About the BryonySeries: Old St. Patrick's Cathedral Catacombs

Cindy, who makes our Ribbit-Ribbits, announced at our marketing dinner in December that she and her family would be spending New Year's Eve at Times Square and a few days in New York, seeing "the sights."

At the time, Cindy didn't have any "sights" in mind. So I suggested a few.

Because the BryonySeries prequel "Before The Blood" is part historical fiction, I created the "feel" of the time and locations by lightly blending real landmarks and events into the overall story.

One landmark was St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, which was established in 1815 at 263 Mulberry Street in Lower Manhattan and was the seat of the acrchdiosese until 1879, when St. Patrick's (New) Cathedral on Fifth Avenue replaced it as the seat.

You can read a brief history and excerpts from  "Before The Blood: John Simons" in this blog: About the BryonySeries:  Basilica of Saint Patrick's Old Cathedral.

Today's post focuses on St. Patrick's Old Cathedral cemetery as well as the catacombs beneath the church and the opportunity to view the catacombs during a candlelit tour, which Cindyand her son Justin took.

Enjoy a glimpse of the experience through Cindy's photos.

Below the photos, read an except from "Before The Blood: Byrony Simons," which takes place in the catacombs.

 

He released her and looked away. "Would you like to meet my mother?"

            The abruptness of the question and the lingering pressure of his fingertips warned Bryony to think carefully before speaking.

            "Your mother?" she whispered.

            "Yes."

            "You want me to meet her?"

            John did not speak again, nor did he direct the driver

. But they soon stopped outside a gray and salmon-colored church with Gothic stained glass and a red brick and stone fence surrounding it.

            "What is this place?"

            "Old St. Patrick's Cathedral."

            "I don't understand."

            "You will."

            They walked past the simple yet dignified building to the churchyard, dotted with old stones and markers, toward the front of the building. They silently trod over the lumpy ground, the silence broken by the rumbling of carriages, the twittering of gray birds, and an occasional snapping of twigs beneath their feet.

 

            “My mother is encased in her sad little world. And my father is dead.”

           

            John led her up the stairs, opened the heavy front door, and, before she could absorb the cathedral's plaster interior and marble statues, headed for a side door and opened that, too.

            He led her down the dark narrow stairs to a cold stone room and double set of wooden doors, which he also opened.

            Through the dim candlelight lining the walls, Bryony glimpsed an endless tunnel of splendor and gloom.

            "John?"

            "Catacombs, darling."

            "Catacombs? In New York?"

            He shut the doors, locked them, and then took her wrist.

            She was sealed in an underground cemetery with no means of escape except doors John had secured.

            What did he want of her?

            Then she remembered. She stood tall and met his eyes.

            "Faith," she said.

            She saw a hint of animation in the pale blue at the word, and she felt emboldened at the sight. She didn't understand the game, but at least she was learning the rules.

            Bryony clung to her small victory during the grim trek through an everlasting passageway of arched doors and nameplates. John kept only a loose grasp, for where would she run?

            Their heels clicked on the stone; their respiration rasped in the stillness. She tried not to think of all the human bones lying behind the cold walls.

            After a time,  John stopped at a door. The golden plate gleamed with single word: Simons.

            John inserted a key.

            She grabbed his wrist. "John, no!"

            John pried her off and swung open the door. She started to run, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her inside with him.

            At the far end of the lighted room lay a single sealed coffin.

            Bryony stared at it and then stared up at John, her heart racing.

            He didn't look angry, which she expected given her outburst, or sad at the sight, which she hoped. Instead, he casually pointed out the fixtures hanging from the ceiling.

            "Edison and Co." His voice echoed as he spoke. He gestured at the vault's lining. "Guastavino tiles."

            "What?"

            "Only the finest for my mother. And today my father joins her. Isn't it exciting?"

            She turned back to the coffin.

            "Did they love each other?"

            John did not answer. So she tried again.

            "Is...is this what you meant about her being "encased in her own little world?"

