A FUNERAL.
The day following the call made by Mr. Norton on Micah Mummychog, the
last-named personage came to Mr. Dubois's house and Adèle happening to
open the outside door, just as he hove in sight, he called out, "Miss
Ady, do ye know where that individooal that ye brought to my heouse
yisterday, is?"
"You mean the missionary?" said Adèle.
"Well, yis, I spose so; where is he?"
"He is engaged with a sick gentleman we have here. He has taken the
place of Aunt Patty, who is tired out and has gone to rest".
"Well, that piece of flesh, what's called McNab, has the greatest
fakkilty of gittin' tired eout when there's any work reound, that ever
I see. Any heow, she's got to stir herself this time. But I want to
see the minister, neow".
"Yes, I will speak to him. But I shall not call Aunt Patty. She _is_
tired now. I can take care of the sick gentleman. But what has
happened, Micah?"
"Well, there's goin' to be a funeral. I can't jestly tell ye abeout
it neow. Ye can ax yer sir, when he comes in", said Micah, reluctant
to go into particulars which he knew would shock Adèle.
"Well, Captin", said Micah, when Mr. Norton made his appearance at the
door, here's a reg'lar wind-fall for ye. Here's an Irishman over here,
as is dead as a door nail. He's goin' to be buried to-night, 'beout
sunset, and I dun no but what I can git a chance for ye to hold forth
a spell in the grove, jest afore they put him under greound".
"Dead! the poor man dead! indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Norton.
"Yis. He was shot right through his heart, and I hope a swingin' cuss
'ill come on him that put the ball threough, tew".
"Why, how was it, Mr. Micah?" said Mr. Norton earnestly.
"Well, yeou jest tell me fust wether yeou'll say prayers, or somethin'
or 'nother over the poor chap's reeliks".
"Certainly, I will, Mr. Micah".
"Well, ye see, Pat McGrath lived back here, half a mile or so, an'
he's got lots o' cousins an' friends 'ut live all along on this 'ere
river, more or less, till ye git to Chartham, _that's_ sitooated to
the mouth. Well, these fellers has been in the habit o' gittin'
together and goin' deown river and hirin' once in a spell, some sort
of old, cranky craft and goin' skylarking reound to Eastport and
Portland. Arter a while they'd cum back and smuggle in a cargo o'
somethin' or 'nother from the States, and sheirk the dooties. Well,
'beout a week ago, there was a confounded old crittur 'ut lives
halfway from here to Chartham, that informed on' em. So they jes'
collected together--'beout twenty fellers--and mobbed him. And the old
cuss fired into 'em and killed this 'ere man. So neow they've brought
his body hum, and his wife's a poor shiftless thing, and she's been a
hollerin' and screechin' ever sence she heerd of it".
"Poor woman!" said Mr. Norton, greatly shocked.
"Well, I might as well tell yer the whole on't", said Micah,
scratching his head. "Yer see, he was one o' these Catholics, this Pat
was, and the fellers went to the priest (he lives deown river, little
better'n ten mile from here) in course to git him to dew what's to be
done to the funeral, and the tarnal old heathen wouldn't dew it. He
sed Pat had gone agin the law o' the kentry, and he wouldn't hev
anything to do 'beout it. So the fellers brought the body along, and I
swear, Pat McGrath shall hev a decent funeral, any way".
"Where is the funeral to be?" asked Mr. Norton, after listening
attentively to the account Micah had given him.
"O! deown here 'n the grove. The body's to my heouse, and Maggie his
wife's there a screechin'. The graveyard's close here, and so they
didn't carry him hum".
"I'll, go down and see this poor Maggie", said Mr. Norton.
"Don't, for the Lord's sake. I'm eenermost crazy neow. The heouse is
jammed full o' folks, and there ain't nothin, ready. You jes' wait
here, till I git things in shape and I'll cum arter ye".
Micah then departed to complete his arrangements, and Mr. Norton
returned to his post, in the sick-room.
It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, before a messenger came
to inform him that the hour of burial had arrived.
A strange scene presented itself to his view, as he approached the
grove. A motley company, composed of the settlers of every grade and
condition for miles around, had collected there. Men, women, and
children in various costume--the scarlet and crimson shirt, or tunic,
carrying it high above all other fashions--were standing, or walking
among the trees, conversing upon the event that had brought them
together.
As the missionary approached, the loud indignant voices subsided into
a low murmur, and the people made way for him to reach the centre of
the group.
