 32
CHAPTER IV.
THE POORHOUSE, 41
CHAPTER V.

THE O'CLERYS, 52
CHAPTER VI.
THE COUNCIL, 60
CHAPTER VII.
A RUDE LOVER OF NATURE, 69
CHAPTER VIII.
THE ORPHANS IN THEIR NEW HOME, 77
CHAPTER IX.
THE PRYING FAMILY, 87
CHAPTER X.
A RAY OF HOPE, 97
CHAPTER XI.
VAN STINGEY AGAIN.--HOW HE GETS RICH AND ENDS, 106
CHAPTER XII.
MASS IN A SHANTY, 117
CHAPTER XIII.
THE TEMPTER AT THE WOMAN, 129
CHAPTER XIV.
THE FRUITS OF THE CROSS, 136

CHAPTER XV.
THE CONVERSION, 145
CHAPTER XVI.
THE ENLIGHTENED CITIZENS, 155
CHAPTER XVII.
"HE AND HIS WHOLE HOUSE BELIEVED," 164
CHAPTER XVIII.
"TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION," 178
CHAPTER XIX.
WHAT HAPPENED TO LITTLE EUGENE O'CLERY, 187
CHAPTER XX.
THE SAME, CONTINUED, 201
CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER OF
ACCIDENTS, 213
CHAPTER XXII.
THE DESERTED HOME OF THE ORPHANS, 223
CHAPTER XXIII.

IN WHICH THE SCENE OF OUR TALE IS CHANGED, 240
CHAPTER XXIV.
SHOWS HOW THE CROSS AND SHAMROCK WERE
PERMANENTLY UNITED AFTER A LONG SEPARATION, 251
CHAPTER XXV.
CONCLUSION, 260
CHAPTER I.
A DEATH-BED SCENE.
A cold evening in the month of January, a drizzling rain storm blowing
from the south-west, a cheerless sky, a dull, threatening atmosphere,
together with almost impassable roads,--these are the chilling and
uninviting circumstances with which, if we pay regard to truth, we
must introduce our narrative to our readers. It is usual, with writers of
fiction and romance, to preface their literary exhibitions with
high-wrought and dazzling descriptions of natural and artificial
objects--the sun, moon, and stars; the clouds, meteors, and other
fantastic creations of the atmosphere; the seas, rivers, and lakes; the
mountains, fields, and gardens; the birds, fishes, and the inhabitants of
the savage forests, as well as the forests, groves, and woods
themselves,--in a word, all nature seems as if conscious of the effects
likely to result to the morals, habits, and projects of men, while some of
your modern novelists are arranging their matter, sharpening their
scissors, preparing pen, ink, and paper, and taking indigestible suppers
to make way into the world for the offspring of their creative fancies.
Ours being a tale of truth,--yes, of bare, unvarnished truth, yet of truth
more interesting, if not "stranger, than fiction,"--it is not to be
wondered that, when we acknowledge the homely dame, and her alone,
as our guide, inspirer, and preceptor, we lack the advantage of
romancers, and cannot command "a special sunset," or a storm made to
order, or other enchanting scenery, to introduce us to our patrons.

We must take things as we find them; and this is why cold, rain, and
frost, the whistling of merciless winds, together with false and pitiless
ice, constitute the principal features of our introductory chapter. The
merry chimes of sleigh bells, as if to add gloom to the scene, were
silent, no snow having fallen this winter, and the ice being irregular and
lumpy. The streets of the city of T---- were almost entirely deserted of
foot passengers, owing to the danger of walking over the slippery
pavement; while cabmen and omnibus conductors had cautiously
driven their teams to the stable or smithy, to have them "sharpened" for
the frozen coat of mail which enveloped the earth. When about dusk, an
aged gentleman, in a cloak, with a sharp-pointed cane in his hand,
might be observed moving along the gutter of a narrow street.
Occasionally he would slip so as to come on one knee, and now he
would steer himself along by taking hold of the sills of windows, and of
the railings which here and there were erected in front of a few houses
on the retired and deserted street on which he crept along.
At length he approaches an old three-story, red, frame-built house,
which, from its shattered and dilapidated windows, at first seemed to be
deserted, but which, from the description left by a messenger with his
domestic in the forenoon, he could not doubt was the place where he
heard the emigrant widow lay at the point of death.
"Is this where the sick woman is?" said he to an old woman who
opened the door.
"Yes, your reverence," answered Mrs. Doherty, at once recognizing the
priest; "and thank God