            "Somewhat."

About the BryonySeries: Basilica of Saint Patrick's Old Cathedral

Cindy, who makes our Ribbit-Ribbits, announced at our marketing dinner in December that she and her family would be spending New Year's Eve at Times Square and a few days in New York, seeing "the sights."

At the time, Cindy didn't have any "sights" in mind. So I suggested a few.

Because the BryonySeries prequel "Before The Blood" is part historical fiction, I created the "feel" of the time and locations by lightly blending real landmarks and events into the overall story.

One landmark was St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, which was established in 1815 at 263 Mulberry Street in Lower Manhattan and was the seat of the acrchdiosese until 1879, when St. Patrick's (New) Cathedral on Fifth Avenue replaced it as the seat.

In "Before The Blood: John Simons" John's father Abbiott Simons insists they walk the five miles one way to from their Fifth Avenue mansion to St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, even after the arrival of New St. Patrick's Cathedral, which Abbott loathed. This never made sense to John, as the latter more grandiose and close to home.

John Simons was born in 1863, and he recalled the first time he attended St. Patrick's Old Cathedral (1868), quite a trek for a young boy. But as far as we know, John never complained about the walk, only about the length of the archbishop's sermons.

That archbishop was Father John McCloskey, a man with a fascinating backstory and who later because the first United States cardinal.

The bust in the first photo is of "Dagger" John Hughes, fourth bishop and first Archbishop of New York, and the bishop responsible for the construction of the new St. Patrick's Cathedral, although that church was not completed until after Hughes' death.

Hughes was the son of a poor farmer, so the story of his life is also fascinating read.

Below are photos Cindy took of the interior and exterior of St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, including a few of the cemetery on church grounds, as the church is still very much an active church.

The old Erben organ, installed also in 1868, was out for repair, so she didn't get photos of it. But you can see and hear it here.

Beyond the photos are three excerpts from "Before The Blood: John Simons" that take place at or near St. Patrick's Old Cathedral.

Next week, we'll explore one interesting feature about St. Patrick's Old Cathedral that also made it into "Before The Blood."

You see, St. Patrick's Old Cathedral also has catacombs.

It didn't matter if John dreamed of his father as the devil or the Almighty, for behind the walls of the Fifth Avenue mansion loosely called "home," John perceived Farlow Abbott Simons as the embodiment of omnipotence, supreme authority, and judgment, an eternal presence John could never please.

            On Sundays and Holy Days of Obligation when Abbot stayed in town, father and son attended High Mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral, its Federal-style architecture and plaster ceiling and walls inside its one hundred and twenty foot long and fifty foot wide interior resembling home: hard, beautiful, and cold. As erect and immobile as the marble statues, but not nearly so tall, Abbot stood beside his son, and, to the accompaniment of the Erben organ, sang those majestic Latin hymns in a strong and powerful tenor voice.

             John even recalled the first day they had attended: March seventeenth, eighteen-sixty-eight. The sermon, delivered by Archbishop John McClosky, droned on and on and on. More than once, a restless John shuffled feet and felt his father's pinch.

             "He speaks too much," John whispered after one such assault on his neck.

            Abbot did not reply, but during the walk home, Abbott did say, "A fire destroyed the sanctuary two years ago, but, as you saw today, it was rebuilt. The archbishop will not always talk so long. Today was the cathedral's rededication, the feast day of the church's' patron saint."

             John had opened his mouth to ask, "What's a patron saint?" But Abbot had chosen that moment to toss a coin at a ragged boy with a runny nose in exchange for a copy of the New York Gazette, and John let the question drift away.

            Often, as John stole glances at his father lifting his voice to the firmament in song, he wondered if the beautiful words cut into Abbot's alabaster exterior to stir something of the immortal within him, or if his father merely crooned empty syllables. Sometimes after Mass, Abbott would walk through the church's cemetery, pausing now and again before a tombstone, and bowing his head in prayer.