Here he found the coffin, placed upon a pile of boards, entirely
uncovered to the light of day and to the inspection of the people, who
had, each in turn, gazed with curious eyes upon the lifeless clay it
enclosed.
In the absence of Mrs. McNab, who was still sleeping away the effects
of her late fatigues at the house of Mr. Dubois, the women of the
neighborhood had arrayed Patrick McGrath, very properly, in a clean
shirt of his accustomed wearing apparel, so arranging it that the
folds of the red tunic could be lifted in order to expose to those who
came to look upon him the wound he had received. There he lay, the
rude smuggler, turned gently upon his side, one cheek pressing the
pillow. Death had effaced from his countenance every trace of the
stormy passions which raged in his breast when the fatal bullet struck
him, and had sealed it with even a pleasant serenity.
Not so with the compeers of his race, who encircled the coffin. _They_
scowled a fierce fury from beneath their bushy brows and muttered vows
of vengeance. The rays of the sun, now rapidly declining, shot into
their angry faces, the evening breeze shook out their matted locks of
hair. A peculiar glow was cast over their wild, Erin features, now
gleaming with unholy passion.
Mr. Norton bent for a few minutes over the coffin, while an expression
of sorrow and deep commiseration overspread his countenance. Then he
stepped upon a slight knoll of ground near by, raised himself to his
full height and began to speak in a voice that rose above the crowd,
clear, melodious, full and penetrating as the notes of a bugle. It
thrilled on every ear and drew instant attention.
"Friends, brethren, fellow-sinners, one of our number has been
suddenly struck down by the relentless hand of death, and we are here
to pay the last honors to his mortal remains,--each and all to learn a
solemn lesson while standing at the mouth of the grave. Brethren, we
are to learn anew from this occasion that death often comes to man
with the suddenness of the lightning flash. One moment before your
comrade was struck by the fatal bullet, his eye glowed as keenly and
his right arm was as powerful as yours. The next moment he was
prostrate on the ground, with no power to move a single limb of his
body, or utter a single sigh, or breathe a single prayer. He was dead".
"I am ignorant whether he was prepared to make such a sudden transit
from this world to that scene of judgment to which he has been
summoned. _You_ know, who were his friends and comrades, what his
former course has been, and whether he was prepared to meet the Judge
of all the earth. I know nothing of all this, but I fervently hope
that at the last erring, awful moment, when he had just committed an
act of transgression against the laws of his country, he had in his
heart, and did, offer up this prayer, 'God be merciful to me, a
sinner.' We must leave him in the hands of the Almighty, who is both
merciful and just. We cannot change his lot, but we have it in our
power to profit by the circumstances of his death. Beholding how
suddenly he has been cut off, in the prime and strength of his days,
we may learn that we too may be called at some unexpected moment, and
that it behooves us to be found ever in the right path, so living, so
acting, that we shall be ready, when death comes, to meet our Judge
without fear and with the assurance that when we depart this life,
through the righteousness of Christ, we shall be introduced into a
better and nobler country. I beg of you earnestly, my dear brethren,
in order to secure this happy result, to turn immediately from your
sins, repenting of them without delay, and apply to Christ whose blood
can alone wash them away. Take the Bible, this precious gift from
Heaven, for your counsellor and guide, follow its instructions, and
you will be safe and happy, whether in life or in death".
"My brethren, I will say but one word more; that word I earnestly
implore you to listen to. This book from God says, vengeance is mine;
I will repay. I fear it is in your hearts to seek revenge upon him who
is the author of your comrade's death. I beseech you not to do it. God
knows where the wrong is, in this case, and He, the great Avenger,
will not suffer it to go unpunished. Sooner or later He brings every
wicked and wrong-doer to a just reward. Leave all in His righteous
hands, and stain not your souls with blood and violence. Let us seek
the divine blessing".
Mr. Norton then offered a short and simple prayer, imploring the
forgiveness of sins, and blessings upon Patrick's wife, his
companions, and the community.
Maggie, who had wailed herself into perfect exhaustion and almost
stupor, sat gazing fixedly in his face; the rest seemed hushed as by a
spell, and did not begin to move until some moments after his voice
ceased.
Then the tongues were loosened, and amid the ebbs and flows of
murmuring sound, the coffin was covered, placed upon a bier and borne
to the grave, followed by the crowd.
"And shure", said a poor Irishwoman to her crony, as they trudged
along behind, "the praste's voice sounded all the while like a great
blessed angel, a blowin' through a silver trumpet. Shure, he's a
saint, he is".