Fabiola : or, The church of the catacombs - Digital Repository Services

AN unassuming little village is B ,
THE VISION
OP
OLD ANDREW THE WEAVER.
in one of the Midland
counties of England, seldom visited by travelers, as
being out of the line of the greater thoroughfares, and possessing
no feature of interest beyond the simple beauty of its fields
of a few detached
and orchards. At present it consists merely
clusters of neatly thatched cottages, each seeming to repose
amid the foliage of a luxuriant mass of fruit trees: and grouped,
without any regard to order, around the lower slopes of a gentle
hill, from the tops of which the taper spire of its good old
church soars high aloft, as if protecting, at once, and asserting
its authority over the abodes of its children there below.
The size and beauty of this relic of times gone by, seems to
indicate that at one period a much more numerous and wealthy
population must have been gathered around it than at present;
and the same is evident from the extent of the churchyard, and
the many grass-grown mounds scattered through the meadows,
well known to be composed of the debris of masonry.
In fact, not so long since as that the existing generation had
lost the tradition of its prosperity, B had seen far better
days than it could hope for again. Ere the revolutions of
trade and the rapid perfection of machinery had concentrated
manufactures in the large towns, a thriving fabric of linen
cloth had furnished employment and happiness to its cottagers.
And there was one yet remaining amongst them who could
himself remember these better times, when from the churchcrowned
hill, from beneath the green lime trees that belted the
grave-yard, it was pleasant to look down on the fields around,
here blooming with the azure blossom of the flax, there glisten-
ing with the new-made cloth, spread forth in strips of dazzling
whiteness, to bleach in the sun's rays; and to listen to the
shock of the loom and the rattle of the shuttle, and the gay
Bongs that came forth from the wide-open door of every
cottage.
Old Andrew, the weaver, could well recollect those days and
scenes; for, amidst that blithe 'and contented generation, he
had been the blithest. But he had seen the looms, one by one,
grow idle; und his companions, one by one, go forth to seek
their fortunes elsewhere; or, one by one, carried up the hill to
their beds beneath the old lime trees, and now he was the sole
remaining relic of those so happy times.
Yet he still clung to his loom, though year by year the importations
of cheap machine-made linen kept diminishing the
demand for his craft; he still tried to carol forth his old favorite
ditties, though his voice was growing thin and rough with
sge aye, and it must be said, with sorrow; and he loved to
tell of the days when he was the first among the boys at foot-
ball and the race, and the most admired, and the most favored,
too, at the dance on the green on the summer evenings; but
then, sometimes, the tear would steal down his cheeks whilst
he was speaking, or he would break off suddenly in his tale,
and hasten back to his once smiling but now desolate cottage,
murmuring to himself, "It's all over now, it's all over now."
And the villagers one and all knew old Andrew, and they
loved him, too; and they would stand for hours together to
listen to his stories; and they wished with him that the good
old times would come back again, but sighed with him, too,
s they said, "There was no hope o' that." And it was they
had given him the name of Old Andrew, the weaver, for he was
in truth now the only one of the craft, where erst all had been
weavers.
But the industry of even his loom had begun to Bag. Says
and days would pass by, whilst it was still; and these intervals
of idleness kept growing more frequent and longer. Even
when the old sound was heard in the cottage, it seemed languid
and dull, and the shuttle flew lesa swiftly and less joyously.
Each day Andrew saw his bread diminishing. He had generally
had a bit for any beggar that strayed to his door, and
many a one had gone away blessing him for his charity; bat
now his cupboard was almost always empty, for his decreasing
employment, even with the help of the charity which he wa
fain to receive from others, barely furnished him with his daily
meal. He foresaw that soon he must come upon the parish a
galling thought at all times, and to all; for the pittance which
the law forces men to dole out, brings with it none of the sympathies
of charity to soothe the wounded feelings of him who
receives it. But at this period, and for Andrew, it was still
more terrible. In their mistaken philanthropy, or their worldly
wisdom, the rulers of the hind had just changed the laws for
the relief of the poor; and caused in every district those un-
sightly piles to be erected, now so conspicuous in the vicinity
of every considerable town, and which are at once recognized
as the "Union Workhouses." One of these had, a short time
before, been finished for the district to which Andrew's village
belonged; but it was at a long distance, and if he was to make
use of its shelter he must leave not only his cottage but the
very lanes and fields that were so dear to him, to go into fresh
and far less beautiful scenes, amid strangers. Then the neighborhood
was full of surmises and reports about the misery of
the new prison for as such it was universally regarded by
those for whom it was professedly built. The village rung
with stories of the insults and hardships endured by some who
had been forced to take up their abode in it. Doubtless there
was considerable exaggeration in these rumors; still, in truth,
there was much to startle a tottering old man in the prospect
before him; and the addition, in this particular case, of a strict
and unbending board of guardians and a harsh master at the
workhouse, left him but little hope of exemption or comfort.
But there was yet another thing that pressed
still more
heavily on the old man's mind. Andrew was a Catholic; and,
as far as conviction and a love for his religion went, he was a
sincere one. We cannot say that, in his earlier years, he had
shown himself a very pious one. The gaiety of youth, and his
own village accomplishments, had led him into much dissipation
of mind, and into many negligences which now he regretted.
But he had always been punctual to bis Sunday
duties; he had occasionally at least, nay, with tolerable regularity,
approached the holy sacraments; and though thoughtless
and hasty, and over fond of amusement, still he had not
been an habitual drunkard or a libertine.
There were, however, many things that he looked back to
with sorrow. Now that age had taken away the wishes and
the powers of youth, the old lessons of his childhood came
back to his mind in a new light, and told him of the necessity
of preparing for another change, and of doing it by making
amends for the past. So it was now his delight to trndg, in
the morning, to the little chapel on the opposite side of the
hill; both to assist at the Holy Mass, and have a few words of
consolation and advice from Father Peter: and at least once in
the month he approached what he now regarded as his viaticum
the bread sent from heaven, to conduct old men such as him
thither. j
But the road to the workhouse lay just in the opposite direc-
tion from that to the chapel; and he fnlt that if once he entered
its walls, he must give up all hopes of ever again assisting at
the Holy Sacrifice. And though he knew that Father Peter
would not fail to visit him, yet it must be seldom, and, perhaps,
when he most wanted him, those at whose mercy he
would be, would care little to send seven or eight miles for
him. Oh !
it was a bitter and a dreary thought; yet each day
it grew upon him each day the necessity of taking the fatal