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By the evening of December 23, the house was filled with guests anticipating festivities extending through New Year's Day, most of them centered around food, from the creamed fish leading the Christmas Eve dinner at dusk to the roast goose stuffed with apples and potatoes on Christmas evening. As Christmas Eve night deepened and the post-dinner conversations grew louder over thick slices of Irish cake and lively games of whist, John retreated to his chambers, avoiding those of his mother's where she relentlessly sang Silent Night, to think and plan.

            He was back downstairs by a quarter past eleven. With his star outshining the others in brilliance and brightness, John accompanied Abbott on foot to the candlelit midnight Mass at Old St. Patrick's Cathedral. Abbott stubbornly refused to set foot inside the new seat of the Archdiocese of New York, which John could not comprehend, as his father was not generally sentimental. But either the solemnity of the newborn Savior or the claret punch struck Abbott, for his strong tenor cut through the silent, glittering night on the walk back:

Adeste, fideles, laeti triumphantes:

Venite, venite in Bethlehem:

Venite adoremus.

Venite adoremus.

Venite adoremus Dominum.

            At home, feast number two awaited them: French omelets, hot buttered toast, buckwheat cakes, creamed potatoes and creamed sweetbreads, oyster pie, assorted jellies, and coffee. But the post-Mass discussions were subdued and halting. Gradually, the weary clan dispersed to their rooms, and John went with them, Gloria, in excelsis Deo lingering in his mind. By late morning, they had relished a hearty brunch of French onion soup, mutton chops, and fried apples; an afternoon Christmas tea staved off hunger pains for several more hours. John retired sooner than usual. Abbott had scheduled an early morning meeting with the board of trustees.

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For the next two hours, John sprinkled complex compositions with renditions of The Liberty Song and The Star-Spangled Banner, as the half-starving refugees ravaged the food tables. Eventually, John switched to songs Papa Everett used to play, and these resonated with the shabby audience more than his masterpieces. Ladies in rags and shawls gradually released their inhibitions long enough to persuade their weary husbands to dance in the aisles with them. Children skipped in circles and twirled to the beat.

            As John set down the lid, Peabody walked up.

             "What a phenomenal success, I tell you! I even hired a couple of the...um...guests. I can't thank you enough."

            "My pleasure."

            "Say, I know you can't play without pay all the time, but would you consent to one last special request? Nothing as fancy or long as today."

            "What are you suggesting?"

            "I belong to old St. Patrick's. It has the most beautiful Erben pipe organ. I think the old cathedral sometimes gets forgotten, now that the archdiocese has a new seat. What would you say about playing High Mass, just one time? I could arrange it through our priest."

            "I'll play Sunday."

            Peabody blinked, taken aback. "I didn't expect immediately. Certainly, you may ponder the request."

            "On the contrary, I'm looking forward to fulfilling your wishes, and quickly."

            "Well, thank you. Not trying to offend, but you don't strike me as the pious type."

            "I'm not offended. And you'd be surprised."

            The next day, John had an invitation for a special July fourteenth appearance at the Academy of Music, a four thousand seat opera house of New York's old money, eclipsed in popularity when New York's new money opened the Metropolitan Opera House five years ago. John smiled when he read the telegram and handed the urchin ten dollars.

             "Thankee, sir!" The boy tipped his hat and dashed away.

            Not long now, John thought with satisfaction, not long at all. He patted his wallet and hoped each card therein felt his hand. His hour with destiny drew near. He was ready.

            On Sunday, John climbed to the choir loft of that Federal-style edifice and took his seat at the organ, one of the earliest sources of music from John's long-ago childhood, and John's first experience at awe, for the organ had cost fifteen thousand dollars at the time of its purchase in eighteen sixty-eight. As the Latin hymns reverberated off the plaster walls, John's spirit soared higher than the ceilings, knowing his father was facing the gold-leaf screen behind the altar, standing as proud as the marble statues, and loathing every note.

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